Fueling Resistance: The Contentious Political Economy of Biofuels and Fracking 2020030195, 2020030196, 9780197535585, 9780197535608, 9780197535592, 9780197535615

Table of contents :
Cover
Fueling Resistance
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
Acknowledgments
Abbreviations
1. Introduction: The Changing Politics of Global Energy
2. Triple Wins? The Rise and Fall of Biofuels and Fracking
3. Catalyzing Local Contention: The Political Economy Drivers
4. Biofuels in Kenya’s Tana Delta
5. Fracking in the Yukon
6. Conclusions: Political Economies and Resistance
Notes
References
Index

Citation preview

Fueling Resistance

Fueling Resistance The Contentious Political Economy of Biofuels and Fracking KAT E J. N EV I L L E

1

3 Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and certain other countries. Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America. © Oxford University Press 2021 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by license, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reproduction rights organization. Inquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above. You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer. Library of Congress Cataloging-​in-​Publication Data Names: Neville, Kate J., author. Title: Fueling resistance : the contentious political economy of biofuels and fracking /​ Kate J. Neville. Description: New York, NY, United States of America : Oxford University Press, [2021] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2020030195 (print) | LCCN 2020030196 (ebook) | ISBN 9780197535585 (hardback) | ISBN 9780197535608 (epub) | ISBN 9780197535592 (updf) | ISBN 9780197535615 (online) Subjects: LCSH: Biomass energy—​Political aspects. | Hydraulic fracturing Political aspects. | Biomass energy—​Public opinion. | Hydraulic fracturing—​Public opinion. | Biomass energy—​Economic aspects. | Hydraulic fracturing—​Economic aspects. | Political ecology. Classification: LCC TP339 .N48 2020 (print) | LCC TP339 (ebook) | DDC 662/​.88—​dc23 LC record available at https://​lccn.loc.gov/​2020030195 LC ebook record available at https://​lccn.loc.gov/​2020030196 DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197535585.001.0001 1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2 Printed by Integrated Books International, United States of America

For my godkids Poppy, Willow, Gulliver, Archibald, and Aldo, and for my nephew, William—​ Never forget what you already know: The world is filled with wonder and is always worth fighting for.

Contents Acknowledgments  Abbreviations 

ix xv

1. Introduction: The Changing Politics of Global Energy 

1

2. Triple Wins? The Rise and Fall of Biofuels and Fracking 

18

3. Catalyzing Local Contention: The Political Economy Drivers 

48

4. Biofuels in Kenya’s Tana Delta 

76

5. Fracking in the Yukon 

107

6. Conclusions: Political Economies and Resistance 

138

Notes  References  Index 

163 197 235

Acknowledgments This book is focused on two very different regions: coastal east Africa and the Yukon—​places geographically divergent yet embedded in many of the same global economic pressures, each with colonial histories and ongoing contested land claims. I am grateful for the guidance, mentorship, and encouragement extended so generously to me in both places, and beyond, by so many over the course of writing this book, which began out of my doctoral dissertation on biofuels and expanded from there. I have written much of this book in Taku River Tlingit territory at the British Columbia-​Yukon border and in Dish with One Spoon treaty lands on the shores of Lake Ontario. To those whose lands and homes I have come to, I am grateful—​asante sana to my friends and teachers in eastern Africa, and gunalchéesh, mahsi cho, and miigwech to those on Turtle Island. While this book’s discussion of biofuels politics focuses on Kenya, my understanding of these conflicts was informed by my work in both Kenya and Tanzania. I  owe a great debt to the people of the Tana and Rufiji deltas and surrounding villages—​all the farmers, herders, ecologists, and conservationists—​who shared their experiences, ideas, and concerns and who offered generous hospitality. My work in eastern Africa was possible thanks to experienced, knowledgeable, and inspiring field research partners and teachers. Thank you, first, to Wanja Nyingi, for inviting me to join her team, for sharing her expertise and intellectual insights, and, with her daughter Malaika, for warm hospitality and close friendship. I extend many thanks to the National Museums of Kenya, Stéphanie Duvail and the Institute of Research for Development, and Amos Majule and the University of Dar es Salaam. Their long-​term engagement in community-​based participatory research and deep ties to the land and people have shaped my understanding of how to conduct meaningful, ethical research. In the field, Francis Semwaza, Elibariki Mjema, Camille Bouchez, Crystèle Léauthaud-​Harnett, Delphine Lebrun, Kennedy Otoi, Siad Bakero, and Martina Locher were open and enthusiastic collaborators, colleagues, assistants, translators, and guides. From afar, Emmanuel Sulle was generous with his knowledge and insights. And my

x Acknowledgments time in Kenya and Tanzania was made more joyful thanks to dear friends, among them the Nyingi, Kantai, and Rebelo families. My research in the Yukon coincided with my introduction to life in the North, as I navigated both fracking politics and off-​grid cabin life. My understanding of the importance of energy in small northern communities was intensified by my own efforts to install solar panels and reduce reliance on a generator at the cabin. To follow the debates over fracking, liquefied natural gas (LNG) backup power, and Peel land use planning, I relied on the generosity and openness of many Yukoners. I  thank the members of the Select Committee on the Risks and Benefits of Hydraulic Fracturing for their patience as I  followed them to all (but one) of the hearings and peppered them with questions. A  special thanks to Harreson Tanner and Pat Fortier for hosting me in Old Crow. My gratitude, too, to the many environmental and community organizers who spent time with me sharing their perspectives and explaining their positions, including the members of Yukoners Concerned about Oil and Gas Development, especially Don Roberts, Sally Wright, and JP Pinard, as well as staff at the Yukon chapter of the Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society and the Yukon Conservation Society, especially Amber Church, Christina Macdonald, and Anne Middler. I am grateful for the generous intellectual engagement and thoughtful stories of the late David Neufeld; his mentorship was expansive and inclusive, and his presence will be sorely missed by so many. Academic writing is never solitary, and I am fortunate to be surrounded by a community of scholars who see the academic realm as a place not for personal gain but for questioning the status quo, making hidden assumptions visible, and upending structures of oppression. This has been true throughout my graduate and postdoctoral work at Yale, UBC, and Duke, as well as now at the University of Toronto in both the Department of Political Science and the School of the Environment. I thank my colleagues now and along the way for collaboration, a critical lens on research in progress, and galvanizing conversations about the possibilities embedded in our work. For unwavering guidance and encouragement at every step, as well as for his model of generosity and intellectual bravery, I am forever indebted to Peter Dauvergne, my PhD advisor, coauthor, and mentor. For her crackling intellect and fierce commitment to meaningful, rigorous scholarship, I thank Erika Weinthal, my postdoctoral fellowship advisor and continuing collaborator. I  am grateful to them as well for the communities of graduate students and postdoctoral fellows they supported, who have also shaped my life and work,

Acknowledgments  xi among them Jane Lister, Jen Allan, Deborah Barros Leal Farias, Hamish van der Ven, Genevieve LeBaron, Justin Alger, Chris Paul, McKenzie Johnson, Kim Marion Suiseeya, and Shana Starobin. For unstinting guidance and inspiring scholarship (as well as encouragement at crucial moments—​on this book and on academic pursuits in general), I thank Matt Hoffmann, Stephen McCaffrey, Jennifer Clapp, Sheila Olmstead, Yves Tiberghien, Brian Job, Raleigh Robertson, and Rachel Vallender. On this manuscript I have been fortunate to have advice and constructive feedback from many readers—​both known and anonymous—​whose astute insights and incisive critiques of book drafts and related articles along the way have prompted me each time to return to these ideas with new inspiration. I owe particular thanks to my dissertation committee: Peter, Jennifer, and Yves; my PhD examiners:  Lisa Sundstrom, Matthew Evenden, and Robert Falkner; related article collaborators: Peter and Erika; participants in a book workshop: Matt, Jennifer, Grace Skogstad, Steven Bernstein, and Amy Janzwood; manuscript readers: Erika, Andrea Olive, and Sarah Martin—​all of whom I’ve also been fortunate to have as collaborators for other projects; journal editors: Kate O’Neill and Jun Borras; and several anonymous peer reviewers. I  owe so much to Angela Chnapko, who took a chance on the transformation of a book about biofuels into one on the global politics of energy. Her guidance and advice throughout the writing and revising have been invaluable. As cited throughout the book, many of the theoretical ideas and empirical findings on biofuels and fracking that inform this project were undertaken as co-​authored projects with Peter during my PhD and with Erika during my post-​doctoral fellowship, and I owe an intellectual debt to both for more than just the formal cited material. I draw substantially on our shared work for the foundations of this analysis. From a practical perspective, I conducted primary research for these projects under shared institutional ethics approvals (from the UBC Behavioural Research Ethics Board and the Duke University Institutional Review Board, respectively). Thanks to support from the National Museums of Kenya, the University of Dar es Salaam, and the Institute of Research for Development, I obtained research permits and official affiliations for field research in Tanzania and Kenya on biofuels from each respective government; in the Yukon, I obtained a Scientists and Explorers Act license through the Heritage Resources Unit of Tourism and Culture. Funding from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada made this work possible, first through a SSHRC Canadian Graduate

xii Acknowledgments Scholarship and associated Michael Smith travel scholarship for my work in eastern Africa, and then a postdoctoral fellowship, which supported my research in the Yukon. The University of Toronto’s Department of Political Science and School of the Environment have supported this book in many ways, financial and otherwise. I owe much to the administrative staff in both units—​in particular Sari Sherman, Julie Guzzo, Michael Li, Mary-​Alice Bailey, and Liz Jagdeo; their work makes my own possible. Thanks to the team at Oxford University Press, and to Celia Braves for the index. Many of the images in this book were drawn, redrawn, or photographed by exceptional and generous friends and family: Kate Harris, Emily Darling, James Harris, and Piia Kortsalo. Within and beyond the scholarly community, I have learned so much from friends—​writers, activists, ecologists, artists, farmers, scholars, and more—​ who work for and inspire compassion, integrity, equity, and beauty, and in so doing, catalyze transformation and hope in countless ways. My first foray into biofuel politics was thanks to the Earth Negotiations Bulletin team: thanks to Pam Chasek and Kimo Goree for their vision of a more transparent international system, and to the incredible colleagues and friends from those reporting teams, among them Wanja, Tanya Rosen, Melanie Ashton, Tallash Kantai, Resson Kantai, Peter Wood, Sikina Jinnah, Nancy Williams, Joanna Dafoe, Nienke Beintema, Graeme Auld, and Pia Kohler. Along with more formal research, I have learned so much about Yukon politics, history, energy systems, and the joy of northern living from many friends on both sides of the Yukon-​BC border, including Oliver Barker and Piia Kortsalo, Cathie Archbould and Jacqueline Bedard, Miche Genest and Hector MacKenzie, Amy Nihls and Ali Criscitiello, Philippe, Leandra, and Justin Brient, Manu and Sascha Keggenhoff, Ben Sanders, Anna Schmidt, Dick Fast and Maggie Darcy, Peter Steele, Judy Currelly and Stephan Torre, and Cindy and Wayne Merry. I wish that Wayne could see this final book: beyond his friendship, encouragement, and kindness, Wayne offered astute comments, at just the right moment, about the parallels between northern Canada and coastal Kenya. Thanks to Shauna Yeomans and Jerry Jack for welcoming me to the Taku River and, with Mark Connor and Angela Milani, teaching me about bears. My trips to the Peel Watershed were made possible—​and joyful—​first in the mountains with Kieran O’Donovan, and subsequently on the water with Emily Darling, Rebecca Haspel, Devin Farkas, and Marielle Matthews. Beyond the North I am grateful to friends around the world for their encouragement and support for this project, including Laura and PJ Lee, Kim

Acknowledgments  xiii Rutherford and Kate Smolina, Hana Boye, Zibba Leonardis, Erika Mundel and Andrew Rushmere, Erin Barnes, Lorelei Ormrod, and Cassie Flynn. In my academic career and far beyond it, my family and extended family—​ especially Pat and Jan Neville, Lukas Neville and Indra Kalinovich, and the Harris and Wells families—​have been attentive listeners, insightful critics, and steadfast supporters. And there are not enough words to thank Kate Harris, my partner in all things. For persuading me to move off-​grid and to confront questions of energy and technology directly and tangibly—​rather than only academically and abstractly—​I am ever grateful. Along with reading so many iterations of this manuscript (oh so many!), it is through her own writing that she has most shaped my work and thinking: her reeling questions, the paradox of beauty and heartbreak, and, always, rewriting all the maps in search of deeper connection.

Abbreviations ABCDs BC CAP CNOOC CPAWS CYFN EPA EU FAO IPCC IUCN LNG NEMA NGO NIMBY NRDC OECD RFS RSB RSPB TADECO TARDA TISP UFA UN UNFCCC WTO YCS YEC YESAB YTG

Archer Daniels Midland, Bunce, Cargill, and Louis Dreyfus British Columbia Common Agricultural Policy of the EU China National Offshore Oil Corporation Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society Council of Yukon First Nations US Environmental Protection Agency European Union Food and Agricultural Organization of the United Nations Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change International Union for Conservation of Nature liquefied natural gas National Environmental Management Agency of Kenya nongovernmental organization not in my backyard Natural Resources Defense Council Organisation for Economic Co-​operation and Development Renewable Fuels Standard Roundtable on Sustainable Biomaterials Royal Society for the Protection of Birds Tana Delta Conservation Organisation Tana and Athi River Development Authority Tana Integrated Sugar Project Umbrella Final Agreement United Nations United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change World Trade Organization Yukon Conservation Society Yukon Energy Corporation Yukon Environmental and Socio-​economic Assessment Board Yukon Territorial Government

1 Introduction The Changing Politics of Global Energy

Imagine standing on a dusty, sun-​baked road on the coast of east Africa in the dry season. The rutted track winds between tangled thickets. From deep in the branches comes the short, squeaky song of a little yellow flycatcher or, if you are lucky, the tsseer of a Sokoke pipit. The clanking progress of a truck on the uneven road interrupts the birds, as does the tired creak of bicycles pedaled by young men hauling twine-​tied burlap sacks of charcoal (photo 1.1). Somewhere in the mix of forest, woodland, and thicket roam African elephants, red colobus monkeys, and, if you gaze skyward at dusk, little collared fruit bats. Further north, along a river delta in Kenya, there are villages with wide-​horned cows standing amid chickens and ducks, beside homes with thatched palm leaf or woven grass roofs. The “environment is [a]‌human being,” a leader in one such village told me during a visit one November. “If you destroy the environment, you destroy yourself.”1 The connection between land and livelihood is direct here. “If your land goes, it is terrible,” he continued. He spoke against new proposed agricultural projects in the region that would change local land uses, suggesting these would negatively affect the environment. Yet for others in the delta, the same developments represented much-​needed opportunities. “We’ll be less poor with these projects,” said one villager in a nearby community.2 Spin the globe and travel north past the 60th parallel on a dusty gravel highway, lit by long days of light in the northern hemisphere summer. This is one of the few roads that isn’t made of ice snaking north into the Canadian sub-​Arctic. The Dempster Highway starts in the southern Yukon and continues to its northeast edge in the Mackenzie Valley (photo 1.2). Spruce and aspen forests give way to low willow and dwarf birch as latitudes and altitudes rise through a succession of mountain ranges. A century of mining has left more tracks than the previous millennia of human habitation, and vast expanses of land remain that are dominated by forces other than human. Smoke rises from a fishing camp somewhere on a twisted river; nearby, a Fueling Resistance. Kate J. Neville, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197535585.003.0001

Photo 1.1  Man pedaling bicycle laden with charcoal on road in coastal Tanzania. Photo by author.

Photo 1.2  The Dempster Highway in winter. Photo by Kate Harris.

Introduction  3 grizzly bear waits near the river bank for its own finned meal. Head west, by river or air, to a community beyond the road network, where in a public hearing one late June day, a Gwich’in First Nations member underscored the community’s commitment to the land: “Any gathering we have, we fight for our environment, we fight for the fish, caribou, the air and water.”3 Similar views were expressed by a resident of a southern Yukon community, who, opposing proposals for new extractive activity in the region that might affect water resources and caribou habitat, explained, “Our relationship with this land is not simply as a resource. Our relationship with this land is sacred.”4 Still, others in the Yukon viewed resource development as essential for the autonomy and well-​being of those in the territory, where one local industry association leader wrote that, if responsibly undertaken, such projects “provide numerous benefits for communities, citizens and the environment alike.”5 In response to a series of intersecting global and regional challenges that intensified in the early 2000s, countries around the world—​including Kenya and Canada—​ramped up efforts to find diversified energy sources and new economic opportunities. Climbing oil prices catalyzed new interest in alternative energy options. With fossil fuels identified as a major source of both greenhouse gas emissions and economic growth, and with geopolitical unrest altering access to fossil fuel supplies, changes in the energy sector became both problematic and promising. Three sets of pressure shaped the reception of several new, or at least newly refined and reconsidered, energy technologies: the environment (climate change), security (changing geopolitics and the “war on terror”), and the economy (a drive for economic growth). Energy sources were pursued that promised to deliver “triple wins” (understood in global arenas as benefiting trade, development, and the environment)6 in response to these climate, security, and economic challenges. Biofuels—​ that is, liquid fuels derived from plant sugars and oils—​hit the global stage with force around 2005. Hydraulic fracturing—​or “fracking,” involving the extraction of oil and gas from shale and tight rock formations—​followed a few years later, transforming the natural gas sector by 2008. Both technologies expanded the geographic possibilities for production, implicating new landscapes and communities in the energy sector. And both fuel sources resulted in contestation over the transformation, or anticipated and potential transformation, of local economies, ecologies, and social relationships. But why would these different energy technologies—​for surface production of renewable crop-​based fuel and for subsurface extraction of nonrenewable

4  Fueling Resistance fossil fuel—​produce similar grievances and responses from such different communities in the Global North and South? By examining contested energy projects, I explain the ways in which similar patterns of social contestation arise over different resources in disparate places by examining the organizing, protest, and resistance efforts of those concerned about the burdens of increased development activity, while also considering those seeking the benefits of new economic opportunities. The work for this book began as part of my doctoral dissertation research in 2010, when I traveled to Kenya and Tanzania to learn more about local responses to proposed biofuels projects in rural villages along river deltas. When I set out for coastal east Africa, my initial questions focused on why some community resistance halted biofuels projects while other communities seemed unable to mobilize effectively. In short, drawing on theories of social movements, I sought to determine why some protests were successful and others were not. However, closer investigation of the cases revealed that such a comparative question overlooked three dynamic elements of the interactions. First, biofuels projects rarely continued smoothly or stopped entirely. Instead they were altered, adapted, and shifted in response to changing political, financial, and social events and conditions. Second, communities were rarely unified entities that mobilized or failed to do so. Within even small communities, interests were articulated differently, and different sets of identities were claimed and used to justify positions. Further, people did not always take consistent stances on biofuels, supporting some projects but not others. And third, I found that different sets of historical grievances at different periods in time gained traction both locally and internationally. This made the questions of protest, resistance, activism, and response relevant at multiple geographic and temporal scales. I shifted my focus from outcomes to processes and began looking for explanations for the dynamics I was observing.7 In 2012, while I was finishing my dissertation on these contested politics of biofuels, I moved to the border of British Columbia (BC) and the Yukon, in northwestern Canada. My move coincided with local newspapers reporting on that year’s request for proposals for oil and gas dispositions in the territory. Focused on areas in the Yukon underlain by shale, the proposals sparked intense local interest and concern about the potential for fracking. As fracking became a high-​profile topic in the territory, I began to follow the social, political, and scientific controversies around this energy technology, both locally and around the world. In 2013 the debates grew more heated

Introduction  5 across Canada, especially on the east coast, where conflicts over seismic testing and fracking in New Brunswick led to a standoff near the Elsipogtog First Nation.8 As these debates took hold in the Yukon, I turned my attention to the community mobilization that arose. My research focused on public debates over fracking in the territory and what they revealed about relationships of citizen trust, processes of deliberation and public participation, and histories of other environmental controversies. At first, I saw my research on fracking in the Yukon as separate from my dissertation work on biofuels. Biofuels and fracking are markedly different in their production, processing, and politics. Biofuels are renewable energy sources, tightly connected to agricultural systems. These crop-​based technologies for ethanol and diesel promise to decouple energy from subsurface extraction, turning to surface land and even laboratories for fuel. They offer a replacement for fossil fuels and engage farmers and food systems in energy production. In contrast, fracking enables the expansion of nonrenewable energy resources, increasing access to oil and gas supplies. They fit snugly into existing fossil fuel production, expanding subsurface access through the horizontal reach of new wells. The distribution of sites of production, the infrastructure required for processing and transport, and other aspects of the commodity chain differ substantively between these sources of energy. Energy interacts with and shapes social and political arrangements (Mitchell 2011);9 consequently, arising from their different forms of production, we might expect vastly different politics from energy proposals for biofuels than for fracked gas. In many ways, the communities in near-​equatorial east Africa and the Canadian sub-​Arctic could not be further apart—​in ecologies, climates, histories, communities, national contexts, and the energy resources being debated. Yet I saw surprising similarities between the dynamics unfolding in coastal Kenya and the Yukon. As the quotes from community members reveal, local people around the world share concerns for their land and environment, face challenging trade-​offs between economic development paths, and have tensions between different livelihoods and conservation visions. The parallels between these distant communities came to light for me when sitting with my neighbors at their kitchen table in a small town on the Yukon-​ BC border, talking about my research in Kenya. As I explained the claims to insider status and local legitimacy made by villagers in conflicts over biofuels, one of them exclaimed, “That sounds just like here!”10 The global controversies over these energy sources also had parallel trajectories, where early

6  Fueling Resistance enthusiasm turned to skepticism and resistance as emerging research cast doubt on environmental, social, and economic benefits and revealed spillover and shadow costs of their production. When local organizers developed campaigns against shale gas, and as global debates over these extractive technologies intensified with bans and moratoria announced in countries around the world, I discerned similar patterns in the emerging fracking debates in the North as those I had observed in eastern Africa over biofuels.11 This book is the result of these unexpectedly convergent projects.12

Energy controversies at the margins A reorientation of energy systems is taking place in response to changing geopolitics, technology, environmental pressures, supply-​chain organization, and the demands of urban spaces. New energy frontiers are emerging, that is, novel energy sources or technologies in regions far from the usual sites of industrial dominance or political decision-​making and economic power.13 Across disciplines, scholars have argued for attention to places outside the centers of economic and political power, whether through attention to frontier regions or to “resource peripheries” (Hayter, Barnes, and Bradshaw 2003).14 These contested peripheries, or margins, are central to the debates over energy transitions and futures, especially in the context of global energy trade, patterns of resource distribution, and just transitions. While divergent views on new technologies and commodities also exist in centers of industrial power, the dynamics of resistance are often heightened in places at the margins. Biofuels and fracking provoked much public controversy in places that arrived later to the scene for these fuels. In part, for first movers, much of the development and promotion of these energy technologies took place before natural and social scientific research had examined their environmental, political, and social consequences. For later proponents of biofuels or fracking projects, though, the fuels were already subject to heightened scrutiny and critique, making the dynamics of their development markedly different.15 The production of energy always transforms local landscapes, but perhaps most visibly in places that did not already have extensive experience with these specific forms of production and extraction. Both biofuels and fracking have long histories. With biofuels, Brazil began experiments with bioethanol in the 1920s, ramping up government support in the 1970s (Hochstetler and Keck 2007). For fracking, early efforts

Introduction  7 to fracture rock for fossil fuels date back to the 1940s in the US (Davis 2012). However, widespread global, commercial interest in both biofuels and fracking did not develop until the 2000s (as will be further detailed in ­chapter 2). At that time, these fuels generated interest around the world, but any expectations that their production would take off smoothly were quickly shattered. As regions without much experience with energy production looked at their farmland and subsurface geologies in new ways, they found themselves thrust into heated public debate as the promised triple wins of biofuels and fracking came apart. Global attention is often focused on the major producers of energy commodities: for biofuels, Brazil, the US, the EU, and China; for fracking, the US stands alone in the field, although there is emerging production in China and Canada. Yet other regions, too, have arable land and shale basins, and governments and companies pursued their development in many countries in the 2000s. These more marginal players in global energy markets are crucial to understanding energy politics. By 2008 contestation over biofuels was well underway around the world. Still, in some places—​such as Kenya—​interest in this form of energy was just emerging. Kenya was developing biodiesel and bioethanol strategies to support the introduction of a biofuel industry in the country. In a strategy report, the permanent secretary of the Ministry of Energy described “the various steps necessary for developing a vibrant biodiesel industry,” expressing hope that these plans would enable the “transformation of the country from an importer of liquid petroleum fuels to local self sufficiency and an exporter to the wider market abroad” (Kenya Ministry of Energy 2008). In rural communities along the Kenyan coast, including in the Tana River delta region, the promise of new markets and labor opportunities for agricultural products held much appeal. As community members in one village told me, they were “happy to get [biofuel] projects” as the projects would “bring jobs.”16 Villages facing food insecurity and limited economic options were open to new possibilities for cash crops and local energy production. But with long histories of boom-​and-​bust commodity markets and many projects promised but never realized, they were skeptical about the plans of companies and governments alike. Communities responded in complex ways to proposed biofuels projects. The same group who indicated they wanted biofuels projects to begin immediately also shared that they had received no answers when they asked one of the companies about the effects of agricultural chemicals on nearby water sources and food chains. Further, while expressing uncertainty about the companies based on their unresponsiveness, they also highlighted

8  Fueling Resistance doubts about groups with anti-​biofuels conservation agendas, suggesting some were “doing politics for their own cause.”17 Some local leaders strategically leveraged existing community divisions over land use and access along with transnational discourses to oppose biofuels. With fracking, by 2012 France had banned the technology and other jurisdictions were following suit. By then, scientific studies in the US were raising questions about the environmental and public health consequences of fracking, although with conflicting evidence about the risks and pathways of contamination. These impacts included the subsurface movement of stray gas into drinking water supplies, surface and subsurface water contamination from spills and cement casing failures, increased seismic risks from fracking and from the deep-​well injection of wastewater, and more (Jackson et al. 2014). But at the same time, shale exploration was just arriving in the Canadian North. Fracking proposals appeared at a time when energy production was already a topic of much political and public attention within the territory. There were concerns over the Yukon’s dependence on imported energy supplies. There were debates over the need for predictable backup energy for a system mainly fed by hydropower. And the dependence of some communities on diesel generators posed an urgent challenge—​but also an opportunity. Many residents saw the Yukon’s isolation, small population, and wilderness identity creating the right conditions to lead the way in energy efficiency and renewable energy options rather than following the fossil fuel trajectory of the South. As one community member said during a public hearing, “There are so many alternative methods of power which are just waiting to be explored and set up in the Yukon that we should be ashamed to even consider hydraulic fracturing.”18 Fracking proposals, as a result, were received with skepticism.

The mechanisms of contention Contentious politics literatures offer insight into the uneven uptake of biofuels and fracking projects by communities around the world and the campaigns that have formed to resist these developments.19 Communities identifying threats may or may not be successful at mobilizing resistance. A contentious politics lens turns attention to the dynamics within and across communities to explain these differences in moving from grievances to collective action. As articulated by McAdam (2017: 189), movements are “facilitated by

Introduction  9 the confluence of three factors: the expansion of political opportunities, the availability of mobilizing structures, and cognitive and affective mobilization through framing processes.” In this assessment, mobilization is shaped by the ways in which existing political structures and dynamics affect the distribution of costs and benefits of new projects, influence access to resources, enable or constrain political opportunities, and condition social responses to different issues and symbols. Contentious politics and social movement studies offer analytic insight into the differences between communities that resist new energy projects and those that remain quiet. In contentious politics, claim-​makers engage in multiple strategies at multiple scales to disseminate information, shape public opinion, recruit supporters, and enlarge networks. Contentious politics often unfolds in cycles, where new events and proposals reignite long-​standing grievances (McAdam, Tarrow, and Tilly 2001), and opponents draw on creative repertoires of contention to recruit support and voice claims (Tilly and Tarrow 2006). Many scholars of contentious politics pay close attention to transnational dynamics, whereby local communities broadcast their claims to global allies, and those distant from sites of industrialization participate in local cases of environmental and social disruption. Work on social movements, from transnational advocacy networks (Keck and Sikkink 1998; Fuentes-​George 2016)  to eventful protest (Della Porta 2008), movement societies (Tarrow 2011), and not-​in-​anyone’s-​backyard campaigns (Boudet 2011), has examined the intersection of these two levels of analysis, considering the exchanges between local and global groups. Studies have found that external participation can be crucial to movement success (e.g., Rootes 1999), at least in some cases (for cases with divergent outcomes, see McAteer and Pulver 2009; Boudet 2011), but may lead to unintended consequences, including backlash against external interference (e.g., Matejova, Parker, and Dauvergne 2018). The multiscale attention of contentious politics, combined with a focus on the cyclical and episodic nature of protest, offers insights into the politics of resistance to new energy technologies and commodities. For most social movement scholars, mobilization requires that affected communities identify grievances, amass resources, recognize political opportunity, and construct collective identities or articulate shared interests (Wolford 2004; Boudet and Ortolano 2010; McAdam and Boudet 2012). Core structural elements of social movements—​involving resource mobilization and political opportunities—​then intersect with community characteristics such as economic standing, histories of industrial activity, and

10  Fueling Resistance past mobilization experience (Boudet 2011; McAdam and Boudet 2012), mediated by strategic and cultural framing efforts by project proponents and opponents (Giugni and Grasso 2015; Carter and Fusco 2017). These conditions operate across both institutional and extra-​institutional lines (Tarrow and Tilly 2009), and they help to explain different collective action outcomes, especially through the identification of more specific mechanisms of mobilization. Mobilization around biofuels and fracking can be understood in part through various mechanisms of contentious politics, where those involved in controversy engage in competing processes of the activation of shared identities, shifts in scale of claim-​making, and brokered connections across disparate communities and places to gain allies and strengthen claims (drawn from McAdam, Tarrow, and Tilly 2001; Boudet 2011; and others; these are discussed further in c­ hapter 3). These mechanisms enable the linking of issues across communities and places and are expressed and shared through symbolic and performative resistance. However, while analyses of place-​based and transnational contention help to explain how local and global movements and countermovements form, operate, and expand, they do not explain why some projects and plans generate resistance while others do not. What explains the grievances that underpin different energy projects, and how can we understand convergent dynamics of contention and protest in very different places? In this book I turn to political economy. Energy systems and their associated commodity chains require project proponents, labor, investors, and consumers. Such systems thus hinge on the availability of land and capital, involve numerous forms of distance, and implicate multiple actors in production, exchange, and consumption. Given these complex interactions, I argue that the emergence of grievances and the patterns of resistance to new fuel technologies depend on three intersecting political economy factors: the finance, ownership, and trade relations of energy projects and commodities. Together, these factors create the conditions that provoke or mitigate community grievances, and thus mobilization.

The political economy of energy contestation The dynamics of political economy and contentious politics intersect at multiple scales. In the case of new agricultural projects in coastal Kenya, it is not immediately obvious that communities would view biofuels projects as

Introduction  11 a threat. At first, many villagers—​even some who later became opponents of biofuels—​were keen on new market opportunities, expanded livelihood options, and increased external investment. Kenyan nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) initiated early biofuels projects, in particular promoting biodiesel from the inedible oilseed-​producing Jatropha curcas as a small-​scale income-​generating activity (Hunsberger 2014). Other biofuels projects followed with feedstocks including sugarcane and oil palm. Plans to grow crops for a new commodity market were not entirely unfamiliar, given rural communities in Kenya have long histories with cash crop production. Still, the production of these crops for distant markets sparked new land use debates, especially as affected communities looked to the existing impacts of these commodities on rural landscapes and lives in other places. Arriving late to biofuels production plans, communities had examples of such developments in other regions to consider. The scale of production, types of crops, and forms of processing associated with biofuels had consequences for existing patterns of land use and commodity production, and they introduced new (or reignited old) conflicts in local communities. Shifting to the North, land use changes in the Yukon have long generated controversy (Staples et al. 2013; Coates and Morrison 2017), so resistance to new extractive projects—​especially for fossil fuel expansion—​was not surprising. Still, the territory is a place where residents recognize the energy-​ intensive nature of winter heating, long-​distance transportation, and other aspects of living in a mostly rural, northern context. This is also a region where mining is significant to the economy and has a long history. It was not clear, then, that natural gas production in the North would be opposed so widely. Further, it was not obvious that the expansion of agricultural production in rural Kenya and the introduction of new fossil fuel extraction in the Yukon would provoke similar narratives of resistance, even as opposition emerged. In both places, I argue, contention is shaped by the confluence of finance, ownership, and trade relations intersecting with local and transnational contexts. As I demonstrate in more detail throughout this book, each of these elements of political economy shapes how communities can track who has control over their lands and livelihoods, participate in decision-​ making processes, and liaise with others within and beyond their region. These elements, then, shaped the forms of mobilization and resistance that emerged over proposals for new energy projects. On finance, questions arise over who provides capital for—​and who accumulates capital from—​energy projects in local communities. Local

12  Fueling Resistance concerns over control can be amplified when investment relationships are hard to track. In an era of financialization, chains of investment become increasingly obscure as investors pool money through complex financial vehicles. These involve indices and derivatives that are often far removed from specific projects and places. Such distant constellations of finance shift who holds leverage in the development of energy projects but also influence the points of potential resistance, especially through transnational and translocal networks. The lengthy distance between those involved in financing energy projects and those bearing the consequences of production open possibilities for local communities to engage with communities, activists, and campaigners in other regions, shifting the scale of contestation beyond local places. With ownership, the identities of those who propose, control, and operate energy projects shape how local communities perceive the costs and benefits of new developments. They also influence how narratives of belonging and relationships of accountability are deployed. When conflicting visions of land use and development arise, local groups can organize by activating particular identities salient to the issue. These might include claims to being locals or insiders, with these identities invoked to legitimate authority over land use decisions, or to signal particular ethnic, livelihood, or other group-​based associations. Appeals to particular relational connections over others intensify existing lines of division and render others less central. These assertions of specific forms of belonging can also intensify the importance of existing relationships of trust or mistrust through the recollection of past experiences of inclusion or exclusion. Finally, trade intersects with contestation through intersections with both finance and ownership. Since investor support depends on certain rates of return, project viability for alternative energy might require larger markets than are available locally and larger scale production than might be needed to meet local energy needs. When new commodities fit into existing controversial sectors, these additional products can provide new focusing issues to intensify ongoing conflicts. As commodities enter global supply chains and are integrated into existing corporate structures, opportunities arise to connect otherwise distant and disparate communities. The intersection of finance, ownership, and trade can explain how and why particular mechanisms of contention emerge at different times. In both Kenya and the Yukon, communities were concerned about local participation and autonomy, spillover effects and uneven consequences, and the

Introduction  13 intensification of injustice and environmental damage. They countered government and industry enthusiasm for expansion by challenging the climate action narratives of new fuel types, drawing on transnational discourses and advocacy networks and engaging in public demonstrations and gatherings to make their concerns visible. Mobilization efforts depended on discursive and framing strategies to link issues, especially through the creative use of salient slogans and images in campaigns. For instance, contemporary energy politics involve processes of globalization, international exchange, and national security measures; they also implicate food, water, and land.20 In Kenya, local opponents of biofuels linked proposed projects with existing global campaigns around food security, land grabs, and biodiversity, attracting support from groups and networks outside the delta. They drew on symbols with local and global resonance, including water quality, hunger, and colonial incursions. In the Yukon, organizers drew on global narratives of water protection to mobilize support and legitimize concern about fracking. Images of free-​flowing rivers, snow-​capped mountains, and roaming caribou also held symbolic power in the debates over extraction versus conservation. In both cases, emerging scientific uncertainty about carbon emissions enabled those resisting projects to undermine the climate justification for these energy developments, and the anticipated negative social and environmental spillover effects of land use change brought into question the sustainability and development benefits of proposed projects. While my analysis focuses on political economy elements of new projects as drivers of specific mechanisms of resistance, this is not an argument for a purely structural account of contestation.21 Instead, following McAdam, Tarrow, and Tilly’s (2001) dynamic model of contention, I call attention to the ways in which changing patterns in the global economy—​including the movement of capital, increasing complexity of financial tools, and shifts in supply chains—​intersect with local economic and political conditions to provoke or mitigate conflict over specific projects. The political economy of energy thus helps us better understand the resulting contentious politics at both local and global scales and the uneven and shifting responses to projects over time. To promote or resist projects, organizers link issues, use salient symbols and slogans, deploy scientific uncertainty, and develop transnational alliances. They do so through strategies of discourse, framing, and public performances, as they compete over problem definitions and project consequences. The interplay between political economy and contentious politics thus helps to explain why resistance to biofuels in the Tana

14  Fueling Resistance delta and opposition to fracking in the Yukon unfolded in such similar ways, in spite of the different energy types, geographic contexts, social histories, and institutional settings, as will be explored in detail in the chapters that follow. (See figure 1.1 for a simplified representation of the relationships between the elements of political economy and the mechanisms of contentious politics—​noting that these categories intersect and overlap, as I explore later in the book.)

Organization of the book To develop the core argument of the book—​that a combination of political economy and contentious politics lenses are needed to understand the strikingly similar multiscale politics of resistance to biofuels and fracking in divergent places, where finance, ownership, and trade relationships intersect with and shape local and transnational mobilization—​I organize the rest of this book as follows: Chapter 2 offers a look at global energy politics, tracing the uneven rise and fall of enthusiasm for biofuels and for fracking. The chapter provides some context for biofuels and fracking developments in the 2000s and should be especially helpful to readers new to either or both alternative energy sources. To further clarify the core theoretical contributions of this book, c­ hapter 3 delves further into political economy and contentious politics. Here I bring attention to the construction of competing narratives and strategic discourses around biofuels and fracking at the global level, identifying the role of issue linkages, scientific uncertainty, and key symbols in these debates. These global trends set the stage for proposals for biofuels in sub-​Saharan Africa and fracking in northern North America. The subsequent two chapters provide the core empirical analyses of the book: ­chapter 4 tracks biofuels debates in Kenya’s Tana delta, and c­ hapter 5 examines resistance to fracking in Canada’s Yukon territory. At the local level, each case illuminates the political economy elements underlying the contestation that emerged for these late arrivals to the sector. By tracing local responses to biofuels and fracking proposals, the chapters reveal how finance, ownership, and trade provoke and activate specific identities and insider/​ outsider narratives, along with strategies of resistance involving scale shifts and brokerage. Since each local case is embedded in global campaigns, I also analyze ongoing global developments for these fuels, particularly shifting corporate control and finance in each sector. These accounts document the

NEW ENERGY PROJECT TECHNOLOGY IN RURAL/REMOTE REGIONS

CONVERGENT DYNAMICS OF PROTEST

POLITICAL ECONOMY CHARACTERISTICS OF PROJECTS FINANCE Investment of capital in, and accumulation of capital from, new projects increases/decreases distances in commodity chains; creates/obscures accountability; increases/decreases commodity differentiation

OWNERSHIP

Control of production arrangements and resource developments Shapes distribution of costs and benefits; perceptions of risks and rewards from projects; trust/mistrust of project proponents

TRADE

Flows of commodities between producers and consumers Connects different regions through supply chains; links industrial sectors; creates positive/negative spillover effects

CONTENTIOUS POLITICS MECHANISMS POLITICAL ECONOMY INTERSECTS WITH LOCAL & GLOBAL CONTEXTS

Investors easy vs. hard to identify; incentives for small vs.v large-scale projects

Projects controlled by local vs. non-local owners; public vs private proponents

Energy for local vs. nonlocal use

SCALE SHIFTS

Processes through which claimants change the scale at which projects are proposed, debated, or resisted

TOOLS OF CLAIM-MAKING STRATEGIC DISCOURSES, FRAMES, AND PERFORMANCES

Local projects become part of larger commodity networks and financial systems; opportunities for new targets of claims across scales IDENTITY ACTIVATION Process of in-and out-group classification, where group belonging is constructed and amended Claim of belonging and legitimacy tied to insider/outsider status

BROKERAGE

Development of new relationships between otherwise disconnected people and places Opportunities for transnational alliances and campaigns (for/against projects)

Figure 1.1  Political economy characteristics of new energy projects shape resistance by catalyzing specific mechanisms of contention.

16  Fueling Resistance creative methods used by local actors to forward their claims, especially discursive and performative techniques, and the combination of social and legal channels of action. These local controversies also reveal the transnational dynamics of local land negotiations and networks of resistance. While this account recognizes the material differences between biofuels and fracking—​renewable versus nonrenewable, surface agriculture versus subsurface mining—​it focuses on the surprising similarities in the politics that result. The resource-​specific features of these debates are accompanied by parallel patterns of the contestation that repeat across these energy sectors. The final chapter, c­ hapter 6, thus offers an integrated look at the campaigns that emerge around these fuels and interrogates the implications of the technological optimism that underpins the enthusiasm for both biofuels and fracking. In this concluding chapter, I look more broadly at emerging energy technologies—​wind, solar, hydro—​to explain how my argument might apply to other projects and controversies.

Energy politics for the future As a whole, the book develops an argument about the interplay of finance, ownership, and trade with local contestation. Using two distinct case studies, I  interrogate the role of technological transformations in energy systems and community dynamics. New energy commodities reignite existing tensions and reveal ongoing inequality, but also provide new opportunities to reimagine energy and economic futures that might be socially and environmentally just. As new developments threaten to replicate existing patterns of inequality, particularly when those likely to bear the costs of the developments are excluded from control over the terms of those projects, resistance emerges. But organization and mobilization unfold in distinct ways depending on how projects are financed, proposed, organized, and operated. Since new economic and labor opportunities for some represent lost livelihoods and place-​based attachments for others, local responses to new energy projects are fragmented and heterogeneous, revealing uneven power dynamics at local and global levels. Energy project withdrawal or failure, then, is not the result of volatile commodity markets and speculative investment or organized local and transnational resistance, but instead involves a complex interplay among these factors. Combining a political economy with a contentious politics analysis

Introduction  17 to understand the controversies that emerge over land and resources in places that are late arrivals to new technologies and commodity production contributes to a better understanding of the uneven development of new energy frontiers. Further, tracing patterns of local mobilization and transnational alliance-​building around contested resources illuminates the social and environmental trade-​offs involved in all forms of energy production and consumption, whether renewable or fossil fuel–​based. A search for energy-​ based climate solutions will continue to encounter friction at local and global scales without careful attention to governance relationships, with a focus on equality, justice, and participation.

2 Triple Wins? The Rise and Fall of Biofuels and Fracking

By the early 2000s, the global community of states had been discussing action on climate change for decades, with the creation of the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC) in 1992 and multiple conferences.1 Scientific consensus was growing and solidifying on the anthropogenic causes of climate change. The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change—​the UNFCCC’s platform for interfacing between science and policy—​stated that increasing atmospheric carbon levels were “virtually certain” to be the result of fossil fuel emissions (IPCC 2001: 27).2 While still politically contested, this awareness was filtering into public discourse. The magazines Discover and National Geographic both ran stories in 2004 on the emergence of scientific consensus on global warming (Oreskes 2007). Still, in spite of lofty goals by governments in international venues—​to “cooperatively consider what they could do to limit average global temperature increases and the resulting climate change, and to cope with whatever impacts were, by then, inevitable” (UNFCCC 2012)—​global emissions continued to rise. Protracted negotiations had led to little action, although the Kyoto Protocol, adopted in 1997 and having entered into force in 2005, set legally binding emissions targets for industrialized countries, leading many to search for ways to meet their commitments. As evidence mounted about climate impacts, the international climate community revised its thresholds for the levels at which atmospheric carbon levels, if exceeded, could have catastrophic and unpredictable climate effects. In 2007 James Hansen, then a scientist at the US National Aeronautics and Space Administration, gave a presentation at the American Geophysical Union conference in which he named 350ppm as that threshold—​a number lower than what states were considering in international negotiations, and one that had already been surpassed (Hansen et al. 2008).3 As news of high-​ intensity hurricanes and flood events hit the global media with increasing frequency, along with reports of wildfires, drought, and coastal erosion, the Fueling Resistance. Kate J. Neville, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197535585.003.0002

Triple wins?  19 global search for climate solutions took on increased urgency. Along with the rise in extreme weather events, and nearly each year bringing with it the dubious distinction of being among the hottest on record (NOAA 2016), economic analyses of climate change brought to the fore the potential social and financial costs of a changing climate. The failure of countries in Copenhagen in 2009 to achieve meaningful agreement on climate action under the UNFCCC increased the pressure from concerned citizens and nongovernmental organizations around the world to pursue independent national agendas, city-​based commitments, and corporate action on emissions reductions and new energy supplies. Increasing consumption in the Global North, population growth across the Global South, and rapid global urbanization was accompanied by increasing energy demand, and the construction of new coal-​fired power plants in China and elsewhere led climate activists to redouble their efforts to shift energy supplies. Concurrently, international attention was—​as always—​divided. A  series of trends and pressures interact in the contemporary global governance of energy (Florini and Sovacool 2011), from security and environmental concerns to trade, and from investment agreements to development and aid policies.4 Beyond climate change, a series of additional national concerns intersected at the turn of the new millennium to catalyze the search for new energy supplies. In the early 2000s the “war on terror” dominated headlines in the wake of the September 11, 2001, attacks on the World Trade Center in New York and the London subway bombings in July 2005, among other events linked to Islamist extremist groups. These events exacerbated existing US concerns about political volatility in oil-​producing regions and projected fuel price increases.5 Oil prices were already high by the beginning of the 2000s (IMF 2000), and those prices were volatile (IEA 2006; OECD 2018).6 In May 2001, prior to the 9/​11 attacks, the “Cheney Report” was released by the US President’s National Energy Policy Development Group, calling attention to the growing demand for oil and gas, the need for reliable access to these supplies, and, in particular, to the concentration of oil production in a single region: the Persian Gulf (Volman 2003).7 The concerns that drove the report led to investment in new energy technologies and sources. As President George W. Bush said in his State of the Union address in 2006, “Keeping America competitive requires affordable energy. And here we have a serious problem: America is addicted to oil, which is often imported from unstable parts of the world. The best way to break this addiction is through technology. Since 2001, we have spent nearly $10 billion to develop cleaner,

20  Fueling Resistance cheaper, and more reliable alternative energy sources—​and we are on the threshold of incredible advances.”8 Diversifying global energy supply chains and increasing domestic energy production were national priorities in the US and elsewhere around the world. Further, nations were struggling with ever-​present and ongoing economic challenges. Rural development across the Global North and South was high on the global agenda, especially as countries entered into the Doha Round of trade negotiations under the World Trade Organization (WTO) in 2001 to address trade barriers and agricultural subsidies, among other issues. Attention to rural development using trade tools and foreign direct investment to stimulate growth was rising through the 1990s and into the 2000s, with the private sector seen as a major ally for the achievement of poverty alleviation. The financial collapse of 2008–​2009 added pressures in the global economy. In the wake of the burst bubble of subprime mortgages and housing markets, and the spillover effects across sectors, governments—​ especially the US and the UK—​were seeking new opportunities to kickstart their struggling economies.9 After the financial crisis, the US was searching for ways to bolster rural regions previously held up by manufacturing. Existing power relations in the international state system—​including the reorientation of North-​South and South-​South dynamics of power and trade—​intersect with the established structure of corporate power in the energy industry, shaping the development and uptake of new fuels in global markets from the top down. At the same time, political and social pressures operating at the local level create pressures from the bottom up in the energy sector, from household fuel needs to desires for expanded economic opportunities to unresolved or unrecognized land claims. Thus an account of contemporary responses to local energy projects must consider the intertwined state and nonstate dynamics of energy, economy, and geopolitics across scales. The Tana delta and the Yukon illuminate these multilevel dynamics, with global and national developments in new energy technologies mediated by local political contexts. The search for triple-​win energy sources propelled research and development around the world into existing and new technologies for expanding fuel production. In this chapter I turn first to biofuels and then to fracking. For each, I discuss the trends in the energy and agricultural sectors—​along with the emergent dynamics in climate science and ecology, land use debates, and geopolitical arrangements—​that resulted in these specific technologies becoming key players in alternative energy. I trace the similar global debates

Triple wins?  21 over these technologies, as concern arose for each over their environmental and social impacts. In particular, I  highlight some of the ways in which state and corporate interests aligned in agricultural and fossil fuel sectors, establishing a clear route for particular forms of production of these fuels. This chapter offers the global context for the energy technologies that later landed in Kenya’s Tana delta and the Yukon territory.

The biofuels boom: The rise of crop-​based fuels Lauded as low-​carbon, or “carbon-​neutral,” liquid biofuels—​namely bioethanol and biodiesel, derived from plants and plant oils—​gained prominence in the early 2000s. They promised to diversify the geographic supply of energy since a wide array of countries could grow the requisite feedstocks, with particular advantages for struggling agricultural regions seeking new crops and markets. As Skogstad (2017: 22) describes, the European Union approached biofuels targets as a “multidimensional policy,” one that provides “a solution to multiple problems.” With the potential to close the carbon loop, revitalize agricultural sectors in need of new markets, and delink fuel production from oil and gas extraction, biofuels offered an appealing solution to multiple political challenges. Bioethanol is generally produced by fermenting sugar or converted starch, while biodiesel is usually produced through transesterification. For the latter, oils are combined with alcohol and a catalyst to create the diesel fuel, along with glycerin, a byproduct. (For a diagram of production, see Dufey 2006: 3.) Globally, corn and sugarcane are the primary sources of bioethanol, while palm oil, rapeseed, and soy are key sources of biodiesel. Less significant in volume, but prominent in biofuels proposals across many regions of the Global South, the oilseed-​producing plant Jatropha curcas was also introduced as a source of biodiesel. These fuels can then be used, at least in part, as blends with or replacements for fossil fuel–​based diesel and gasoline. There have been limits—​or “blend walls”—​imposed in some places for mixing biofuels with petroleum-​based fuels, based on engine design, fuel infrastructure, and vehicle warranties from manufacturers (National Research Council 2011: 383), although these are contested by biofuels advocates as political constructs rather than technical barriers, differ across countries, and change over time (IER 2016; RFA 2018; OECD and FAO 2018: 192). In its Renewable Fuel Standard under the 2005 Energy Policy Act, for instance, the

22  Fueling Resistance US mandated a 10% limit (E10) for the percentage of ethanol by volume that could be mixed with gasoline (EIA 2019),10 while Brazil has long had higher limits (Pousa, Santos, and Suarez 2007). In the late 1990s biofuels were a marginal energy source exploited by only a handful of countries. Beyond small-​scale experiments and short periods of national support for fuels from various vegetable oils, petroleum has led the global fuel market. The exception was Brazil, where bioethanol had maintained an unsteady but important position in domestic energy supplies for decades (Wilkinson and Herrera 2010; Hochstetler and Keck 2007: especially 207–​211).11 But soon into the 2000s, Brazil, with sugarcane, and the US, with corn, had become clear leaders in biofuels production. With these key players at the helm, biofuels became a mainstream fuel (at least in international discourse, if not market share), mandated by new national policies in dozens of countries and pursued by investors around the globe (Bastos Lima and Gupta 2013).12 The early prominence of biofuels in Brazil can be traced to commodity prices and energy demands. Low sugar prices had led to the use of sugarcane for ethanol in Brazil in the 1930s (Hochstetler 2011: 352), with policies developed at the time to mandate the blending of ethanol with gasoline (roughly 7%; Moreira, Nogueira, and Parente 2005). In the 1970s Brazil was hit with a twofold challenge: a global oil crisis that saw prices surge and its expenditures on imports skyrocket, and a return of low global sugar prices that caused the domestic economy to plummet (Novo et al. 2010). Biofuels again provided a solution for energy and economic security. In 1975 the government initiated the PROALCOOL program, designed to implement and regulate two forms of bioethanol: anhydrous ethanol for blending with gasoline to use in unmodified engines (as already occurred) and hydrated ethanol for use as a pure fuel in modified engines (Moreira, Nogueira, and Parente 2005; Pousa, Santos, and Suarez 2007). The government also created PRO-​ÓLEO, a diesel equivalent of its bioethanol program. As the price of oil dropped, Brazil discontinued its biodiesel program, but bioethanol remained part of the fuel mix for the country, with blends increasing from an initial 5% ethanol content to 20 to 25% (Pousa, Santos, and Suarez 2007). By the early 2000s, having already substantially invested in biofuels both economically and politically, Brazil quickly emerged as a leader in the sector (Moreira, Nogueira, and Parente 2005). Early efforts following from the inception of PROALCOOL saw the quadrupling of sugar production from 1975 to 1986, although continuity in sugarcane and ethanol production from the 1970s to

Triple wins?  23 the early 2000s varied regionally (Moreira, Nogueira, and Parente 2005: 28–​ 30; Fernandes, Welch, and Gonçalves 2010: 800–​801). While its bioethanol program had been in effect for over two decades, in 2002 Brazil restarted efforts for biodiesel, introducing PROBIODIESEL as a substitution program (Pousa, Santos, and Suarez 2007). As with Brazil, the history of agriculture in the US helps to explain the surge in biofuels production in the country, especially for bioethanol. Scholars tracing agricultural trends over more than a century document changes in agrifood sectors toward trade liberalization (Clapp 2008), increased fossil fuel dependence (McMichael 2009a), the capitalization of agricultural products, which enables financialization (McMichael 2012), and the integration of—​but also intensified competition between—​corporations (Baines 2015; Martin 2019). As Baines (2015: 301) describes, high oil prices coincided with the reduction of government regulations over grain trade in the US in the 1970s, and with the consequent rise in power of grain traders came concerted lobbying for government subsidies that incentivized the overproduction of grains, including corn. The US made forays into biofuels development in the 1970s and enacted policies in subsequent decades to support renewable energy, including bioethanol and biodiesel integration into the energy matrix. For example, the Public Utility Regulatory Policies Act of 1978 promoted electricity generation from renewable sources; the motor fuel excise tax exemption in the Energy Tax Act of 1978 offered $0.40/​gallon exemptions for ethanol blends of at least 10% by volume; and the Energy Security Act of 1980 provided insured loans to small ethanol plants (Duffield and Collins 2006; Sorda, Banse, and Kemfert 2010). The focus on these renewable sources of energy remained limited compared to the focus on oil reserve access, and relative to the scale of overall US energy consumption, biofuels remained marginal. Still, these developments set the stage for the US to become a global leader in the sector. Through the first two decades of the 2000s, the biofuels industry expanded rapidly. (See figures 2.1 and 2.2 for trends in production over time and figure 2.3 for the top three producers of each type in 2006, when enthusiasm was initially growing.)13 Over the span of a decade, global bioenergy production and trade grew significantly, with a more than fourfold increase in bioethanol and nineteenfold increase in biodiesel from 2000 to 2009. Brazil and the US have consistently led bioethanol production, driving the entire biofuels market. The US and Brazil produced over 70% of the world’s bioethanol in 2007; a decade later they had strengthened their collective dominant

90000

84121

80000 72415

70000

65680

60000

55894

50000

63906

79866 81483 80009

66848

50109

40000 37429 30000

2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016 2017

Figure 2.1  Total global biofuels production from 2007 to 2017 in thousands of tons of oil equivalent, as reported by BP (2018: 45). Global biofuel production by year (billions of litres) 140 Total

120 100

Bioethanol

80 60 40

Biodiesel

20 0 2007

2008

2009

2010

2011

2012

2013

2014

2015

2016

2017

Figure 2.2  Global bioethanol, biodiesel, and total biofuels production from 2007 to 2017, in billions of liters. (See note 14 for data sources for this compiled figure).

Figure 2.3  Top producers of biofuels and their main feedstocks in 2006 (from Dauvergne and Neville 2009: 1095, using modified data from Olver and James 2006 and Davis 2007).

Triple wins?  25 position, producing over 80% of bioethanol (RFA 2019)  and over 65% of total global biofuels (BP 2018). In 2006 Brazil was the world’s leader in bioethanol production, although by 2018 the US had far outpaced its southern counterpart, producing more than double the bioethanol (RFA 2019). For biodiesel, the EU has led production, driven especially by Germany and later Spain, with the US, Brazil, and Argentina also major players. The quantity of feedstock used for fuels in these main bioenergy-​producer countries became substantial. In the first years of the 2000s, Brazil used almost half of its sugarcane for ethanol production, and by 2006, 20% of corn crops in the US were used for bioethanol, rising to over 30% by 2008 (Moreira, Nogueira, and Parente 2005; Sorda, Banse, and Kemfert 2010).14 Growth in US ethanol production continued in parallel with increasing corn yields over subsequent years, although with a temporary drop in overall growth in 2012 (US Department of Energy 2016). By 2008 EU countries were using roughly half their combined vegetable oil production for fuel, with rapeseed dominating as their biodiesel feedstock (Forge 2007).15 Around the world the triple-​win narrative accompanied the rise of biofuels, justifying the diversion of agricultural commodities into energy. Environmentally, plant-​ based fuels seemed promising substitutes for fossil fuels. In the EU, for instance, the transportation sector was estimated to contribute 21% of its greenhouse gas emissions (Olver and James 2006), and, unlike renewable sources such as solar and wind, these fuels were readily available for mobile use without major changes to infrastructure (Bastos Lima and Gupta 2013: 50; Mathews 2007). In public statements and reports, governing authorities in the EU proclaimed the carbon neutrality of biofuels:  “The carbon released is carbon that has been absorbed recently during the growth of the plant from which the biofuel is being produced . . . unlike the burning of fossil fuels, which releases carbon which has been stored within the earth for millions of years” (EU Committee 2006: 12). But not all biofuels are equivalent in terms of their production or their politics. Bioethanol and biodiesel can be produced from a number of different inputs through a variety of technical processes, and they are often divided along “generational” lines. These generations convey information about the source and process of production and provide a shorthand way of identifying differences among fuels (although the categories are disputed and often part of strategic discourses used to promote or oppose biofuels).16 As global interest in biofuels surged, the differences across biofuels feedstocks and production methods became central to political debates over their production.

26  Fueling Resistance Biofuels were hyped as a way to provide new markets to struggling farmers and rural economies in developed and developing countries alike. In the US, for example, the 2000 Commodity Credit Corporation Bioenergy Program was aimed at stimulating demand and alleviating crop surpluses (Duffield and Collins 2006). This was true for countries in Europe too. The EU explained its vision in terms of providing a new route for farmers to participate in an increasingly competitive market, especially in light of reforms in 2003 of its Common Agricultural Policy (CAP). With global negotiations over agricultural trade in limbo (especially in the WTO), many developing countries felt even more pressure to find new markets and comparative advantages for their farmers. In some cases, this extended beyond national borders and beyond trade arrangements and financial flows into the realm of South-​South cooperation and partnerships. Emerging powers in the Global South—​Brazil, along with India, China, and South Africa—​launched nonmonetary forms of cooperation, such as technical assistance and technology transfers, including for biofuels development and support (Dauvergne and Neville 2009). For instance, a trilateral India-​Brazil–​South Africa Dialogue Forum was established in 2003, with energy and agriculture on its agenda at its first summit in 2006. The signing of a Memorandum of Understanding on Biofuels by these three countries took place that same year (Government of India 2006; White and Costa 2009; UNCTAD 2012). Further, countries concerned about their reliance on energy imports touted biofuels as a source of energy independence. Even for governments that rejected action on climate change—​the US, under Bush, withdrew from Kyoto Protocol negotiations17—​biofuels promised to facilitate domestic energy production, increase the range of energy suppliers, and provide market competition that could break the stronghold of the major oil producers. The US House of Representatives had already underscored the need to “expand and diversify [their] sources and types of energy” (Volman 2003: 574) and “maintain a diversity of fuels from a multiplicity of sources” (US House of Representatives 2002: 24). In 2004 the US implemented a time-​ bound tax credit to incentivize ethanol blending in fuel (Sorda, Banse, and Kemfert 2010: 6980), and in 2005 passed the Energy Policy Act, containing a Renewable Fuels Standard that aimed to increase the amount of renewable energy used in transport fuels. (An updated version of the RFS came out in 2010; Sorda, Banse, and Kemfert 2010.) Along with the US and Brazil, the EU has been a driver of the global biofuels sector. In 2006 an EU Committee (2006:  5, 12)  report attributed the high price of oil to “declining proven

Triple wins?  27 supplies in relation to demand,” and the Committee saw this as building “the strength of the case for biofuels as an alternative to fossil fuels.” For the EU, at least in its public reports, the high costs of energy imports provided the motivation for encouraging the development of domestically produced biofuels. At the launch of the European Commission’s EU Strategy on Biofuels in 2006, the EU commissioner for agriculture and rural development, Mariann Fischer Boel, summed up the enthusiasm of early international interest in biofuels as follows: “There has never been a better moment to push the case for biofuels. . . . We face stringent targets under the Kyoto Protocol. And the recent controversy over imports of Russian gas has underlined the importance of increasing Europe’s energy self-​sufficiency. Raw materials for biofuel production also provide a potential new outlet for Europe’s farmers, who have been freed by CAP reform to become true entrepreneurs” (EU Committee 2006: 10). Such narratives defined the first episode in the recent story of biofuels, which persisted for several years. In the early years of the 2000s, optimism about biofuels spanned sectors, from government and intergovernmental organizations to NGOs and the private sector, although for variable reasons and to different extents. Some NGO and community-​based supporters saw opportunities to replace corporate-​controlled fossil fuel resources with locally produced alternatives, thereby providing poor, rural communities with low-​cost energy. They promoted biofuels as a means to increase community autonomy, providing an energy alternative for those disconnected from the grid and serving as a potential source of supplemental income for agricultural households. For instance, in rural Kenya, Hunsberger (2010: 954) documents the justification from one NGO of its Jatropha project, quoting a project organizer who explained, “The main objective of the project [was] to fight poverty and the effects of climate change, and at the same time to increase farmers’ income as part of poverty reduction.” For these early enthusiasts, the fuels offered a way to counter the economic power of the big energy players through local, small-​scale solutions. Consequently, many groups lobbied on behalf of biofuels. In 2000, for example, Greenpeace UK petitioned for a government fund to support nonpetroleum fuels, and in 2001 called on Chancellor Gordon Brown to facilitate the introduction of commercial biodiesel in the country.18 In 2003 the organization published a document on climate change saying, “Alternative fuels such as biofuels offer carbon reductions, reduced nitrous and sulphurous oxides (that damage air quality, impact human health and can cause acid rain). They also offer a huge potential new stimulus for farmers and more localized use of

28  Fueling Resistance crops grown for energy.”19 Among the supporters were farmers, national and municipal government representatives, and conservation groups, including the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB) and Friends of the Earth (Dauvergne and Neville 2009:  1090).20 Internationally, corn producers in the US, rapeseed producers in Germany, and multinational agricultural corporations such as Archer Daniels Midland expressed interest in biofuels (Accenture 2008; Kurdusiewicz and Wandesforde-​Smith 2008). Bill Gates, Richard Branson, and other wealthy individuals invested personal funds in biofuels projects (Olver and James 2006). Governments implemented legislation to encourage the growth of the sector, creating market signals through policy that spurred interest in production. Numerous analysts have highlighted the dependence of biofuels on subsidies and mandates; Bastos Lima and Gupta (2013: 50) emphasize that “there is a fair degree of consensus that biofuel expansion is fuelled by public policies rather than by market forces alone,” and Sorda, Banse, and Kemfert (2010: 6977) underscore that biofuels production, outside of Brazil, requires financial incentives from governments to be feasible. In 2003 the EU adopted a directive on “the promotion of the use of biofuels or other renewable fuels for transport” (known informally as the “Biofuels Directive”), encouraging its member states to promote the replacement of petrol and diesel by biofuels and other renewable fuels by mandating them to set “indicative targets,” based on EU reference values, for renewable fuel substitution (European Parliament 2003). As early as 1997, as Skogstad (2017: 28–​29) notes in her analysis of the trajectory of European biofuels policy, the EU acknowledged that any development of renewable alternatives would need to consider their potential harm, including impacts on biodiversity. Still, the 2003 Directive promoted biofuels enthusiastically, encouraging “the use of biofuels or other renewable fuels to replace diesel or petrol for transport purposes in each Member State, with a view to contributing to objectives such as meeting climate change commitments, environmentally friendly security of supply and promoting renewable energy sources” (European Parliament 2003: Article 1; also quoted by EU Committee 2006:  8). Projections pointed to growth in biofuels imports by European countries that lacked sufficient domestic supply to meet their mandated targets (Ringwald 2006). A  little less than three years later, the EU’s Strategy for Biofuels, along with the Biomass Action Plan, sent another signal to the world regarding the momentum of these fuels. The Biomass Action Plan was focused on increasing energy use from forestry, agriculture, and waste, while the Strategy outlined more broadly the

Triple wins?  29 Commission’s plans for a coherent approach to reduce the EU’s dependence on oil and gas imports (EU Committee 2006). These policies emphasized renewable energy—​and biofuels specifically—​as a growing economic sector with significant political, economic, and environmental promise.

Emerging controversy over biofuels:  Food vs. fuel and land grabs Views on biofuels shifted dramatically over a decade, as concerns arose over their carbon footprints and consequences for the food system. Research in the early 2000s began to indicate that these fuels should be differentiated from each other when considering their impacts. Feedstock crops for biofuels differ in their production requirements, from fertilizers and pesticides to water and labor. The contributions of biofuels to climate change mitigation and social development depend on these production methods, as well as the geographic conditions of and distances between sites of production and consumption (McCarthy 2010). Some biofuels were shown to require more energy to produce than they replaced, including ethanol from corn, switchgrass, and wood biomass (Pimentel and Patzek 2005). Variation in the environmental consequences of feedstock production led some to push for full life-​cycle analyses that considered water, soil, and energy use prior to implementing any policies. Puppán (2002: 95), for instance, suggested such a technical approach could contribute to more sensible policies: “Life-​cycle assessment is the scientific evaluation method to investigate the net environmental impacts of biofuels. By means of this method it is possible to determine whether the use of biofuels or the use of conventional fuels trigger more pollution to the environment.” Scholars in the UK offered such a “well-​ to-​wheel” analysis, highlighting the large variation in energy and emissions balances and recommending that regulators “consider fuel production processes as well as final fuel properties when deciding policy for future fuels” (Punter et al. 2004: 5). These life-​cycle and policy-​informed analyses revealed less promising outcomes for biofuels than many enthusiasts had anticipated, to the point that Pimentel (2003: 127) bluntly concluded, “Subsidized ethanol produced from U.S. corn is not a renewable energy source.” In spite of emerging evidence suggesting the need for skepticism, a few early critics were reluctant to outright oppose the fuels. Many groups feared that strong opposition would dampen all research into renewables and so

30  Fueling Resistance hesitated in mobilizing concerted resistance. Consequently, some environmental groups took positions of cautious endorsement in the early days of biofuels:  groups including Friends of the Earth, Greenpeace, and the RSPB “support[ed] biofuels under the condition of delivering reasonable reductions in greenhouse gas emissions and farming practices not resulting in environmental damage” (Bomb et al. 2007: 2262). Further, anticipating the release of the Biomass Action Plan by the European Commission, Greenpeace, WWF, BirdLife International, and the European Environmental Bureau advised the EU of the need for “strong environmental safeguards.”21 The broad support for biofuels began to waver, though, as doubts appeared about the consequences of biofuels beyond carbon. When food prices spiked around 2007, a spate of reports and articles emerged investigating the links between agricultural markets and biofuels. The questions were urgent: as articulated by Naylor et al. (2007), “At risk are more than 800 million food-​ insecure people—​who live on less than $1 per day and spend the majority of their incomes on food.” Critics began to talk of “food versus fuel,” and some campaigns began to portray gas-​guzzlers as taking food off the plates of the world’s most hungry. In many countries, food price increases acted as a catalyst for much larger political protest (Bellemare 2015). Riots erupted in 2008 around the world (Bellemare 2015: 1), including in Haiti, Yemen, and Zimbabwe; some observers associated these events with the surging price of staple crops, which were labeled “food riots” by some and “fuel riots” by others (Dauvergne and Neville 2009: 1091).22 Such events connected debates over biofuels to broader debates over energy, land access, and governance. In light of the rising food prices and associated unrest, such discussions about moderating biofuels production targets, developing sustainability criteria for renewable energy, and differentiating between types of biofuels gained prominence and momentum. By 2007 policymakers were wavering in their commitments to domestic and regional biofuels mandates. As NGOs accused biofuels of diverting grain supplies and vegetable oils from tables to fuel tanks, and developed focused campaigns targeting them, governments responded. Although early EU legislation such as the 2003 Biofuels Directive created incentives for conventional biofuels (Skogstad 2017), and these were further encouraged by the 2005 Biomass Action Plan and 2006 Strategy for Biofuels, such policies were created in tandem with growing concern from member states and regional stakeholders about potential negative consequences of the fuels (Renckens, Skogstad, and Mondou 2017: 1437). Throughout the development of its renewable energy plans, the

Triple wins?  31 EU consistently referenced the need to consider environmental impacts, such as ensuring greenhouse gas emission reductions and avoiding deforestation (e.g., EU Committee 2006: 21, 22, 25). The EU specified sustainability criteria for biofuels in its 2009 Renewable Energy Directive (European Parliament 2009; Renckens, Skogstad, and Mondou 2017; these standards were revised in 2016 [EC n.d.]). Reflecting ongoing openness to the sector in spite of their growing concerns, some NGOs participated in multistakeholder governance initiatives for biofuels. For instance, the Roundtable on Sustainable Biofuels (now known as the Roundtable on Sustainable Biomaterials [RSB], modeled after similar initiatives in soy, sugar, palm oil, and other agricultural commodities),23 included WWF International, International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN), and the Sierra Club, along with intergovernmental bodies, biofuels producers and retailers, and farming businesses and associations. The RSB had its first meeting in 2007 to begin drafting principles and criteria for sustainability. The RSB was an early foray into certification and private governance schemes for these fuels; it would later be joined by many state and nonstate efforts to devise sustainability metrics and oversight for biofuels (Fortin 2013). As biofuels occupied a more stable position in global energy supply, the focus at the international level turned more fully to standard-​setting and evaluation, although still with little international consensus on sustainability metrics and governance regimes (Bastos Lima and Gupta 2013, 2014; Renckens, Skogstad, and Mondou 2017). Multiple discussions and negotiations took place in international and intergovernmental venues. In June 2008 delegates from around the world poured into the United Nations Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO) headquarters in Rome. In the face of rising food prices and growing social and political unrest around the world, over 4,700 people gathered for what was billed by FAO Director-​General Jacques Diouf as a “de facto summit” on the food crisis:  the High-​Level Conference on World Food Security.24 Security was tight for the three-​day meeting, as dozens of world leaders—​ including controversial figures such as Zimbabwe’s Robert Mugabe and Iran’s Mahmoud Ahmadinejad—​made appearances. The meeting was subtitled “the challenges of climate change and bioenergy,” and it put biofuels under severe scrutiny. Tensions ran high. Prior to the 2008 meeting, Jean Ziegler (2007: 2), then the UN special rapporteur on the right to food, had made headlines with a report in which he wrote, “It is a crime against humanity to convert agricultural

32  Fueling Resistance productive soil into soil which produces food stuff that will be burned into biofuel,” proclaiming that he was “gravely concerned that biofuels will bring hunger in their wake.”25 Building on this provocative claim, some participants in Rome identified biofuels as the culprit of food stress, noting that the timing of food price spikes in 2007 and 2008 coincided with the growth of the biofuels sector. Others resisted blaming biofuels alone, noting that the high cost of oil was a driver of both food prices and biofuels development and suggesting instead that the broader energy system was to blame.26 Still others staunchly defended biofuels. These debates revealed deep divides in views on the drivers of food prices and the causes of hunger, from new pressures on supply and demand to deep, systemic problems with the global food regime.27 These divides would persist for years.28 Although economic and other analyses began to show that biofuels were likely not the main cause of food prices spikes (see, e.g., Clapp 2009a),29 the narratives of food and hunger had staying power in media and political arenas (Tomei and Helliwell 2016). Concerns over food price spikes remained in the public’s attention, especially when food prices again hit peaks in 2011 and 2012, rising 10% in July 2012, when the World Bank Food Price Index recorded 6% higher prices than in 2011.30 Also in July 2012 the BBC reported on high global food prices, pointing to a statement from the multinational corporation Nestlé blaming biofuels for the price spikes. The company’s chairman, Peter Brabeck-​Letmathe, was quoted as saying, “If no food was used for fuel, the prices would come down again—​that is very clear. . . . We are now in a new world with a completely different level of food prices because of the direct link with fuel.”31 In 2008 disputes at the High-​Level Conference over the causes of the food crisis stymied negotiations over solutions. One delegate said, “When one starts out on the basis of a mistaken diagnosis, then no appropriate remedy can be found” (ENB 2008). The powerful claim of “food versus fuel,” and associated stories of famine and social conflict, evoked strong reactions in both public and political realms. Evidence was equivocal on the effects of biofuels on food access and hunger, which were shown to depend on a suite of policy decisions, market structures, energy prices, and global supply chains, and sources could be found to support many political positions. In any case, biofuels were widely agreed to have influenced agricultural markets. Proponents at the international level, including Brazil, saw comparative advantages emerging from differentiating their fuels from global competitors. At the High-​Level Conference, President Lula da Silva made

Triple wins?  33 impassioned claims about “good” ethanol (presumably Brazil’s sugarcane-​ derived variety)32 in comparison to “bad” ethanol (referring indirectly to the US’s corn-​based output) (Dauvergne and Neville 2009:  1094). Yet conclusions by researchers were as varied as governmental positions. And even as food prices declined, intergovernmental bodies continued to examine the links between food prices and biofuels. The UN Committee on World Food Security, for instance, tasked its High Level Panel of Experts on Food Security and Nutrition to consider the issue (HLPE 2013). For investors, the changing global policies made their gambles on incipient biofuels projects far riskier. Without state policies mandating specific targets for these renewable fuels, speculators projected that markets might not materialize. The food price spikes added to growing scientific uncertainty about the value of biofuels, especially when paired with the scientific concern over biodiversity and carbon from land-​use conversion. The projected demand for biofuels anticipated in the early 2000s would require large quantities of land. Along with converting existing agricultural lands to feedstock crops, observers worried, production could infringe upon other land uses, including forests, pastures for grazing, and fallow plots. Scientists began to model these changes, and studies found that the type of land converted to biofuels could significantly influence the carbon footprint of these fuels. Energy balance calculations from diverse research projects revealed that bioethanol and biodiesel varied dramatically in their net energy and carbon balances across their different feedstocks (e.g., Fingerman et al. 2010; Searchinger 2010). At the center of many of these studies were questions about land-​use change. The solution, for some, was to promote nonfood crops, including Jatropha curcas, as feedstocks. Inedible plants on arid lands could skirt the problem of food competition in these accounts, thereby enabling energy production and delivering development benefits. Further, some scientists suggested that certain types of biofuels could contribute positively to environmental goals if they could be produced on certain types of “underperforming” or “abandoned” agricultural lands, but saw less promise from converting other landscapes (Tilman, Hill, and Lehman 2006: 1600). Such potential was taken up in the policy sphere with enthusiasm. During the period of widespread optimism about biofuels, areas across the Global South, and especially in coastal eastern Africa, were described as “empty,” “unused,” and “barren,”33 although such strong language was more often used publicly in critiques of these land deals and seen less directly in statements by those attempting to secure land for these projects. Rather

34  Fueling Resistance than calling the lands unoccupied, international organizations tended to assert that the land was “underused” and that with adequate investments, these “marginal” or “degraded” lands, as described by the World Bank (2009: 18)—​with limited water availability, nutrient-​poor soils, or other biophysical limitations—​ could be restored and become highly productive for agriculture and energy. In such narratives, conservation areas, seasonally used lands, and lightly populated areas would be named “empty” and thus enclosed by the private sector and the state (Brockington and Igoe 2006; McCarthy and Cramb 2009; Smalley and Corbera 2012).34 However, what was for some analysts “underperforming land” was what others might describe as nature or habitat.35 The displacement of some ecological systems and habitats could lead to a net carbon increase of hundreds of times the emissions from the equivalent fossil fuels, as modeled by Fargione et al. (2008), who pointed to the potential impact of replacing rainforests, grasslands, peatlands, and savannas with biofuels. Some academics cautioned that mandates for biofuels quotas could create pressure for land conversion that could threaten biodiversity (Donald 2004; Tilman, Hill, and Lehman 2006). Scholars investigated both direct and indirect land-​use changes, and some studies estimated that the latter far outweighed the carbon impacts of the former (Melillo et al. 2009). However, others challenged the assumptions underlying various models and their value for policymaking. Mathews and Tan (2009: 305), for example, contested a global model from Searchinger et al. (2008) that projected the doubling of greenhouse gas emissions over a thirty-​year timeframe, arguing that “indirect land use change effects are too diffuse and subject to too many arbitrary assumptions to be useful for rule‐making” in national and international governance efforts. Debates over these estimates continued for years. In 2016 the EU published a long-​awaited study on indirect land-​use change; the report confirmed the need for differentiation of fuels, suggesting that conventional and cellulosic ethanol could contribute to carbon reductions, while peat drainage in Southeast Asia for oil palm needed to be stopped (Valin et al. 2015). But the report did not resolve public controversy over the implementation of biofuels mandates and incentives by governments.36 In the early days of biofuels debates, the encouragement to use so-​called marginal lands for biofuels provoked heated responses from those who saw these designations as politically expedient myths about much of the land in the Global South. While commercial interests and international investors were expressing interest in lands across the Global South, narratives of marginal lands were quickly being countered by NGOs. One observer wondered, “What exactly is

Triple wins?  35 ‘barren’ land if it is being used extensively by pastoralists?”37 Organizations such as GRAIN and the International Land Coalition recorded the rapid increase in land transactions for biofuels (Cotula 2013; HLPE 2013), asserting the unrecognized but active use and value of many places to local—​and often vulnerable and marginalized—​communities. Such concerned observers suggested that low agricultural intensity reflects the carrying capacity of the land and proves necessary for long-​term sustainable agriculture in sensitive ecosystems and, further, that agricultural intensification increases inequality.38 Critics dubbed the increasingly prevalent interest in land for biofuels a “land grab,” “land rush,” or even, sweepingly, “the Global Land Grab,” especially when referring to projects in Latin America, Asia, and Africa.39 Among others, Reuters reported that demand for biofuels was “driving Africa[’s] ‘land grab,’ ” and the BBC pointed to hedge fund investors “behind ‘land grabs’ in Africa.”40 These condemnatory assessments recalled histories of colonial powers carving up the Global South and pointed to biofuels plans as a new way for powerful actors to enclose rural lands. They called attention to unresolved issues of claims for tenure, customary land rights, and unrecognized occupation in many rural regions around the world, especially across Africa. Tenure insecurity, for instance, can result from the absence of legal land title or from the disregard of—​or uncertainty about—​ formal land rights (Broegaard 2005), and both enable the transfer of land out of local control and into the hands of government and the private sector. Land acquisition concerns for feedstocks intersected with investments in land for numerous other purposes: industrial development, resource extraction, agriculture, environmental commodities, and conservation, where the cumulative impact of new enclosures far surpassed a single project or sector. These concerns over land combined with ongoing worry over food security, creating even greater uncertainty around these fuels. The focus of many campaigns (and the resulting media coverage) about biofuels increasingly linked food security and land control more broadly,41 perhaps reflecting concerns that a focus on food alone obscured more complex issues of competing land uses and the questionable nutritional value of diverted crops (Tomei and Helliwell 2016). Embedded in competing assertions about land availability was disagreement about the concept of security itself: energy security understood as diversified energy suppliers and sources versus human security understood as access to land and continued livelihoods. With biofuels, the former was not only different from but also directly threatening to the latter. For some of the major producing countries, the claim that biofuels enhance security was thrown into doubt by both the economics and the ecology of the sector. Several studies have revealed

36  Fueling Resistance that biofuels production is highly subsidized, with estimates suggesting subsidies for biofuels in OECD countries were at least $11 billion in 2006, and for bioethanol from corn in the US were more than $6 billion per year.42 These subsidies remain a point of contention across countries and have been used by Brazil to justify the superiority of its sugarcane ethanol to US corn ethanol. Brazil removed direct government subsidies from its bioethanol industry, and in 2006, discounting US import taxes, its sugarcane-​based bioethanol was $0.22/​gallon cheaper than the US corn-​based competitor (Moreira, Nogueira, and Parente 2005; Goldemberg 2007). Moreover, revealing the sensitivity of the sector to climate and weather variability, its rate of growth is also a function of ecological and agricultural stochasticity, where lowered Brazilian consumption in 2011 was attributed to a poor sugar harvest (Olivier, Janssens-​Maenhout, and Peters 2012). Throughout this time alliances emerged among civil society organizations, as groups began to work in concert to voice opposition to biofuels. For instance, Friends of the Earth partnered with the Environmental Working Group and Clean Air Task Force to write letters to the US government protesting the Renewable Fuel Standard in 2008.43 Other global coalitions also formed, with the Global Forest Coalition, Biofuelwatch, Global Justice Ecology Project, and Gaia Foundation, among others, issuing a joint press release condemning the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change for its call for large-​scale biofuels.44 At the same time, splits emerged within the private sector as powerful actors perceived opportunities and threats from these renewables. While not quite “greenwashing,” several energy companies took advantage of the positive attention on the sector to bolster their reputations. Notably, British Petroleum—​ one of the world’s largest oil companies—​launched a campaign projecting a new moniker and image: “Beyond Petroleum” (Cherry and Sneirson 2010).45 By the early 2000s both Shell and BP were incorporating renewable energy in their investment portfolios and publicly supported emissions reduction activities (Kolk and Levy 2001: 501). Renewable energy projects created by these and other companies spanned renewable energy sectors from solar power to biofuels. By 2009 the corporate initiatives that had been launched for biofuels included a scoping activity conducted through an already existing partnership (established in 2007) between Shell and IUCN, a research partnership between Chevron and Texas A&M University’s Agriculture and Engineering BioEnergy Alliance, and funding from BP to the University of California, Berkeley, to lead an energy research consortium with the Lawrence Berkeley National Lab and the University of Illinois at Urbana-​Champaign.46 Some companies, such as BP

Triple wins?  37 and Shell, perceived biofuels development as an opportunity to attract positive media attention and rebrand themselves as ethical and responsible—​without adjusting their core extractive activities. While an industry report indicated that biofuels could reach $171 billion by 2020, indicating substantial growth in the sector, this would still represent less than 10% of the global market for transportation fuels, valued at more than $2 trillion in 2012 (Lawrence and Adamson 2012). For many large corporations, though, the attention to biofuels seemed a supplement to, not a substitute for, fossil fuels. The investments and attention to biofuels partnerships and projects remained a small part of these companies’ activities and the broader energy investment field. While Chevron was estimated to have spent $2 billion on renewable energy, energy efficiency, and alternative energy projects between 2002 and 2006, biofuels made up only a small part of its portfolio of projects.47 And, importantly, this figure represents only a small portion of Chevron’s total investments over that period. (Notably, no major oil company was determined to be a leader in the biofuels field in 2012, according to Lawrence and Adamson 2012). Anti-​biofuels coalitions voiced concerns about the cumulative and global impacts of biofuels on biodiversity, the climate, and ecosystems, as well as on food prices and other commodity sectors. At the same time, they looked to local communities to understand the consequences of feedstock production at a more granular level. Community displacement and dispossession, food insecurity, and water withdrawals operate in particular places and are shaped by the interplay between global markets, local histories, and governance arrangements. A global look at the emergence of controversy over biofuels, then, establishes an important context for understanding the debates that followed the arrival of biofuels proposals in Kenya’s Tana delta.

Energy independence and low-​carbon fuel:  The rise of fracking As with biofuels, natural gas is not a new energy source but one that took on new prominence in the 2000s. Developments in drilling technologies in the United States took place in the late 1990s. Initially advances remained under the radar for most actors outside the oil and gas industry (Mazur 2016). The technologies now known collectively as hydraulic fracturing, adopted in public discourse as “fracking,”48 were developed iteratively and experimentally over a long history of oil and gas drilling. With roots in the 1940s and

38  Fueling Resistance 1950s (Mason, Muehlenbachs, and Olmstead 2015),49 and even as far back as the mid-​1800s, when nitroglycerine was injected into wells as part of explosive experiments to catalyze oil and gas flows (Jones, Hillier, and Comfort 2015; as documented enthusiastically by writer Gregory Zuckerman 2013 and critically by journalist Andrew Nikiforuk 2015), contemporary fracking represents part of a long history of efforts to extract hard-​to-​reach fossil fuels. Advances in these processes, specifically horizontal drilling combined with new mixtures of sand, water, and chemicals (also called high-​volume or slickwater hydraulic fracturing), allowed for the extraction of previously inaccessible oil and gas from shale and tight rock formations. Whereas biofuels entered the arena of renewable fuels, fracking was the product of and embedded in the fossil fuel industry, designed to enable increased extraction of oil and natural gas. By the early 2000s petroleum geologists were identifying the conditions for extraction and productivity across different types of shale reserves (e.g., Curtis 2002), among other formations. Fracking thus joined a series of technologies in unconventional oil and gas extraction, including cyclic steam stimulation and steam-​assisted gravity drainage used for extracting bitumen from oil sands (Oil Sands Magazine 2018), that shifted production into what Short et al. (2015: 700) describe as “extreme energy,” involving the continual intensification of technologies for extraction over time. Given these trends, those outside the industry did not identify fracking as something distinct from the usual search for energy until it had already radically transformed extraction. As described by Zuckerman (2013), much of the initial experimentation in fracking was done by wildcatters—​small, independent oil and gas companies funded by independent money and venture capitalists, operating at the margins of the industry.50 A marked increase in natural gas production in the US took place around 2006 as these new technologies were applied (see figures 2.4 and 2.5 for changes in global and US natural gas production over time, as well as projected future increases), and a rush for land and drilling rights accompanied the new finds. As reported by the US Energy Information Administration (EIA 2014), US natural gas imports began to decline in 2007, and by 2013 were the lowest they had been in over two decades. By 2015 more than half of US natural gas was from shale (EIA 2016). This “shale revolution” or “shale gale” (Davis and Hoffer 2012: 237), was celebrated as a game-​ changer by fossil fuel industry analysts and embraced by the US government, and interest rose around the world.51 With per unit carbon emissions from

Triple wins?  39 World natural gas production by type (2010–30) billion cubic feet per day 600 history projection 500

coalbed methane tight gas

400 300

other nontight gas

200 100

shale gas

0 2010

2015

2020

2025

2030

Figure 2.4  Graph of global natural gas production by fuel source over time, with projections to 2040, as documented by EIA (2016).

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Figure 2.5  Graph of US natural gas production by fuel source over time, with projections to 2040, as documented by IEA (2018: 371).

combustion lower for gas than for coal or oil, natural gas was advanced as a “bridge” or transition fuel that could help reduce emissions while longer-​ term large-​scale renewable energy options were being developed. Gas could be mobilized rapidly, substituted readily, and, especially for struggling economies following the financial crisis of 2008–​2009, catalyze increased productive activity in rural regions (Davis and Hoffer 2012: 228; Ladd 2014: 298).

40  Fueling Resistance Such possibilities aligned with US national interests in expanding domestic energy supplies and—​especially during and after the 2008–​2009 financial crisis—​boosting rural economies through exploration and extraction. In 2008 in the US, President Barack Obama gave a speech on energy in which he stated, “In the short-​term, as we transition to renewable energy, we can and should increase our domestic production of oil and natural gas,” in part as a strategy to reduce dependence on foreign fossil fuels. (Notably, the speech also included a reiteration of support for federal investment in “next generation biofuels”)52 Some groups, such as the Sierra Club (Levi 2015), viewed gas as part of a thoughtful transition to a low-​carbon future. In 2008 Carl Pope, the executive director of the Sierra Club, called natural gas a “bridge fuel” to a renewable future and, with Chesapeake Energy’s CEO Aubrey McClendon and oil baron T. Boone Pickens, promoted the fuel.53 In an article titled “King Coal,” Robert F. Kennedy Jr. wrote, “[A]‌quick conversion from coal to gas is the quickest route for jumpstarting our economy and saving our planet.”54 With such high-​profile political, financial, and social champions, along with increasing land transfers to fracking companies, by the end of the first decade of the 2000s fracking was drawing increasing public attention (Davis and Fisk 2014). Interest focused especially on large shale basins—​including the Marcellus, spanning Pennsylvania, New York, West Virginia, Virginia, Ohio, and Maryland; the Bakken, in North Dakota (and extending north into southern Manitoba and Saskatchewan); and the Barnett and Eagle Ford in Texas. Interest surged beyond the US for similar reasons. The province of BC, for instance, justified its increased gas extraction activities as part of global climate change mitigation efforts (Garvie, Lowe, and Shaw 2014–​2015: 60–​61), while the state of Queensland in Australia lauded the prosperity accompanying its new “gas-​age” from coal seam gas (de Rijke 2013), and enthusiastic observers viewed Poland’s shale gas as a way for Eastern Europe to reduce its dependence on Russia (Jaspal et al. 2014: 254). As with biofuels, which promised a simplified and replicable energy production strategy, natural gas offered a straightforward switch: electricity production could be transitioned from coal-​fired and diesel power plants to gas-​and LNG-​fired plants; heating systems could burn gas rather than oil; and existing energy uses could continue with little impact on end-​users—​perhaps even at cheaper prices. Fracking enabled the incumbent extractive industries to strengthen their position in national economies and increase their claims on land and infrastructure development. These corporate players used narratives of climate mitigation, economic development, and energy security to increase access to subsurface resources, enhance political

Triple wins?  41 interest in pipeline and road development, and bolster support for the expansion of refineries and processing facilities. The existing dependence of urban and industrial life on predictable and abundant energy would be largely unaffected, and any changes needed to the infrastructure in homes, cities, and electricity grids could provide economic opportunities. More fundamental changes to energy consumption patterns, transportation and shipping arrangements, and city and regional planning were thus deferred. Economic enthusiasm abounded, including in the academic literature, and the costs of fracking were portrayed as measurable and mitigatable:  Mason, Muehlenbachs, and Olmstead (2015:  269), for instance, concluded that “the likely scope of economic benefits [was] extraordinarily large” and “continued research on the magnitude of negative externalities [was] necessary to inform risk-​mitigating policies.” Periods of high oil and gas prices led governments of import-​dependent countries to search for domestic sources of energy and provided companies with economic incentives to invest in oil and gas exploration, as more expensive developments were suddenly economically viable. However, global attention turned to fracking a few years after the enthusiasm over biofuels had faltered. Some environmental groups that had championed biofuels had learned their lesson, it seemed, having been sobered by the failures—​or at least the limitations—​of the crop-​based fuels. Many NGOs were more cautious than they had been in the early days of the biofuels craze, perhaps chastened by the unintended environmental and social costs of new energy technologies. While the promise of another rapid response to climate change was hard to ignore, especially one that could lessen global dependence on coal (Kinniburgh 2015), even groups voicing support had strong caveats and much apprehension; as Peter Lehner, of the Natural Resources Defense Council (NRDC) wrote, “Natural gas can be a bridge to a new energy economy, but drilling for gas without strategic plans and investments in a completely clean energy future? Now that’s what I call a bridge to nowhere.”55 Many refused to support fossil fuels at all, even as part of an energy transition, and by 2010 opposition to fracking was coalescing.

Fractured views: Methane, water, and land control From the outset, views were divided across civil society on whether any fossil fuels should be supported, even ones that might be less harmful than

42  Fueling Resistance coal. Public concern escalated in 2010, prompted in part by the release of Pennsylvania filmmaker Josh Fox’s provocative HBO documentary, Gasland (Vasi et al. 2015). The film tracks the rise of fracking in communities throughout the US, starting with Fox’s hometown in Pennsylvania’s Marcellus Shale region, and offers an iconic image of tap water igniting to illustrate the potential dangers associated with gas extraction. Around the same time, under new leadership, the Sierra Club—​an initial supporter of natural gas—​reversed its position, refusing further funding from gas companies and launching its “Beyond Natural Gas” campaign. Michael Brune, who took over as executive director in 2010, was quoted as saying, “Natural gas is not a bridge; it’s a gangplank to a destabilised climate and an impoverished economy.”56 Research followed production in the US, and scientific research on fracking expanded quickly from about 2010 on (Jackson et al. 2014). The resulting studies began to reveal multiple concerns with the practice. Researchers at Cornell University made headlines in 2011 with their findings that estimated methane from production and leakages of shale gas—​known as “fugitive” emissions—​would negate its carbon savings at combustion relative to coal, and projected that, relative to conventional oil and gas, shale development had a much higher carbon footprint (Howarth, Santoro, and Ingraffea 2011). Subsequent studies, including research by the US Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) and a joint study by the Environmental Defense Fund and University of Texas–​Austin researchers, found very different results from the Cornell team’s modeling (Allen et al. 2013) and fed a debate that continues about the atmospheric impacts of shale production. Beyond the assessment of the scientific findings, the researchers themselves landed in the public eye, with questions about their funding sources and potential conflicts of interest; some media and industry criticism arose toward Robert Howarth (one of the Cornell researchers) for grants he received from the Park Foundation, a well-​ known private philanthropic institution that has supported, among other projects, community antifracking campaigns,57 and the Environmental Defense Fund was criticized for partnering with industry for data for its study.58 Concerns about biased data and predetermined conclusions clouded public debates. Subsequent research on greenhouse gas emissions from natural gas only added to the controversy, revealing complex relationships between fuel prices, fuel switching or substitutions, and industry-​wide impacts (e.g., Newell and Raimi 2014).

Triple wins?  43 Similar scientific uncertainty and a flurry of academic research followed about water footprints and water contamination from shale development, landscape fragmentation, and the exacerbation of seismic activity (Jackson et al. 2014; Souther et al. 2014), among other social, political, and economic impacts (Neville et al. 2017). The emerging natural and social science findings were interpreted in policy and public debates in contrasting ways. In response to concerns about water contamination from natural gas, researchers examined “stray” gases, a term that describes the movement of hydrocarbons into aquifers. Some research found evidence of gas contamination (Osborn et al. 2011), although other work contested the causal link between fracking and methane in aquifers (Davies 2011; Saba and Orzechowski 2011; Schon 2011). Further research, using isotopic tools to trace the origins of methane, found that contamination was likely from fracking (Jackson et al. 2013), but resulting from problems with the wells and their casings (e.g., faulty cement in wells) rather than the upward migration of gas from fracture locations (Darrah et al. 2014). Researchers also found evidence of surface water contamination (Entrekin et al. 2011; Gregory, Vidic, and Dzombak 2011), later attributed to surface discharge (intentional) or spills (accidental) of wastewater and fracturing fluids (Vengosh et al. 2013; Warner et al. 2013; Lauer, Harkness, and Vengosh 2016). Concerns arose about interactions between radioactive elements contained in produced water and the chemicals used in downstream water treatment plants (Parker et al. 2014). Potential increases in seismic activity were associated with both the fracturing itself and wastewater disposal through deep-​well injections (Davies et al. 2013). Over time, research revealed that water contamination risks are highest where the density of development is highest (Vengosh et al. 2014)—​more wells offer more opportunities for accidents—​and that although fracking takes water for extraction, the water intensity of shale oil and gas is lower than for conventional oil or coal (Kondash and Vengosh 2015). These findings reinforced industry claims that fracking was not always more damaging than other forms of extraction, but also supported critics’ claims that fracking involved ongoing environmental harm and was contributing to the ongoing legacy of damage from extractive industries. At the same time as scientific debates were taking place, the surge in US shale gas and tight oil production had attracted global attention, and oil and gas companies were expressing interest in fracking around the world. The emergence of public campaigns and the fragmenting of government responses occurred rapidly. Gatherings against fracking took place in small

44  Fueling Resistance communities and large cities across the Global North and South, in the UK, South Africa, Poland, Australia, Argentina, and Romania. “Don’t frack with my future” and “Stop the frack attack” were among the many slogans pasted on placards at protests, along with “Frack-​free . . .” or “Don’t frack with . . .” followed by any number of place names, from Lancashire to the Karoo. With the slogan “Get down with the frackdown,” the NGO Food & Water Watch coordinated a day of action in 2012 against fracking that would repeat in subsequent years and, in 2015, expand into a month-​long series of events leading up to the Paris climate negotiations.59 Hundreds of organizations—​ from international NGOs to local neighborhood and labor associations—​ signed on as partners to what had become known as the Global Frackdown.60 Campaign participants took varying approaches to fracking opposition, highlighting myriad concerns:  its associated infrastructure, road systems, frac sand mining, and oil and gas processing, and its downstream and post-​ frac impacts, including seismicity, water contamination, air pollution, and altered community dynamics. By 2012, when the Global Frackdown campaign was created, fierce debates over fracking were already well underway (Mazur 2016). A wide range of state responses accompanied public demonstrations, including full-​fledged government support for extraction, bans, and moratoria. In 2011 France led Europe with a ban on fracking; the ban was upheld by the courts in 2013,61 and other regions quickly followed suit. Among those adopting varying bans, prohibitions, and pauses were Bulgaria, Romania, Germany, and the Czech Republic, along with subnational jurisdictions such as regions in Argentina, districts in New York, the state of Vermont, and the provinces of Quebec and New Brunswick.62 In some cases, governments created independent scientific panels, arm’s-​length assessment boards, or multiparty government commissions to investigate fracking. In 2012, for instance, the Canadian minister of the environment tasked the Council of Canadian Academies (2014), an independent not-​for-​profit organization that provides advice to the government on public policy issues, with evaluating the state of knowledge on the environmental impacts of shale gas extraction. The Council’s report, which it described as coming “early in the conversation about the development of Canada’s shale gas resources” (vii), outlined a five-​part framework for managing the risks associated with shale gas development: testing and maintaining the technologies and equipment used in shale gas production; developing management systems to address environmental and public health risks; creating science-​based regulations for shale

Triple wins?  45 development; engaging in regional planning to address cumulative effects and environmental risks; and ensuring local citizen and stakeholder participation in shale governance and development (xix). The Council’s work was one of several panels convened in Canada around the same time to evaluate fracking. In 2013 the government of Nova Scotia commissioned an independent expert panel led by Cape Breton University to investigate fracking (Wheeler et al. 2015). Unlike biofuels, fracking encountered more fervent and organized opposition earlier in its global spread. While biofuels offered a renewable energy solution for energy supplies, shale gas was positioned firmly within the fossil fuel industry. Contests emerged within and across NGOs and governments, as some political and social actors incorporated natural gas into energy transition strategies to facilitate a reduction in coal and/​or to appease oil and gas opponents (along with the earlier discussion of the Sierra Club, see also Betsill and Stevis 2016 on the politics of natural gas in Colorado’s New Energy Economy). The rural development argument for shale differed from that for biofuels: unlike bioethanol and biodiesel, fracking did not provide opportunities to farmers for a new crop or a new market for existing agricultural production. However, some saw fracking as a revitalizing tool for rural populations that were struggling to make ends meet in a tough economy made harder by the financial crisis of 2008–​2009. Elevated oil and gas prices increased the operating costs of farming, but also provided an opportunity to landowners who could take advantage of producing those fuels. By leasing land for oil and gas exploration in previously untapped areas, farmers could boost their income, supplementing a difficult livelihood and making it possible to stay on the farm.63 These rural benefits are uneven, though, and do not always accrue to local community members. Uneven costs and benefits contributed to the enactment of local bans on fracking, as seen in Denton, Texas (Fry, Briggle, and Kincaid 2015), and also propelled the development of unlikely alliances among environmentalists and farmers concerns about their livestock and lands. Scientific debates about the impacts of fracking on water systems, geologic stability, and greenhouse gas emissions intensified and informed debates about these extractive practices, but even clear science could not resolve the larger political and social questions associated with environmental justice. Competing visions of rural landscapes and economic futures, along with the distinct political economies associated with mineral rights

46  Fueling Resistance and spillover effects, have played out in Queensland in Australia, the Karoo in South Africa, Texas in the US, and other regions (Mercer, de Rijke, and Dressler 2014; Ingle and Atkinson 2015; Gullion 2015), and these concerns and challenges were seen when fracking was proposed in Canada’s Yukon territory. The competing global discourses around fracking are thus important to understanding the reactions of Yukoners to fracking proposals in the territory, and they set the stage for the interactions between local and global markets, regulations, and campaigns.

Triple controversies: Resisting alternative energy The three areas of global concern that provoked interest in alternative energy sources—​climate change, security, and economic development—​were largely framed as crisis events and moments. Many touted rapid advances in technology as the key to solving these problems. Ideas arose across sectors for strategies that could address multiple challenges at once, but it was in energy that the most enthusiasm was seen.64 Biofuels gained momentum in the renewable energy sector, building on Brazil’s long experience and the US’s more recent investments in these plant-​based fuels, and arable land was targeted for conversion to feedstock. Natural gas production surged with advances in drilling technologies in the US, and shale basins were identified around the world as potential sites of extraction. Climate solutions through energy substitutions were especially alluring when they promised co-​benefits without requiring major changes in supply chains or lifestyles. Biofuels and natural gas could be readily integrated into existing systems of production and consumption. But, as has been detailed in this chapter, these hoped-​for carbon benefits proved slippery. Colliding with food production and with sovereignty, especially in the Global South, biofuels soon became the target of environmental and social protest. With their carbon neutrality in question and concerns about land use change, habitat loss, and community displacement, resistance to biofuels gained momentum. Soon after, as fracking became a familiar term outside of oil and gas circles, similar concerns were voiced about carbon savings, ecological impacts, and social disruption. Yet even as global controversies raged, new projects were still being introduced in rural communities around the world. In coastal Kenya, biofuels plantations were proposed even after the food crisis had peaked. In the Yukon, plans for fracking were first

Triple wins?  47 advanced just as moratoria were being enacted in other countries and subnational jurisdictions. These local cases intersected with global markets and campaigns in multiple ways, as will be examined in depth in later chapters. In part, as grievances began to emerge in these local communities considering alternate energy production, local organizers could look to global campaigns for information, allies, and narratives of dissent. Before turning to these case studies, the next chapter develops the book’s theoretical contributions, which then guide the reading of the empirical cases that follow.

3 Catalyzing Local Contention The Political Economy Drivers

For communities resisting land conversion for biofuels or fragmentation from fracking, mobilization requires creative and sustained organization and adaptive responses. As social movement scholarship reveals, moving from an anticipated or experienced threat to mobilizing collective action requires the intersection of grievances, political opportunities, resources and networks, and identities and social relationships (McAdam, Tarrow, and Tilly 2001; Boudet and Ortolano 2010; Wolford 2010). Social movement scholars have identified a series of mechanisms that help to explain the patterns of mobilization that emerge in contentious debates. But are all projects bound to create dissent? What generates the grievances that catalyze these mechanisms? With energy production projects, grievances might seem obvious: land-​use changes always threaten to displace existing practices; biofuels replace or divert existing crop production into new supply chains and can disrupt nonagricultural activities; fracking requires road construction and the drilling of wells in new places, changing landscapes and water systems. Yet rural communities are familiar with flexible land uses, adaptive production activities, trade-​offs, and new technologies and opportunities—​not all of which provoke resistance at all times. And for both biofuels and fracking, the same communities have responded to project proposals in different ways at different times. Contentious politics, as a midlevel theory, offers insights into the dynamic processes of contestation, explaining the ways groups form, organize, and respond to challenges and repression. However, beyond understanding why some groups with grievances mobilize and others do not, more theoretical work is needed to understand why some projects provoke grievances in the first place. For many social movement scholars, the approach to understanding mobilization has been to look at community characteristics, network formation, and the social structures and dynamics that enable or constrain the rise of resistance (McAdam and Boudet 2012), from resources and interests to Fueling Resistance. Kate J. Neville, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197535585.003.0003

Catalyzing local contention  49 political opportunities to framing and culture (Snow, Soule, and Kriesi 2004; Giugni and Grasso 2015; McAdam 2017). Once grievances have been articulated, some scholars have brought attention to the intersection of critical junctures and the conditions that enable a small or routinized protest to catalyze wider protest (Della Porta 2018). But what galvanizes early resistors to seek out opportunities and resources for mobilizing and to expend energy on linking issues and activating social identities? What provokes both routinized and disruptive forms of contention? The characteristics of the political economy of energy, I  argue, create conditions that shape the grievances that intensify existing fractures within and across communities and shape the emergence of protest. Turning to the political economic characteristics of the projects and sectors being challenged, alongside the traits of the communities doing the challenging, offers crucial insight into grievances. Broadly, international political economy interrogates how global economics and processes of production and exchange shape political incentives, behavior, and relationships (Frieden and Martin 2002), providing, as Cohen (2008) says, a way of thinking about transnational connections between economics and politics. More specifically, international political economy examines relationships of contracts and ownership, exchange and investment, and production and trade, wherein distant communities are connected through flows of goods and services and labor (Lake 2006; Tanner and Allouche 2011). Such a focus is helpful for the politics of biofuels and fracking, as these new technologies and commodities are positioned at the intersection of land, labor, and economic transactions, with varying ownership structures, diverse investors, and lengthy trade networks. Economic and market forces can motivate marginalized actors to make claims against holders of power; they also structure the opportunities available for building alliances and finding platforms to voice claims. As a result, resources and capital intersect with political power in differing ways across space and time. The outcomes are not always unidirectional or predictable: power-​holders can co-​opt the language and tools of claim-​ makers; respondents can make concessions to curtail resistance; and countermovements can attract allies by providing resources, appealing to mutual interests, and framing issues strategically. Centrally, political economies and contestation operate in tandem, at interlinked global and local scales. Considering the implications of the rise of financialization and increasing distance in commodity chains for energy projects helps to

50  Fueling Resistance illuminate how novel fuels and energy technologies create new and reignite old tensions. For contentious politics, extended supply chains and distant power-​holders become both challenges to and opportunities for new episodes of claim-​making, and they prompt the development of new strategies to raise awareness and forward demands. In turn, contestation itself reshapes the economic signals and incentives involved in commodity markets, shifting the projections of production, timelines for returns, and risks and rewards of investment. Changes in economic systems help to explain project development or discontinuation, where landownership, market conditions, and supply chains shape community responses to industrial proposals. The resulting dynamics of resistance and response are enacted and mediated through processes of framing and the interpretation of risk, whereby proponents and resistors compete for control of discourses, symbols, and uncertainty. Drawing on the global debates over biofuels and fracking outlined in ­chapter 2, this chapter further develops the theoretical approach that shapes the case study analyses to come. Drawing on the contentious politics literature, I outline the three mechanisms of mobilization I use in this book: scale shifts, identity activation, and brokerage. I then examine in more detail how elements of political economy interact with and provoke mechanisms of contention. In different projects, the specific conditions of finance and investment, ownership and control, and trade and patterns of exchange across global and local levels can catalyze the three mechanisms of contention, thereby explaining the patterns of local claim-​making and transnational organizing that ensue.

Mechanisms of contestation Scholars characterize the foundations of mobilization in different ways across the literature, with varying definitions of the conditions that enable movement creation, expansion, and persistence. The mechanisms identified by different scholars of contentious politics overlap and intersect, leading to multiple ways of characterizing these processes. These categories lead to varying assessments of how problems are defined, communities are consolidated, and participants are recruited and maintained. In this book, building on the existing literature, I analyze three key mechanisms of mobilization: scale shifts, identity activation, and brokerage. I argue that these mechanisms are provoked by and interact with the elements of political

Catalyzing local contention  51 economy of finance, ownership, and trade. (See ­figure 1.1 for a visual representation of these connections.) Before elaborating on these political economy intersections, a closer look at these mechanisms, and how other contentious politics scholars understand these causal categories, provides a useful foundation for the analyses that follow. First, scale shifts are processes through which claimants (and counterclaimants) change the scale at which projects or issues are proposed, debated, resisted, or have impacts. This might involve physical and material changes to a particular industrial activity, and alternately can occur through more abstract processes of ideational or discursive linkages. In these processes, contentious claim-​making transcends specific places, drawing in a wider range of actors, issues, and places (Boudet 2011). Scale shifts occur when claimants bridge frames and communicate information to connect physical transformations of places to abstract social and political relations, making visible otherwise invisible connections across governance scales. In frame bridging, disparate issues are linked together through the identification of shared concerns, symbols, and values (Boudet 2011), and this can occur through reference to debates and concerns at multiple spatial and temporal levels. For some scholars, scale shifts arise in the interplay between other mechanisms (Boudet 2011), which for others is a distinct mechanism of contention (Collins 2010). Second, identity activation is a process of in-​and out-​group classification, where claimants and targets of claims are groups that are constructed and can be amended. While individuals hold multiple social positions, not all positions are equally salient at every moment, and organizers can foreground certain social connections and community affiliations at different points in time. Thus this mechanism involves the formation of categories of belonging through appeals to some characteristics of potential group members and the downplaying of other differences. (On category formation, see McAdam, Tarrow, and Tilly 2001.) These moves can involve the articulation of “insider” status, establishing distinctions from “outsiders” to justify the legitimacy of their claim-​making (as described, for example, by Bozzi [2015] in coal mining debates in Appalachia). Such activation involves both individual emotional engagement and relational exchanges; it can also involve polarization through the emergence of countermovements (as seen in antifracking protests in Illinois; Buday 2019) or in the tightening of ethnic identity categories (which might be linked with extremism, as per Rothchild 1997). Polarization manifests as an increase in militancy and the strengthening of

52  Fueling Resistance boundaries between claimants and targets of claims (McAdam, Tarrow, and Tilly 2001; Collins 2010). The drawing of these boundaries can change who is included in, or excluded from, claim-​making processes (as explored by Alimi, Bosi, and Demetriou [2012] in ethnonational radicalization processes). Third, brokerage involves the development of new communities in claim-​ making processes. It is a form of relationship formation, where organizers create linkages between otherwise disconnected people and places (McAdam, Tarrow, and Tilly 2001; Boudet 2011). Brokerage requires the creation of new understandings of place as sites of connection (Della Porta and Fabbri 2015). Brokers of these new relationships can invoke a gatekeeping role (Erikson and Occhiuto 2017), and so in this understanding can incorporate elements of certification where well-​positioned claim-​makers make appeals to authorities for legitimacy. Certification involves the recognition of claimants and their demands by those who hold authority (McAdam, Tarrow, and Tilly 2001; Boudet 2011). These categories align with those proposed by other scholars, building on the intersections across different accounts (see figure 3.1). In an alternative categorization, for instance, Della Porta (2008: 32) differentiates cognitive, relational, and emotional mechanisms of protest, pointing to relational elements as central to transnational campaigns. These three categories help to clarify the individual and group-​based dynamics at play in scale shifts, identity activation, and brokerage, by identifying how these mechanisms are made possible by existing social beliefs, histories, and identities. McAdam,

Figure 3.1  Categorizations of the mechanisms of contentious politics.

Catalyzing local contention  53 Tarrow, and Tilly (2001), and later McAdam and Tarrow (2010), offer a similar set of categories as Della Porta (2008), outlining cognitive, relational, and environmental mechanisms, where the latter involves a focus on the physical world underpinning contention. Wolford (2004: 410) uses these three mechanisms to structure her analysis of the landless workers movement in Brazil, characterizing cognitive mechanisms as focused on perception, environmental as context, and relational as interactions among and between actors and context. Paying attention to environmental mechanisms is useful for my analysis of alternative energy politics, where demographic and biophysical contexts shape the outcomes of new biofuels and fracking projects. Processes of resistance operate at multiple scales, both in local places and through transnational linkages, and involve the integration of economic, social, and environmental concerns. Identifying the mechanisms of contention and mapping these against the elements of political economy offers insight into how some energy projects generate grievances and catalyze mobilization.

Constructing claims: Discourses, framing, and performances Before considering why communities respond to projects in specific ways, it is helpful to consider how movements and countermovements articulate their concerns, attract and persuade new participants, link issues together, and develop coherent and powerful claims. Those involved in campaigns and countercampaigns create, replicate, and modify their claims. Local resistance to energy projects involves strategic processes of defining problems, demonstrating their salience, and identifying threats and opportunities. For this, claim-​makers and targets of claims use multiple tools and strategies, drawing on and developing specific discourses, frames, and performative actions. In their efforts, organizers of resistance often make claims through the creative combination of discourses, frames, and performances, developing and adapting their repertoires of protest. These processes often draw on salient local politics and histories, and they are also informed and catalyzed by global events and conditions. While claim-​makers can voice new demands and seek alliances to support their challenges, power-​holders can confine and constrain protest, sometimes using similar tools and strategies. This section turns to discourses, framing, and performances to examine how

54  Fueling Resistance grievances are defined, symbols are used, uncertainty and risk are understood, and contentious claims are shaped and shared across scales. Central to processes of claim-​making are discursive and framing strategies. Discourses are, following Litfin (1994: 3), “sets of linguistic practices and rhetorical strategies embedded in a network of social relations.” These strategies are used by those in both movements and countermovements to forward and resist claims and to shape perceptions of the political economic conditions of projects. They can also have symbolic power over time, providing powerful reminders of past instances of injustice, conflict, or mobilization; at the same time, their meanings can shift over time. As Tarrow (2013: 3) writes, building on Steinberg (1999), “I argue, with Steinberg, that ‘discursive repertoires are reciprocally linked to the repertoires of collective actions that groups develop to realize their goals’ (1999b: xii). I argue, further, that contentious language that takes hold successfully in one context tends to diffuse to others, but often changes its meaning and its referents in the process.” Frames are heuristic devices to help people make sense of a complex world and, as argued by Keck and Sikkink (1998:  17), are a central component of the political strategies of advocacy networks. They can be used to facilitate or curtail political participation in different ways and to different ends. Borrowing from Goffman (1974: 21), Snow et al. (1986: 464) describe the concept of frames, explaining that these “schemata of interpretation” allow individuals “ ‘to locate, perceive, identify, and label’ occurrences within their life space and the world at large.” Simple frames are often easier to convey and advance to a public struggling to organize and assimilate new information and ideas. Such dynamics are observed across cases of resource contestation. For instance, as Evenden (2004b: 132) documents in work on salmon fisheries affected by landslides in British Columbia, “competing explanations by diverse social groups and scientists provided different understandings of the event, its consequences and its immediate implications.” Groups compete not only to provide specific information but to influence how the same events and data are understood and interpreted by others. The frames used to characterize energy projects, for instance, are not fixed. Frames can be overridden and eclipsed by new ones, particularly at “critical junctures,” when coalitions are being formed or countermovements are gaining traction (Snow et  al. 1986: 478). The idea of nested frames—​organized by a coherent master frame (Snow and Benford 1992)—​offers insight into how multiple ways of understanding and categorizing information and problems can be absorbed by an

Catalyzing local contention  55 audience, and how competing images and discourses might be forwarded within an episode of contention. For biofuels and fracking, local and global debates involved continual attempts by proponents and opponents to shape how these fuels were viewed by potential supporters. Alongside concepts of frame alignment (Snow et al. 1986), the power of particular narratives and images in contestation might also be understood through the lens of discursive opportunities, whereby claim-​makers choose narratives to correspond with existing social ideas and expectations or to create new opportunities to shape public responses, as seen in both biofuels and fracking debates (Hunsberger 2016; Vasi et al. 2015). Performances and spectacle can be tools of dissent, used by those making claims, and, conversely, can also be used to reinforce the strength of power-​ holders. The performative dimensions of resistance—​ such as strikes, protests, marches, and rallies—​are ways in which people exercise political voice and forward collective demands through visible, group-​based actions, forming key parts of repertoires of contention (Tilly 2008). Repertoires of contention, or the range of actions and tactics used for making claims, are formed, repeated, and adapted to make demands on those with power and challenge dominant structures.1 Tilly (2002:  6) describes contentious repertoires and identities as “interactive, negotiated, contingent, [and] culturally shaped,” linking the patterns of cyclical contention to the tools of claim-​making. Physical and artistic acts of occupation, congregation, and demonstration, for instance, are powerful tools of public communication. Performances are often used in conjunction with language and image, through the use of posters, costumes, slogans, and songs. Art often plays a central role in these public displays, with music (Pedelty 2016), documentary film (Vasi et al. 2015), and literature (Cariou and St.-​Amand 2017), among other artistic interventions, occupying space between narrative and performance by reinforcing identities and collective bonds, shaping perceptions and awareness, and creating symbolic repertoires and linkages. Whether aimed at contesting or supporting power-​holders, public gatherings and activities can shape political discussions, provide a human dimension to otherwise abstract decisions, and focus media and public attention on specific issues and places. The theater of public engagement—​rallies, marches, burning effigies—​can provide an alternative mechanism for people to gain voice in political processes, particularly when they are challenging powerful actors such as the state (O’Neill 2004).

56  Fueling Resistance Symbols play important roles in these claim-​making processes. Scholars working on discourse and framing in environmental politics have analyzed the ways images and words operate in the public sphere to carry meaning and focus public attention (e.g., DeLuca 1999; Jasanoff 2004; Epstein 2008). Crucially, language and images hold power, and they are themselves the product of the exercise of power (Carragee and Roefs 2004). Keck and Sikkink (1998) find that groups gain traction more easily when they can transmit clear and emotionally laden messages, particularly when the messages identify direct physical impacts and link cause and effect in short causal chains. A “condensation symbol,” Keck and Sikkink explain, “condenses threats or reassurances into one symbolic moment” that can be easily represented and conveys the crux of the message or campaign (181). Such symbols could also be understood as “image politics” (DeLuca 1999), as “mindbombs” in the language of Greenpeace cofounder Robert Hunter (Dauvergne and Neville 2011), or as “ideographic synecdoches” (Ross Singer 2019), where visual images or verbal slogans characterize entire debates. The creative and strategic deployment of language and imagery was seen in the debates over biofuels, as the catch phrase “food versus fuel” gained visibility,2 with cartoon images of empty plates beside full gas tanks offering vivid representations of these trade-​offs (Tomei and Helliwell 2016). For fracking, images of tap water on fire circulated in films such as Gasland (Ross Singer 2019). The strategic development of issue linkages through such symbols and images have proven central to the debates over energy technologies—​and, for Princen, Manno, and Martin (2015:  ix–​x), language holds imaginative and transformational potential in the politics of fossil fuels and alternative energy. Framing processes are crucial to deploying these symbols to connect specific energy protests to other existing movements. Drawing on global norms of food access, land rights, and a collective responsibility for addressing climate change, for example, local and global campaigns have linked biofuels and fracking to other social and environmental justice concerns. Uncertainty and risk can be used strategically to advance political aims around an environmental issue, as documented extensively by scholars of science and technology studies (Jasanoff 1990, 2010; Litfin 1994; Whatmore 2009). Falkner and Jaspers (2012), for instance, clarify that new technologies are not simply high-​or low-​risk. In an analysis of the challenges surrounding the regulation of nanotechnology, they argue that emerging technologies “create a peculiar, often complex, and fundamentally political, problem for global governance” (30). They claim it is not a matter of the technologies being high-​risk,

Catalyzing local contention  57 since risk assessment and management systems can prepare for and mitigate high-​risk technologies, but rather a challenge posed by the “persistent uncertainty” of the existence, type, and extent of the risks. As a result, what matters is how uncertainty is communicated to and understood by decision-​makers and public audiences, as this can shape ideas about precaution and the trade-​ offs between adopting or rejecting new technologies or development projects. Debates over science include questions of uncertainty about measurements, impacts, and outcomes, as well as about unintended consequences and spillover effects. Uncertainty yields opportunities for strategic framing by opponents and proponents alike, as seen in Litfin’s (1994, 1995) work on the importance of uncertainty for knowledge brokers aiming to shape international responses to emerging concerns over depletion of the ozone layer, and Fuentes-​George’s (2017) research into discursive battles over ocean iron fertilization and its contested role in carbon sequestration and climate mitigation. Risk, too, is a malleable concept, depending on what is understood to be at stake. In fracking debates in eastern Canada, for instance, Carter and Fusco (2017) document how local activists presented fracking as a risk to local water supplies and jobs in the already threatened fishing industry, countering proponents’ narratives that it would bring jobs and boost the local economy. Discursive shifts and framing strategies are thus relevant to the role that science and economics play in debates on a range of novel, large-​scale, or high-​tech development projects, including biofuels and fracking. In both biofuels and fracking controversies, scientific uncertainty was central to the dynamics of contestation that emerged as their risks reached across multiple sectors, from the environment to the economy and social systems, linking energy prices with agricultural goods, geologic formations with the atmosphere, and local producers with distant consumers. For both alternative energy technologies, scientific uncertainty was used to support arguments on both sides—​a process Cordner (2015) describes as strategic science translation—​ with varying appeals to precautionary principles and differing risk narratives and assessments (Di Lucia, Ahlgren, and Ericsson 2012; Palmer 2012; Metze 2017; Millar 2018). In these disputes, competing frames of risk and opportunity were forwarded, with environmental and economic research interpreted in ways that could support the chosen narrative. (For these dynamics in UK fracking debates, see Bomberg 2015.) For biofuels, a key point of contestation from the outset focused on the purported carbon neutrality of the fuels, given the challenges outlined in ­chapter 2 in comparing production processes and estimating the emissions from indirect land-​use change. As explained earlier,

58  Fueling Resistance some of the uncertainty about the impacts of biofuels resulted from the difficulty of assessing the indirect landscape-​level changes caused by increasing feedstock cultivation, specifically land-​use changes that arise from the conversion of land to host activities displaced by biofuels (e.g., forests converted to grazing lands to replace grazing lands converted to biofuels; Lapola et al. 2010). While consensus over the numbers and model parameters remained elusive, in general, scientific assessments demonstrated the potential harm for biodiversity and carbon emissions from land-​use conversions, both direct and indirect (Danielsen et al. 2008). The scientific uncertainty fed a series of discursive battles in debates over biofuels. Were biofuels a crucial climate change solution or a narrow technological fix that would only displace, not eliminate, environmental costs? Could the production of biofuels lead to the restoration of degraded land, providing new economic opportunities to poor communities, or would it just be the latest commodity in a long history of land grabs and community dispossession? Uncertainty was used strategically to support divergent positions on these different questions. Scientific uncertainty also became a crucial element of debates over fracking, especially over safety and environmental concerns. Controversy was particularly fierce around the climate implications of “fugitive” methane emissions from the fracking process. Across jurisdictions, policymakers turned to scientists with the hopes that they could provide the evidence that would enable technocratic approaches to decision-​making (Wheeler et al. 2015), and science did occupy an arbitration role and central position of authority in many public assessments of fracking (e.g., Council of Canadian Academies 2014). Scientists themselves often worked to establish their independence and neutrality (Edwards 2018). Still, in many cases, neither scientific evidence nor scientists themselves were accepted as neutral or apolitical (Neville and Weinthal 2016a)—​a finding unsurprising to scholars of the sociology of science (e.g., Demeritt 2001; Carolan 2008). As Evensen (2015: 511) argues, “Philosophy (particularly moral thought and ethical reasoning) and science must work in tandem for making good policy decisions related to shale gas development.” In these debates, scientists were as much under scrutiny as their data, and challenges to the opposition were as likely to be focused on the identity of the institution or individual as on the data sources and research methods. Efforts by industry to discredit scientists have been extensively documented in other controversial issues involving economically powerful actors, from tobacco to climate change (Dauvergne 2008; Oreskes and Conway 2011; Shearer 2011). But even without underhanded attacks (which are deeply troubling and undermine the value of science in

Catalyzing local contention  59 informing public debate), a simple appeal to science still would not have resolved these political controversies. Debates developed over whether fracking was a revolutionary technology or part of business-​as-​usual in the oil and gas industry, with supporters and opponents using both framings at varying points. On fracking as a familiar part of a long-​standing sector, industry actors defended the safety of fracking by emphasizing the long history of the technology in the industry, while critics underscored the ongoing harm created by the oil and gas industry.3 Commentators on both sides of the debate highlighted the novelty and transformative nature of fracking (with “shale revolution” or “shale gale” language from enthusiasts and critics alike),4 with proponents underscoring the economic and energy supply opportunities from new access to oil and gas reserves and opponents highlighting the risks associated with these practices. The integrated dynamics of contention, involving discursive processes, framing efforts, and performances, operate at transnational scales. Global partners operating with transnational advocacy networks can become amplifiers of place-​based concerns through various mechanisms, including information transmission, symbolic deployment, leveraging powerful actors, and holding violators to account (Keck and Sikkink 1998). By generating international attention across multiple venues, advocacy networks can enable claim-​makers at the local level to gain traction with otherwise repressive states or corporations (McAteer and Pulver 2009). These networks can appeal to global norms, or even create new norms, although these are often slow and multistage processes with uncertain outcomes (Risse and Sikkink 1999).5 Protest can also create new collective identities and knowledges (Della Porta 2008), including through the articulation of shared risks among groups that might otherwise see themselves as separate. These dynamics exist within movements and countermovements alike, as cooperative cross-​border networks also generate new dynamics around “protest control” (Earl 2006), including coordination of the policing of protest (O’Neill 2004). In some cases, local organizers reach out for global partners, engaging with and reshaping existing campaigns and responses; in others, transnational networks reach in for local liaisons, stories, and traction for their global efforts. Contentious politics offers a range of tools and categories for understanding the emergence, organization, and adaptations of movements and countermovements. Discursive tactics, framing processes, and public performances and symbolic deployment allow those involved in contentious interactions to articulate claims, strategically interpret risk and uncertainty, recruit support, and respond to challenges. The resulting processes of

60  Fueling Resistance mobilization can be traced through the mechanisms of identity activation, scale shifts, and brokerage. But as proposed earlier, a full account of these dynamics of resistance requires an analysis of political economy.

Linking political economy and mechanisms of contention Political economy intersects with mechanisms of contestation in dynamic and reciprocal ways. As Hardt and Negri (2017: 160) write, “The rise of finance, although it corresponds with globalization, is understood better as a result of—​ and response to—​forces of social resistance and revolt.” This section clarifies the interactions between mechanisms of mobilization and the conditions of finance, ownership, and trade that influence local grievances. The discussion lays the foundation for explaining the unexpected similarities in patterns of transnational contestation around biofuels and fracking across the Global North and South. While scholars recognize that the mechanisms of claim-​making are affected and mediated by contextual factors (Boudet 2011; McAdam and Boudet 2012), and movements can link site-​specific challenges with broader concerns (Carruthers and Rodriguez 2009; Rootes and Leonard 2009; McAdam and Boudet 2012), the challenge is to determine how and why particular conditions shape those contentious interactions. The significance of political economy elements for energy politics lies not only in the location of financiers, the type of project owners, or the complexity of supply chains but also in the ways claimants and their audiences understand these elements. The discursive, framing, and performative strategies of claim-​making outlined earlier thus shape how political economy elements are taken up in contestation.

Finance: Fungible commodities and scales of resistance The development of new energy technologies and commodities is occurring in the context of increasingly abstract financial markets and the growing power of financial actors in global production systems. Commodity chains have grown longer and more complex (Conca 2001; Princen 2002), and investors play an increasingly powerful role in shaping their dynamics. Institutional investors, in particular, are participating in new ways in

Catalyzing local contention  61 commodity markets (Adams and Glück 2015). The spatiality of commodity chains has led to new theoretical approaches for studying trade systems and internationalized production, with the rise of global commodity chain and global value chain analyses (e.g., Gereffi and Korzeniewicz 1994; Bair 2014; Gereffi 2010). These analytic approaches consider new transnationally dispersed patterns of extraction, manufacturing, and shipping, among other aspects of production and consumption. Distances in commodity chains range from geographic and temporal to cultural and conceptual, with those responsible for the material creation or extraction of a physical good far removed from the people and places where those goods end up. These distances can enable the externalization of costs (Kneen 1995; Princen 1997; Clapp 2015). As Princen (1997) argues, increasing distance in commodity chains severs feedback loops and obscures lines of responsibility, thus complicating the politics of resistance. The lengthening of distance is driven in part by the upstream side of finance (Clapp 2014). Increasingly, with consolidated forms of investment such as mutual funds and pension funds, investors are relying on asset managers and financial advisors in institutional investment firms. Beyond this delegation and concentration of control to a select series of elite corporate actors, the trend in delegated investment management is also accompanied by the development of increasingly complex and often passive financial vehicles and instruments (e.g., mutual index funds and exchange traded funds, as discussed by Fichtner, Heemskerk, and Garcia-​Bernardo 2017). The rise of financialization of commodities and these growing distances obscures relationships between investors and material goods, effectively removing individual investors from financial decision-​making processes and intensifying the power of a concentrated set of capital holders (Clapp 2015; Fichtner, Heemskerk, and Garcia-​Bernardo 2017, Neville et al. 2019). Broadly, building on Epstein’s (2005: 3) definition of financialization as the “increasing importance of financial markets, financial motives, financial institutions, and financial elites in the operation of the economy and its governing institutions, both at the national and international levels,” Davis and Kim (2015: 203) view it as “the increasing importance of finance, financial markets, and financial institutions to the workings of the economy.”6 The term is used widely but inconsistently across the literature (French et al. 2011; Baines 2017), although with the common aim of illuminating the changing dynamics between finance and production, and the concurrent shift in the locus of power in the global economy.7 In part, these changes in financial

62  Fueling Resistance organization add to the power of shareholders, where investors have taken on new importance in corporate decision-​making and governance processes.8 Through their investments, financial actors participate in commodity price changes, without ownership of the assets on which these markets are based (Bryan and Rafferty 2007: 136). In commodity sectors, these trends are further separating financial exchanges from production processes, as well as turning physical products into tradable asset classes (van Loon and Aalbers 2017), exacerbating price volatility (Ederer, Heumesser, and Staritz 2016). The trends of the reduction of commodity differentiation and the abstraction of materials from finance have been accelerating in recent years,9 with agriculture and extractives providing particularly vivid examples of these dynamics. Economic interests in these sectors are certainly not new—​there is a long history of trade in futures and other financial tools associated with natural resources—​but with the diversification of financial products and investment vehicles, food and energy commodities are becoming increasingly abstracted from their material realities. (For contemporary trends in historical context, see Martin 2016.) In the context of agriculture, financialization is often used as an “overarching term to refer to the increasingly important role that investors play in the food system” (Murphy, Burch, and Clapp 2012: 6), although scholars have increasingly specified the mechanisms through which particular forms of speculation and risk-​taking influence commodity production (Clapp and Isakson 2018) and can increase risk for certain agricultural producers (Isakson 2015).10 Investors in the agrifood industry and beyond are shaping these new dynamics, as “banks and other investors, as well as dedicated investment funds established as subsidiaries of the ABCDs [Archer Daniels Midland, Bunce, Cargill, and Louis Dreyfus, four major grain traders] themselves, have invested billions of dollars in food commodities with no interest in taking possession of any physical commodity” (Murphy, Burch, and Clapp 2012:  26). Following Arrighi’s (1994) work linking financialization and the increasingly “fictitious” nature of monetary relations,11 McMichael (2000: 21) situates agricultural transformations in the “crisis of development,” which he presents as the rise of industrialization, the establishment of certain forms of globalized governance, and the breakdown in shared visions of nationally led development projects. McNally (2009: 35) too describes the “fictitious capitals” upon which global financial markets are premised, pointing to the intersection of new financial instruments and models with the larger structural conditions of an integrated world economy built on ever-​increasing accumulation. Notably, instead of purchasing shares

Catalyzing local contention  63 in specific commodities or companies, investments have shifted to a complex set of indices, sectoral funds, and other arrangements for harnessing financial growth and mediating—​or profiting from—​investment risk.12 As Bryan and Rafferty (2007: 136) explain, derivatives are a form of “commodified risk.” For instance, commodity price and staples indices track a number of sectors, including both energy and agriculture. Through composite investments and pooled assets, global financial chains link disparate parts of the globe, and fast-​moving stock exchanges shift funds across sectors and products at rapid rates, thus abstracting the exchange and monetary value of resources from their physical existence.13 Such financial options further increase distance in production systems, amplifying the already large temporal and spatial distances between the extraction, refining and manufacturing, consumption, and discarding of goods (Conca 2001). In these elongated financial chains, those benefiting most from energy markets are not the ones bearing the risks of applied technologies and commodity production on the ground; such distances and inequalities create space for grievances to emerge. The involvement of distant financial actors can offer new targets for claims and new avenues—​and scales—​for expressing dissent. Shareholders gain opportunities to engage in activism, and investors can drive corporate governance (MacLeod 2010; MacLeod and Park 2011). These openings have been pursued in resistance to fracking, especially in the US. In 2009, for instance, the Investor Environmental Health Network launched a coordinated shareholder campaign to address fracking in the US. Using shareholder resolutions, tools of private governance available to shareholders in publicly listed companies that are regulated by the US Securities and Exchange Commission, the Network led the push for investors to demand change to risk assessments and disclosures by companies involved in fracking. Shareholder resolutions provide a venue for collective action across companies in a sector, leading to changes in company risk disclosures and information transparency (Proffitt and Spicer 2006; Reid and Toffel 2009; Cook 2012; Neville et al. 2019). However, these tools have substantial limits. With the individuals providing the money distant not only from the produced goods but even from the financial transactions themselves, investors are becoming, in many cases, invisible and—​for investors who have delegated their funds to asset managers—​often unknowing and unintentional actors in specific commodity chains. As with physical objects themselves in these commodity chains (where investment in the assets themselves are still needed, as outlined by van Treeck [2009], and where physical goods are

64  Fueling Resistance still demanded by consumers, as highlighted by Carter, Rausser, and Smith 2011), individual investors are not removed from the economic system, only obscured and rendered distant from the decision-​making processes involved in these exchanges. In light of complex investment vehicles and the power of corporate boards of directors, shareholder resolutions can provoke only limited change (Neville et  al. 2019). Corporations and governments have had some success in limiting the scope of public and shareholder resistance to fracking by responding to calls for disclosures and transparency, as they can strategically choose the information that is provided to the public (Kolk, Levy, and Pinkse 2008) while making only limited changes to their practices (Knox-​Hayes and Levy 2011). For many commodities—​biofuels and fracked gas included—​distant actors who may never have physical contact with these commodities have an ongoing and powerful influence on the means, terms, and outcomes of their production. In general, those holding this power form a small and elite group; through the distancing of institutional investing, many of those people whose money dictates the rules of production, consumption, and trade may have no idea they are even involved in the development of these systems. Still, these financial flows are underpinned and shaped by the material world. The ability of finance to treat commodities as fungible is complicated by the land, labor, transportation, and storage processes that underpin production (Martin 2019), recalling Mitchell’s (2011) reminder that social structures are co-​constituted with the material world—​ especially when it comes to energy.

Ownership: Identities and dynamics of  dispossession Energy politics are entangled with land-​ use politics, especially with questions of ownership and control. Whether resistance to strip-​coal mining in the eastern US by the Appalachian Group to Save the Land and People (Montrie 2003), transboundary conflict over dams in the Tigris-​Euphrates system (Zawahri 2006), conflicts over dispossession for mega-​solar projects in India (Yenneti, Day, and Golubchikov 2016), or changes in urban and suburban politics from shale development (Gullion 2015; Christopherson and Rightor 2012), energy is embedded in land and land disruptions—​and with water too (McMahon and Price 2011). The intersection of these dynamics has led to wide-​ranging work on a series of “nexus” connections, especially

Catalyzing local contention  65 of energy, land, water, and food (e.g., Hussey and Pittock 2012; Andrews-​ Speed et  al. 2015; Weinthal, Vengosh, and Neville 2018; Bleischwitz et  al. 2018). Within the modern state system—​itself contested14—​land politics encompass both nationally delimited and internationally extensive considerations. Domestically, transfers occur within states of energy supplies (e.g., fuel, electricity lines), economic returns (e.g., equalization payments or other forms of economic redistribution or reward), and even supporting resources (e.g., transportation of water, movement of labor), which present particular incentives and challenges in energy production and use in different regions. Internationally, energy has long been a core component of production and trade, implicated in military activity, development strategy, and power politics. Such intersections mean that energy is tightly bound up with questions of land rights and access, cross-​jurisdictional impacts, urban and suburban politics, and land-​use change, and that energy projects engender competing claims to space and sovereignty. Production arrangements are key components of public debate over energy. In return, place-​based protest can explain some of the delays and denials of project permits and regulatory approval for energy projects, and the resulting projections for production that influence price. Places are tied up with ideas of belonging, identity, and home, making these local debates about more than transactional understandings of land (Devine-​Wright 2012; Groves 2015). The conditions of project ownership shape local responses, as processes of consultation, participation, and consent are shaped by those who introduce and control projects and land. The possibilities for inclusion or, conversely, for dispossession because of new developments and land-​use change depend in important ways on the relationships between community members and those who have authority over permits and land rights and how groups are defined. Work on land grabs is part of a growing literature on new manifestations of, strategies for, and debates over neoliberalism, land appropriation, dispossession, reform, and control (Peluso and Lund 2011; Cotula 2012; Margulis, McKeon, and Borras 2013). The land grab terminology took on multiple, sometimes conflicting meanings across academic, policy, and activist spheres over the course of a few years (Borras and Franco 2010; Collins 2014).15 For many scholars and practitioners, land grabs, or “the global land rush” (Cotula 2012:  649), described large-​scale land acquisitions involving agricultural land (whether cultivated or not), with the implication that the land transfers were unjust (Smalley and Corbera 2012: 1040). Drivers of land exchange and

66  Fueling Resistance enclosure are not new, but they have been intensified. Such drivers include the expansion of industrialized agriculture (McMichael 2012; although rural development can produce conflicting pressures that affect land use in different ways [Van der Ploeg, Jingzhong, and Schneider 2012]), the increased use of water resources (Dell’Angelo, Rulli, and D’Odorico 2018), and the intensification of conservation through new and enlarged protected areas (Corson 2011; Fairhead, Leach, and Scoones 2012; also described as exclusionary or fortress conservation [Büscher and Whande 2007]). The land grab term provided a critical epithet to refer to a series of policies that involved the accumulation of land and resources by the private sector and by states (Corson 2011) under the guise of economic development, environmental protection, and food security (Gardner 2012: 378). Land acquisitions often replicate colonial patterns of exclusion. At the core of controversies over land grabs are sovereignty and autonomy:  who has control over access to resources and decision-​making authority in the use and transformation of land. Such dynamics create incentives to claim specific identities, as the legitimacy of belonging in certain places sometimes confers rights to participate in decision-​making in those places. Identity formation overlaps with attachments to place and senses of belonging. Land itself can be understood in multiple ways—​not just as a physical place but, as Li (2014a: 1) argues, “an assemblage of materialities, relations, technologies and discourses that have to be pulled together and made to align.” Similarly, Wolford (2004: 410) explores “spatial imaginaries,” describing them as “cognitive frameworks, both collective and individual, constituted through the lived experiences, perceptions, and conceptions of space itself.” The linking of place and identity has been central to research on resource development and commodity production across regions. In Indonesian Borneo, for instance, rubber production affects identities as well as landscapes and livelihoods, according to Peluso (2009). She explains that beyond shaping environments and economies of the Bagak Sahwa region, rubber has “played a pivotal role” in the “production and hardening of ethnic and national identities” (48). Similarly, Mujere (2011: 1125, drawing on Lentz 2007: 37) observes “that land and land rights play an important role in the politics of belonging in Africa,” since land rights are attached to community membership.16 Yet these same concerns provoked differing discursive responses in the Global North and Global South, and across biofuels and fracking debates, reflecting the differing contexts, histories, and symbolic resonance of land in different places.

Catalyzing local contention  67 With biofuels, as highlighted in c­ hapter 2, the land-​grabs language emerged around 2010, in close connection with the aftermath of the financial crisis, at least with reference to land in the Global South—​in Africa, Southeast Asia, and Latin America. The language of land grabs did not take hold, though, in many debates over biofuels in the US and EU or in the controversies over fracking. With the notable exception of Franco, Rey Martinez, and Feodoroff (2013), the land-​grab language has not been taken up in the scholarship or activist literature around fracking, in spite of similarities between natural gas and biofuels in the pace and scale of land acquisitions, the industrial impacts on poor and rural communities, and the positioning of the commodities in global markets. The absence of the term in much critical writing on fracking is even more surprising given the bold assertion of land grabs by one of the leading shale gas exploration companies in the United States: Chesapeake Energy. In its 2012 filing with the US Securities and Exchange Commission, Chesapeake described its “aggressive lease acquisition program, which we have referred to as the ‘gas shale land grab’ of 2006 through 2008 and the ‘unconventional oil land grab’ of 2009 through 2011” (Chesapeake Energy Corporation 2011: 5). While biofuels were readily connected to a new wave of colonialism in the Global South, fracking seemed largely to escape this set of critiques—​in spite of the parallels in corporate strategies and environmental consequences involved in these land negotiations. The difference raises the need to assess more closely the dynamics of landownership in the North and South. In part, particular legal structures surrounding landownership and decision-​making processes differ across these contexts, and discourses of land dispossession and acquisition have different historical and symbolic resonances.17 For biofuels produced from agricultural crops, the question of ownership of the resources involves questions of land title and access. In cases of disputed land title, communal ownership, or overlapping claims to surface resources, this became a heated question, particularly in parts of the Global South with a long history of colonial land acquisition and community dispossession, as well as complex legal arrangements in the postcolonial era. With fracking, ownership of the resources involves an interplay between surface access and subsurface mineral rights. In some countries, mineral rights are owned by the state; in others, mineral rights are privately held. In many cases, regardless of the public or private nature of subsurface rights-​ holders, there is a split between surface and subsurface ownership rights, meaning that many landowners do not hold the rights to minerals under

68  Fueling Resistance their lands.18 Notably, the impacts of fracking are often experienced by surface rights holders, with water contamination, drill rigs and infrastructure development, and industrial noise, even when they are not the beneficiaries of the economic returns (Poole and Hudgins 2014; Griswold 2018). Often, landowners of surface rights do not possess the legal authority to refuse access to drillers, since mineral rights supersede surface rights in many jurisdictions (Rahm 2011; Sangaramoorthy et al. 2016). The combination of economic incentives for extracting oil and gas and the mismatch of farmland and mineral rights ownership in many places has prompted land conflicts over fracking, and although these differ somewhat in specifics from those observed for biofuels, the questions of control, access, and benefit are central to community responses to these projects. Corporate ownership as well as landownership shifts the dynamics of dispossession. Along with physical transfers and enclosures of land, the industrial processes of biofuels production and fracking are prompting more abstract processes of accumulation and dispossession. As the power of agrifood and fossil fuel companies continues to grow through the expansion of energy technologies and new regions of production and extraction, these companies seek to consolidate their gains and constrain opposition. The dominance of a few companies in agriculture is not new; by 2003, for instance, the ABCDs controlled 73% of the global grain trade (Murphy, Burch, and Clapp 2012: 9). Still, these dynamics are intensified by new developments in agricultural technologies and global finance, as Clapp (2018, 2019) finds in research on corporate concentration through agribusiness megamergers and the rise of common ownership by shareholders in the industry. These high-​level shifts in commodity control influence commodity prices and supply chain access, and thus shape the ability of local producers to participate in agricultural trade, with consequences for biofuels developments. For fracking, while the initial development of extraction technologies was led by wildcatters in the US, experimental drillers often sold their finds to large operators when early exploration led to proven resources. The participation of more major oil and gas operators in the sector, including Exxon, BP, and Chevron, results in powerful private actors having a stake in the continuation of fracking (Eyer 2018).19 While some jurisdictions have banned or limited fracking, in other cases the amalgamated power of industry has contributed to active and successful efforts to advocate against additional regulations, as documented by Baka et  al. (2018) in the context of US congressional

Catalyzing local contention  69 hearings on fracking, where industry and state representatives reinforced claims against federal regulations.

Trade: Supply chains and brokered relationships The integration of industrial sectors adds additional complexity to global trade relationships, especially for regions that are late arrivals to the production of new commodities and who are not the primary consumers of those outputs. Energy, in particular, plays a complex role as both a traded commodity and an input for the production of other commodities. These multiple roles create distinct geographic dynamics in energy trade, and some scholars have characterized a need to examine “energy geographies” or “energyscapes” (Calvert 2016; Cardoso and Turhan 2018). Such theoretical approaches capture the multiplicity and complexity of patterns of production and exchange that link otherwise disconnected communities. Calls for analyzing energy markets through a geographical lens are made in parallel with scholars aiming to understand the place-​based impacts of energy developments on communities. Such research considers a wide range of “impact geographies” that involve spatially bounded social and material consequences of production (Haggerty et al. 2018). The new arrangements of energy trade create opportunities for brokerage, where previously disconnected communities are brought together both materially and socially. Trade flows shape international relationships of dependence and control and sometimes prompt the search for new markets, trade partners, and energy suppliers. Not all changes in these systems are led by the historically powerful countries in the international community:  financial flows among developing countries increased dramatically from the mid-​1990s, with trade values leaping from $577 billion in 1995 to over $2 trillion in 2006 (Supachai 2008; Sumner 2008; Dauvergne and Neville 2009). Beyond opening up markets, trade integration efforts, too, have shifted the geopolitics of commodity exchange. Brazil, for instance, has established regional trade agreements as part of the Common Market of the South (Mercosur, a regional free trade area and customs union; Haftel 2004; Antkiewicz and Whalley 2006). Changing patterns of energy exchange across the Global North and South, along with the blurring of cores and peripheries in contemporary models of trade and finance, are seen around the world. The EU, for instance, considers its preferential trade agreements in plans to increase

70  Fueling Resistance renewable energy imports (Leal-​Arcas, Caruso, and Leupuscek 2015; Poletti and Sicurelli 2016), municipalities in Sweden invest in Tanzanian biofuels projects (Neville and Dauvergne 2012), and Canada looks to Asian markets for its gas exports (Carroll, Stephenson, and Shaw 2011). Along with these rearrangements of economic and political power, a diverse set of political considerations have continued to provoke changes to global energy systems (Florini and Sovacool 2011). Over time, oil industries have gone through multiple rounds of concentration and fragmentation and of privatization and nationalization (Jones Luong and Weinthal 2006; Stevens 2008; Goldthau and Witte 2010; Chastko 2012). Oil prices are part of the story of trade relations in energy. In historical context, oil prices have been volatile for decades, with political consequences for domestic energy planning and investments as well as for global exploration and intervention. Key changes in global energy politics took place in the late 1960s and early 1970s, when a confluence of intersecting pressures reshaped energy markets and supplies around the world. Global oil supplies were radically altered when Arab states in the Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries reduced production and imposed an oil embargo against countries, including the US, that supported Israel in the Arab-​Israeli war (US Office of the Historian 2016). The resulting price shocks affected the global market, raising prices and limiting supplies even for countries not targeted by the embargo (Goldthau and Witte 2010). Further, a wave of nationalization of oil industries occurred in tandem with the sweep of independence of formerly colonized states, which changed the landscape of economic power and energy trade. Nationalization of at least some oil and gas supplies was also undertaken in the Global North in places such as the UK and Canada. However, the US did not follow this trend (Goodermote and Mancke 1983; on trends in and determinants of energy nationalization, also see Guriev, Kolotilin, and Sonin 2009), even though the price spikes that resulted from the constriction of supplies by Arab oil producers during the early 1970s were labeled an oil crisis in the US and the constriction of supplies increased oil prices substantially. These differing ownership approaches revealed divergent political responses to the reorganization of global energy trade. Although scholars diverge in their analysis of the power of global oil companies in the 1970s and their position as independent global governors or intermediaries of state interests (Nitzan and Bichler 1995), energy nationalization has clearly shifted state-​corporate relationships and changed the balance of public and private capital in the energy sector. Prices have continued

Catalyzing local contention  71 to be highly volatile since the oil crisis, with notable spikes in 1979 with the Iranian Revolution and in the mid-​1980s with conflict in the Persian Gulf, and provoked domestic efforts by a number of countries—​Brazil and the US included—​to find new energy sources and suppliers. Market signals again influenced the search for diversified energy supplies in the 2000s, with oil prices climbing through much of the first decade, the jumps corresponding to the 9/​11 attacks and 2003 US invasion of Iraq, and then declining in 2009 and 2010 following the US financial crisis and its spin-​off effects throughout the global economy.20 After record highs in 2011 and 2012, oil prices fell rapidly in 2015 and 2016 (although still above prices before 2004) but began to climb again in 2017. Analysts offered multiple explanations for the falling prices, associated, varyingly, with the resumption of production in Libya after supply disruptions, rising production in Iraq, the reluctance of Saudi Arabia to restrict production, reduction in demand from key economies in Asia and Europe, and the increase in price volatility as a result of speculation by investors through hedge and commodity index funds.21 The stresses on energy access in importing countries in the 1970s led to a range of responses around the world—​notably, with investment in bioethanol and biodiesel development in Brazil (Pousa, Santos, and Suarez 2007; Wilkinson and Herrera 2010), and renewed commitment in the US to exploration for oil and gas in Alaska along with strengthened US-​Canadian energy relationships (Coates 1991).22 Such shifts have had long-​term impacts on research and development in these sectors, with Brazil’s ongoing support of bioethanol and US advances in both biofuels and fracking. As biofuels markets and production grew, these commodities became embedded in large-​scale, globally integrated agricultural activities rather than the small-​scale, locally focused systems envisioned by some rural activists and NGOs. Many bioethanol and biodiesel fuels—​both first and second generation—​are derived from agricultural and agroforestry products and were readily subsumed in production schemes that are increasingly and overwhelmingly controlled by powerful multinational corporations (Dauvergne and Neville 2009; Holt-​Giménez and Shattuck 2009; McMichael 2009a).23 The primary feedstocks for biofuels largely map on to preexisting agricultural production in different regions, with crop types based on environmental conditions and previous cultivation decisions (Dauvergne and Neville 2010). For example, the US primarily produces corn-​based bioethanol and Brazil sugarcane bioethanol, and the dominant source of biodiesel is rapeseed in the EU and oil palm in Indonesia and Malaysia, and these commodities are embedded in dispersed

72  Fueling Resistance global trade networks. The integration of biofuels into the agricultural sector and fracking into the fossil fuel industry has complicated responses, and enhanced resistance, to these fuels—​especially as major corporations in these sectors have adopted environmental narratives. In spite of powerful corporate proponents, the coherence of the private sector and the uniformity of trade networks should not be overstated. With biofuels, even a small fraction of the energy market could represent a significant change to the agrifood system, and the diversion of oilseeds, grains, and other food crops influences agricultural commodity prices. Agricultural companies responded in fragmented ways to the prospect of biofuels, decisively supporting or opposing the fuels, depending on whether these commodities created new economic opportunities or presented competition for raw materials. Corporations such as Cargill began to anticipate high returns from investments in the sector, buying into facilities for ethanol distillation in Brazil and oil seed processing in Paraguay (Holt-​Giménez and Shattuck 2009). If these companies viewed biofuels as a threat to the oil industry, they responded largely with containment and cooptation. Between 2007 and 2009 foreign direct investment into sugar ethanol production totaled more than $1 billion (Dauvergne and Neville 2010:  642). Cargill realized gains when prices rose on grain markets, spikes attributed by some to biofuels (Holt-​Giménez and Shattuck 2009). In 2008 several major agricultural companies established the Alliance for Abundant Food and Energy; through this alliance, Archer Daniel Midlands, DuPont, Deere & Co., and Monsanto lobbied the US government to promote biofuels. The companies in the Alliance span the production chain of agriculture, representing interests in agrochemical, farm equipment and seed supplies, as well as purchasing and processing of agricultural outputs. Others, though, voiced opposition to the development of the sector. The American Meat Institute and the Grocery Manufacturers Association, both powerful interests in the US food system, opposed the Alliance (Dauvergne and Neville 2009). In November 2011 Nestlé, the Olayan Group, PepsiCo, and Unilever jointly submitted a statement to the G20 expressing concern about biofuels and calling for action to control food prices.24 As downstream consumers, these organizations benefit from low grain and food commodity prices. In these cases, activists against biofuels found themselves in unlikely agreement with powerful drivers of the corporatized food system. Beyond the uneasy integration of alternative and unconventional energy commodities and technologies into existing individual corporate sectors (agriculture, fossil fuels), these industries are also intertwined. The dynamics of

Catalyzing local contention  73 the energy sector have long been affected by developments in the global food system, and vice versa. Tracing the history of the construction of the concept of “global food security,” McMichael (2005) offers an account that links global aid and trade to an agenda of countries in the Global North to protect their domestic agricultural sectors. Through strategic positioning in World Trade Organization negotiations, northern countries presented domestic overproduction, especially grain surpluses, as a benefit to global food systems. The narrative used, according to McMichael (2005: 282), positioned cheap food (with low production prices enabled through farm subsidies) as part of the comparative advantage of the Global North in food systems that would benefit the South by reducing food costs—​leading to a situation where “global ‘food security’ is accomplished through the political construction of commodity prices.”25 The WTO is only one of several global institutions that has shaped global commodity trade and food markets; Bello (2008) outlines the history of growing Mexican dependence on imports of US corn, pointing to the debt crisis of the 1980s, interventions of the International Monetary Fund and World Bank, and impacts in the 1990s of the North American Free Trade Agreement. Documenting similar outcomes from trade liberalization and a cut in domestic spending on agriculture for falling rice production and growing import-​dependence in the Philippines, Bello describes this pattern as one repeated across countries of the Global South. Trade patterns intersect with finance: the greater integration of food into free trade systems, combined with the financial intersection of agricultural goods with other traded goods through aggregated commodity index funds (Baines 2017), has increased price volatility and further linked food with other economic sectors, including energy. Such intersections and tensions create openings for brokering connections across previously disconnected communities, as discursive efforts link food, land, environment, and trade.

Energy finance, energy frontiers Although energy consumption is dominated by the Global North and a few rapidly emerging economies in the Global South, energy production implicates a wider range of countries. Attention is needed, as suggested in ­chapter 1, to places that might be considered marginal in the global energy system, both as producers and consumers of fuel. The US, the EU, and large emerging economies of the Global South—​including Brazil, Russia, India, China, and South Africa—​ drive the global economy and dictate the terms of energy and agricultural

74  Fueling Resistance trade. However, the dynamics of energy transitions cannot be fully understood without a look at countries and regions at the periphery of global power—​especially as new technologies and energy sources are justified by their benefits for rural, remote regions. Across resource types, commodity trade and extraction depend heavily on less powerful countries of the Global South, including sub-​ Saharan Africa, and regions seen as frontiers and margins in the Global North, all with histories of political and economic exclusion. The search for new energy sources and transitions has focused attention on these peripheral regions in new ways—​to diversify suppliers, expand production horizons, strengthen globalized trade networks, and increase economic growth in regions with limited participation in global markets. But these communities are not passive recipients of development plans,26 and they engage in complex forms of mobilization and organization for and against such projects. This book takes biofuels and fracking as its focus, but these are just two case studies that reveal how political economies shape local responses to resource developments around the world. Contentious politics involves collective, public political struggle. Protest events, in particular, are periods of ignition and change. But they do not provide a full picture of political action and social mobilization; resistance need not be rowdy. In studying local claim-​making, scholars have uncovered “everyday forms of resistance” (Scott 1985:  xvi–​xvii, 28–​29) and “everyday politics” (Kerkvliet 2009: 232), which can involve the mechanisms and strategies through which people with little political power assert their independence and act against the agents and structures of power in subversive, hidden ways. Notably, people in marginalized positions are not necessarily either revolutionary or submissive, and the dramatic moments of public claim-​making often represent the culmination of long-​standing, quiet organization. Analyzing such moments in isolation—​as surprising, ahistorical uprisings—​leaves out much of the context that helps us to understand these claim-​making efforts. In spite of its complexity, contestation is not a “disorderly” process (Tarrow 2008: 230) but instead a decipherable set of adaptive actions and forms of claim-​making, with the potential to produce collective identities and social relationships (Della Porta 2008; Gerbaudo and Treré 2015). The activation of particular identities and the drawing of connections across scales is facilitated by preexisting ties within and across communities. The backdrop of everyday politics underpins more concerted and visible collective action. When everyday tools are stretched beyond capacity, and individuals are pushed beyond their limits, they are prompted to make claims against power-​holders. In response, those with power attempt to contain these claims. When containment cannot keep pace with the

Catalyzing local contention  75 extent of change demanded, and claimants gain enough momentum and support (through a series of strategic and opportunistic mechanisms), more radical action can occur.27 The quieter, more subversive forms of resistance that develop over time lay the foundation for more concerted episodes of claim-​ making that emerge as political opportunities, resource mobilization, and framing efforts converge. With energy politics, certain protest moments and events gained media and public attention. As outlined in c­ hapter 2, food riots and the High-​Level Conference on World Food Security were prominent and dramatic events that propelled biofuels onto the global stage, and the Global Frackdown and popular documentaries such as Gasland catalyzed more widespread antifracking resistance. To explore the interplay between the political economy of energy and contentious politics, the next two chapters turn to specific places where energy projects have met with active—​but complex—​contestation. They take a deeper look at the dynamics of energy projects in places usually overlooked in energy studies: areas where production and extraction do not move forward, where regions are not reflected in maps of energy supplies, and where resistance takes hold in locally significant ways. I turn first to Kenya’s Tana delta (­chapter 4), where many biofuels projects have been stalled or abandoned, and then the Yukon (­chapter 5), where a ban has been enacted on fracking in the territory, both following years of community fragmentation, organization, and resistance. As will be seen, more vivid moments of protest relied on the emergence of grievances about new projects that intersect with preexisting concerns and politics. In both places, local organizers had long-​standing concerns about land use, energy, and autonomy, and these were intensified by the introduction of new energy projects and markets, although in ways that were mediated by the specific political economy characteristics of the proposals.

4 Biofuels in Kenya’s Tana Delta Villagers spilled out of two buses that had traveled through the night from the Tana delta to Nairobi, Kenya’s capital city, on February 14, 2011 (see Figure 4.1 for a map). They waited in the halls and on the stairs in the Nairobi High Court as their legal representatives met behind closed doors for a hearing. The villagers who had gathered in the courthouse, joined by others from the Tana who now lived in Nairobi, had arrived knowing they could neither participate directly nor even bear witness to the closed-​door exchange, and so waited patiently in the corridors before filing back into the street. The hearing was for a court case to contest various extractive and industrial projects in the Tana delta, including the Tana Integrated Sugar Project (TISP), prawn farming, and titanium mining. The case was filed against seven respondents:  Kenya’s attorney general, the National Environmental Management Agency (NEMA), the Tana and Athi River Development Authority (TARDA), the Tana River County Council, the commissioner of lands, the Water Resources Management Authority, and the Mumias Sugar Company. Although not centered on biofuels, the local dispute took on broader symbolic and strategic significance in part because TISP planned to produce bioethanol. Four petitioners had filed the case, speaking on behalf of many groups in the delta: pastoralists of Orma, Wardei, and Somali origins; Pokomo and Mijikenda farmers; Malakote, Bajuni, and Luo fishing communities; and Wasanya and Boni hunter-​gatherers. Outside they listened to an update from their court representatives and then walked down the street to the Department of Home Affairs. In an unplanned encounter, they met with Kenya’s vice president, Stephen Kalonzo Musyoka, who came out of the building to see the gathered crowd. He listened to the villagers, finally suggesting that they send him a formal petition with their concerns.1 The case was not the first attempt to take legal action in the delta on the sugar plantation proposal. (See Figure 4.2 for a timeline of some key events in the delta.) In 2008 four organizations had come together—​the Tana Delta Conservation Organisation (TADECO), the Tana River Pastoralists Development Organization, the East African Wild Life Society, and the Fueling Resistance. Kate J. Neville, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197535585.003.0004

Biofuels in Kenya’s Tana delta  77 N S

Tana Delta Kenya

10 km

Figure 4.1  Map of Africa with Kenya highlighted (inset) and map of the Tana delta. In the delta region, I conducted interviews and participated in groundwater sampling with villagers and my project collaborators in twelve villages.

Centre for Environmental Legal Research and Education—​with Kenyan lawyer George Wamukoya to challenge legal rights to the land for TISP. At that time claimants challenged the title deed for forty thousand hectares of land claimed by TARDA for the project. The court imposed a temporary injunction against the project, but a judicial review was undertaken, and in 2009 the court ruled in favor of the developers. (On the timelines and outcomes of the cases, see High Court of Kenya 2008; Mireri, Onjala, and Oguge 2008; Mumias Sugar 2012; Smalley and Corbera 2012.) Rather than backing down, villagers filed a second case, with a broader focus. This time the petitioners declared that failure to develop a “comprehensive land use master plan” for the Tana infringed on the rights of the region’s people and called for the prohibition of further resource development until such a plan was negotiated (High Court of Kenya 2010: 1–​3). Supporting the advocacy efforts of the villagers who filed the initial case were several NGOs, including NatureKenya and the Kenya Wetlands Biodiversity Research Team. By gathering at the Nairobi courthouse in a peaceful, orderly way, villagers enacted a visual show of support, along with a human face, for a case related to not-​yet-​realized activities in a region far from the capital city. Such demonstrations are forms of public theater. In analyzing biofuels in Kenya, Hunsberger (2014) applies Tsing’s (2000) analysis of “myth” and “spectacle,”

78  Fueling Resistance

Figure 4.2  Brief timeline of select key events for biofuels in the Tana delta, with some relevant national and global events.

identifying hyperbolic claims about particular biofuels feedstocks as dramaturgic efforts by start-​up enterprises to gain support, and capital, for uncertain initiatives. In this case, rather than a bid for economic support, villagers used these public displays as a strategy to generate publicity and raise awareness and as a signal of the importance of land-​use decisions for their lives and livelihoods. The bus trip and courthouse visit allowed villagers and their NGO allies to engage in an embodied form of solidarity with those challenging the state and private sector. It also served as a way to influence decisions from which many have felt excluded.

Biofuels in Kenya’s Tana delta  79 Observers attending a court case have no official bearing on the legal proceedings, and in this case the Tana delta residents were not even able to listen to the hearing itself. Further, the villagers had not traveled to Nairobi in February 2011 in hopes of a verdict; they knew even then that the case had several more stages before a decision would be reached. In fact, it would not be until January 2013 that the High Court would reach its final judgment (ruling for the reevaluation of development plans for the delta and for the participation in such planning by local communities). Yet the villagers made the long trip from the delta for the hearing nonetheless. Their presence in the capital signaled that they understood the power of alternative avenues for gaining a voice in political contestation, beyond official legislative channels. At this hearing—​and other stages throughout the case—​villagers made efforts to visibly demonstrate their interest and concern. This was a strategic move to reinforce community representation in the proceedings,2 and the case drew interest from around the world.3 The acts of undertaking a long journey and occupying space—​using physical presence and sacrifice as a public, symbolic act to convey a political point—​hold great power in a domain of contestation about the rights to and occupation and use of territory and resources. The Tana villagers’ presence in Nairobi indicated their interest and awareness in both the case and democratic and judicial processes. It showed politicians and the judiciary that their decisions were being monitored and evaluated by affected parties. Further, these villagers were able to garner public attention beyond their communities for issues related to land tenure, procedural justice, corporate investments, and resource control. Through the unscheduled meeting with the vice president, they were able to bring the issue to the attention of those in power, especially thanks to coverage of the gathering by NGOs and the media. The court case in Nairobi demonstrates the melding of public repertoires with judicial and legislative channels for seeking political voice. Neither of the two court cases focused on biofuels: the first centered on land title and property laws, the second on land-​use plans and participatory planning. Still, biofuels played a prominent role in media and public campaigns around the hearings (Neville 2015).4 Why did biofuels provoke such opposition and catalyze broader campaigns in the Tana delta? More accurately, why did some biofuels projects lead to such strong, coordinated responses, while others did not? I argue that biofuels negotiations in coastal Kenya, involving plans for sugarcane, oil palm, and Jatropha curcas plantations on the coast and the delta, reveal how the finance, ownership, and trade

80  Fueling Resistance relations of different projects shaped the local and global responses to them. Specific patterns of external finance, foreign and government ownership of projects, and the production of biofuels for European markets provoked a fragmentation of local community views about these renewable energy commodities. These political economy elements catalyzed specific mechanisms of contention by shifting the scales at which land use debates took place, reigniting group-​based identity politics, and enabling organizers to broker relationships with disparate communities through strategic frames and issue linkages. This chapter thus explores the shifting composition of pro-​and anti-​ biofuels coalitions and campaigns in and beyond the delta to examine the political economy components of contentious claim-​making. Drawing on fieldwork in Kenya in 2010 and 2011, I examine several contested biofuels projects, including the TISP initiative. In all of these projects, enthusiasm for bioethanol and biodiesel collided with concerns about land transformations and access, livelihoods and water resources, and public and private project ownership. Biofuels debates in the Tana reveal a complex intersection of local social histories and economies with transnational investors, competing identities and interests, and distant NGOs. Before turning to the political economy drivers of contention, I first contextualize Kenya within the global biofuels sector and offer a brief history of the delta.

Launching biofuels amid controversy Ultimately, only a handful of countries participate substantially in the global production and consumption of biofuels. Kenya barely registers on any list of biofuels producers: for instance, a 2006 report indicated that Kenya’s production of bioethanol was only 3 million of the 3.9 billion liters produced per year by 2005, and by 2014 the continent of Africa as a whole produced less than 0.05% of global biofuels (Dufey 2006; IEA 2007; World Bioenergy Association 2017). Yet biofuels have taken on a significant role in the energy and agricultural politics of Kenya, given the global debates that emerged around them on food security, land negotiations, and speculative investments. For many developing economies, particularly in sub-​Saharan Africa, markets that are small in absolute terms can still represent important agricultural income. In Kenya and similar countries, export economies have cycled through a number of agricultural commodities, from tea and coffee to

Biofuels in Kenya’s Tana delta  81 sisal and cotton (Ndegwa, Moraa, and Iiyama 2011). New drivers of investment, especially in agricultural sectors, are of great significance. As interest in biofuels grew, analysts predicted that the geography of production would shift, anticipating that oil palm–​producing countries would increase their overall production and redirect their products from the agricultural stream to biodiesel. For these countries, an industry on the scale of the global coffee market (Gerasimchuk et al. 2012: 6)—​and one anticipated to grow—​could play a major role in their development strategies and have a significant impact on land use and food production. While only a few countries led the charge in creating a biofuel sector, many more followed their lead, developing biofuels projects and policies in response to these global trends. At the national level in Kenya, the formulation of new energy policies supported the initiation of biofuels projects. Kenya’s 2004 National Energy Policy and 2006 Energy Act were developed as interest in biofuels grew, and these pieces of legislation shaped how projects were taken up (Muok et al. 2008). With the aim of reducing fossil fuel dependence by 25% by 2030, the Kenyan government was interested in biofuels, at least in part, as a tool to achieve these energy goals and to promote economic and social development (Janssen and Rutz 2012). NGOs were involved in early efforts to initiate biofuels projects, particularly through promoting Jatropha production for biodiesel (Hunsberger 2010, 2014; Ndegwa, Moraa, and Iiyama 2011). In the coastal region, international NGOs were primarily responsible for early biofuels projects as part of rural electrification and livelihood goals, although over the course of a few years both private and nonprofit organizations showed interest in these fuels. Some of the projects in Kenya involved the conversion of an already existing crop—​sugarcane—​into biofuels. Unlike Jatropha, sugarcane was already in production in the region, and, although the processing facilities differ depending on end use, the raw crop had the potential to be used for food or energy. It was into this landscape of NGO-​led development that the TISP was launched. By 2008 small-​scale biofuels initiatives were giving way to proposals for larger scale, commercial projects (although as Hunsberger 2014: 221, notes, commercial production of biodiesel from Jatropha had not yet started). The time lag between the initial interest from the EU and others and the response from countries in the Global South meant that the start of many feedstock plantations coincided with increasing concern about biofuels (­photos  4.1 and 4.2). Even as the international discourse was shifting to a more cautious tenor, momentum was building in sub-​Saharan Africa in response to

82  Fueling Resistance

Photo 4.1  Oil-​bearing seed from a Jatropha curcas plant. Photo by author.

the global signals for a biofuel market. The political picture for these later arrivals to the sector was tenuous. Biofuels projects launched late in the first decade of 2000 were introduced into a changing global landscape of skepticism competing with optimism over these fuels. Interest in biofuels development and investment opportunities intersected with the international community’s general impression that countries in sub-​ Saharan Africa had large quantities of available land (Eisentraut 2010: 175). The language used in reports from organizations such as the FAO involved descriptions of “poor agricultural performance” and “stagnation of agricultural yields,” blamed on a lack of investment, poor agricultural practices, and a shift to lower-​intensity production strategies (Maltsoglou and Khwaja 2010: 29).5 For those in mainstream development circles, low yields per unit area have been seen as a failure of agricultural systems and a condition to be rectified by intensifying farming practices. Such analysts perceived the Green Revolution as a major success in South and Southeast Asia, as changes in seed varieties, fertilizers, pesticides, and irrigation practices had increased crop yields and thus food supplies for rapidly growing populations. These practitioners saw similar potential for agriculture in African countries. In spite of its marginal position in the biofuels sector, Kenya—​especially its rural, coastal communities, such as the Tana delta—​landed at the heart of

Biofuels in Kenya’s Tana delta  83

Photo 4.2  Oil palm seedlings at a plantation in Tanzania. Photo by author.

questions around energy transitions and climate solutions. For some, new agricultural commodities along with renewable energy and small-​scale options for its production presented local opportunities with innovative, promising cash crops. However, for others, biofuels represented just one more threat to an already altered landscape that could intensify power imbalances. These projects entered a social landscape shaped by colonialism and conflicts over land. Kenya gained independence in the early 1960s, following nearly eighty years of British control. Its colonial history and postindependence political reorganization set the stage for a complex set of relationships over land, including over tenure and ownership (Wanyonyi, Nyadimo, and Wambui 2015)  along the country’s east coast and elsewhere. With a population of just under 40 million people, Kenya has an agricultural sector dominated by

84  Fueling Resistance

Photo 4.3  Orma Boran cattle in a village in the Tana delta, Kenya. Photo by author.

smallholder farmers who are highly dependent on rain-​fed crops (Owuor 2010), and coastal agriculture is no exception. The Tana delta has a long history of political and economic marginalization and social reorganization by colonial powers and the postindependence state. Ecologically, the delta contains fragmented forest patches, representing important remnants of Kenya’s declining forest cover (Tabor et al. 2010). It is a mosaic landscape with coastal forest, riparian grasslands, mangroves, wetlands, dry shrubs, oxbow lakes, and tidal zones. The region is home to endemic coastal forest species such as red colobus and mangabey, as well as to a number of human communities with livelihoods dependent on grazing, fishing, and agriculture (Africa Business Foundation 2010; Mbora and McPeek 2010). These communities are predominantly rural and poor. More than three-​quarters of people in the Tana delta (which is home to nearly 200,000 people) live below the Kenyan poverty line, and the district ranks in the poorest 10% of the country.6 The delta, particularly in the areas of interest for biofuels projects, has variable rainfall, and people in the region experience chronic food shortages (Africa Business Foundation 2010).

Biofuels in Kenya’s Tana delta  85 The Tana delta’s landscape is far from an empty, unclaimed space. A long history of proposed development projects has left a mixed legacy, eroding villagers’ trust in the promise of development plans, government benevolence, and corporate commitment, and deepening divides within the delta.7 For example, following a history of attempts to harness hydroelectric power along the Tana, in 1998 a feasibility study was conducted for the Mutanga/​ Grand Falls Hydropower Project in the Tana River Basin. The plans for dam construction, and resulting fears concerning the alteration of downstream ecosystems, garnered mixed responses by villagers in the basin. Further, long-​standing conflicts exist in the region between some community members and the parastatal TARDA, including over a rice project that stalled in 1997. While debates raged over biofuels, multiple proposals for other agricultural and industrial activities were also underway in the delta. Among the development initiatives preceding and accompanying biofuels plans were an abandoned industrial prawn farming operation; the failed Lower Tana Village Irrigation Programme; the destroyed (but under revival) Tana Delta Irrigation Project for rice farming; a dormant titanium mining proposal; and unrealized plans for leasing land to other countries for food production, such as a project by Qatar involving a loan for a port in Lamu.8 Ongoing projects have spanned oil and gas exploration, rice and maize production, and a high-​voltage power line linked to the Lamu port. Conservation projects have claimed land in the region, notably the Tana River Primate Reserve. Hydropower too has a conflicted history in the area: the Tana River has five major reservoirs with a cumulative power production capacity equal to roughly three-​quarters of Kenya’s demand, and additional dams are planned.9 In short, the Tana delta holds a complex array of planned, actual, and failed land development initiatives. Projects proposed by governments and corporations thus have a long history in the delta of disrupting local lands and lives. This inventory of agricultural and industrial projects only begins to describe the claims for land and resources. Villagers’ experiences of these projects has shaped their responses to new proposals. But not all proposals, or project proponents, generate the same responses from villagers (see, e.g., Smalley and Corbera 2012: 1050). Different communities in the delta have varying reactions to projects, in ways that a political economy analysis can illuminate. Using a series of proposed biofuels projects in the delta, this section outlines, in turn, finance and

86  Fueling Resistance scale shifts, project ownership and identity activation, and trade relations and brokerage opportunities.

Finance: Scales and distances of investment In the delta, groups involved in either promoting or resisting biofuels projects engage in politics of scale, articulating local issues in global arenas and expressing global concerns through local cases. Scale shifts can be intentional strategies of contestation, but they can also arise inadvertently, as a result of growing distances in commodity chains. Biofuels debates are intensified and altered when proponents and backers of projects are difficult to track or when proposals for land-​use change implicate financial and political power-​holders far from sites of production. Shifts in scale can include multiple dynamics across issues, places, and actors (McCarthy 2005), and such scalar politics characterize contentious energy debates in the delta. The lines between and across scales are blurred by the opacity of investments. The case of Bedford Biofuels illustrates intersecting levels of conflict, as well as the complexity—​especially for local villagers—​of assessing project viability and financing. Bedford Biofuels arrived in the Tana delta in 200810 with the aim of developing Jatropha plantations for biodiesel on private ranches. The company, incorporated in Kenya and an affiliate of a Canadian company of the same name, planned a series of delegated corporate relationships to manage the planned plantations (Africa Business Foundation 2010). In 2010 Bedford submitted its environmental and social impact assessment, outlining its plans for Jatropha on six ranches in the delta, involving sixty-​ four thousand hectares of land (Africa Business Foundation 2010; Africa Biodiversity Collaborative Group 2013), with a longer-​term vision spanning several hundred thousand hectares (Kenya Ministry of Agriculture 2012).11 Although in some places Jatropha can be used to support spice production, as documented by Faße and Grote (2015) in Tanzania for vanilla and black pepper,12 the Bedford Biofuels project did not propose such combined production systems or additional crop benefits.13 Still, Bedford did specify that its operations would use less than half of the approved plantation lands, leaving the rest for existing land uses, including grazing, cropping, and settlements, and for migratory corridors and wildlife habitat (Africa Business Foundation 2010: iii).

Biofuels in Kenya’s Tana delta  87 Some villagers reported their enthusiasm for the Bedford project, with hopes for new employment options and a higher profile for the region.14 Their interest in development plans was already high, but opportunities were scarce. A lack of attention from the government compounded local interest in private sector investment. In one village I visited in December 2010, a villager commented, “The government tells us to wait,” but the community had spent “two years, just waiting.” Frustration with the government’s inaction increased local interest in Bedford’s proposal, and some villagers were ready to commit to the private sector project so they could “go ahead and benefit.”15 These locals saw the ranches as places for both agriculture and pastoralist activities,16 and they viewed Bedford’s plans as enabling both Jatropha production and livestock grazing. However, these enthusiastic views clashed with the perspectives expressed in a nearby village about the company and proposed project. There, in a conversation with me in late November 2010, one villager alleged that Bedford had forged signatures in support of their project.17 Even without falsifying papers, the company’s land deals were problematic. Arevalo et al. (2014: 142) document conflicting views on landownership in the delta, putting into question the legitimacy of those signing such agreements to acquiesce to property transfers. These conflicting accounts suggest deep divides about the project within the region and wide-​ranging views of the accountability and sincerity of the state, private actors, and even fellow residents. Still, amid this local controversy, and cautionary studies by local and international researchers, NEMA approved the project and the company began clearing land and planting seedlings in 2011 (Africa Biodiversity Collaborative Group 2013; Krijtenburg and Evers 2014). In spite of these early moves toward project realization, the company soon ran into problems. By 2012 Bedford had stopped its operations in the Tana and, in 2013, declared bankruptcy.18 Those who had been skeptical about the financing arrangements of Bedford Biofuels were later vindicated by the news that its director, David McClure, was fined in Canada by the Alberta Securities Commission for violating the Securities Act.19 That decision—​made four years after the disappearance of Bedford from the Tana—​highlights the difficulty for investors and local communities alike in assessing the integrity and stability of small private ventures, especially those involving large distances between the location of finance and of production. The project seems to echo the outcomes of many such biofuels projects in eastern Africa—​representing a confluence of enthusiastic but locally uninformed investors with varying

88  Fueling Resistance levels of integrity, changing global markets, and fragmented and contested local lands (similar questions about state and corporate coercion arose in biofuels deals in Tanzania; Kweka 2012). In Tanzania, for instance, many foreign-​funded companies withdrew or declared bankruptcy, including the Dutch-​backed BioShape in Kilwa (Sulle and Nelson 2013), UK-​owned Sun Biofuels in Kisarawe (Locher and Sulle 2014), and Swedish-​financed SEKAB in the Rufiji delta (Neville and Dauvergne 2012). The controversy over the Bedford project took place alongside a broader set of contested corporate interests in agricultural expansion in the delta, with a multiplicity of financiers operating in the region from a distance. In the early 2000s a number of private companies, along with government agencies, proposed projects to bring more sugarcane production to Kenya’s Tana delta. As biofuels gained global attention, some of these sugar projects expanded their plans to produce bioethanol (Mumias Sugar 2012). One of these, the TISP described earlier, was jointly planned by TARDA and the Mumias Sugar Company. According to initial plans, the project would convert twenty thousand hectares in the delta into irrigated plantations and associated infrastructure, and the joint venture would produce sugar, ethanol, and electricity from cogeneration. But the TISP had a checkered history. According to the nonprofit Ethical Sugar, TARDA struck a deal with another private company, MAT International, to build the Tana Delta Sugar Company in Garsen (a town in the Tana region), financed by a Swiss bank–​ led consortium.20 MAT and TARDA “parted ways” following a court case over title deeds and financial arrangements, according to one interviewee in the Tana delta.21 TARDA quickly entered into a new partnership, this time with Mumias Sugar. My interviewee suggested that the successive plans for sugar projects with corporate partners had been under negotiation since 2004, following the withdrawal of yet another company, the Spanish Riegos Agricolas Espanolas (RAESA), from a related project.22 Undeterred by its court battles with TARDA, MAT International had developed new plans, scheduled to begin in 2008, to produce sugar on over thirty thousand hectares in the Tana (and more in adjacent districts).23 In 2008 Kenyan parliamentary debates recorded the minister for regional development authorities listing six companies with interests in sugar in the delta since 2004: MAT, Mumias, West Kenya Company, RAESA, PGBI Company from South Africa, and Kenana Sugar Company from Sudan (National Assembly 2008). Oil palm and Jatropha curcas emerged in the early 2000s as additional contenders for land in the Tana (see Cotula, Dyer, and Vermeulen

Biofuels in Kenya’s Tana delta  89 2008; Diaby 2011). Other biofuels projects and companies in the Tana have included the UK firm G4 Industries Limited’s commercial oil seed production (now abandoned); the Jatropha Growers Company; a Korean company with plans to produce “sim-​sim” (sesame) for biodiesel; and Bedford Biofuels’ plans for Jatropha curcas for biodiesel. These numerous and often changing corporate financial arrangements introduced uncertainty into relationships with local land users. In some cases, corporations seemed to disappear: in an interview, one villager suggested that the foreign owners of the Jatropha Growers Company were “hiding,” as they had not returned to the delta.24 Project planning by outsiders in the delta reveals the distances between decision-​makers, mainly in Nairobi and other large cities, and villagers in rural regions. In the Tana delta, local villagers often had limited access to government communications and little direct knowledge of the latest decisions. One group told me they had told company officials they did not want a sugarcane plantation, but they “[didn’t] know what the government decided.”25 In another meeting, one person expressed worry that certain negotiations between companies and villagers included only “high-​up” community members and involved secret meetings that others learned about through “rumors” and hearsay.26 For those in rural regions, it was therefore difficult to keep track of the status of any given project and of which corporate officials and agents were involved in different projects, thus blurring lines of accountability. The control of local operations by foreign companies, the investment in specific projects by funders from abroad, and the limited access of local people to national decisions all increase the distance embedded in biofuels supply chains. So too does the structure of the global financial system. The transition from local to export-​oriented projects places these coastal Kenyan regions into broader commodity exchanges. Global arrangements of finance link distant actors and interests with specific places of production, but in ways that limit their risk and direct involvement. Capital-​driven processes lead to large-​instead of small-​scale operations—​if not large individual farms, at least large cumulative production, as seen in the Bedford proposal with plans for multiple ranches to participate in cultivating Jatropha. They also reward stable investment opportunities—​although these should not be conflated with stable prices for individual crops, since price volatility can enable profit generation when paired with complex investment tools that mitigate investors’ risk across sectors or with derivatives that yield returns from market fluctuations (Baines 2017). Thus financial interests in commodity

90  Fueling Resistance exchange create and reinforce incentives for predictability in overall inputs and outputs, but not always with concern for any given small enterprise, worker, or community. The consequences of these financial pressures, beyond increasing the amount of land enclosed for these projects, include the conversion of land to monocultures instead of mixed crops, to cash crops instead of subsistence agriculture, and to irrigated rather than rain-​fed crops. These processes can prompt a move away from variable recession (flood-​ plain) agriculture and shifting production systems, which is a significant change in a delta landscape and can undermine the stability of these coastline systems (Duvail et al. 2017). The variability of traditional delta livelihood activities requires short-​term flexibility and adaptation, and thus presents challenges to predictable supplies of single commodities. Large-​scale, and especially irrigated and fertilized, production of biofuels provides landowners and governments with incentives to disrupt wetland ecosystems, pump groundwater, divert rivers, and develop new dams, with detrimental effects on ecosystem integrity.27 The incentives from finance for the development of particular production systems for feedstocks can thus generate grievances about biofuels projects. The scale of biofuels projects shifts to match the desires of distant investors, provoking organization by local communities and transnational activists with concerns over the impacts of these large projects on land access, livelihood activities, and biodiversity. Distances are further elongated with the integration of biofuels into existing, powerful industrial sectors. While physical goods might not be moved quite as smoothly as money, which can be readily redirected through stock exchanges and index funds, the interest in feedstocks from two major industrial sectors—​agriculture and energy—​has enabled more opportunities for investors to chase profits. Investors require fungible commodities that can be translated into tradable financial products, and this is facilitated, for biofuels, by the interchangeability of food and fuel. While not the case with Bedford’s planned Jatropha production, the TISP plans for sugarcane illustrate the kinds of “flex crops” that can be directed into either agricultural or energy sectors (Borras et al. 2016; Hunsberger and Alonso-​Fradejas 2016; Oliveira and Hecht 2016). Biofuels feedstocks that doubled as food crops were of particular interest to those worried about food prices, but also gained the attention of those concerned about the already high environmental and social impacts of agricultural and agroforestry systems. Many of these crops were already under commercial expansion even before the demand for biofuels surged. For soy, for instance, increased production in

Biofuels in Kenya’s Tana delta  91 South America predated the expansion of biofuels markets (Mathews and Goldsztein 2009; Oliveira and Hecht 2016), as did oil palm in Southeast Asia, where plantations posed threats to ecosystems and wildlife, from Indonesia’s dipterocarp forests to Sumatran orangutans (Robertson and van Schaik 2001; Curran et al. 2004). Histories of weak state regulation and enforcement in the forestry sector, as seen in places such as Indonesia (Dauvergne 1997, 2001; Smith et al. 2003; Robertson and van Schaik 2001), did not inspire confidence in the ability of existing regulations to prevent damage as demand for these crops increased. At the national level, the Kenyan government acted as both a rule-​maker and a game-​player in the biofuels industry: responsible for setting the regulatory environment and rules for foreign investment, the state was also heavily invested as a potential biofuels producer through parastatal arms such as TARDA. The government initially governed biofuels as an energy commodity, those commodities falling under the provisions of its 2006 Energy Act, developed following the 2004 National Energy Policy and in tandem with growing global interest in biofuels and in climate action (Muok et al. 2008). The National Biofuels Committee was established by the Ministry of Energy in 2006 (Janssen and Rutz 2012). As food and land concerns grew, the national government made efforts to respond through new legislation and policies, while still promoting the development of the sector. The Kenya Biodiesel Association was registered in 2008, and in 2008 and 2009 draft biodiesel and bioethanol strategies were developed (Schade 2011). The National Biofuels Committee created a subcommittee to work on a combined biofuels strategy, expanding concerns from energy to the multiple intersecting considerations of land, food, and energy. However, these state responses and interventions did not quell contestation over proposed projects in regions such as the Tana, and even intensified the fragmentation of villagers’ views on biofuels. The flexibility of finance to move across sectors made it possible for projects such as TISP to envision the production of multiple commodities and to anticipate returns on investment even in fluctuating markets. Such nimble financial movement can make large-​scale production of specific crops seem financially rewarding. These flexible markets work against the local ecological signals that caution against large-​scale monocrops, especially in sensitive delta regions. An analysis of distant investors and abstracted financial vehicles thus deepens our understanding of local energy politics, and such

92  Fueling Resistance analysis helps explain the scale shifts that can take place in the promotion of and opposition to biofuels.

Ownership: Land deals and livelihoods Villagers’ positions on biofuels projects in the delta were about biofuels and also, more broadly, about claims over land, access, and identity. Financial pressures and opportunities from the international and national levels intersected with complex economic conditions at the local level, mediated by competing and complex claims of belonging and insider status. For some individuals, historical exclusion has been mediated by new economic opportunities and options to participate in decision-​making; for others, these options have been undermined by long-​standing mistrust of governing authorities. The biofuels landscape in Kenya, and particularly in the Tana delta, is a complex mosaic of public and private interests intersecting with land claims and with individual and community characteristics. Identities are central components of collective action and sustained mobilization, and they operate in complex ways. Rather than being inherent and immutable, they are created, negotiated, and altered through repeated interactions (McAdam, Tarrow, and Tilly 2001). Further, asserted identities are subject to challenge: assessing the intersection of natural resource control with an “autochton-​ stranger dialectic” in Zimbabwe, Mujere (2011: 1125) finds that “identities are fluid,” although not imagined or open to all permutations. As McAdam, Tarrow, and Tilly (2001: 134) note, “public debates and private identities often interact” with relationships central to the formation and operation of advocacy networks (Keck and Sikkink 1998). In the Tana delta, historical and economic pressures are overlaid by the stratification of rural communities along ethnic lines linked with language, livelihoods, and national political allegiances. Differences among ethnically identified groups have been used to structure social ties and political distinctions. The Tana delta’s primary groups are the Orma and the Pokomo; the former are Cushitic-​speaking transhumant pastoralists sometimes known as the Galla, with origins in southern Ethiopia’s Oromo people, and the latter are Bantu-​speaking agriculturalists with historical roots in Somalia’s Shungwaya region (Turton 1975; Schade 2011; Pickmeier 2011; Martin 2012). These two dominant groups each comprise roughly two-​fifths of the

Biofuels in Kenya’s Tana delta  93 Tana’s population, though reported numbers vary (Schade 2011; Pickmeier 2011; Sentinel Project 2013). A number of other ethnic groups also live in the delta, including the Wardei, Somali, Mijikenda, Malakote, Bajuni, Luo, Wasanya, Boni, Giriama, Waata (or Watta), Galjeel, and Munyoyaya. Distinct subgroups exist within many of these ethnic divisions, such as the Upper and Lower Pokomo (Pickmeier 2011; Smalley and Corbera 2012). The history of these groups remains steeped in mythology and multiple, conflicting narratives, particularly over which groups arrived first to the delta (Turton 1975; Pickmeier 2011). One version among the Orma maintains that the Orma arrived in the Tana with the Waata, and when the Pokomo later arrived, they gave them land. In contrast, a Pokomo account holds they arrived prior to the Orma and helped the Orma escape Somali pastoralists by offering safe passage across the river into the lower delta during a conflict. A third rendering suggests the Pokomo were pushed out of parts of the delta by the arrival of the Orma (Pickmeier 2011). Although there are divides between the Orma and Wardei, a Somali-​speaking pastoralist group, the latter apparently are the descendants of an Orma group taken into slavery in Somalia in the early 1800s and later returned to the delta (Irungu 2000). The region’s colonial history, involving claims and control by German and then British forces, further complicates relationships in the region. Even within an independent Kenya, most Tana groups remain wary of national authorities (Kagwanja 2003). Repeated land reorganization has been undertaken in Kenya by both pre-​and postcolonial administrations. Such action has left a mix of codified and traditional land-​use arrangements, with some efforts—​including private ranches, which are semicommunal landholding systems—​to reconcile the two.28 These ranches are implicated in Bedford Biofuels’ plans for biodiesel, and so embed biofuels projects into long-​standing conflicts over land control and governance. Kenya’s postindependence era led to active community-​based organizations and strong ethnic identities associated with distinct livelihood activities. Along with the benefits of vibrant local communities, though, are conflicts that spring up across and within these organized and tight-​knit groups. Postelection violence in Kenya in 2008 revealed flashpoints associated with tribal identities, particularly when linked to land tenure and political representation (Cheeseman 2008; Kagwanja 2009; Kanyinga 2009). In the Tana, ethnic affiliations are appealed to in complex and sometimes brutal ways. The recruitment of ethnic identity and livelihoods into violent conflicts over grazing rights and cattle was seen in August 2012 in the Tana

94  Fueling Resistance delta, with reports of raids on a Pokomo community by Orma perpetrators (to steal cattle) and a retaliatory attack by the Pokomo in which forty-​eight or more Orma villagers were killed. Some reports suggested there had been additional raids in the preceding weeks, leading up to the major attack.29 The intersection of national with local politics, and the escalation of events through the political creation and strategic use of identities, also became clear in the aftermath of the attacks, although the details remain unconfirmed; the Kenyan government announced its intent to stifle further violence by searching villages for illicit weapons, with reports suggesting this would be a nationwide effort.30 Further, Kenyan and international news articles suggested links between national government officials and the local unrest; one reported on the investigation of an assistant minister over the killings, based on allegations that local politicians sanctioned and incited the violence.31 A  Tana delta interviewee suggested in private correspondence (August 2012) that attempts dating back to the 1980s by Orma political aspirants to create strife between the Wardeii and Pokomo, in the hopes of gaining electoral support, had sown the seeds for the current violence. The complexity of identity categories in episodes of local violence and other forms of conflict cannot be overstated. In work on rural violence during the civil war and genocide in Rwanda in the 1990s, Fujii (2009) makes a compelling claim for the role of social interaction and context—​far more than ethnic identity—​as the driving explanation for the participation of nonelite, “ordinary” people in mass violence. Such insights are relevant to land-​use conflicts in the Tana delta, which has had recurrent episodes of violence—​as described in 2012, and again in early 2013 involving attacks and retaliations between Orma and Pokomo groups (Sentinel Project 2013). The events in 2012 and 2013, like previous episodes of violence, have been assigned many causal factors, including resource scarcity (access to water and grazing lands), landownership (and questions of title deeds), and local and national politics (including disputes over political representation and elections; Martin 2012). Still, many media and observer accounts suggest that the conflicts involved activated ethnic identities—​that is, where particular categories of collective belonging become politically salient and are drawn upon in claim-​making—​ and thus further entrenched tribal lines as stark divides within the delta. In the delta, ethnic affiliations were often mentioned by villagers in discussions of biofuels. Yet continued discussions revealed that these comments reflected layers of claims over land rights, livelihood activities, and relationships with government agencies beyond simple tribal lines. Biofuels

Biofuels in Kenya’s Tana delta  95 enable agricultural producers to expand into novel consumer groups, which allows companies such as Mumias and MAT to extend their reach into the European energy market. Laborers and landholders, too, can find opportunities in biofuels, as agricultural projects require farm laborers and members of private ranches in the Tana district to have options to lease land. Yet biofuels also threaten existing land and resource users, with the potential to displace communities and alter livelihood opportunities. These risks are especially severe for those without formal ownership rights and codified title. Pastoralists with customary seasonal access rights might find grazing areas and routes to water at risk, without profiting from the alternative land uses. Land is strongly linked with social and cultural identity in the Tana, with uneven distributional implications from biofuels. Biofuels projects are perceived as fundamental threats to the livelihood, and consequently existence, of the pastoralist Orma (photo 4.3).32 Orma communities, largely dependent on seasonal grazing lands, tended to align with environmental groups and land-​rights activists to oppose biofuels projects. An Orma village leader explained, “If you ask my people about Jatropha, they will tell you no.”33 Several people in another predominantly Orma village opposed sugarcane production, concerned that the Mumias and MAT projects would affect their lands.34 One Orma individual voiced concern about the loss of grazing lands to cultivated agriculture. Commenting on perceived company and government goals, this speaker stated, “Their aim is to make us poor.”35 Concerns about pastoralists losing access to lands were intensified by the reference in the Bedford Biofuels (2010:  45) Environmental Impact Assessment to “squatters” on ranch land, particularly for grazing, where “as drought conditions persisted, these pastoralists have settled in the area . . . and their herds have contributed to land degradation problems on the ranches.” Although Orma were not the only ones the report identified as squatters, such statements made those without formal land title concerned about access to land and water if Jatropha plantations were approved. Some interlocuters highlighted the importance of environmental protection, one saying, “Instead of sugar in the delta, it is better to conserve.”36 Others pointed more directly to land defense in their comments, one leader stating bluntly, “We want to safeguard our land from being grabbed by tycoons.”37 Social entrepreneurs within this community drew on cultural identities and group belonging to secure allies in the fight against biofuels. Pokomo communities, in contrast, seemed to largely support biofuels projects, perceiving opportunities for jobs on farms. A  group with whom

96  Fueling Resistance I  spoke in a primarily Pokomo village voiced views strongly in favor of biofuels projects, both those for sugarcane and for Jatropha. One man explained, “Sugar is good, we’ll be less poor with these projects,” and some of those gathered commented that delays in project implementation were troubling. Another individual, stressing that the “majority agree” with the projects, dismissed dissenters as “nomads and wageni [visitors or guests].”38 Mixed outcomes from economic opportunities can intensify existing inequity at local scales, creating divisions within and across sectors and groups (Boamah and Overa 2015: 98), and the resulting appeals to insider/​outsider divides have implications for struggles over land control and resource use. Naming dissenters “outsiders” is a powerful strategy in dismissing their rights to participate in decision-​making processes. In the Tana, these debates have taken place over generations. Groups have contested land access, resource use, and belonging as populations moved in and through the region, from pastoralists’ movements along the coast to newcomers’ paths northward from Somalia and rural-​urban migrations for employment and education. Biofuels thus arrived in an existing social landscape of politicized cultural, regional, and economic identities. Land tenure concerns and histories of marginalization and colonialism, which have resulted in deep mistrust of various governing authorities, play an important role in explaining biofuels and land negotiation dynamics. In part, communities have experienced a lack of sustained government assistance. In the wake of the 2008 postelection national violence, the Kenyan government negotiated a new constitution, which, among other things, sets out new land tenure categories and new terms for land and resource use and management (Odhengo et al. 2012; Smalley and Corbera 2012). In spite of official legislative changes, though, mistrust of the government is widespread. One Orma village leader commented that government officials “make promises and visit, but do not follow through.”39 And although Pokomo communities largely welcome biofuels projects, perceiving opportunities for jobs on farms, such support is not accorded to all projects.40 With a history of resentment against state-​run institutions and suspicion of the motives of government officials, Pokomo villagers tend to support initiatives from private companies but resist projects that have government involvement. In one village with a mixed ethnic population, a villager said that MAT’s sugar project—​a private company’s initiative—​was supported by the community, while government-​ associated projects were not.41 The government’s agencies and institutions—​ including TARDA and the Kenya Wildlife Service—​have a rocky history in

Biofuels in Kenya’s Tana delta  97 the region.42 For instance, Hamerlynck et al. (2010) outline the contested history of TARDA’s Tana Delta Irrigation Project, begun in 1982 to develop irrigated agricultural land for rice. The project, which was severely damaged in 1997–​1998, along with conservation projects such as the Tana River Primate Reserve, have apparently left long-​standing resentment of the government in some communities in the area (Hamerlynck et al. 2010: especially 59–​60; Luke, Hatfield, and Cunneyworth 2005).43 In interviews, villagers explained community hostility toward the government; citing flooding and consequent evacuations that resulted when the parastatal dammed an upstream section of the Tana River, one man said, “[TARDA] has not helped the Tana delta people.”44 Similar dynamics have been observed in pastoral Maasai communities in northern Tanzania involved in ecotourism projects, where Maasai leaders saw opportunities from direct engagement with private companies but viewed state-​aligned investors as a threat (Gardner 2012). Local responses to proposed projects thus vary, depending on ownership structures and different subnational groups’ experiences with governing authorities and foreign actors. Communities differentiate between seemingly similar economic development opportunities (such as biofuels plantations). They weigh not only the potential gains but also the material and intangible costs of the options, including, for those with rocky histories with the state, a potential loss of autonomy and territory. Identity categories require substantial discursive work to be consolidated in the delta, as the lines that divide groups are often blurred. While ethnic groups in the delta are often associated with specific livelihoods (pastoralist Orma; agriculturalist Pokomo), many households engage in mixed production activities:  herders often tend gardens, and farmers may keep livestock or engage in fishing (Smalley and Corbera 2012; Leauthaud et al. 2013; Duvail et al. 2017). In addition, while groups are sometimes associated with specific religions—​such as the Muslim Orma and Christian Pokomo—​ religious divides do not always neatly parallel ethnic lineages; Pokomo groups in the delta, for example, belong to both Muslim and Christian faiths. Landownership and participation in private operations also can shift incentives: Orma who are members of private ranches sometimes find themselves participating in multiple communities with divergent interests, belonging to families and villages of pastoralists but also holding interests in fixed plots for cultivation. As a result, group identity and belonging intersect with ownership arrangements and the economic and cultural significance of

98  Fueling Resistance different livelihoods, and these dynamics shape local responses to new agricultural proposals in the delta.45

Trade: Northern consumers and southern producers Biofuels commodity chains linked potential feedstock producers in the delta with distant consumers and distant investors. At the same time, these fuels connected community groups in the delta with NGOs across and beyond Kenya. In the Tana, community leaders and organizations mobilized local residents over the issue of biofuels and also developed ties with groups outside the delta. They engaged in concerted efforts to broker new relationships by appealing to shared concerns and drawing on existing campaigns. Many community-​based organizations were active in the delta before biofuels projects were introduced, although often with uncoordinated activities, addressing separate issue areas. However, as biofuels proposals gained traction and garnered opposition, local groups began developing more cooperative relationships, with one group in the delta creating an umbrella organization for nearly a dozen community-​based organizations to work together in mapping and conservation planning work.46 These strategies of cooperation, coordination, and exchange are social processes that are subject to adaptation, amendment, and change; as McAdam, Tarrow, and Tilly (2001:  22) helpfully articulate, social interactions are “active sites of creation and change.” The mechanism of brokerage helps make clear the ways in which once distant local and global communities intersect; shared interests and identities can create alliances, but uneven power relationships can lead to fragmentation, cooptation, or even exploitation. TADECO, one of the delta-​based community organizations involved in the court cases against TISP, was launched in the late 1990s by a local organizer. In the 2000s the group began to address land deals associated with biofuels proposals. By 2010 TADECO had established a relationship with the national NGO NatureKenya and had funding from a German organization.47 One of the local coordinators reached out to NatureKenya by raising concerns about important bird areas in the delta; he told me that “NatureKenya didn’t have the idea of the Tana delta” before TADECO reached out.48 Once NatureKenya became interested in conservation work in the delta, the national NGO then provided local training and support for an office in the region. Through this

Biofuels in Kenya’s Tana delta  99 liaison, TADECO then brokered relationships with NatureKenya’s international partners, especially BirdLife International. Again, these groups shared concerns about the impacts of biofuels on avian habitat and biodiversity, thus gained an interest in Bedford’s Jatropha project, among other biofuels proposals. Analyses are mixed about the extent to which Kenyan NGOs developed international partnerships: Krijtenburg and Evers (2014: 2741) document that the Lower Tana Delta Conservation Trust and the East African Wild Life Society did not reach beyond national borders; still, the latter’s involvement in the Tana court case with TADECO suggests that even if they did not have direct partnerships, they were involved in broader networks. These domestic and international NGO relationships constitute part of a transnational advocacy network (Keck and Sikkink 1998). As Keck and Sikkink outline, these advocacy networks can engage in four main categories of politics:  information, symbolic, accountability, and leverage. For each, respectively, partner organizations may be able to share information that would not be otherwise accessible to members of the network or their audiences; participants can draw on images and representative ideas that have particular resonance; networks can expand the range of authorities to whom targets of claim can be held to account; and more actors with more power can amplify the voices of those with less power. McAteer and Pulver (2009:  4) explain that leverage politics is the “most direct form of [transnational advocacy network] influence.” The connections of TADECO and other delta-​based organizers with groups beyond the delta provided a way for villagers to express their concerns to a wider audience. Moreover, these alliances offer an informational advantage: global actors, with access to information about similar projects in other parts of the world, allowed local villagers to compare their own situation to a wider set of cases. Consequently villagers could assess the promises being made to them by companies and governments in the context of a broader view. This became particularly relevant in light of the powerful discourses about land availability adopted by some biofuels proponents. In a closed meeting with villagers, a company representative claimed, “You’ve got so much land out there that’s not being used.”49 Given their links with groups outside the delta, villagers were able to consider this statement—​which seemed at odds with their own experiences of land conflicts—​in light of similar claims being made in other regions and countries. Through their networks, local actors became aware of global debates, even in places where international media was difficult to access.

100  Fueling Resistance In some cases, national and international allies made it easier for local communities to articulate their concerns as part of a broader set of social and environmental issues, countering the dismissal of their positions as uninformed and reactionary. In parliamentary debates in 2008, the minister for regional development authorities alleged, “Not everybody from that area [the Tana delta] is opposed to the [Mumias] project. In fact, it is only a small number of people who are opposed to it.” The minister further claimed, “In most cases in this country, whenever a project comes up, there will always be opposition” (National Assembly 2008). The engagement of more distant partners in their campaigns allowed villagers to resist such efforts to dismiss their dissent. Across rural, poor communities, land acquisition is not “automatically opposed,” since—​as seen in the Tana—​many villagers perceive potential benefits for development from these investments and transfers (Smalley and Corbera 2012: 1039). Even among groups who hoped for increased investment in their communities, many voiced concerns about biofuels projects, specifically with regard to potential displacement, eviction, and exclusion from their lands in light of insecure tenure and title (Mwaniki et al. 2007; Nunow 2011).50 Villagers with worries about the disruption of livelihoods, land rights, and senses of place could connect historical grievances with their contemporary territorial claims and could articulate their local concerns with broader patterns of global change. In return, national and transnational partnerships across issues and regions challenged the portrayal of villagers as isolated voices with narrow concerns. Still, participation in these networks provoked tension, even among those with interests in fostering relationships across scales.51 Local and international organizations shared some concerns about the Tana delta, but each also had distinct reasons for their campaigns. Both opponents and proponents focused on how to convey a number of concerns that spanned geographies in quick, powerful, and memorable ways—​although not always with identical motivations. Many NGOs and anti-​biofuels campaigners saw the need for simple messages against biofuels in media outlets and to persuade busy policymakers. For many of the international groups, the specificities of crop types and production methods do not translate well into short, high-​impact slogans and stories. The amalgamation of local stories into a homogenized global narrative enabled clear messages and campaigns. The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, along with ActionAid and others, for instance, used specific local examples to illustrate their social and environmental concerns, but presented these with little detail.52 Such simplification obscured the

Biofuels in Kenya’s Tana delta  101 divergent and specific claims of nonunified local voices. With biofuels in the Tana, villagers cared about who owned and funded the project, whether the proposed crop was sugarcane or Jatropha, and where and how proponents planned to farm. Many of the local debates included questions of whether intercropping was possible and whether land would be fully enclosed or would leave space for grazing, the passage of animals, or other place-​specific concessions. Local responses to projects depend on threats and opportunities, such as whether land uses are displaced or livelihoods are supported by new developments. The simplicity needed at the global level, whether by pro-​ or anti-​biofuels groups, did not always correspond with more nuanced local situations. The debates in the delta over multiple biofuels projects took place against a global backdrop of controversy and uncertainty over these fuels. Biofuels secured a solid, though small, position in global energy markets, with mandated fuel blending continuing around the world—​in thirty-​three countries in 2015 (REN21 2015: 18), including the US and Canada, Brazil, the EU, South Africa, and India.53 But while ambitious targets for fuel blending and replacement remained part of many national policies, actual domestic production fell short in most places (Zah and Ruddy 2009). The EU reported that “global biofuel production stagnated” in 2011, “rising by just 0.7%, the weakest annual growth since 2000” (Olivier, Janssens-​Maenhout, and Peters 2012: 22, citing BP 2012). In 2006 the EU lamented that biofuels had “limited market penetration” and “still provide[d]‌only a tiny fraction of the EU’s overall energy needs” (EU Committee 2006: 12). By 2015 biofuels still accounted for only 4% of global transport fuels (Araújo et al. 2017)—​ not much of a percentage change over the previous six years, as they already represented almost 3% of global gasoline consumption in 2004 (Sawin et al. 2011; UNDESA n.d.). In 2009 renewable energy sources represented approximately 16% of the world’s total energy use, and by 2012 all renewable sources combined still supplied less than 20% of total global energy consumption (Olivier, Janssens-​Maenhout, and Peters 2012). Some of these slow-​downs and unrealized projections in biofuels markets can be attributed to the brokered relationships between local and global groups around the world. Although Bedford had left the delta by 2012, and the courts ruled in favor of a land-​use planning process for the Tana in 2013, around the same time the annual reports of several large international NGOs—​including BirdLife International/​Europe (2010, 2013), IUCN (2010, 2013), and Oxfam (2012)—​confirmed ongoing concern about and campaigns against biofuels,

102  Fueling Resistance which continued for several more years. These groups often focused their advocacy efforts on the countries that were driving biofuels demand. Although some NGOs participated in the RSB, the Global Bioenergy Partnership, and similar or competing governance forums (Bastos Lima and Gupta 2013; FAO and GBEP 2018), others continued to mount more critical campaigns. Oxfam was among those lobbying the European Parliament for biofuels restrictions in 2010 and 2011, and Friends of the Earth Europe and others took the European Commission to court on issues of justification for certification schemes (Richardson 2014). In policy debates in the EU over draft legislation to limit the share of transport fuels from food-​based crops,54 over one hundred organizations and coalitions came together to pen a joint letter to parliamentarians. Greenpeace, Oxfam, and BirdLife among them, these groups asked legislators to “halt and reverse the radical expansion” of biofuels.55 In the case of the EU policy debates, rather than a single discourse of protest, these groups merged multiple narratives against biofuels into their claim-​making efforts. In the joint letter, groups referred to “increasing pressure on land use,” concerns that biofuels policies are “driving land grabs,” worry that there are “few or no climate benefits” from biofuels, and the risk of “exacerbating poverty and hunger for some of the world’s most vulnerable people.”56 These concerns over the systemic effects of biofuels production were echoed in public discourse, where letters to the editor in Europe lamented, “We could feed 380 000 people in Wales with the amount of this food we currently burn in our cars,”57 and questioning whether farmers were “growing food for people or fuel.”58 The trade relationships that shaped biofuels markets also brought corporate actors into conflict with each other, with some companies joining anti-​biofuels campaigns. The Swedish retail chain IKEA spoke out about biofuels, perhaps perceiving an opportunity to bolster its image as an environmentally friendly company. As reported by the BBC, “Ikea says it will not source jatropha [sic] oil from Kenya until it can be sure that this will not contribute to the conversion of natural habitats. ‘This switch from fossil fuels to renewable energy must never be at the expense of people or the environment,’ Ikea told the BBC in a statement.”59 Throughout these debates, groups have employed strategic efforts to open and close the distance in commodity chains and social issues. For proponents, geographic distances are shortened by trade routes for bioenergy, linking development and climate goals around the world, while financial distances are lengthened by implicating distant investors into even more abstract agricultural and energy markets. Some biofuels champions have focused on local fuels for local needs, justifying the increase in production as part of local energy

Biofuels in Kenya’s Tana delta  103 security, while opponents have countered by drawing short causal chains between hungry villagers and gas-​guzzling urbanites across the Global South and North.

Biofuels: Material and symbolic commodities Across the Global South, biofuels projects landed in full and contested landscapes, in regions with extensive poverty, histories of state control, dependence on the agricultural sector, complex sets of land law revisions, and marginalization from centers of power. They were set against and within local political and social contexts—​for Kenya, for instance, in a complex setting of colonial and postindependence political struggles, agricultural and infrastructure projects, livelihood and income-​generating initiatives, and land tenure reorganization and legislation.60 The introduction of a new commodity both revealed and contributed to existing tensions. The interplay between finance, ownership, and trade helps to explain the varied local responses to development projects across proponents and time. (Returning to the framework presented in fi ­ gure 1.1, see figure 4.3 for a Tana delta–​specific summary of these intersecting dynamics.) Conflict in the Tana both is and is not about biofuels; the debates over sugarcane, Jatropha, and other crops illustrate how key global issues are understood and interpreted on the ground and how multiple sets of campaigns and interests intersect. Biofuels projects were the specific source of contestation in villages in the delta, but more broadly, they provided a focusing point and symbolic image for a wider series of land claims and disputes in the region. These proposals in the Tana became an ignition point for old grievances and added new complexity to those long-​standing conflicts. While some local community members championed the arrival of a new economic opportunity and agricultural development boost, others viewed the projects as one more encroachment on their lands and one more threat to their livelihoods and identities. Moreover, even agriculturalists and landholders keen on biofuels were selective in which projects they supported, often with legacies of mistrust shaping their reactions to government involvement, and histories of failed projects leading to skepticism about the reliability of private actors. Such situationally dependent responses are seen in land-​use politics across the continent. In Ghana, Boamah (2014a, 2014b) documents the differentiated impacts of land-​ use change for biofuels, considering the ways in which local governance and ownership structures shape and mediate the impacts of land acquisitions and

CONTESTED BIOFUELS PROJECTS PART OF FOOD, LAND AND FUEL CONTROVERSIES

BIOFUELS IN THE TANA DELTA

POLITICAL ECONOMY CHARACTERISTICS OF BIOFUELS PROJECTS

POLITICAL ECONOMY ELEMENTS INTERSECT WITH TANA DELTA & GLOBAL CONTEXTS

STRATEGIC DISCOURSES, FRAMES, AND PERFORMANCES

Histories of failed projects and land dispossession in the delta

Opponents framed biofuel concerns in food security and land rights terms

Divergent responses to state involvement; interests in agricultural jobs vs. grazing land access

Colonial and post colonial land conflicts in Kenya shaped insider/outsider discourses

Non local biofuel markets linked Tana to international debates over biodiversity and land rights

Tana villagers in Nairobi for demonstrations at court hearings

SCALE SHIFTS

FINANCE

Multiple investors and projects with shifting relationships: Bedford Biofuels, MAT International, Mumias Sugar Company, G4 Industries, RAESA, etc.

OWNERSHIP

Projects differed in terms of state involvement: e.g., TARDA involved with MAT International and then Mumias, but not Bedford Biofuels

TRADE

Biofuel production in rural east Africa proposed as a source of green energy for European markets

CONTENTIOUS POLITICS MECHANISMS

Worries about large-scale land acquisitions were used to stoke opposition to biofuels more generally; intersection of food and fuel (e.g., sugar/ethanol) linked to broader food security concerns

IDENTITY ACTIVATION

Intensification of conflicts between Orma and Pokomo villagers, linked with concerns about land use changes on pastoralist vs. agriculturalist livelihoods, and membership in private ranches

BROKERAGE

Local community groups (e.g., TADECO) allied with national and international NGOs (e.g., East African Wild Life Society, Bird Life International)

Figure 4.3  Political economy characteristics of biofuels projects shape resistance in the Tana delta.

Biofuels in Kenya’s Tana delta  105 dispossession. Further, divergent visions for the delta’s future shaped biofuels debates, as some villagers sought conservation organizations as partners, while others saw those leading efforts to develop wetland protection as self-​serving.61 Illustrating how environmental issues are embedded in larger political contexts, one private sector actor said, “To want to protect the environment [in Kenya] is a political act of defiance.”62 The political economy dynamics of energy require a broad understanding of spatiality, as defined by Leitner, Sheppard, and Sziarto (2008: 158), involving “place, scale, networks, mobility and socio-​spatial positionality.” For biofuels, contestation occurs at multiple geographic and technological scales, along temporal, social, and physical dimensions. Conflicts are shaped at each scale by patterns of finance, relationships of control and authority over land, and the integration of local commodities into trade networks. At a physical level, mapping and remote-​sensing tools create opportunities for far-​flung individuals and organizations to envision and control tracts of land. But these geospatial tools often overlook the meaning and value of land at local scales, especially shifting and transient land uses (Nalepa and Bauer 2012). With finance, new investment vehicles allow similarly distant involvement, where abstraction and simplification can occur in agrifood systems through the conversion of crops into tradable futures and indices (Clapp 2015). Such technologies and investment tools require little contact by power-​holders with communities and production systems on the ground, thus limiting opportunities for local engagement and increasing the opportunities for locals’ concern about external involvement in their lands and lives. Yet some of these tools can also enable groups to broker relationships to mount resistance campaigns, where communication, mapping, and finance can enable those with shared social and environmental concerns to connect over large distances. The Tana delta court cases illustrated interactive levels of strategic maneuvering by both local activists and global actors. As transnational activists were drawing parallels across cases, using local land-​rights struggles and direct action as vivid examples for their global campaigns, local activists were involved in boomerang-​like efforts to harness transnational advocacy networks to amplify their voices.63 These efforts had elements of mutual support, but these dual strategies can also increase the distance between local and global activists. Alliances may shift rapidly as groups’ goals become misaligned or even opposed. For biofuels activism, these varying goals and strategies can help explain the rapid shifts in discourse, partnerships, and networks over time. The simplification of public messages to attract global partners or to appease local

106  Fueling Resistance audiences proved effective for linking these different scales of claim-​making. However, such simplification also created tensions within the alliances and hid, rather than solved, the complex and differentiated positions of the diverse groups involved in biofuels contestation. Biofuels plans linked preexisting village-​level conflicts with international campaigns, with movements weaving together social and environmental claim-​making using symbols and narratives of land rights and belonging. These alliances were challenged at multiple scales by competing local claims and mismatches in local and international participants’ goals and storylines. The global political economy of energy and commodity trade drove land acquisitions in the Tana and sparked the resistance strategies of activists at multiple scales. In biofuels and other agricultural proposals, global market opportunities collided with local grievances within communities, which prompted the activation of group identities and the reignition of existing economic and land-​based tensions in the region. The narratives created around biofuels at the local level echoed those in global circulation, with concerns over food security and land sovereignty. In turn, these campaigns influenced the economics of the sector. In Kenya triple-​win narratives embraced by the national government created a booming new market and investment opportunity; however, as food-​ versus-​fuel and land-​grab narratives took hold, market signals wavered. The uncertain economics of global energy markets intensified the pressure on state and private actors, and projects with unsteady financial or managerial foundations created doubt and skepticism within delta communities. Participants in land-​ use debates continually face new episodes of increasingly antagonistic claim-​ making processes, leading to short-​term and unstable outcomes for all. The cases of TISP and Bedford Biofuels demonstrate the contingency of projects and how local contestation paired with distant and variable markets—​expressed through identity politics, shifting scales of contention, and brokered relationships of otherwise distant communities—​can destabilize project plans. The connections between actors’ efforts to shape discourses around new commodities and the economic incentives in global markets (for actors distant from production sites) reveal the intersection of claim-​making with political economy dynamics and of global commodity chains with local governance relationships and histories.

5 Fracking in the Yukon “The possibility of oil and gas development in the Whitehorse Trough was not and is not part of our plans for meeting the energy needs of Yukoners during this mandate,” said Brad Cathers, minister of energy for the Yukon Territorial Government, in April 2012.1 He was announcing the decision of the Yukon government to decline issuing oil and gas rights in areas requested by companies in February (EMR 2012) through proposals made during one of the territory’s biannual “requests for proposals” for mineral rights (EMR 2018a). With advances in fracking, the potential for oil and gas development in the territory was of renewed interest to companies. The disposition set off a furor in the territory that would dominate public discourse and headlines for several years. (See figure 5.1 for a map of Canada and of oil and gas basins in the territory.) Reactions were especially strong in Whitehorse, the capital city, since companies had identified twelve areas for potential fossil fuel development within a geological basin known as the Whitehorse Trough, which spanned southwestern Yukon. In response to public concern, the government initially distanced itself from unconventional oil and gas developments, but it soon launched headlong into contestation over fracking. The controversy would provoke rallies and protests, lead to the formation of a multiparty committee to assess fracking, and in 2016 contribute to the loss of a decade-​long conservative Yukon Party majority in government. (See figure 5.2 for a timeline of key events.) As fracking was gaining attention in the territory, a local challenge brought the issue close to home for residents in Whitehorse. In August 2013, only a few months after the government convened a Legislative Assembly committee to consider fracking—​the Select Committee Regarding the Risks and Benefits of Hydraulic Fracturing—​city residents were faced with a debate over the replacement of backup power generators for the city. The proposal from the territorial utility was to replace the existing diesel-​powered system with liquefied natural gas (LNG) generators. Some citizens viewed the development of infrastructure dependent on natural gas as part of a strategy to justify and expand demand for a domestic natural gas industry, seeing the Fueling Resistance. Kate J. Neville, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197535585.003.0005

108  Fueling Resistance

0

50

100 km

Figure 5.1  Map of the Yukon territory, with its road network and some lakes. Shale basins denoted as shaded gray blocks. The capital city, Whitehorse, is indicated with a diamond. Inset is a map of North America, with Canada highlighted in gray and the Yukon in black. Data sources: Department of Energy, Mines and Resources, Yukon Government; Natural Resources Canada (licensed under the Open Government Licence—​Canada); Natural Earth. © Piia Kortsalo.

backup power debates as part of a broader political agenda for fracking in the Yukon (photo 5.1). The Yukon’s energy grid—​comprising two transmission lines, one that spans Whitehorse-​Aishihik-​Faro and the other Mayo-​Dawson—​is isolated from the rest of North America. Most communities are connected to the

Figure 5.2  A brief timeline of recent fracking and land-​use conflicts in the Yukon, with select relevant global events (table amended from Neville and Weinthal 2016b).

110  Fueling Resistance integrated territorial grid powered primarily by hydropower, while a few remain reliant on local diesel generators.2 Two utilities, the Yukon Energy Corporation (YEC; a publicly owned electrical utility that operates at arm’s length from the territorial government) and the Yukon Electrical Company Limited (owned by the private ATCO Electric Limited), generate electricity in the territory and are regulated by the Yukon Utilities Board.3 For those connected to the central systems, three hydropower stations drive electricity supply (National Energy Board 2018).4 The backup capacity for power interruptions—​used, for instance, when ice blocks the dams during severe winter weather events—​had long been provided by diesel generators, some of which had been refurbished in 2007.5 But with its oldest generators slated to be taken offline by 2011, the utility knew it would need to plan for the future. Years of deliberations and consultations ensued, as Yukon Energy considered the territory’s options for energy provision. The utility conducted public surveys and stakeholder interviews, held community meetings, and in 2011 organized a three-​day charrette (a multistakeholder idea-​generating meeting) focused on “Yukon’s energy future.”6 That same year Yukon Energy released its revised twenty-​year resource plan (2011–​2030), which had been under development since 2006, including a section on a portfolio of options for replacing diesel by expanding LNG or natural gas use.7 The utility’s 2013 business plan similarly included mention of the potential of using LNG for short-​term transition power while developing new renewable energy sources.8 In 2013, facing additional aging generators, the utility was confronted with whether to extend the lifespans of existing diesel units or to replace them with alternate backup energy options. At a public event at the 2011 Yukon Energy charrette, attendees ranked natural gas as the least preferred option for energy resources, behind energy conservation, wind, new hydro, and new transmission connections, among other options.9 In spite of the lack of public enthusiasm for natural gas, Yukon Energy convened a workshop on LNG in 2012 to explore the technology, regulatory frameworks, and its potential role in Yukon Energy’s resource plan. The workshop report concluded that “participants and the public recognize that LNG has the potential to be a good near-​term transitional energy source for Yukon between current diesel use and future renewable options.”10 In late 2012 the Yukon Conservation Society, a local nonprofit, published an article in its newsletter criticizing Yukon Energy’s focus on LNG as “extremely frustrating,” stating that the resource plan “was designed to conclude that LNG is the only viable near-​term option for the Yukon” and pointing to the

Fracking in the Yukon  111 “devastating” environmental impacts of natural gas extraction.11 Even so, in 2014 Yukon Energy submitted its proposal to replace two backup generators with LNG-​powered units to the Yukon Environmental and Socio-​economic Assessment Board (YESAB), an independent panel charged with assessing the impacts of development projects in the territory.12 The utility explained its position on LNG as a reasonable and cost-​effective strategy for ensuring stable and affordable energy for the territory, pointing to its evaluation criteria of flexibility, reliability, affordability, and environmental responsibility.13 The chair of the Yukon Development Corporation (which owns YEC), Joanne Fairlie, was quoted as saying, “Liquefied natural gas replacements are the best choice when you weigh the important factors of air quality, noise, safety and cost.”14 While some of those who had participated in Yukon Energy consultations on the territory’s energy future were dubious about this claim of LNG as the best choice, and suspected additional political motivations were driving this energy trajectory, Yukon Energy firmly denied a longer-​term political agenda, emphasizing its independence from the government.15 Yukon Energy president and CEO David Morrison commented at a public meeting in 2013, “We don’t make government policy. If the system was different, we might be able to do things differently.”16 Still, Yukon Energy’s proposal for LNG backup power was seen by renewable energy proponents as signaling a problematic energy agenda—​both of the utility and of the government. During the public comment period, YESAB received over 150 submissions about the project and its assessment, many of which expressed opposition to the transition.17 The backup power project went forward with approvals in 2014 from the Yukon Utilities Board in May, YESAB in June, and the Yukon government in July.18 Growing public concern about the decision was amplified by community advocacy efforts, including the appearance of photocopied signs that were posted in some neighborhoods in Whitehorse warning “This location is within 3.2 km of YEC’s LNG plant” and “This area may be evacuated in case of fire at the LNG plant” (as reported by Neville and Weinthal 2016b). The LNG generator approvals were granted at the same time as the Select Committee was conducting its community hearings on fracking. Opponents of fracking organized across venues and focused their attention on connecting the two issues. In advance of a Yukon Utilities Board hearing, Yukoners Concerned about Oil and Gas Development, a local community group, reminded its members, “Yukoners are encouraged to speak to the [Yukon Utilities Board] and tell them why we don’t need LNG backup generators because this means

112  Fueling Resistance fracking in the Yukon.”19 These issue linkage efforts had some public success: throughout the expert hearings, community visits, and an online forum hosted by the Select Committee, many participants referred to LNG in concert with fracking.20 While proponents framed LNG as a backup option and transition fuel for the Yukon, opponents viewed the switch as one that would stall investments and distract attention away from renewable energy options and the development of a low-​carbon future. While Yukoners understand intimately the urgent and challenging context of energy supplies in the North—​with power limitations, iced-​up dams, and the need for heat and electricity in extreme winter conditions—​many refused the narrative of LNG as a quickly deployable and low-​impact option. It was not obvious at the outset that plans for backup power stations or even proposals for oil and gas extraction would generate intense controversy. The territory already had many extractive projects; 12% of the territory’s GDP came from extractive industries in 2013 (government statistics aggregate numbers for mining, quarrying, and oil and gas extraction).21 Debates over the Yukon’s energy future had also been of long standing. While discussions about both mining and energy futures had attracted consistent local participation, these conversations had not catalyzed major collective

Photo 5.1  Crowd gathered to protest against fracking and LNG in Whitehorse, Yukon. Photo by Kate Harris. 

Fracking in the Yukon  113 action or coordinated, widespread protest. So what was different about this round of energy proposals? As with resistance to biofuels in coastal Kenya, this chapter turns to finance, ownership, and trade relationships to understand reactions to natural gas in the Yukon. Specifically, I investigate how foreign investment heightened local attention to extractive proposals, how this investment intersected with ownership to provoke battles over northern identities and belonging, and how energy trade and production were linked to other land-​use issues with contemporary and historical significance. The campaigns against fracking not only reveal a pushback against locally unwanted land uses and an assertion of place-​based concerns, described by Aldrich (2008) as “site fights,” but they also invoke a broader regional and global story. I thus explore competing visions of the Yukon and the politics of belonging in the North, along with the narratives of northern energy and self-​sufficiency that were forwarded by fracking proponents. The insider/​ outsider debates in the territory were intensified by the presence of international investors and corporate interests, especially commercial interest from China, and amplified an existing mistrust of government. Successful efforts to link fracking with other contemporary and historical land-​use conflicts in the North also enabled those resisting fossil fuels to broker relationships with conservation, Indigenous, and legal communities within and beyond the region. The campaigns against fracking demonstrate a series of creative tactics of resistance by local organizers and also the ways in which similar discourses are wielded by both project proponents and opponents, especially of local control and belonging. Campaign leaders used discursive strategies and identity activation to mobilize communities across issue areas. They navigated the complexities of building national and transnational alliances while also critiquing distant investors and corporations. Fracking opponents made visible the links between local and global grievances, and they brought to light temporal distances by highlighting the future consequences of current infrastructure investments and land-​use decisions. While northern energy production and backup power options were presented by proponents as part of an energy transition strategy, opponents highlighted that they also created opportunities to scale up and lock in fossil fuel production. Through the mechanisms of identity activation, scale shift, and brokerage, fracking debates in the Yukon reveal how both project support and opposition can be articulated and adapted, including through discursive strategies and alliance building that connect sites and communities across space and time.

114  Fueling Resistance

Contested visions of the Yukon The Yukon as a distinct political entity in Canada traces back to the late 1800s, when colonial interest in its lands and resources was intensified by the Klondike Gold Rush (Abele 1987).22 A territorial government, separate from the Northwest Territories, was established in 1898 with some autonomy from the federal government (White 2001; Sabin 2014).23 But as Cruikshank (1991: 11) writes, “the area now known as the Yukon Territory has a history as ancient as the earth itself,” including a rich political and economic history that long predates, and continues to thrive in spite of, colonial contact (Schreyer et al. 2014; Alexie 2015; Wilson 2018). More recently, significant changes to territorial governance within a colonial context have taken place in the past three decades. In 1993 federal, territorial, and Indigenous governments signed the Umbrella Final Agreement, which represented the culmination of treaty negotiations that had begun in the 1970s between the federal Department of Indian Affairs and the Council for Yukon Indians (the latter was formed as a negotiating entity for the Yukon Native Brotherhood, and was the precursor to the current Council of Yukon First Nations; CYFN 2016). The Umbrella Final Agreement provides the framework for individual First Nations to negotiate their own final agreements; eleven of the fourteen Yukon First Nations have negotiated final agreements, while three remain in (or have refused) negotiations (CYFN 2018).24 Further, while still different from the provinces, the Yukon has assumed greater responsibilities for territorial governance arrangements. Most notably, in 2001 the Yukon and the government of Canada signed the Yukon Northern Affairs Program Devolution Transfer Agreement, formalizing a process of devolution that came into effect in 2003 and would see the Yukon assume administrative control over its lands and resources (Alcantara, Cameron, and Kennedy 2012). Devolution expanded the territory’s governance authority that had been extended in 1979 with the accordance of full responsible government (Sabin 2014: 375), and represented, at least for some Yukoners, the culmination of a long-​standing fight for territorial autonomy. Although the Yukon is well known for its gold rush history and the dominance of extractive industries in its economic development—​from ongoing gold mining to silver, lead, zinc, tungsten, and more—​the territory has a limited history of oil and gas development. Some exploration has occurred, and natural gas has been extracted in the Kotaneelee area of southeastern Yukon since the late 1970s, but this has remained a minor part of the Yukon’s

Fracking in the Yukon  115 economy; in the words of the Yukon Party government in 2011, the territory holds “significant unexplored and untapped potential” (EMR 2011: 5). Advances in hydraulic fracturing technologies and the boom of shale gas production in the US sparked renewed interest in fossil fuel prospects in the Canadian North. As with the Tana delta, where biofuels proposals arrived after public debates were already raging, oil and gas proposals hit the Yukon in the midst of an antagonistic global conversation on shale resources. By the time companies began identifying regions of interest in the Yukon for shale exploration, US natural gas production had soared, fracking just south of the Yukon border in BC was well underway, several regions around the world had enacted bans and moratoria (including in Canada, with a de facto moratorium in Nova Scotia; Millar 2018), and global campaigns and resistance were active and vocal. As a late arrival on the scene, the Yukon government and communities joined an already established set of political debates, competing discourses, and transnational campaigns around these technologies and fuels. Land, as Hall (2013) establishes, is heterogeneous, both concretely physical and conceptually abstract, linked with place, identity, and belonging. As discussed earlier, a wide literature exists on the formalization of land, titling, overlapping land claims, and communal versus individual understandings of ownership and use. While final agreements and the control granted by devolution have established some clarity on decisions on land governance and resource use in the Yukon, the legal lines of authority still must contend with irreconcilable ontologies of place, competing interpretations of consultation and participation, and differing visions of appropriate and desirable futures. Relationships of land and with place diverge in colonial and Indigenous worldviews, the latter from people who have lived on these lands “since time immemorial” (Alexie 2015: 3, 45),25 although even settler communities have differing perspectives. In public hearings about fracking, one community member underscored, “Our relationship with this land is not simply as a resource. Our relationship with this land is sacred, and there are people in this room who deeply understand that.”26 Competing identity and place attachment narratives are thus implicated in energy controversies in the territory, shaping the ideas of participants in development plans. Across the Yukon, government-​held lands are subject to ongoing challenges over what they are, what they should be used for, what is valued within them, and who is authorized to make decisions over their use.27 The conflict over energy in the Yukon, involving debates over extractive and development processes, underscores

116  Fueling Resistance the importance of examining such overlapping claims over rights, use, and access.

Finance: Northern Cross and CNOOC The Yukon was a late arrival to fracking, even in Canada, which already lagged behind the US. By 2011 BC was experiencing a fracking “boom,” as reported in the media, and a backlash had begun as concerns emerged in Canada about health impacts and water contamination.28 But it was not until 2012 that fracking became an issue of concern in the territory. When areas in the Whitehorse Trough were identified during the 2012 request for proposal period, controversy erupted. Interest in and concerns over fracking were heightened by the involvement of investors from outside the territory. These distant financial actors shifted scales in fracking controversies, opening up new targets for claim-​makers and discourses for claim-​making. In 2011, at the same time that Yukon Energy was exploring energy futures for the territory, the China National Offshore Oil Corporation (CNOOC) invested $115 million in what was then Northern Cross Yukon (now Chance Oil), a private oil and gas company affiliated with Northern Cross Energy Limited.29 Northern Cross had exploration permits in the Eagle Plains region in northwestern Yukon, acquired a few years earlier,30 and embarked in 2012 and 2013 in drilling activities to acquire 2D and 3D seismic data (EMR 2013).31 In 2013 CNOOC acquired the Calgary-​based Nexen,32 which assumed a managing role for Northern Cross. With backing from CNOOC, Northern Cross increased its investments in its Eagle Plains activities. At the time, the company articulated its interest specifically in conventional resources;33 however, the region—​underlain by shale—​was anticipated to have extensive unconventional oil and gas reserves. When the 2012 oil and gas disposition process identified the potential for fossil fuel extraction in the Whitehorse Trough, a local group of Whitehorse residents formed Yukoners Concerned about Oil and Gas Development to advocate against fracking. In a city of only twenty-​five thousand people (Statistics Canada 2019), the group reportedly compiled a mailing list of over one hundred people within the first few months.34 In March of that year the Yukon government announced a ban on shallow fracking,35 and the next month, responding to public pressure, the government announced a conditional moratorium on all oil and gas exploration permits in the Whitehorse

Fracking in the Yukon  117 Trough that would extend to the next territorial election, in 2016.36 Initial interest in fracking may have been sparked by the proximity to home for many Yukon residents. Fracking was not planned within city limits, but residents were particularly attuned to a shale basin that shared the city’s name. Over two-​thirds of the territory’s population lives in the capital city, so fracking was suddenly in many Yukoners’ neighborhood. Adding to the sense of urgency on both sides of the fracking debate, that same year the Texas-​based company Apache Corporation made what was reported to be potentially the “world’s largest” discovery of shale gas in the Liard Basin, a shale basin straddling the eastern part of the BC-​Yukon border.37 In late 2012 Northern Cross withdrew its application for fracking authorization in Eagle Plains from YESAB; a journalist quoted the company’s president and CEO as stating, “We’re not fracking. . . . We have no plans to frack. We may never frack.”38 Other media reports cited the company’s claim of needing further test wells and samples before moving forward with an application, and in any case, concerned citizens continued to see fracking as a threat.39 Public mobilization grew over the subsequent months. In May 2013, following a process used in the Yukon since 2007 for assessing politically contentious issues, the government established a select committee with representation from members of the Legislative Assembly across political parties to evaluate the risks and benefits of fracking in the territory. Initially slated to visit only the two most likely affected communities—​Watson Lake, in the Liard Basin, and Old Crow, in Eagle Plains—​the government ceded to public pressure and instead held public hearings across the entire territory.40 In January, February, and May 2014 the six-​person Select Committee hosted four days of expert hearings in Whitehorse on fracking, which were broadcast by radio and posted online. In June, July, and September the Committee traveled to twelve communities (including Whitehorse, where two hearings were held) to hear community perspectives.41 The Committee also maintained an online forum as a venue for citizens to comment on the issue. Although the government’s move demonstrated some political will to engage in public debate and evidence-​based decision-​making, their efforts were viewed with strong skepticism by many citizens. The question of scale and location became central to many of these conflicts. Multiple geographies are relevant to debates over energy production and transitions (Bridge et  al. 2013; Calvert 2016), and this certainly seemed the case in the Yukon. Fracking posed new threats, in part from the expansion of oil and gas into new regions, the increased density of wells

118  Fueling Resistance drilled for fracking operations, and the influx of investment into the fossil fuel industry (e.g., Christopherson and Rightor 2012; Ladd 2014; Garvie, Lowe, and Shaw 2014–​2015; Gullion 2015). Yukoners could look to the media and academic research for evidence from the US and southern Canada of the impacts of fracking. Debates over the consequences (e.g., Howarth and Engelder 2011) considered the spread of oil and gas operations into new regions, including a flurry of associated infrastructure construction, such as roads and plans for pipelines, and new social and development changes in suburban regions and rural communities. It was not only the introduction of potentially new threats from fracking that caused concern but the intensification of existing threats from increased drilling activity and the expansion of old threats into new areas, especially when those affected might have limited recourse to distant financiers. Although the financing of projects was not the direct, dominant concern of intervenors in the public hearings, comments made in four of the thirteen hearings indicated Yukoners’ awareness of the role of foreign investors in these projects. Specifically, commenters drew attention to federal investment agreements, including a Canada-​China Foreign Investment Promotion and Protection Agreement, which was signed in 2012 and came into effect in 2014 (Martel-​Fleming 2014; Global Affairs Canada 2016). As a result of this deal, one speaker warned, “An American-​owned company like EFLO, with rights to the Kotaneelee, for example, or Northern Cross—​60-​percent controlled by CNOOC of China—​could sue Yukon if an application of our already weakened environmental laws undermine their right to make a profit.”42 Another elaborated, in a different session, “If the Yukon passes a law to ban fracking after it has been allowed, hypothetically, and the Chinese-​ owned Northern Cross company had planned profits to use fracking in their wells, then the Chinese company can sue our territorial government in a court outside Canada that has no appeal process.”43 In this case, community members cautioned against potential scale shifts by fracking proponents, where companies could contest rules in the territory by appealing to a bilateral treaty. Concerns that fracking bans would prompt legal action turned out to be valid, although CNOOC was no longer involved by that point. In 2017 Northern Cross, under its new name, Chance Oil and Gas Limited, sued the Yukon government for over $2 billion, claiming that the government enacted a moratorium only after the company had invested in oil and gas leases.44 The lawsuit remained unresolved in 2020 (EMR 2018b).45

Fracking in the Yukon  119 Investment from China was central to Northern Cross’s ability to expand their plans for oil and gas development in the territory. While he emphasized the company was Canadian and incorporated in Whitehorse, Richard Wyman, the president of Northern Cross (Yukon) Limited, explained in expert hearings, “In 2011, Northern Cross received a major equity investment from an affiliate of CNOOC Ltd.—​a very large Chinese national company—​ and that has enabled Northern Cross to proceed with an ambitious exploration project at Eagle Plains.”46 The implications of these distant investors, owners, and trading partners in energy were troubling to some, as expressed by one community member, who said, “Right now, the way things are, [it is a] bit confusing for myself where our resources are being exported out of Yukon and out of Canada anyway. So really, if gas and oil does occur within Canada or within Yukon, then that’s the property of China. It’s a bit confusing—​and then our resources come from Saudi Arabia and Iraq—​and you name it—​it seems like it’s kind of backward here.”47 The distant sources of investment were seen to make the lines of responsibility and accountability less clear and to reduce local benefits and governing authority. In discussing the trade agreements, one speaker cautioned, “There are serious implications for how much control the Yukon government will have over future oil and gas development,”48 and in considering the potential profits from fracking, another noted, “The profits, if any, will go to investors not only outside the Yukon, but also outside of Canada. The companies that will share these profits are from the United States and China.”49 Investments in natural gas, whether from foreign or domestic financiers, shape not only specific projects but energy futures more broadly. The consequences of continuing to direct capital flows into fossil fuel infrastructure, even if the carbon intensity of gas were lower than coal or oil (a contested claim, as discussed in ­chapter 2), include slowing down the development of renewables. Mark Jaccard, a professor at Simon Fraser University, explained during the expert hearings in Whitehorse, “That’s why we end up with this question: Is shale gas a climate bridge or a detour? . . . Some scenarios accept increased gas production for a few decades, but not much more, and some show that if we are expanding gas infrastructure—​whether it is pipelines, liquefying natural gas terminals—​this actually increases the cost of staying within two degrees Celsius because it delays innovation in energy efficiency in renewables, possibly in nuclear, and possibly with carbon capture and storage when using fossil fuels.”50 Proponents in the North presented gas as both a transition and a backup fuel option that would provide an alternative

120  Fueling Resistance to diesel for emergency power supplies that would be reliable, quick to activate, and available before renewable options were in place. However, in line with Jaccard’s comments, opponents countered that investments in the infrastructure needed for natural gas would create a locked-​in path for this fuel in the future. In the Select Committee public hearings, community members raised such concerns, at least indirectly, one saying, “Unfortunately, it would appear Yukon Energy saw replacing the aging diesel generators with LNG generators as an opportunity to actually create a dependence on LNG here in Yukon, but for what reason we do not know.”51 Others directly connected the two issues. One commented, “I will reiterate some things that have been said . . . about how the Yukon is being set up with the infrastructure that will necessitate fracking down the road—​what with the LNG plant,”52 and another stated, “Certainly these decisions are linked. Let’s not be naïve. This is evidenced by the Energy Strategy for Yukon which states very clearly that the policy calls for the replacement of imported diesel fuel with Yukon’s own oil and natural gas.”53 By investing in the extraction, transportation, and power generation facilities for natural gas, policymakers would be increasing the costs of a future shift away from fossil fuels, setting in place a path that would be difficult to redirect.

Ownership: Northern energy for northern communities Energy debates in the territory have revealed a number of underlying divides among those in the North, not only over energy provision and path dependency but also over local identities. The controversies over LNG and fracking provoked competing claims of belonging, with project proponents and opponents both appealing to the meanings of being a northerner and a Yukoner and associated values of the land and visions for the future. Questions of electricity generation and fuel sources expose fundamental divides about how life is sustained in the sub-​Arctic, whose lives and lands are supported or altered, and who makes the decisions and bears the consequences. It is, and should be, uncomfortable to center this work on the Yukon territory, as a focus on this particular political unit privileges the settler-​colonial state. Still, such positioning reflects the current governance context of the region and certainly the politics of extraction. While self-​governing arrangements of First Nations are strong and vibrant in the Yukon, as legally codified through

Fracking in the Yukon  121 the final agreements, they enable autonomy only in areas delimited by these modern treaty arrangements, representing compromises that had to be made by Indigenous nations. As Nadasdy (2008:  87) details, “Land claim negotiations have usually proceeded as if it were the federal government giving land to the First Nations, rather than the other way around.”54 As a result, energy development decisions and fracking debates in the Yukon have been governed and mediated by the territorial government. For certain Yukoners, gas production had the potential to support economic development and reduce territorial dependence on federal transfer payments,55 along with increasing independence from energy imports. Expanding extractive industries would, for some, reinforce their views of the Yukon as a resource frontier. But for those opposed, fracking was not an innovative northern solution to scarce energy supplies; they saw the technology as part of a corporate-​led extractive path that would further entrench southern and foreign control over northern lands. Beyond the loss of local control, opponents viewed fracking as a practice that would exacerbate habitat fragmentation and water contamination in the North, while contributing to global climate change. Such developments posed a threat to those who understood the value of the Yukon to be in limited disruption from human activities and in reciprocal relationships between people and the animals, water, and land (photo 5.2). Such connections were particularly strong for Indigenous peoples. In public hearings and written submissions, First Nations leaders and community members echoed the ways of life and identities embedded in relationships with the environment. “We’re people that look after the land, water and animals. It’s a way of life for us to look after the land and to make sure there’s plenty for our people to carry on the life we live,” said a member of the Selkirk First Nation Renewable Resource Council.56 A Gwich’in speaker underscored, “Our people still rely heavily on the land for physical and spiritual sustenance, but if it is not healthy, it can no longer help make us as a Gwich’in people healthy.”57 The incommensurability of monetary benefits and ways of life was emphasized in written comments from the Kaska First Nation, read by the Select Committee chair at the meeting in Watson Lake, which stated, “We as the Kaska have a sacred role as stewards of our land. In our way, breaking rock to get gas is completely unacceptable. No amount of jobs or economic benefit is worth sacrificing our children’s access to water and a safe future.”58 These differences reflected deep identity associations between people and place, both individually and collectively. Such dynamics have been

122  Fueling Resistance observed in other regions with fracking activities and their related supply chains. In the US, Pearson (2016) describes the disruptions of agricultural identities created by frac sand mining in Wisconsin, with impacts not only on personal conceptions of self but also on social relations. He highlights the challenges for some community members, too, of resisting particular industrial activities when such opposition is associated with labels—​e.g., “tree-​hugging environmentalists”—​with which they do not identify (52). Revealing similar dynamics of conflicting resistance and acceptance within communities, Eaton and Kinchy (2016) found that citizens in Saskatchewan and Pennsylvania feel conflicted about industrial developments, especially when they are from regions and families that have been dependent on these economic sectors. They suggest that in light of these challenging identity conflicts, the absence of organized protest should not be seen as acquiescence: “Nonmobilized communities should not necessarily be understood as sites of consent” (22). Boudet et al. (2016) found that communities’ views on fracking in the US were influenced by the social identity and economic impacts of histories of extractive industries, as also observed by Hudgins (2013) in her research on the response to fracking of communities from regions with a history of coal mining, such as southwestern Pennsylvania. Such tensions emerge in many places where new developments might partially

Photo 5.2  Grizzly bear in a river. Photo by Kate Harris

Fracking in the Yukon  123 align with existing industrial practices, while intensifying operations or threatening community well-​being in new ways. These interactions affect identity activation, leading to complex and sometimes surprising alliances and positions (see, e.g., Carter and Fusco 2017 on unexpected antifracking mobilization in western Newfoundland). Throughout debates over fracking, proponents of shale gas framed natural gas production in the territory as crucial for northern energy security—​ energy for the North, from the North. Northern Cross highlighted the Yukon’s need for energy supplies in a presentation at a 2012 charrette held by Yukon Energy in Whitehorse, its tag line: “Developing Yukon Energy for Yukoners.”59 In the Select Committee expert hearing sessions in 2014, industry representatives also forwarded this narrative. Wayne Hamal, CEO of EFLO Energy, the Texas-​based company that owns the Kotaneelee gas processing plant,60 underscored that if it developed its natural gas, “Yukon [would] not need to rely on others for their energy needs.”61 Similarly, John Hogg, vice president of MGM Energy Corporation, a Calgary-​based company that has explored for shale in the Northwest Territories,62 enthused, “You’re going to build a new industry by Yukoners for Yukoners for the diversification of your economy.”63 The narratives appealed to the frontier-​based identities of some Yukoners, resonating with their values of self-​sufficiency and independence. Presenting a simplified view of energy supplies, fracking advocates portrayed the dependence of remote communities in the North on imported diesel as an economic and social problem, finding the solution in local extraction. This paralleled the arguments for biofuels in rural communities, where locally grown energy supplies could benefit energy-​poor villagers. However, even if Yukon fracking opponents appreciated the need for local energy and economic opportunities, some saw the portrayal of natural gas as a local solution as misleading. While economic benefits had arisen in the US from the expansion of natural gas production (see, e.g., Gilje, Ready, and Roussanov 2016 for oil production and employment levels), the benefits to communities were inconsistent (Raimi and Newell 2014; Litzow et al. 2018; Newell and Raimi 2018). Municipal costs rose as gas boomtowns faced an influx of short-​term labor and high demands on regional infrastructure, repeating patterns observed in small towns with other single-​industry booms (Storey and Hall 2018). Beyond the distribution of costs and benefits, several political leaders and community members doubted that the economics of a Yukon-​only energy market would make exploration and production

124  Fueling Resistance financially viable. Even a market that included the Northwest Territories, those commenters explained, would be too small to support a natural gas industry and would require additional southern markets for export. One Select Committee member disputed the viability of northern markets sustaining a fracking industry: “I would ask, though, when you speak about the market for Yukon and Inuvik, that the population would be probably less than one percent of the production value, and I would want to know what price you would pay to transport LNG from Eagle Plains, in particular, or from Liard.”64 Even those in the industry who suggested that energy for the North from the North justified production admitted that companies would likely want to export fuel if gas discoveries were large enough. An oil and gas corporate executive agreed: “Depending on what they find, I would assume that they would want to be able to export that gas in some way, but also I think there is the opportunity—​as I said previously—​for a local supply and a local business to be able to offset some of your carbon that all comes from the south as diesel.”65 The scale of investments needed in infrastructure for fossil fuel production and transport seemed to exceed the economic returns that could come from local markets. Many saw the discussion of local fuel supplies as an excuse—​not a motivation—​for the development of this industry. Opposition to fracking was also fueled by the characteristics of the companies involved in exploration plans, with foreign ownership of energy companies as described in the previous section. Corporate interests involved Chinese equity investment (CNOOC) in and Albertan management (Nexen) of Northern Cross, and distant ownership of other companies operating in the region, including from Texas (Apache).66 Consequently claims of northern energy production clashed with the distance between the Yukon and these centers of corporate control. As was observed in the Tana delta with biofuels, contestation over fracking saw “insider” and “outsider” narratives articulated by proponents and opponents alike. These terms have particular resonance in the territory, where Yukoners describe leaving the territory as “going Outside” and those from other places as “from Outside” (Neville and Weinthal 2016b: 16). Even as companies forwarded claims about northern energy from and for northerners, opponents of fracking pointed to industrial interest in Yukon fossil fuels as coming from outsiders. For instance, one intervenor in the public hearings commented, “A lot of the people who are in the Yukon are outsiders who came up here to get jobs and we know that they’re going to be in favour of fracking to keep working,”67 and another

Fracking in the Yukon  125 observed, “The risks are mainly borne by the Yukon, the land, the water and the people, and the benefits, on the other hand, go mostly to those outside the Yukon. . . . The profits, if any, will go to investors not only outside the Yukon, but also outside of Canada.”68 The use of insider/​outsider narratives in the Yukon played against broader debates over belonging and environmental advocacy in Canada. In 2012, for instance, minister of natural resources Joe Oliver inveighed against the “environmental and other radical groups” that threatened Canada’s energy projects, claiming they would “hijack our regulatory system to achieve their radical ideological agenda.”69 The comments, published as an open letter to Canadians, were seen by many citizens as a signal of the increasing hostility of the government to those voicing dissenting views about oil and gas developments in the country. In contrast, in the Yukon fracking debates, it was the industrial interests of outsiders that were decried. Speakers in public hearings recalled histories of outside interests causing local damage. One speaker pointed to the abandoned lead and zinc mine in Faro, commenting, “At one time, it provided many jobs, though I don’t believe the majority of beneficiaries were Yukoners. The profits have left the territory. What is left is a massive bill for reclamation and cleanup—​a job to be done, if I’m correct, by Outside companies to the tune of several hundred million dollars over the next few decades.”70 These comments were not only anticipatory of future damage from fracking but reflective of past extractive industry experiences in the territory. On both sides of the fracking controversy and wider national energy debates, ideas of risk and benefit were embedded in language of belonging and the local. Beyond questioning whether the North could provide a big enough market for gas and whether profits would leave the territory, opponents of fracking also argued that energy in the North did not have to come from fossil fuels. Seeing fracking as the energy future for the North, some suggested, belied a lack of creativity and even southern thinking. Critics of fracking decried the absence of investment in the Yukon in energy efficiency and renewable energy, pointing out that these could be local energy options. One commentator said to the Select Committee during the public hearings, “As far as I know, YTG [Yukon Territorial Government] has completely dropped the ball when it comes to getting real renewable energy products going in the Yukon.”71 Similar sentiments were expressed in several other hearing sessions. One speaker stated “We need to instead just shift tactics, shift our direction. The opportunities for renewable resources are enormous,”72 while

126  Fueling Resistance another enthused “The Yukon has vast renewable resources we could harness to stimulate a renewable energy economy, create jobs, meet our energy needs, achieve energy security, reduce our reliance on fossil fuels and address the climate crisis.”73 Many community members who had felt sidelined by the outcomes of Yukon Energy’s charrettes and other participatory events saw a long-​standing pattern in the government’s enthusiasm for fossil fuels and lack of support for innovative renewable energy options. More than just a decision about the future of energy in the Yukon, fracking debates exposed flaws in the democratic process. Some perceived the hearings as a shallow performance rather than a genuine consultative endeavor. As Neville and Weinthal (2016a) document in their research on how histories of mistrust affected these hearings, many participants questioned whether the Select Committee’s tour of communities would alter the government’s decisions. One comment in the public hearings exemplified these sentiments: “In my view, when the Yukon Party government does not like public opinions, they throw these things into committees for committees to deal with. You’ll find these committees going into the communities to hear the people out but I don’t think that, you know, really in the end, the Yukon government decision would even follow the Committee’s rules.”74

Trade: Don’t frack with the Peel As with biofuels, new debates over fracking have intersected with long-​ standing political and social grievances in local communities and with the dynamics of energy production for distant markets.75 Resistance to fracking has, in many cases, been mounted by already mobilized constituencies. These organizers integrate fracking concerns into existing campaigns on sovereignty and land rights, climate, water, and environmental justice, pushing back against narratives of the imperative of extraction-​based trade and economic growth. Fracking has become embedded in broader anti-​extractive movements, where campaigners call to “keep it in the ground” (Healy and Barry 2017) or to leave the “oil in the soil” (Bassey 2012). Multiple campaigns have emerged for stopping fossil fuel extraction, some under clever acronyms such as NOPE—​Not on Planet Earth (Princen, Manno, and Martin 2015: 17). In these movements, activists link extractive activities across time and space, connecting protests against gas flaring in the Niger delta with pipelines in the

Fracking in the Yukon  127 US and Canada and oil extraction in Ecuador (Bradshaw 2015), to develop broad global alliances and momentum for change. Beyond messages of alternative options and different futures, these campaigns engage a politics of delegitimization, presenting fossil fuel extraction as “infeasible, unduly risky, or unjust” (Princen, Manno, and Martin 2015: 19–​20). While such efforts are the product of climate concern, they also involve efforts to promote other environmental concerns, social justice, and better governance for communities affected by industrial activity. These linkages recall similar alliance building in biofuels campaigns, where land rights were linked with food sovereignty and security, and where land enclosures and community dispossession were attributed to the expansion of industrial agriculture, extractive sectors, and even conservation. Many of these campaigns implicate trade systems, as the impetus for industrial development and extraction come from increased demand for resource consumption. These linkages, and their integration with economic growth and global trade, can be seen in the fracking debates in the Yukon. “Don’t frack with the Peel,” read one protest sign in a sea of others held by mitten-​clad hands at a protest in Whitehorse, Yukon, in the winter of 2014. A crowd had gathered outside the Yukon Legislative Assembly building—​the seat of the territorial government—​to make their views known on the question of whether the controversial practice of hydraulic fracturing ought to be allowed. Notably, though, the sign pointed to a region not seen to be the most likely candidate for fracking: the Peel Watershed. The Peel Watershed is a drainage basin in northeastern Yukon representing 14% of the territory. The Peel River flows from the Ogilvie Mountains of central Yukon into the Mackenzie River, crossing the border of the Northwest Territories and emptying into the Beaufort Sea to join the waters of the Arctic Ocean. The Peel River has six major tributaries—​the Ogilvie, Hart, Blackstone, Wind, Bonnet Plume, and Snake, of which the Bonnet Plume is a Canadian Heritage River—​which wind through several mountain ranges, most notably the Richardson, Wernecke, Ogilvie, and Mackenzie ranges. The watershed—​a region the size of Scotland—​is roadless, with a rich history of river travel, fish camps, hunting trails, and trading posts, first from the region’s First Nations, and subsequently joined by settlers. The region had been the focus of a decade-​long, multistakeholder land management consultation process, run by the Peel Watershed Planning Commission (Green, McCool, and Thorsell 2008).76 In early January 2014 the Yukon government released its purportedly “final” land-​use plan for the watershed—​a plan that

128  Fueling Resistance largely ignored the negotiated outcomes from the Planning Commission’s consultations and reversed the recommended balance of conservation and development in the region (CPAWS Yukon and YCS 2017). Under the Umbrella Final Agreement, the territorial government is mandated to engage in regional planning in the territory for each of its eight land-​use regions (Staples et al. 2013). Importantly for the Peel case, land-​use planning processes are mandated under the UFA, and First Nations have rights for consultation over land-​use planning on their traditional territories. Land-​use planning in the Yukon follows a prescriptive process.77 For a region under consideration, the territorial minister of energy, mines and resources appoints a Regional Land Use Planning Commission. Members of the Commission are nominated by the Yukon Government and Yukon First Nations whose traditional territories are in the planning region. The planning process involves multiple stages: establishing terms of reference; gathering information and involving various stakeholders; providing scenarios; submitting a plan to the government and relevant First Nations for comment, revisions, and review; and, finally, approval, modification, or rejection. The Planning Commission’s procedures and composition are not a bureaucratic accident but represent a careful negotiation and balancing of multiple governing interests. Of the four First Nations who have traditional territory in the watershed, two, the Na-Cho Nyak Dun and the Tr’ondëk Hwëch’in, joined with environmental groups—​the Yukon Conservation Society (YCS) and the Yukon chapter of the Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society (CPAWS Yukon)—​ to file a case against the Yukon government, in which the Gwitch’in Tribal Council participated as intervenors. They argued that the government’s final plan violated the land claims agreement with First Nations in the territory78 and, some said, “made a mockery” of the consultation process.79 The plaintiffs engaged Thomas Berger, known best for his work in the 1970s leading the Mackenzie Valley Pipeline Inquiry, as their legal representative. Berger was well known for his views on the need to better understand and honor treaties in Canada; as he wrote in the 1977 Mackenzie Valley Pipeline Inquiry report, “The settlement of native claims is not a mere transaction. It would be wrong, therefore, to think that signing a piece of paper would put the whole question behind us. One of the mistakes of the past has been to see such settlements as final solutions” (Berger 1977: xxiv). The public discourse around the case focused on the balance of lands under protection and open for development, with many seeing the government’s plan as disregarding

Fracking in the Yukon  129 years of deliberation, participatory engagement, and compromise. The legal case, however, did not hinge on protection of the Peel but rather on the finer points of the UFA—​specifically, at what stage of the process the government could make certain types of modifications. The plaintiffs charged that the government had failed to uphold its treaty obligations by violating the procedural requirements of the planning process under Chapter 11 of the UFA. The Yukon government maintained it was well within its rights—​and democratic good practice—​to have amended the land-​use plan; a statement of defense filed in Yukon’s Supreme Court countered that the government had met its obligations to First Nations in the planning process. A series of cases ensued, beginning in 2014 and culminating in a decision by the Supreme Court of Canada on December 1, 2017, that upheld that the government had violated treaty processes and mandated remedial action.80 While the case hinged on treaty process, in campaigns and public discourse the plaintiffs—​and even Berger himself—​linked the court case to conservation narratives and protection of the Peel. Indigenous traditions and practices shaped the public events that were held to raise awareness about the Peel campaign, with traditional prayers and drumming at public demonstrations, ceremonies central to gatherings around the case, and First Nations voices and comments at the center of press statements, web postings, and public events. For instance, a website maintained by CPAWS Yukon features news clips about the campaign and case and posts interviews with First Nations elders, highlighting the knowledge of these leaders.81 In a late stage of the court process, following the Yukon Court of Appeal’s decision in 2015, the plaintiffs issued a press release announcing their plan to bring their challenge to the Supreme Court. The press release contained quotes from the First Nations and conservation groups, as well as the intervenors to the case. In the statement, First Nations chiefs linked treaty processes to watershed protection, speaking to the “integrity of [their] agreements and the Peel,” and conservation groups underscored both the environmental value of the Peel and the importance of a “just process” of planning.82 Although the court case itself hinged on interpretations of the treaty, the centrality of conservation of the watershed was evident in these public statements, including that from the chief of the Na-Cho Nyak Dun, Simon Mervyn: “Our old people lived and survived off the land. They depended upon the animals and plants, the clean air and water. They understood that as humans we cannot own the land, but that it is our job to protect it. We have seen the impact industry is having on the lands and waters of the Territory and we are determined that this will not

130  Fueling Resistance happen in the Peel Watershed.”83 Significantly, this was not simply a matter of the strategic use of First Nations’ legal rights for conservation ends. For those contesting the government plan, the case was both about the integrity of the government with respect to treaties and the future of the Peel; for the First Nations involved, these were not separate matters. The value of the watershed—​and not only for First Nations but for all—​was made clear in many statements during the campaigns, including this one, from Na-​Cho Nyak Dun elder Jimmy Johnny, as quoted by a journalist: “Every trickle of water that runs into the Peel watershed should be protected. . . . Taking care of that area is a traditional value. [It’s the source of] our food, our fruit, our traditional medicine. It’s very important, not only for our future generations but for everybody.”84 While the connections between treaty and environment were more than a calculation of strategy, though, they did enable a number of issue linkages across other environmental battles, including fracking. As with the Tana delta legal cases over land-​use planning, the court case for the Peel was not focused on energy developments. In fact for the Peel even the public campaigns did not make fracking their main concern. Shale gas reserves in the Peel are small relative to other deposits in the Yukon (although the Eagle Plains basin straddles the western border of the watershed, so some accounts consider this shale potential as part of the Peel). In general, shale appears to be of marginal interest even to oil and gas companies with claims in the watershed, and the location of the watershed’s shale deposits (in the far Northwest) would make their exploitation particularly challenging and likely economically unfeasible in the near future. Resources of more major interest in the Peel include deposits of iron, coal, and lead-​zinc, among others (Peel Watershed Planning Commission 2011:  2-​12, 2-​13). While some of these had Yukon-​based demand, many of these materials were of interest in global markets. But even with the limited potential for oil and gas, the language of fracking played an ongoing role in public repertoires of protest over the contested land-​use planning process. Some saw a slippery slope toward an expanded oil and gas industry in the territory, suggesting that allowing fracking in Eagle Plains would be “just a steppingstone away from going into the Peel because the Committee has not taken the considerations of Yukoners.”85 Slogans about fracking—​both for and against—​made it into letters and speeches and onto signs and bumper stickers by those seeking a voice in the government’s decisions (photo 5.3). Several participants in the Select Committee hearings pointed to the Peel planning process in their comments, often to underscore why they had little trust in the sincerity of the

Fracking in the Yukon  131 government in listening to constituents. One speaker, drawing connections with the LNG backup plant debates, lamented, “Their track record of not respecting democracy and the will of the people is cause for alarm. Witness their refusal to accept the Umbrella Final Agreement and protect the Peel. Witness its decision to construct an LNG plant in Whitehorse.”86 Some of the linkages between fracking and the watershed were led by those focused on the Peel. These campaigners connected the core matters of Indigenous land rights, modern-​day treaties, and protected areas to a range of extractive and development threats to the region, including road building, mining, and oil and gas extraction. In parallel, the linkages also happened in the other direction: community members focused on fracking debates reached out to link the issue with the Peel battles, drawing attention to the potential significance of extractive industrial practices across the territory. Relationships across communities were brokered through these issue linkages, with the underlying relationships of commodity trade underpinning many of the interests in oil and gas and other minerals. Central to brokerage efforts were the performative and symbolic elements of communicating claims and positions. For fracking at the global

Photo 5.3  Pro-​mining bumper sticker seen in Whitehorse, Yukon. Photo by Kate Harris.

132  Fueling Resistance level, opponents engaged in strategic framing efforts and had some success in shaping social and mass media coverage (Vasi et al. 2015). In particular, the symbols that emerged in US antifracking campaigns traveled to other regions, including images of flaming tap water from the Gasland documentary used in antifracking campaigns in the Yukon. Such images, as well as narratives of threats to the Peel and dangers from urban LNG plants, had the kind of power that Keck and Sikkink (1998) identify as useful to campaigns, including short causal chains and clear delineations between victims and oppressors. With water on fire, the image connected natural gas with contaminated water. The message conveyed by the image resonated with existing ideas about water, as campaigns around the world championed water as a human right and water as life. Proponents and opponents sought to broker new relationships, expand participation, and influence decision-​makers by shaping public discourses around fracking and other linked issues, specifically LNG, the Peel, economic development, and northern energy independence.

Fracking: Abstract and concrete technologies The Yukon’s image as a vast untouched wilderness, promoted in many tourism materials, collides with the long history of Dene, Gwitch’in, Tlingit, Tutchone, and other nations in the region. The romanticized past of the gold rush, eulogized in Robert Service’s poetry and summoning images of intrepid individuals seeking adventure and fortune, belies the human exploitation and environmental destruction of mineral extraction, including the toxic legacy of mining and the continued dependence of the territory on extractive industries.87 Northern landscapes are both fragile and resilient, with extractive economies operating alongside land-​ based sustenance activities and those in the regions holding competing visions of place. As fracking debates landed in this already contested landscape, those on both sides of the issue (and those initially undecided) were drawn into intersecting politics of identities, shifting scales of contention, and brokered relations of communities across places and issues (see figure 5.3; as with the Tana-​specific ­figure 4.3, this is a Yukon-​specific version of the general framework from fi ­ gure 1.1). Following several years of debate and controversy, the Yukon saw a ban on fracking, along with a change in its territorial government (from

Fracking in the Yukon  133 the conservative Yukon Party to the Liberal Party). To opponents this represented a victory against fracking. However, for those concerned about climate change and extractive industries more broadly, this was only a partial success, as the Liberal government still confirmed its support for conventional oil and gas in the territory. In 2017 the minister of energy, mines, and resources was quoted as saying, “We’re supportive of development in the Eagle Plains Basin. . . . Of course there’s an obligation to consult and collaborate with the First Nation of Nacho-​Nyak Dun, Tr’ondek Hwech’in and VGFN (Vuntut Gwitchin First Nation).”88 The question of fracking in the Yukon reveals the networks of finance and management that accompany new or expanded energy and commodity markets, such as Chinese investment, Albertan management, and Texan interest in northern oil and gas development. Illustrated by the capital investments in Yukon oil and gas exploration and by comments at the expert hearing sessions, these corporate chains connect remote northern sites to other places in material as well as ideational ways. Transnational linkages emerged in both fracking proposals (especially through investment, although also technology and expertise) and resistance (especially through information and campaign language, although also grants and participation), illuminating the global reach of commodities and contestation. Global and local political economy factors collided with contestation at multiple scales in Yukon debates over fracking. The controversies were intensified by scientific debates, especially over methane emissions, concerns over the lock-​in associated with natural gas infrastructure, and competing narratives around bridge fuels and northern innovation. The abstract nature of investments, particularly involving speculation on commodities and land futures, can result in consumers of financial products being as distanced from the commodities they purchase (composite investments, bundled by financial firms) as the downstream consumers of fuel are from energy production. However, Gardner (2012: 380) points out opportunities for claim-​making against power-​holders provided by such distances, highlighting the contradictions inherent in these economic systems: “Many communities that are threatened by neoliberal policies and ideologies also see market reforms and market relationships as offering possibilities for political-​economic and cultural gains.” With natural gas in the Yukon, specific forms of strategic messaging and image politics countered the incentives provided by emerging markets and commodity chains. The local—​the physical backup power plants in

CONTESTED FRACKING PROJECTS PART OF ENERGY TRANSITION AND EXTRACTION CONTROVERSIES

FRACKING IN THE YUKON POLITICAL ECONOMY ELEMENTS INTERSECT WITH YUKON & GLOBAL CONTEXTS

STRATEGIC DISCOURSES, FRAMES, AND PERFORMANCES

Exploration proposals with international investors (CNOOC, Apache, EFLO)

Territory’s dependence on oil and gas supplies linked with fracking

Opponents framed local LNG infrastructure plans as motivation for fracking

OWNERSHIP

Historical dispossession of indigenous peoples, modern land settlements (Umbrella Final Agreement)

Land claims intersected with discourses of northern autonomy and belonging

Ongoing debates over extraction and conservation, including in the Peel Watershed

Yukon demonstrations to “Protect the Peel” and oppose fracking

POLITICAL ECONOMY CHARACTERISTICS OF FRACKING PROJECTS

FINANCE

Yukon-based companies on the ground (Northern Cross/Chance Oil and Gas); government control of most mineral licenses but with First Nations input and community consultation processes

TRADE

Economic growth premised on extractives collide with other models of economic activity, including through environmental protection

CONTENTIOUS POLITICS MECHANISMS

SCALE SHIFTS

Debates over fracking involved spatial shifts (local places and foreign investors) and temporal shifts (lock-in of dependence on fossil fuels)

IDENTITY ACTIVATION

Competing claims to insider status and potential for energy self-sufficiency in the North from fracking or renewables

BROKERAGE

Local anti fracking group (Yukoners Concerned) allied with local and national NGOs (Yukon Conservation Society, CPAWS) and international campaigns

Figure 5.3  Political economy characteristics of fracking projects shape resistance in the Yukon.

Fracking in the Yukon  135 Whitehorse and images of canoes and caribou on the Peel—​offered vivid illustrations of what was at stake from the financial gains promised by the expansion of extractive industries, and proponents used these to convey their positions that intact ecosystems are central to natural capital and the Yukon’s wealth. Timing was critical. The potential for fracking in the Yukon arrived at the confluence of a number of key moments for the territory and beyond: fracking had garnered fierce opposition in the US and was sparking controversy around the world; land-​use planning in the Peel Watershed was well underway and hotly contested; and Yukon Energy was debating how to manage aging infrastructure for its backup power. The promise of a rapid transition to a low-​carbon future, lubricated by natural gas, was already being questioned across jurisdictions, and the debates landed in a landscape of divergent and contested energy and economic visions. Political opportunities remained relevant to ongoing processes of contention. Even after decisions were made in favor of the LNG plant and against fracking, the issue remained linked in the public sphere, especially in the lead-​up to the 2016 territorial election. A newsletter from Yukoners Concerned in October 2016 emphasized: The Yukon Party government, through Yukon Energy, built a $42  million LNG plant to provide immediate back-​up power and replace diesel generators. However, Yukon Energy has discovered the old diesel generators must warm up the LNG generators. The cost of LNG fuel for the past 15 months has been over $800 thousand dollars. Yukon Energy burned off nearly a third of that gas to release pressure in the tanks. An absolute waste of money and resources. The main purpose of the LNG plant was to encourage industry to use LNG and to promote oil and gas drilling of Yukon’s shale.89

While the Yukon’s political and land-​rights landscape differs from coastal Kenya, some similarities exist, with some unresolved land claims (three of the fourteen First Nations, including the Kaska, whose territory includes the shale basin of the Liard) and some legal questions over the interpretation of settled land claims (as seen in the case of the Peel and the land-​use planning process). Further, both regions saw the need for local energy supplies, and local communities, political actors, and businesses

136  Fueling Resistance differed in their visions of economic development, energy production, and environmental protection. For natural gas to serve as a large-​scale alternative to diesel in the Yukon, the territory needed to develop new infrastructure for transportation and combustion. Moreover, if the proportion of natural gas in the energy mix grew, this would provide increased incentives for territorial gas extraction. Such expansion would concurrently demand new drilling infrastructure, roadways, pipelines, and processing facilities, leading to—​ as some citizens articulated in Select Committee hearings—​lock-​in of new fossil fuel pathways for decades to come. Many in the Yukon (and beyond) worried that efforts would be dedicated to developing the transition fuel and not the posttransition landscape. Along with the incentives for more territorial gas consumption, the issue of scale matters for markets too. Investments in costly exploration and extraction in the North would not be repaid through small local markets but would require the development of an export economy for gas. These concerns echo the debates in sub-​ Saharan Africa over biofuels for local consumption versus fuels for export to the Global North to feed Europe’s renewable energy demand. The intersections of political economy and contestation were made clear through the linkages between Whitehorse backup power, Yukon antifracking campaigns, and the national court case over the future of the Peel Watershed. By connecting local campaigns with global ecosystems and current energy debates with historical land uses and rights, antifracking advocates were able to make visible the spatial and temporal linkages between local and distant landscapes and communities. Climate activists have linked antifracking proposals around the world, and Indigenous movements are at the forefront of climate, water, and land protection, as is especially evident in the Yukon’s Peel case but also in the case of fracking, where the Council of Yukon First Nations declared traditional territories in the Yukon “frack-​free” at its annual general meeting in 2013. The ban on fracking that was reinforced by the election of the Liberal government in the Yukon in 2016 has not resolved the complex questions of how to meet the Yukon’s energy needs and transition away from diesel, how to adapt to climate change and engage in mitigation efforts, how to govern the territorial economy in light of its existing dependence on extractive industries, and how to engage in new governance relations, especially in regions with unsettled treaties. However, as the case of fracking makes clear, many local communities in the Yukon—​both Indigenous and settler—​have rejected

Fracking in the Yukon  137 simplified, technologically optimistic solutions to energy, environment, and social challenges. Instead they recognize the clear and pressing urgency of climate action, and they are willing to engage in the more challenging discussions needed to develop creative solutions to transform economies to achieve ecological integrity and sustainable relations.

6 Conclusions Political Economies and Resistance

In 2018, after the Supreme Court of Canada ruled that the final recommended plan for the Peel would hold—​leaving most of the watershed protected, although with details still to be worked out—​I took a canoe trip in the watershed. With friends, I paddled the Wind River, which runs from close to the southern edge of the watershed, north of the town of Mayo in the Yukon, to join with the Peel and flow north into the Mackenzie (photos 6.1 and 6.2). Near the end of our trip, where the Wind poured into the Peel, the water under our boats turned from clear to silty. A break in the clouds offered respite from a week of steady rain. As our small flotilla paddled between cliffs that rose up on both banks, I caught the scent of something burning. A few minutes later friends in the boat ahead pointed down the river to the right. Smoke was rising from midway up the cliff, maybe thirty feet high: a coal seam, smoldering. Other paddlers have reportedly seen active flames in these cliffs; for us, the smoke was more subdued, but no less striking. That we were surrounded by this compressed fuel was especially vivid at our campsite that night, when one of my paddling companions found a large piece of coal near the fire pit. The uneven black rock reminded me of smoking charcoal mounds in coastal east Africa. Early in my visit to east Africa in 2010, I had stood in a clearing in a forest reserve in northeastern Tanzania, watching my companions stamp out smoke from the vents of a mound of dirt where charcoal was being made illegally (photo 6.3). The terrain, with its scrubby brush and dense undergrowth, bore little resemblance to the lush tropical forest I had expected from a region known as a biodiversity hotspot. To my uninformed eye, the mixed forest, thicket, swamp, and grassland looked like improbable terrain for such a designation. But my misperceptions about the barren nature of this landscape were quickly dispelled. My guides and research collaborators—​local and visiting scientists, experts in wildlife biology and fisheries, and long-​ term residents of these regions—​pointed out coastal forest tree species now Fueling Resistance. Kate J. Neville, Oxford University Press (2021). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197535585.003.0006

Photo 6.1  Paddling in the Peel watershed. Photo by Emily S. Darling.

Photo 6.2  Campsite on the Wind River, a tributary of the Peel. Photo by Emily S. Darling.

140  Fueling Resistance

Photo 6.3  Charcoal production in a Tanzanian forest. Photo by author.

found in few places and threatened, as well as endemic wildlife that make their home in the area. Still, my initial reaction was not entirely wrong, as my companions clarified. The region was not an intact expanse of untouched coastal forest, but instead, in many places, the remnant patches of forests that previously would have sported thirty-​foot canopies. The patchy cover and charred grasses not only represented a landscape unfamiliar to me but also revealed the human pressures that threaten these ecosystems. Coastal forests remained amid a mosaic of changing and intensifying land use. I could see these patterns of land-​use change repeated across delta villages in Tanzania and Kenya, reflecting layers of competing values, visions, and uses: social and market economies, customary and codified rights, extraction and conservation, and urban and rural development. “A spiderweb of stories spreads out from any place,” says the writer and environmental historian Rebecca Solnit (1994:  24), “but it takes time to follow the strands.” From a roadless northern expanse to patches of miombo woodlands scattered amid farms and roads, there are strands of social relations, technologies, economies, and collective action that spread out from Canada’s Yukon territory to Kenya’s Tana delta and beyond. When I moved

Conclusions  141 to the edge of the Yukon in 2012, I did not realize the interconnectedness of the contestation I would confront as I wrote about the rise and fall of biofuels proposals while watching debates unfold around fracking. Although powerful narratives of energy security, climate action, and economic growth prompted early uptake around the world of both these energy technologies, these narratives quickly fractured as local communities responded in diverse ways to proposed energy production plans. The environmental historian William Cronon (1992:  1347) writes, “In the beginning was the story. Or rather: many stories, of many places, in many voices, pointing toward many ends.” This chapter revisits the intersection of political economy and multiscale protest around biofuels and fracking, considering the implications of the book’s findings about the political economy dimensions of contentious politics for other energy and resource debates. Regional stories of new energy technologies and development plans are linked by shared political economy dynamics, from who invests in their development to who owns specific projects and where the fuels are eventually consumed. Such economic characteristics inform local responses to these proposals, reigniting existing grievances and fragmenting communities, and shape the mechanisms through which contestation unfolds. Accounts of the controversies over biofuels and fracking illuminate the interaction of new technologies and commodities with distance in financial systems, project control, and new connections across disparate groups. The interplay between economies and contestation helps to explain the shifting scales of movements, the activation of specific identities, the emergence of transnational networks, and the performance of claims. These mechanisms of contention arise in response not only to energy projects but also to other technologies, commodities, and developments. This work matters for understanding the politics of resistance and mobilization. Importantly, it also provides insights into the unexpected power that marginalized communities may have in shaping the transition to a more just and sustainable future.

The extractive nature of energy: Intersections with political economy Both biofuels and fracking intersected with global flows of capital through abstracted investment tools, with markets affected by oil and gas prices and changing patterns of transnational trade. And both energy technologies were

142  Fueling Resistance introduced in response to shared environmental challenges that prompted a search for low-​carbon fuels. Specific biofuels plantations and shale basins were strands in a tangle of stories that, as I learned, linked threshers with drill rigs, tropical coastal with sub-​Arctic boreal forests, and policymakers, investors, energy consumers, and community activists around the world. What weaves together these disparate places and people is political economy. Relationships of finance, ownership, and trade link the Tana delta and the Yukon, along with farmers in Pennsylvania and South Africa’s Karoo, citizens of small towns in the UK and Romania, pension funds and venture capitalists, and more. With complex patterns of investment and new financial vehicles, layers of control and rule-​setting, and exchanges of labor and goods and waste, these ties are often difficult to identify since they are indirect, over vast distances, and in flux. By unpacking the contested political economies of biofuels and fracking, then, we can see the shifting and blurring of lines between present, past, and future, between the Global North and South, and between renewable and nonrenewable energy sources. Through these intersections, we can better understand why some energy projects provoke concerted resistance, while others do not. In spite of the seeming triple-​win promises of biofuels and, while somewhat more muted, natural gas, views on these fuels split several times over less than two decades. Presented as solutions to overlapping environmental and social crises, these fuels fit into emerging green markets. Such markets involve what Fairhead, Leach, and Scoones (2012: 241) call “discursive commodities,” which they explain have “emerged from complex encounters between science, technology and politics.” These encounters are fraught when the science is contested and when politics involve conflicting values and visions for the future. For both biofuels and fracking, the supposed climate benefits came under scrutiny when emerging science questioned the carbon savings of these fuels. With biofuels, studies suggested that carbon neutrality might not be realized in most production systems. For natural gas, some scientists found that methane leakages from fracking undermined carbon savings at the point of combustion. The economic benefits also faltered for both fuels. Promises of rural development from biofuels came into question as food prices soared in 2007, and communities and NGOs attributed growing hunger in the Global South to the diversion of food crops into fuel tanks. For fracking, some economists linked the natural gas boom to US economic benefits following the financial crisis, but local benefits were uneven. While some countries encouraged biofuels and natural gas production to

Conclusions  143 diversify fuel supplies and increase energy security, these projects catalyzed a wider suite of human security concerns. Human security spanned not only energy access but also decision-​making autonomy, land rights and ways of life, and ecological integrity. These social and environmental challenges were intensified as large swaths of land were targeted for biofuels production in the Global South, and many areas in the Global North were transformed into gas drilling sites in a similar disruptive land rush. This book has explored the grievances that underpin contentious energy politics, considering the political economy drivers of contestation. I  have offered an argument about how changing finance, ownership, and trade relations shift the scales of contention, activate identities, and prompt the brokering of new relationships among distant communities. The interplay of these drivers and mechanisms explains both why and how communities at the margins of alternative energy production have mobilized against some new energy projects. The arrangements of finance shaped the scale and types of projects proposed in rural, remote communities, and also influenced local perceptions of those projects. With biofuels in sub-​Saharan Africa, a variety of investors from Europe and North America—​from venture capitalists to pension funds—​supported land purchases and the expansion of agricultural projects in both direct and indirect ways. In Kenya, local communities were not always able to keep track of who was involved in which projects, and the distance between investors and communities limited the opportunities for accountability. This also created openings for less scrupulous financial actors to engage in speculative ventures. Fracking’s position within the oil and gas sector meant that fossil fuel companies saw expansion into new regions such as the Yukon as a potential avenue for growth. This linked southern companies with the North, especially as processing and refining facilities remained in southern locations. For both biofuels in east Africa and fracking in the Canadian North, the need for returns on investments for distant financiers created pressures for infrastructure lock-​in to support longer time horizons and larger scales for projects. Project ownership further influenced local views of energy production plans, with intersecting concerns over land access, local control, and the nature of public and private involvement. These project characteristics collided with local histories of resource conflicts, relationships with state and corporate authorities, and community dynamics of belonging and legitimacy. In Kenya, local communities with existing land-​use conflicts

144  Fueling Resistance anticipated different outcomes arising from new agricultural projects. These developments followed a long history of boom-​and-​bust agriculture and other resource-​based proposals; concerns or hopes were thus grounded in past experience for coastal villagers. In the Yukon, debates over energy production were tightly coupled with long-​standing disputes over visions for the territory’s future and control over its resources and activities. Competing narratives of belonging emerged in these debates. The position of new energy projects in global markets further shaped local responses to development plans. Although they represented a new global energy commodity, biofuels slotted neatly into industrial agricultural systems. These systems already faced intense controversy over food security and sovereignty, land title and tenure, and the environmental costs of crop production and processing. Biofuels became a new issue of concern for food activists, linking these groups to energy and climate organizers. For fracking, the expansion of natural gas production is clearly within the existing energy sector. Communities new to oil and gas production looked to communities already embedded in controversies over fossil fuel production; linkages were readily formed. Considering the material characteristics of biofuels and fracked natural gas alongside the economic conditions that organize their production thus leads to a richer understanding of how grievances are provoked and what drives contestation. As detailed throughout this book, biofuels and fracking debates have demonstrated the ways in which political economy intersects with place-​based claims, especially in regions remote from centers of governing power. In writing about financial technologies, or “fintech,” Bernards and Campbell-​Verduyn (2019: 3–​4) describe technology as “occup[ying] a liminal space between ‘ideas’ and ‘material’ factors” that can “provide the key connections between geographically dispersed locations that enable, and disable, financial activities to occur across borders.” Similarly, while bioethanol, biodiesel, and natural gas are energy commodities, biofuels and fracking can also be understood as technologies at the intersection of material and ideational realms. They bridge physical and conceptual distances through investment, ownership, and trade. Places such as Kenya and the Yukon that have arrived late to new energy technologies reveal how local and transnational mobilization operate and intersect with political economy relations. Biofuels and fracking garnered attention from established industrial interests and distant investors and became the focus of heated contestation shaped and mediated by scientific uncertainty, competing narratives,

Conclusions  145 and differing assessments of spillover effects and unintended consequences. Contention in the Tana delta and the Yukon territory demonstrates that claim-​making efforts were locally expressed and globally linked endeavors, with geographically dispersed and temporally interconnected economic, political, and social dimensions.

The construction of crisis The overlapping and ongoing episodes of contention over biofuels and fracking were intensified by their intersection with multiple crises, most notably of climate, food, finance, and security. The urgency of climate change galvanized the search for low-​carbon fuels. Food price spikes increased attention to land acquisitions and conversions. The collapse of the housing market bubble in the US and its reverberations throughout American and global financial systems drew attention to commodity prices and the interconnections across sectors. Geopolitical rearrangements of power, punctuated by conflicts in and with oil-​producing regions, further incentivized the search to diversify energy supplies. From a discursive perspective, short-​term crisis-​ oriented political attention provides space for different groups to jockey for control of the responses to these global challenges. Both proponents and opponents of various energy alternatives can make claims to specific kinds of restorative, reparative, and protective actions to address the imminent crisis. Appeals to salient and resonant symbols and phrases can shape the range of responses sanctioned by power-​holders and the public, and this can provide a basis for describing reactionary measures as necessary actions. The strategic use of language and images can offer openings to challengers of the existing system but can also benefit those already in power. Competing claim-​makers can, for example, draw on humanitarian issues of hunger to justify or reject agricultural investments for biofuels. They can point to unemployment and rural decline to account for support for or resistance to extractive industries such as fracking. And they can use the language of security and sovereignty to promote or decry large-​scale, corporate-​led energy production. While crisis language can bring crucial issues to the public’s attention and galvanize action, it can also enable actors to obscure the ongoing, cyclical, or repeated nature of many of these problems. Attention to vivid moments of change and dramatic or spectacular consequences can render invisible the multicausal, gradual, and dispersed forms of injustice, which Nixon (2011)

146  Fueling Resistance describes as “slow violence.” These forms of violence include environmental contamination and exposure to toxins and toxicants (see, e.g., Sandlos and Keeling 2016; Davies 2018) and the many consequences of climate change (see, e.g., Willett 2015). As I finish writing this book under lockdown during the COVID-​19 pandemic, these dynamics of crisis and violence are particularly poignant. Although the novel coronavirus has affected people around the world, public health data reveal that the burden of disease is most pronounced for those who are already marginalized: poor, racialized communities, who experience higher exposure to environmental contaminants, with compromised work and home environments. As reported in The Guardian in early April 2020, “It’s a racial justice issue,”1 with racial inequalities influencing preexisting conditions, options to work from home, access to healthcare, and other factors that influence exposure and vulnerability to the virus. New threats to health and well-​being expose underlying social injustices, laying bare more systemic vulnerability. Hunger, energy poverty, economic strain, and severe environmental stress usually result from persistent pressures, not sudden catastrophes. In some cases, the crisis label is used to justify short-​term interventions and the bypassing of usual processes of local participation and engagement. The strategic use of crisis was clear in the context of biofuels proposals. While the 2008 food crisis gathering at the FAO was convened in response to a specific moment of commodity price spikes and widespread hunger, this gathering and its declarations were reminiscent of the activities and commitments of the 1974 World Food Conference, 1996 World Food Summit, and 2000 Millennium Development Goals, among others (as described by McDonald 2010). With a broader historical lens, the extraordinary crisis moment is not unprecedented but yet another manifestation of chronic, systemic imbalances in the global food system and power asymmetries in economic development. By portraying price spikes as momentary, distant authorities take on increased governing roles in addressing the situation, rendering invisible the ways in which their past economic and geopolitical actions have led to these problems in the first place.2 With agriculture, the fracture between the economics and the ecology of crops became evident as food prices shot up in 2007. Banks and index funds were implicated in the speculation on commodities futures. Analysts revealed that such speculation, which had increased as investors became wary of unstable housing markets, was one possible driver of the high prices (although there remain differing assessments of the drivers of food and other commodity prices).3

Conclusions  147 The growing corporate control of biofuels production follows the same trends of power concentration and capitalization as the agrifood industry in general, which Holt-​Giménez (2007: 1) describes as “extreme.”4 In agriculture, corporations are consolidating control within the production value chain, with close to one-​quarter of the food retail market controlled by the top ten food retailers, half the agrifood seed market cornered by the top ten seed companies, and more than four-​fifths of the pest control market dominated by the top ten pest companies (Clapp and Fuchs 2009). By 2007 two companies, Cargill and Archer Daniels Midland, controlled 65% of the global grain trade, and two more, Monsanto and Syngenta, controlled 25% of the gene tech industry (Holt-​Giménez 2007). The corporate concentration of agrifood has only intensified since then, with, for instance, the multinational Bayer acquiring Monsanto in 2018.5 Additional forms of aggregated control are made possible through finance, with the rise of equity-​traded funds and common ownership (Clapp 2019). Biofuels are just one more addition to this industrially controlled complex. The appropriation of biofuels feedstocks into existing corporate structures was facilitated, in many cases, by the articulation of food and fuel supplies as part of global crises of hunger and energy. Crops already embedded in existing industrialized systems for food products, particularly sugarcane and palm oil, were easily redirected to energy markets without a major shift in production. Yet even crops without such precedents were, at times, co-​opted into corporate control, as with the efforts to scale up the production of Jatropha. As a result, even where production in rural communities is successful, these biofuels feedstocks are emerging as crops for wealthy rather than poor farmers (Ariza-​Montobbio et al. 2010; Achten et al. 2010). Regardless of the end product—​food or fuel—​ many feedstocks crops were easily incorporated into industrialized systems and reinforced existing economic power structures (Dauvergne and Neville 2009; Borras et al. 2016). The introduction of fracking into the suite of energy technologies has similarly used narratives of crisis to reinforce corporate control. Natural gas fits neatly into the fossil fuel sector, and so resistance to its expansion was not unexpected. It was perhaps more surprising that some NGOs initially took up the narrative of transition fuels, even with its reported benefits over coal. The new positioning of the fossil fuel industry as a source of solutions to climate change can make it even more difficult to challenge the power of extractive industries and energy producers, as documented by Betsill and Stevis (2016) in their account of the natural gas industry’s role in energy transitions

148  Fueling Resistance in Colorado. Both supporters and critics of fracking have found political opportunities in building on crisis language, particularly around energy access, domestic economic growth, and climate change, with competing scientific evidence on the consequences of these extraction practices. The divides in assessments of the science have led to the same crises used as justification for and against development. For instance, even though many NGOs oppose increased oil and gas extraction, a former executive director of Greenpeace UK, Stephen Tindale, defended fracking as a strategy to address climate change and energy access in the UK, asserting, “As a lifelong champion of the Green cause, I’m convinced that fracking is not the problem but a central part of the answer.”6 Environmental crises provide openings for new rounds of contestation over energy and development futures, and these moments of possibility are intensified by other intersecting global threats and pressures, such as economic instability, geopolitical upheaval, and public health precarity. Less than a decade into the twenty-​first century, in conjunction with the financial crisis, food price spikes and rural economic declines created complex and uneven opportunities for those in the energy sector. For biofuels, proponents could combine development and carbon-​reduction goals by promoting feedstock cultivation in poor rural areas, claiming this would kickstart rural economies and enable poor farmers to make money. In contrast, opponents saw the food crisis as a social justice issue arising from speculation on agricultural futures, oil prices, and the financialization of commodity trade, and so linked the emotionally powerful messages of hunger to their claims against these fuels. Actors on all sides of the fracking debates could appeal to emissions concerns and environmental impacts to justify their perspectives on this particular technology in the extractive sector. The financial crisis and geopolitical turbulence led to political support for fracking that might otherwise have been limited or absent. The crisis and unrest also provided opportunities for opponents to advocate for more systemic changes to energy and extraction in light of economic and political pressures. Discourses of urgency offered differing opportunities to actors challenging or defending globalized production, current food and land-​use regimes, the growth of transnational corporations, and state power. The consequences of global financial systems for local places in times of crisis depend on regional economic histories, claims on land, and existing dynamics of environmental concern and political divides. Biofuels and fracking proposals landed in places with long histories of contestation over agriculture and extractive industries, and also

Conclusions  149 sparked new rounds of conflict by revealing existing structures of landownership and control that intersected in unexpected ways with new technologies and economic opportunities.

Justice, values, and technological solutions The conflicts underpinning biofuels and fracking debates are not just about the fuels themselves, although the material conditions of production and their varying social and ecological consequences do matter. These fuels create frictions and connections between global and local markets, communities, and activists, in complex and historically contingent relationships of science and uncertainty, strategic discursive moves, and adaptive claim-​making. Contestation over their production reveals deep divides across visions of social justice and equity, the distribution of risks and benefits, the value of energy supplies and environmental or atmospheric trade-​offs, and the rights of local communities to hold sovereignty over their lands and livelihoods. These values can be understood through a political economy lens. Contemporary patterns of finance, ownership, and trade lead to increased distances in commodity chains, heightened complexity of financial and material exchange, and attenuated control over local resources and land use. These dynamics of political economy invoke concerns about transparency, responsiveness, and accountability; they also prompt worries about participation and the distribution of benefits and harms, especially when these projects are developed at large scales. But if the world needs rapid solutions to pressing social and environmental concerns, is it always problematic to turn to large-​scale technological responses? In considering how global markets for energy commodities affect remote rural places, this book offers some insights into the failures of such technological and corporate optimism. The cases of fracking and biofuels point to the need to pay attention to uneven power relations, long-​standing governance disputes, and the unintended consequences of extraction and production. They also suggest a need to temper the eagerness for quick fixes to complex social, political, and environmental challenges—​even in the face of the urgency of climate change, uneven energy access, and rural economic struggles. Scott (1998) writes of a “high modernist” affection for linearity and simplification in his book Seeing Like a State. His characterization of such state

150  Fueling Resistance practices is similar to Princen’s (2005) account of the dominant logic of efficiency as an organizing principle for the modern economy. These practices and logics encompass several features: a predictable landscape in which resource savings are more important than systemic adaptability; a desire for approaches that can be scaled up and a vision of the capacity of participants and observers to maintain the character of a system across scales; a view from above that discounts the importance of complex local interactions; and an abundance of faith in the ability of technology to keep pace with new challenges. And yet, as observed across time and place, from agriculture to urban planning, solutions that work at small scales often end up causing problems at large ones. Scott (1998: 7) writes against “radically simplified designs” for both social organization and natural environments, pointing to the loss of resilience and adaptive capacity that often results. The predilection of corporations and states for large-​scale and replicable solutions reinforces the logic of growth and accumulation that underpins the contemporary global economy. Such technological visions are appealing to the status quo: they require no change in the governing practices of society, only investment in research and development, and they reinforce existing systems of consumption with a few new rules. Wapner (2010: 38) describes (and critiques) this approach as “Promethean environmentalism,” which advises overcoming environmental challenges “not by turning off our innovative, technological spirit or otherwise shrinking our presence on earth, but rather, by embracing our presence and expressing it in environmentally beneficial ways.” Technological optimism is premised on the assumption that consumptive practices can continue apace, with a few modifications. The allure of technological solutions is particularly concerning in light of the long-​standing consequences of investments in certain areas of the economy and the associated development of enabling infrastructure and institutions. Pierson’s (2004) descriptions of positive feedback loops and self-​ reinforcing cycles offer insight into how early decisions about both technological systems and institutional arrangements can shape the opportunities and costs of later switching. Such dynamics can be observed in the development of certain forms of energy infrastructure, urban design, and social expectations of the meaning of mobility, security, and development. These patterns of path dependence and aggregate effects are observed in policy settings as well as physical settings, as documented by Skogstad (2017) in processes of biofuels policy continuity and discontinuity. Concerns about lock-​in clarify why communities in the Yukon were so skeptical about the

Conclusions  151 transition fuel narratives of natural gas, since long-​term infrastructure to support LNG would be difficult to dismantle. Concerns about the cumulative effects of numerous small-​scale projects illuminate why communities in the Tana resisted the disruption of land and water from a series of agricultural projects, as these added up, collectively, to large swaths of land that would be intensively farmed and thus inaccessible to pastoralists. The investments needed for even stopgap measures are often significant, and it is often difficult to develop transitional strategies without having them become an end in themselves, as was the fear of many of the anti-​LNG advocates in the Yukon regarding the government’s interest in replacing diesel with natural gas. Beyond the monetary investments in these transitional technologies that might hinder more radical, longer-​term transformations, new technologies can mask rather than resolve the long-​standing power imbalances that underpin many social and environmental challenges. These apparent solutions reinforce the power of already dominant players in the system, as they are positioned to shape the development of these technologies and products, especially at large scales. Technological solutions can lead to an increased focus on the symptoms of environmental damage and social inequality, presenting new objects or processes that mitigate harm or offer new economic opportunities. However, these often come at the expense of identifying and addressing the causes of these problems. As discussed earlier in this chapter, with attention to processes of slow violence, the attention to proximate symptoms rather than root causes can further entrench the political and economic arrangements that created the underlying inequalities that exacerbate environmental and social harm. The integration of powerful global actors in the development and proliferation of technological solutions through finance, engineering, and global markets can increase what both Princen (2002) and Conca (2001) conceptualize as lengthening distances in production, consumption, and investment chains, where those involved in these systems are increasingly spatially and temporally removed from each other. Such production systems, as revealed by Princen (2002) and extended by Dauvergne (2008), among others, cast “shadows” of environmental degradation and social harm on increasingly far-​flung and unseen places and people—​leading to the spillover and unintended consequences that shaped both biofuels and fracking contestation in the Tana delta and the Yukon. Debates over biofuels and fracking demonstrate that energy contestation should not be seen as battles over specific projects or policies, but

152  Fueling Resistance instead as cyclical processes integrated with existing grievances and claims. Mobilization around these technologies represents just the latest episode in longer-​term contestation, steeped in intersecting and interacting histories, ecologies, and economies. The cases also reveal how energy commodities are integrated with each other, as oil and gas economic and environmental conditions influenced the development of biofuels, and the fall of biofuels coincided with increased investments in drilling technologies and shale gas development. A longer-​term perspective enables a move beyond static analysis and narrow sectoral views. Sustained activism does not always reflect a constant and defined set of claim-​makers and power-​holders. Instead, much claim-​making fluctuates and shifts. New sets of claimants and new grievances emerge. New markets open and are consolidated. Identities are activated, mobilized, and co-​opted into different alliances and coalitions. Information and ideas are distributed, leading to new frames and discourses. And power-​ holders respond to claims, co-​opt and develop their own repertoires of action for issues, and find ways to alienate or ally with different sets of opponents or partners. All of this suggests that new phases of contention will emerge around the values at the heart of the conflicts. Multiple technologies and commodities can spark controversy, even ones that seem to have promise in addressing specific challenges such as climate change or energy access. A series of strategies were used by opponents and proponents to shape the discourses in biofuels and fracking debates: strategic science translation, identity recruitment and activation, issue linkages and scale shifts, and the brokering of new relationships. Certain debates and discourses disappeared over time, owing to the emergence of new slogans and images, media fatigue, and the success (or failure) of campaigns and countercampaigns. Some framings became powerful when they provided global actors with ready symbols and stories for public action (e.g., with food versus fuel, or tap water on fire), while others gained traction because they built upon and reignited existing local conflicts (e.g., with land grabs and insider/​outsider claims). Both biofuels and fracking debates, as a result, are moving targets, part of broader debates over agrifood systems and water rights, energy complexes, financial networks, and social justice. Adopting a cyclical, multiscale, and dynamic approach to illuminate ongoing contestation and explain shifting discourses and positions suggests that the next episodes of contention around energy will result from disruptive opportunities—​a new technology, new crisis event, or new actor—​that affect both powerful interests and marginalized groups. Disruptive opportunities are often portrayed as silver

Conclusions  153 bullets of sorts—​large-​scale, rapidly implementable solutions to complex and interconnected problems. Solar radiation management as a climate mitigation strategy, electric vehicles as a transportation fix, wall-​size batteries as an energy storage revolution: these technological balms are offered with the promise of social and environmental benefits with minimal or limited costs. The underlying premise is that technology itself is a systemic transformation, one that negates the need for more complex societal reconfigurations. The debates over biofuels in the Tana and fracking in the Yukon challenged these simplistic solutions, bringing more complexity—​and uncertainty—​ into energy plans, depending on the interactions among a series of political economy conditions. Protests over biofuels in the Tana and fracking in the Yukon illustrate the contingent ways in which scientific uncertainty, strategic discourses and frames, and public performances interact with finance, ownership, and trade to shape the outcome of energy proposals. Activists, movements, campaigns, and power-​holders are constantly being reframed, reimagined, and reconstructed. New commodities, markets, and actors create threats and opportunities in specific sectors and, more fundamentally, in rule-​making structures and institutions. These lead to constantly evolving constellations of alliances and coalitions and to shifting discourses as different claim-​ makers and power-​holders perceive openings for advancing their positions or defending their dominance. Resistance, this project found, is not a matter of communities “winning” against corporations or states. Instead political activism reveals many divides within and across communities and is always unfinished. Political relationships reflect continual negotiation among and across interests and groups, with shifting alliances, partnerships, identities, and antagonisms representing ongoing components of the articulation and exercise of power in society. Further, resistance is a set of competing and intersecting narratives involving cycles of contention. Those trying to make sense of such claims must untangle the ways in which coalitions form, shift, break, and re-​form, and how discourses and dominant frames are created and co-​opted by power-​holders and challengers alike. In future efforts to resolve tensions across visions of the future, it will not be enough to develop innovative technologies. Finding ways forward will require bringing to light—​and resolving—​the larger challenges of distant and hidden investors, resource and decision-​making control and ownership, and shifting patterns of production, consumption, and trade.

154  Fueling Resistance

Beyond biofuels and fracking In this book I have offered additional explanations for mobilization against new energy projects, adding to our understanding of resistance by examining the intersection of contentious politics with political economy. These dynamics are especially relevant in communities that might be expected to support such projects and for projects that are introduced to solve multiple problems and promise cobenefits. Thus, beyond providing an enriched theoretical account of responses to biofuels and fracking, this book has implications for thinking about global energy transitions and contentious resource politics more broadly. The analytic approach of examining the intersection of political economy and contentious politics can both help us understand varied responses to other energy technologies and inform design and implementation processes for energy transitions and development projects. This work joins a growing body of scholarly research that aims to understand the uneven consequences of carbon or climate solutions, including accounting for divergent community responses to wind power (Jami and Walsh 2017; Papazu 2017; Walker and Baxter 2017), evaluating the justice implications of solar power (Mulvaney 2019), and designing more participatory governance approaches for geoengineering (Jinnah, Nicholson, and Flegal 2018). Much of the work on resistance to energy projects, including renewables, focuses on place-​based attachments, along with concerns about distributive and participatory justice. As a result, many of the policy recommendations focus on public engagement and benefit-​sharing agreements. My research on biofuels and fracking suggests a political economy layer of analysis is also needed to better understand the emergence of grievances around new projects. Financing arrangements, ownership structures, and the local and global trade of commodities all intersect with processes of participation, regulation, and resistance. The cases of biofuels and fracking demonstrated the ways in which political economy characteristics shaped local responses to these energy projects. Contestation was catalyzed by a confluence of economic characteristics that increased temporal and physical distances. The distance of investors from sites of production intersected with financial vehicles that abstracted commodity value from their material base, obscuring accountability and responsibility for local impacts. Ownership of projects by outside interests and regulation of projects by mistrusted governments reignited past grievances and limited local participation and control. And

Conclusions  155 elongated supply chains linked distant consumers with local producers, further concentrating existing corporate control in industrial sectors. Similar dynamics can be observed in other energy systems. Papazu (2017) offers an account of surprising controversy over wind turbines on the island community of Samsø in Denmark. The community became known as a Renewable Energy Island in the early 2000s, with an “an island-​wide, locally managed energy transition” that saw the development of “on-​and off-​shore wind turbines, district heating plants and solar systems” (5). But the community mobilized against the development of new offshore turbines in 2013. Through an analytic approach informed by science and technology studies, Papazu pushes back against a depoliticized “NIMBY” account of islanders’ resistance to the Mejlflak project. Instead she draws attention to the failures of project proponents in adequately engaging the community in participatory planning, the significant differences in scale of existing and proposed power production, and the more granular distinctions in the location of already built and planned new turbines, all of which lead to divergent ecological and social impacts. The Samsø case can also be read through a political economy lens, which, I suggest, adds additional depth to Papazu’s account of resistance on the island. Papazu explains the origins of the offshore project as an initiative of a local chapter of an environmental NGO, which secured participation from several energy companies operating as a consortium. She points to the difference between the initial wind projects, initiated by those on the island and built with local labor, and the new proposal, “perceived as a foreign initiative which will not benefit Samsø” (13), along with a major difference in the amount of power anticipated from the turbines. The possibility that the Mejlflak project would be eligible for government subsidies as an experimental project led to further uncertainty about project control, and concerns were raised about the limited nature of public involvement and the commercial focus of and financing of the project by Danish energy companies off-​island (11, 13, 14). These dynamics of finance had the potential to limit the accountability of project proponents to the local community. Scale differences in conjunction with perceptions of off-​island ownership and control amplified concerns about changes to local landscapes and coastal ecosystems. While proponents engaged in an environmental impact assessment process, in Papazu’s account islanders saw the EIA as pro forma and with predetermined outcomes. The debates over the Mejlflak project led to the activation of identities, with claims made over the interests of “summer house owners” and permanent residents, to scale shifts and issue linkages

156  Fueling Resistance between wind power and climate change mitigation and to brokerage politics linking both opponents and proponents with relevant environmental and legal experts (16, 17). A political economy analysis adds to the assessment of these controversies through the lenses of democratic debate and participatory justice. Since mechanisms of contention interact with political economy elements, these dynamics are malleable. Outcomes beyond resistance and deep contention can be envisioned. Financial systems can be rendered more legible to those on the ground, through redesign of projects and of investment tools. Smaller-​scale projects are less capital intensive, and so limits on the anticipated size and scope of production can reduce the need for large investments. Alternative models of ownership can also change the finance requirements of projects, with cooperative and nonprofit structures offering different models for energy production. Support for communities to initiate their own projects rather than only responding to government or corporate-​led proposals, can also shift local responses to projects by enabling communities to identify their own needs and assess appropriate and acceptable trade-​offs. Of course, local production and consumption might not be feasible for all commodity sectors or even all energy production; working within small communities does not automatically resolve social inequities and environmental harm. (On concerns with local food movements, see DeLind 2011; Born and Purcell 2006.) Local production can intensify existing inequities (see Ariza-​Montobbio et  al. 2010 on the uneven benefits of successful Jatropha production in India) and cast shadow consequences on the global economy (see Swanson 2015 on the consequences for Chilean coastal communities of changes in Japanese salmon production). Still, a cautious shift to greater local control, ownership, and autonomy could radically transform energy systems and change relationships between producers and consumers. These characteristics, though, do not result simply as a product of technological change. Climate activists and international organizations continue to express hopes that a transformation of the carbon economy will also create a more just world. The Global Commission on the Geopolitics of Energy Transformation, launched by the International Renewable Energy Agency, published a report in 2019 that aims to understand the consequences of renewable energy transitions on global political relationships. In their report, they point to the ways in which renewable energy can empower local communities, claiming that “renewable energy sources can be deployed at

Conclusions  157 almost any scale and lend themselves better to decentralized forms of energy production and consumption. This adds to the democratizing effects of renewable energy” (IRENA 2019: 23). This message has been echoed by leaders in the climate movement, including Bill McKibben, who offers a powerful and compelling vision for a world beyond fossil fuels where corporate power is not the dominant force. McKibben draws parallels between renewable technologies and social movements: “Luckily, we have two relatively new inventions that could prove decisive to solving global warming before it destroys the planet. One is the solar panel, and the other is the nonviolent movement. Obviously, they are not the same sort of inventions: the solar panel (and its cousins, the wind turbine and the lithium-​ion battery) is hardware, while the ability to organise en masse for change is more akin to software. . . . But both are transformative nonetheless—​and, crucially, the power they wield is human in scale.”7 But McKibben’s conviction that dispersed and distributed energy production leads to social and political change is not supported by evidence from agrifood systems. Although crops too are grown at human scales, in dispersed and distributed forms, across many landscapes and in many communities food systems have not escaped consolidated corporate control. Although renewables can produce power at local levels and in distributed ways, that possibility does not guarantee they will remain outside aggregated, large-​scale systems. Renewable energy technologies rely on materials that are mined and processed, and the mining industry is itself rife with ecological and social injustice. The potential of renewable energy to transform social systems is not guaranteed; that power depends on the regulatory systems put in place around their financing, ownership, and trade. An analysis of the political economies of energy technologies such as biofuels and fracking reveals these dynamics and underscores the importance of assessing the interplay between political economy and resistance. It is the construction of governance systems, not the nature of the technology, that shapes the structure of the political economy of energy.

Transformative politics and innovative communities on the margins Through the first two decades of the 2000s, biofuels and fracking linked multiple levels of institutions, interests, and identities. Livelihoods, regional

158  Fueling Resistance developments, transnational NGOs, international forums, and national policies and legislation all intersect through these agricultural and energy commodities, bringing together local and global levels of economics and contestation. In the course of investigating these transitional energy sources, this project integrated political economy and contentious politics analyses, offering new insights about the questions surrounding the changing nature of social movements and political action in the context of new markets and global governors. And in thinking about these rising places of energy production and governance, it is to the less obvious regions of the world that we turned. “Marginal sites, such as local communities and social movements,” writes anthropologist Arturo Escobar (1998: 54), “come to be seen as emergent centers of innovation and alternative worlds.” Resource exploitation and production plans in more remote regions—​ including east African delta and northern sub-​Arctic regions, far from national centers of decision-​making and far from the sites of consumption—​ reveal multiple dimensions of political and social interaction. The cases of Kenya and the Yukon, in the context of shifting global debates, demonstrate the intersection of livelihood incentives, identity attachments, and place-​ based power struggles as marginalized communities voice claims and assert their interests, and as power-​holders both anticipate and respond to these pressures. Outside actors transform local stories into global symbols for their claims while local actors seek out global narratives and allies, and insiders and outsiders alike use community cleavages to gain traction and secure power. Returning to Scott’s (1998) high modernism and governance “from above,” efforts to alter, manipulate, and make legible all varieties of ecosystems—​from plantation forests to monoculture fields and dammed waterways—​have led to dramatic changes in the distribution and availability of natural resources across the globe. With the inscription of human presence and demands onto the landscape—​through extraction, infrastructure development, and even efforts to counteract environmental changes, as with carbon sequestration and other climate change responses—​there are irrevocable changes to environmental systems, which then prompt the reshaping of societies to fit these new ecological orders. Development projects and land use can lead not only to planned outcomes but also to “a host of unanticipated changes,” with implications for power, production, and political relationships (Evenden 2006:  89). New technologies are not novel energy systems written onto conveniently blank slates, but rather mechanisms of control that obscure existing claims to those spaces.

Conclusions  159 On that canoe trip in the Peel watershed, the wedge of coal by our campfire and the smoke rising from the river’s edge signaled that the turquoise waters and spruce-​covered lands we traveled through overlay vast expanses of buried energy: eons-​old carbon, a fragile sink. The Supreme Court case, decided the previous December, had affirmed the land-​use planning process and modern treaty rights embedded in the Umbrella Final Agreement. Still, nearly a third of the roadless region would be open for industrial development, and, with energy bursting from the subsurface even without direct intervention, it was easy to see the industrial appeal. In the process of studying fracking debates in the Yukon, I was convinced that the link between the Peel and fracking was more symbolic than literal: fracking was planned for the Southeast (Liard) and Northwest (Eagle Plains), places with roads and other infrastructure; the Peel would not be economically feasible for the kind of extraction that fracking needs. And in the short term, that view was probably justified. But in the long run? What if the Supreme Court decision had gone differently, leaving the majority of the watershed available for industrial development? What if oil and gas prices soared, making fracking in the Peel viable from a financial standpoint? The economic feasibility of extractives is a function of price, technology, and political will, and thus subject to severe volatility. First Nations communities, conservation groups, and the members of Yukoners Concerned about Oil and Gas saw a longer, deeper set of connections between these issues and regions than I perceived at the time. Yukoners Concerned not only mobilized against fracking but also rallied for locally controlled, alternative power sources that would shift northern relationships with energy. In the years following the ban on fracking, their ongoing efforts to this end included attempts to develop energy storage strategies, advocate for wind turbines and energy efficiency, support public transit and better urban planning, and, in 2019, mobilize dozens of Whitehorse residents to attend a meeting at the public library about new backup power plants.8 Local organizers knew all along the sustained and continuous work needed to support a more just energy transition in the territory, and have continually advocated for more participatory processes and for a broader understanding of the social and environmental trade-​offs involved in economic growth. At the end of my trip in the Peel, as our group flew out in a turbo Otter float plane, I looked over the Richardson and Wernecke mountain ranges—​ one of the last regions in the world where rivers, not roads, remain the main transportation arteries. People have lived and moved on these mountains

160  Fueling Resistance and waters for millennia, but without leaving the telltale linear tracks of industrial development. Instead the patterns of the land and its nonhuman inhabitants stand out. This is a landscape defined by the ragged contours of peaks and rivers, not the straight edges of roads and cutlines and mines that began to appear as we approached the settlements of Keno, Elsa, and Mayo. Yet it is not enough to resist development in places such as the Peel. The myth of wilderness ignores the human histories intertwined with these lands, and it also consigns other landscapes that do have industrial scars to an even more damaged future, following a trajectory of acquiescing to some people and places as sacrifice zones (Shade 2015). Within a colonially determined legal landscape, the Peel court case upheld recognition and shared governance within the traditional territories of the four affected First Nations. Still, such confirmation of treaty rights does not address the broader need for new governance relationships. As underscored by Daigle (2016:  264), drawing on Hunt’s (2014) work, “Indigenous responsibilities to their ancestral lands reach well beyond the boundaries of reserves and treaty territories and thus cannot be constrained to these colonialscapes.”9 These incisive critiques of the dependence of contemporary colonial states on resources and extraction link the politics and relationships of place to the workings of the global political economy. The debates over biofuels and fracking in rural and remote regions such as the Tana delta and the Yukon thus represent more than local refusal of industrial transformation or change. The campaigners in the Yukon, for instance, offered a vision beyond that of conservation in the Peel: an energy future that is not dependent on fossil fuels from anywhere, a not-​in-​anyone’s-​backyard approach to extraction. And in the Tana, community members and leaders were keen on economic opportunities that could sustain them without damaging their lands and ecosystems. The pushback was not one of parochialism and insularity—​but it did draw on local values, identities, and place-​based attachments. As the search for rapid responses to urgent global challenges such as climate change intensifies, a deepening understanding of the power relationships involved in resource governance processes is crucial. What can be gained through technological advances in fuel development and extraction, and what is being lost as these projects are enacted? Ultimately this book affirms that technological fixes are unable to resolve social and political challenges and that the governance of finance, ownership, and trade must be tackled directly. It is not enough to change the source of energy in systems underpinned by inequitable land and governance relations and an extractive mentality. The

Conclusions  161 structures of investment and growth, ownership and land control, and production and consumption must first be transformed. In collective action and struggles over rule-​making power, some scholars offer alternative definitions of contentious politics; for instance, Leitner, Sheppard, and Sziarto (2008: 157) describe “concerted, counterhegemonic social and political action, in which differently positioned participants come together to challenge dominant systems of authority, in order to promote and enact alternative imaginaries.” Such a definition helps us to imagine the potential for alternative governance systems and representation, envisioning what other constellations of power might look like. Maniates (2001) too points to the potential for local creativity in his critique of the individualization of environmental responsibility. These local concerns take on additional importance in the context of changing patterns of global exchange—​including supply chain disruptions, interruptions of production in specific regions, and changes to rapid global transportation and movements—​whether planned or unexpected in response to geopolitical shifts, climate change impacts, and pandemics and disease. Maniates holds that “breaking down the widely held belief . . . that technical choice is ‘neutral’ and ‘autonomous’ could open the floodgates to full and vigorous debate over the nature and design of technological choice. Once the veil of neutrality is lifted, rich local discourse can, and sometimes does, follow” (48).10 Protest and contention have the potential to create imaginative options, and this is especially relevant when the political economic underpinnings of energy politics open up space for shaping the institutional and infrastructural developments that enable or constrain future possibilities. By paying close attention to the differing consequences of energy technologies at different scales, the trajectories set in place by certain decisions at certain times, and the spillover effects and unintended consequences of technological solutions, this book reinforces the importance of understanding how economic relations impact communities and how, in turn, social dynamics shape economies at intersecting global and local levels. While technology, innovative design, and novel markets create new possibilities, they can—​and often do—​reinforce existing systems of power and further embed existing relations of governance. What is needed, then, is a return to the difficult and politically complex work of envisioning and negotiating alternative politics and economies. Such work is already underway in both theory and practice, in scholarship identifying pathways and challenges for energy transformations (e.g., Princen, Manno, and Martin 2015), decarbonization

162  Fueling Resistance (e.g., Bernstein and Hoffmann 2018), cities working to couple social justice with sustainability (e.g., Gordon 2013; Tozer and Klenk 2017, 2018), and Indigenous nations reclaiming and restoring their economies, legal systems, and sovereignty (as articulated by Coulthard 2007, 2014; Hunt 2014; Daigle 2016; Simpson 2017; and, in the context of responses to fracking and fossil fuels, Manno, Hirsch, and Feldpausch-​Parker 2014; Manno and Martin 2015). Economies need not be premised on growth; as Princen (2005:  5) argues in his defense of a logic of sufficiency, “saying enough, indeed, practicing enough, in the neighbourhoods, in the woods and on the water, is not just a means of surviving. It is a means of thriving.” Wapner (2010: 49, 53) echoes this claim with his advocacy of a “politics of less,” considering consumptive sacrifice as a “route to more environmental health, personal safety, right livelihood, spiritual engagement, and sheer pleasure.” Economies embedded in reciprocity and responsibility already exist, if often at the margins. In reading the work of ethnobotanist Robin Wall Kimmerer (2013:  303–​309), especially her recollecting of Ojibwe stories that characterize the insatiable consumptive hunger of contemporary economies, I  am reminded that scholars and practitioners from across knowledge systems and traditions have long offered these versions of finite and bounded worlds as positive, meaningful, and desirable. Moreover, the lack of this broader ethic of connectedness is itself one of loss; as writer Barry Lopez (1989: 38) offers, “We grasp what is beautiful in a flight of snow geese rising against an overcast sky as easily as we grasp the beauty in a cello suite; and intuit, I believe, that if we allow these things to be destroyed or degraded for economic or frivolous reasons we will become deeply and strangely impoverished.” The embracing of planetary and consumptive limits is not an acceptance of privation and despair. Instead the values of justice, connection, and relationship are capable of shaping economies and governance systems in ways that offer deep and meaningful engagement and belonging.

Notes Chapter 1 1. Meeting with village leader in Orma community, November 22, 2010, Tana delta. 2. Meeting with villagers, December 3, 2010, Tana delta. 3. Community member in Old Crow, Yukon, June 25, 2014, during public hearings on hydraulic fracturing (YLA 2015). 4. Community member in Teslin, Yukon, June 24, 2014, during public hearings on hydraulic fracturing (YLA 2015). 5. Samson Hartland, executive director of the Yukon Chamber of Mines, in a letter to the editor, Yukon News, September 19, 2014, 9. 6. The “triple win” language has been used across multilateral institutions, including the UN Development Programme (https://​www.wto.org/​english/​tratop_​e/​envir_​e/​ climate_​challenge_​e.htm), the World Trade Organization (https://​www.wto.org/​english/​tratop_​e/​envir_​e/​climate_​challenge_​e.htm), and Chatham House (https://​www. iisd.org/​sites/​default/​files/​publications/​climate_​trade_​competitive.pdf). 7. I  spent eight months in Kenya and Tanzania in 2010–​2011, working in collaboration with an established research project co-​led by the National Museums of Kenya, the French development agency Institute of Research for Development, and the University of Dar es Salaam in Tanzania. My colleagues in these institutions—​ Kenyan, Tanzanian, and French researchers—​were in the midst of an ongoing project to evaluate the ecosystem services provided by floods and the potential for land transformation in the floodplains, including from the conversion of land for biofuels. Among the projects initiated by project partners was the creation in 2010 of the Kenya Wetlands Biodiversity Research Team (KENWEB), which continues to coordinate and enhance work in the region on wetlands and biodiversity conservation. Much of the research for this book was undertaken in conjunction with the activities of the broader projects, particularly those allowed by virtue of association with the flood valuation project. In Kenya, my affiliations with an existing project, enabled by Dr. Wanja Nyingi, made my research possible. Yet my affiliations and reliance on certain networks of key informants and partners, along with the need to follow local procedures by respecting village authority structures, also limited the perspectives that I was able to access. In my local fieldwork, it was sometimes difficult to judge the extent to which the views of the villagers with whom I spoke reflected the views of the wider community, particularly given that access to many villages was mediated by village authorities (headman or chief, in most cases) and often facilitated by local partners (each of whom—​sometimes very clearly—​had their own positions and motivations). This may have skewed my understanding of some of the concerns and

164 Notes perspectives of villagers. Further, it was clear—​especially in interactions with one foreign biofuels company—​that my community liaison made my work suspect. (This may also have reflected the corporate perception of academic research on biofuels in the region at the time.) Still, for the purposes of the broader project of understanding resistance and public contestation, these methods proved valuable for uncovering flashpoints of contention, competing narratives of belonging, and key actors involved in these proposals. I have triangulated my interview findings and expanded my contextual understanding of these dynamics through secondary sources by other scholars working on biofuels politics in Kenya, including work by my research collaborators (Duvail, Médard, and Paul 2010; Duvail et al. 2012; Hamerlynck et al. 2010; Leauthaud et al. 2013; Lebrun et al. 2010) and others (e.g., Arevalo et al. 2014; Hunsberger 2010, 2014; Krijtenburg and Evers 2014; Smalley and Corbera 2012; Temper 2013, 2016). In Kenya, I traveled with another graduate student to several villages in the Tana delta, where our interview questions covered the topics of well and borehole access, water quality and contamination, and land use change and biofuels. I also conducted interviews with elite actors in government and NGOs. Along with conversations facilitated by my research partners, I used a snowball method of identifying other interviewees by asking those I spoke with if they could suggest individuals or organizations I should consider contacting. Salganik and Heckathorn (2004: 196–​197) describe “chain-​referral” methods of participant sampling, in which new participants are identified and recruited through the networks of existing participants. They highlight a variation of a more classic snowball method they call “respondent-​driven” sampling, suited to identifying hidden populations. The snowball technique was particularly effective in uncovering the diverse range of domestic and international researchers investigating these questions. In light of the political nature of topics under discussion in both villages and government offices—​on water and land access, among other things—​many meetings, visits, and observations were permitted only under the conditions of anonymity. Consequently, few interviewees are named in this book, and many are referred to only by sector or general role. At the time of my research, much of the work on biofuels and land transfers was happening across a range of institutions, sectors, and researchers, with little coherence across projects; however, since then, there has been concerted work to bring together insights from across regions and cases, identifying both common themes and the diversity of land transfer arrangements (see, e.g., Cotula 2013; Ross 2014; Hall, Scoones, and Tsikata 2015). 8. The protests gained national and international media attention:  “N.B. Fracking Protests and the Fight for Aboriginal Rights,” CBC News, October 19, 2013, http://​ www.cbc.ca/​news/​c anada/​n-​b-​f racking-​protests-​and-​t he-​f ight-​for-​aboriginal-​ rights-​1.2126515; “New Brunswick Fracking Protests Are the Frontline of a Democratic Fight,” The Guardian, October 21, 2013, https://​www.theguardian.com/​ environment/​2013/​oct/​21/​new-​brunswick-​fracking-​protests. 9. As Mitchell (2011) demonstrates in Carbon Democracy, where he undertakes an examination of the integrated development of democratic politics with coal-​based energy, political structures are the product of specific relationships of labor, production,

Notes  165 transportation, and consumption, and these are mediated by the energy forms that underpin those activities. In the context of Canada, Davidson, Edou, and Robinson (2018) argue that the increased reliance of the state (especially in Alberta) on unconventional fossil fuel resources creates new strains on democratic governance systems (enacted through what they term “legislative slippage”), as these forms of extraction intensify the environmental and social consequences of fossil fuel production, while higher production costs require the expansion of the industry to provide ongoing economic returns. 10. This conversation took place in Atlin, BC, in 2014. 11. In this work, I  take a mixed qualitative methods approach, using detailed process tracing of the forms of mobilization taking place in Kenya and the Yukon. The research I  conducted in the Yukon—​particularly during my postdoctoral fellowship research from 2013 to 2015—​differed somewhat from that in Kenya and Tanzania. I  engaged in some participant observation, including attending protests, rallies, and meetings of local communities and organizations, and conducted a few elite interviews, primarily with NGO organizers. Mainly, though, my research consisted of document and transcript analysis, drawing on debates and statements in the public record. The government’s hearing process to evaluate hydraulic fracturing (detailed in c­ hapter 5) was recorded in detail, with publicly available transcripts and reports. In the case of the Yukon, the debates on the record, in print news, and on social media sites captured much of the mobilization efforts taking place, especially in light of my interest in the public processes of contestation. In both cases, I pay particular attention to the sequencing of events, as per George and Bennett (2005). This was especially important when tracking community responses to issues beyond biofuels and fracking, such as broader land use planning processes and climate activism. My field-​based case study work was paired with research on global economic trends, intergovernmental negotiations, investment patterns, and energy debates, through document analysis, observation of international environmental negotiations, media analysis, and reviews of the literature. In this book, Kenya and the Yukon are used in the tradition of heuristic, rather than classic comparative, cases to explore various components of the dynamics of contention. This matches well my interest in uncovering the interactions of complex factors, the role of historical context in current events, and the ways in which discursive practices shape outcomes. Heuristic cases offer generative analytic potential (Litfin 1994: 7), as they can “stimulate the imagination toward discerning important general problems and possible theoretical solutions” (Eckstein 1975: 104). The consideration of specific instances of resistance to energy projects illuminates the complex, overlapping, and interacting forces of social contestation and political economy. These cases are especially useful for exploring causal forces that are spatially and temporally distant and mediated by contingent actors and events. My case-​based approach follows in the footsteps of work in comparative politics and environmental history, where in-​depth analyses of single cases have been used effectively to shed light on broader social and political phenomena. Examples of such studies include Weapons of the Weak, where Scott (1985) analyzes class relations and

166 Notes conflict in a single village in Malaysia, using the case to draw out a more general understanding of the ways in which poor peasants can carve out autonomous spaces even within a power structure that confines them. Similarly, in Fish versus Power, Evenden (2004a) focuses his attention on the Fraser River, looking at the politics involved in promoting and opposing hydropower development on the river over time, to explain why it remains an undammed exception to most large rivers and to argue that while its development was a product of international pressures, local factors shaped how these pressures were expressed. 12. Notably, these cases are tied together through the complex politics of carbon in the contemporary economy, where the social, economic, and energetic value of carbon collides with the problems carbon poses for the climate and social relations. Recognizing the tensions carbon poses in climate justice, Girvan (2017) draws on Caribbean trickster stories to develop an analysis of what she calls “trickster carbon,” where carbon paradoxically reinforces unequal power dynamics and opens transformative possibilities. She describes “a transgressive carbon that will no longer do (never did) ‘our’ bidding, despite attempts to tame it in our service and lock it away when it is unruly” (Girvan 2017: 1039). 13. Places outside or at the edges of state control are often seen as frontier regions. They occupy a position of both desire and neglect by authorities—​often providing the raw materials for state development, yet excluded from many of the economic benefits of the state. In thinking through resource frontiers, my work is informed by critical scholars in political science, geography, Indigenous politics, and anthropology. These regions at the edges of state-​based control may be places of escape for those harmed by state authorities: Scott (2009: 7, 13) describes “shatter zones,” with “difficult or inaccessible terrain, regardless of elevation, that presents great obstacles to state control.” Rather than being left behind, marginalized groups actively seek places and ways of life that enable a refuge from oppression. There are tensions at these edges. As Li (2014a: 13) writes in her work on cacao production in highland regions in Indonesia, “Frontiers are not only characterized by lack. They are simultaneously coveted places, envisaged by various actors as sites of potential.” These dynamics of inclusion and exclusion are observed in the Global North and South, across resource types; as Kuokkanen (2019) points out, the Arctic has been “constructed in the global economy as one of the last energy frontiers.” In these places we see the encroachment of industrialization, capitalism, and financialization into places that have previously been governed under different economic models and relationships. As a result, communities in these regions must determine whether and how to engage with new state visions of extraction, development, and growth. 14. For instance, in economic geography, Hayter, Barnes, and Bradshaw (2003: 15–​16) argue that “resource peripheries around the world have become deeply contested spaces, much more so than those found in cores,” and “the economic geography of resource production is far from straightforward and seldom just an economic matter.” This work follows a long history of scholarship on relationships of power in international relations, especially critiques of state-​based approaches to understanding global social dynamics, as advanced through world systems analyses or theories. As

Notes  167 Chase-​Dunn and Grell-​Brisk (2019) summarize, “The big idea [of the world-​system perspective] was that the global system had a stratified structure [of] inequality based on institutionalized exploitation. This implied that the whole system was the proper unit of analysis, not national societies, and that development and underdevelopment had been structured by global power relations for centuries.” Wallerstein (1988: 309) presents such an analysis as a “moral, and in its broadest sense, political, protest” to narrow social science research approaches, especially those that conflated the boundaries of the state with those of societies. Such an approach risked, for Wallerstein (1974), obscuring the fact that societies in states with different economic and political structures still existed within a global world economy (and specifically a capitalist one). Such world-​systems approaches have been especially influential in scholarship on agrarian political economy, with Bernstein (2016), for instance, detailing the development of research on “food regimes” and an “international food order,” with neoliberal globalization as the latest phase in a capitalist world order that structures the production of, access to, and benefits from food and agriculture. 15. In some cases, late movers have advantages in a sector: Mathews (2007) argues that countries entering an established sector have the benefit of adopting existing and tested technologies and can strategically position themselves within the industrial value chain. Further, countries can build on their economic strengths; Mathews and Goldsztein (2009: 326), for instance, document Argentina’s national success as a “latecomer” to biodiesel, pointing to the advantages it already held as a major soy producer and the ability to transition “from soy as foodstuff to soy as fuelstock.” However, for less powerful agricultural producers, and especially for vulnerable populations within powerful producer states, these advantages tend not to translate to social and environmental justice. Dauvergne and Neville (2010: 633) argue, “as the biofuel sector grows, it will become more difficult for states and local communities to derive diffuse public (rather than concentrated private) benefits from production,” and “previous analyses suggest that this challenge will be most pronounced for states with incentives to act in predatory, rather than developmental ways.” 16. Meeting with villagers, December 3, 2010, Tana delta. 17. Meeting with villagers, December 3, 2010, Tana delta. 18. Public hearings: September 23, 2014, Mayo, Yukon (YLA 2015). 19. While much recent case study work on energy projects using contentious politics approaches has focused on industrialized countries and urban regions (e.g., McAdam and Boudet 2012; Boudet and Ortolano 2010), contentious politics theories have been developed from and applied to resistance strategies beyond those contexts. McAdam, Tarrow, and Tilly’s (2001) Dynamics of Contention, for instance, develops a set of causal mechanisms of contention through an analysis of, among other cases, the Mau Mau rebellion in Kenya, the Yellow Revolution in the Philippines, democratization in Spain, and antiapartheid action in South Africa. In part, transnational mobilizing often brings together actors from the Global North and South and across rural and urban divides. A contentious politics approach thus enables a close look at the mechanisms by which communities cohere and fracture around contested projects across multiple contexts.

168 Notes 20. The more abstract elements of international relations thus intersect with immediate local material concerns. Such interlinked dynamics are not novel: resource and energy debates have long connected local with transnational politics, abstract with material concerns, and more distant, global considerations with immediate, local consequences. Energy commodities, as I  will demonstrate, are deeply intertwined with other industrial sectors (agriculture and extractives, in particular) and so fit into complex sets of politics beyond the energy sector. However, the specific dynamics of energy are shaped by the potential of the energy sector to exacerbate or address climate change and the need for energy resources in local communities, which open up opportunities for conflicting narratives of support and resistance for these projects. This book thus takes on unresolved questions of how and why communities in the Global North and South responded, fragmented, and mobilized in specific—​and often similar—​ways to renewable and fossil fuel energy projects. 21. Over time, social movement scholarship has identified a series of theories to explain mobilization, with early work countering prevailing views that mass uprisings were irrational and unpredictable (or, conversely, the inevitable result of accumulated threats and social strain; Buechler 2004), and subsequent work turning to questions of political opportunity, resource access, culture and identity, and framing processes (on the progression and development of these theories, see, e.g., Walder 2009; Engler and Engler 2016; McAdam 2017). Critiques of political opportunity and resource mobilization theories alone included concerns that these focused too heavily on structural rather than interpretivist dimensions of movements, leaving aside important questions of how and when different groups can create, access, and expand these opportunities and resources (see, e.g., Williams 2004; Carter and Fusco 2017).

Chapter 2 1. The number of participants has increased since its inception, and by 2012, 192 parties had ratified the Convention (Climate Lab 2009). 2. From the beginning, the UNFCCC and its Kyoto Protocol were criticized for setting targets that were far from adequate, given the extent of emissions reductions needed to curb climate change and avoid its most severe predicted effects. The Protocol was designed not as the final but rather the first step in addressing climate change, but progress toward negotiating an agreement to follow the Kyoto Protocol was limited. (See Harrison and Sundstrom 2007 on barriers to more substantial international climate action.) The failures of international cooperative action on climate provided further incentive for interest in biofuels in the early 2000s, as policies for the development and promotion of biofuels did not require international collective action and had the potential to continue to foster economic growth without major changes to domestic economies and to meet other policy goals in addition to environmental aims. 3. See also “Carbon Dioxide 10 to 200 Times Greater 1.4 Billion Years Ago,” Virginia Tech News, September 17, 2003, https://​vtnews.vt.edu/​articles/​2003/​09/​2003-​265. html; Bill McKibben, “Remember This:  350 Parts per Million,” Washington Post,

Notes  169 December 28, 2007, http://​www.washingtonpost.com/​wp-​dyn/​content/​article/​2007/​ 12/​27/​AR2007122701942.html. 4. International institutions in the global arena set rules and practices around energy systems, although they are limited by the conditions of state sovereignty, restricted enforcement mechanisms, and funding constraints (Florini and Sovacool 2011). For instance, Florini and Sovacool highlight the emergence and strengthening—​and the limits—​of global institutions for energy governance, including the International Energy Agency and the International Atomic Energy Agency. 5. Political volatility in oil-​producing regions—​the Middle East, South America, western Africa—​had already created pressure for many oil-​importing countries to seek diversified energy suppliers (see Volman 2003; Coon and Phillips 2002; Jaffe and Manning 2000). In light of the political instability of some of these oil-​exporting countries, especially in the Middle East (Stevens 2008), scholars have asked questions about the connections between oil, conflict, and security. The energy-​security link, with its wider international implications, has been widely explored in the literature for decades (e.g., Deese 1979–​1980; Lieber 1980; Hughes and Lipscy 2013; Cherp and Jewell 2014). Mechanisms such as sectoral concentration, rentier behavior, and specific ownership and taxation structures (Ross 2015; Jones Luong and Weinthal 2006, 2010) have been forwarded as factors influencing state development in the resource curse scholarship. The reliance of the US on particular regions of the world has, in part, prompted its domestic search for energy alternatives and new energy supplies, providing a motivating force behind investments in both biofuels and hydraulic fracturing. 6. Volatile oil prices have invoked a series of interlocked and sometimes contradictory political responses. Low oil prices suppress the incentives for fossil fuel exploration and for more intensive energy production—​but at the same time, they might also reduce the economic viability of developing energy alternatives. Cheaper gas prices thus enable a switch away from coal and oil, but also from renewables. High energy prices increase the incentives for conservation and efficiency and also make renewable alternatives more price competitive, yet they can be problematic for consumers, especially those who are poorer. The signals, then, from an environmental and energy transition perspective, are mixed: cheap fossil fuel energy stifles renewable energy sector growth, but expensive fossil fuel energy makes more extreme forms of extraction more profitable. 7. This region, according to global estimates, held 60% of proven OPEC reserves in the early 2000s (Correlje and van der Linde 2006), which made the US’s high dependence on imported oil—​estimated at 53% in 2000—​particularly worrying for the administration at the time (Coon and Phillips 2002). 8. From George W.  Bush’s State of the Union address on January 31, 2006, https://​ georgewbush-​whitehouse.archives.gov/​stateoftheunion/​2006/​. 9. Energy analyst Robert Bradley describes industrial growth in the oil and gas sector from shale developments, especially in Pennsylvania and North Dakota, even at a time when much of the US economy was struggling: Robert Bradley Jr., “Opinion: The American Oil and Gas Industry Is Rescuing the Obama Economy,” Forbes, June 17, 2013, https://​www.forbes.com/​sites/​robertbradley/​2013/​06/​17/​

170 Notes the-​american-​oil-​gas-​industry-​is-​rescuing-​the-​obama-​economy/​#7b121ed788b3. Ma and Holditch (2015: 37) point to the UK’s implementation of tax breaks for shale development as part of the government’s strategy to revitalize its struggling economy, quoting comments on this from an article by Prime Minister David Cameron in the Telegraph: “We Cannot Afford to Miss Out on Shale Gas,” The Telegraph, August 11, 2013, https://​www.telegraph.co.uk/​news/​politics/​10236664/​We-​cannot-​afford-​to-​ miss-​out-​on-​shale-​gas.html. 10. See also Mark Green, “Hitting the wall on the RFS,” Energy Tomorrow Blog, American Petroleum Institute, March 25, 2016, https://​www.api.org/​news-​policy-​and-​issues/​ blog/​2016/​03/​25/​hitting-​the-​wall-​on-​the-​rfs. 11. See also Pousa, Santos, and Suarez (2007) for details on trials of different oils and fatty acids. 12. Bastos Lima and Gupta (2013) document over fifty countries with biofuels policies by 2011. 13. Trade and production data for figures and this section of text drawn from a series of sources: Davis (2007), Forge (2007), IEA (2007), Dauvergne and Neville (2009), European Biofuels Technology Platform (2009), Sawin et al. (2010), Eisentraut (2010), Lamers et al. (2011), OECD and FAO (2011, 2018), Lawrence and Adamson (2012), REN21 (2015), UNCTAD (2016), OECD and IEA (2018), EIA (2018), US Department of Energy (2018), RFA (2019). Also see Renewable Fuels Association, “Global Ethanol Production to Reach 85.2 Billion Litres in 2012,” June 26, 2012, http://​www.ethanolrfa. org/​news/​entry/​global-​ethanol-​production-​to-​reach-​85.2-​billion-​litres-​in-​2012/​ ; Worldwatch Institute, “Global Production of Biofuels Regains Momentum, According to New Research by Worldwatch Institute,” 2011, http://​www.worldwatch.org/​global-​ production-​biofuels-​regains-​momentum-​according-​new-​research-​worldwatch-​ institute-​1; Global Renewable Fuels Alliance, “GHG Emission Reductions from World Biofuel Production and Use,” 2009, http://​www.ascension-​publishing.com/​ BIZ/​HD28.pdf; Global Renewable Fuels Alliance, “Press Release:  Global Ethanol Production to Reach 85.9 Billion Litres in 2010:  Global Renewable Fuels Alliance Releases 2010 Biofuels Production Forecast,” March 21, 2010, http://​globalrfa. org/​news-​media/​global-​ethanol-​production-​to-​reach-​859-​billion-​litres-​in-​2010-​ global-​renewable-​fuels-​alliance-​releases-​2010-​biofuels-​production-​forecast; Bryan Sims, “US, Argentina Surge in World Biodiesel Production Rankings,” Biodiesel Magazine,  December 29, 2011, http://​www.biodieselmagazine.com/​articles/​8254/​ us-​argentina-​surge-​in-​world-​biodiesel-​production-​rankings; World Bioenergy Association, “Global Bioenergy Statistics 2019,” https://​worldbioenergy.org/​uploads/​ 191129%20WBA%20GBS%202019_​HQ.pdf; Alternative Fuels Data Centre, “Global Ethanol Production,” n.d., https://​afdc.energy.gov/​data/​10331. Note that the numbers reported in different sources vary, so these are composite estimates and should be seen as indicative of production levels and trends rather than precise figures. 14. See also Aditya Chakrabortty, “Secret Report: Biofuel Caused Food Crisis—​Internal World Bank Study Delivers Blow to Plant Energy Drive,” The Guardian, July 4, 2008, http://​www.guardian.co.uk/​environment/​2008/​jul/​03/​biofuels.renewableenergy. 15. See also Chakrabortty, “Secret Report: Biofuel Caused Food Crisis.”

Notes  171 16. A common way of differentiating biofuels from one another is to distinguish between their feedstocks, whether these are food crops or nonfood sources. Under this food-​ based divide, “first-​generation” biofuels are derived from food crops, such as palm oil, rapeseed, sugarcane, and corn, while “second-​generation” fuels are produced from nonfood sources and agricultural or forestry waste, including crop residues such as corn stover and rice husks, grasses such as switchgrass and miscanthus, and wood (see Eisentraut 2010; Gerasimchuk et al. 2012). Yet these terms can produce some confusion, as not all analysts and organizations follow the same definitions. Separate from the edibility of the crops, generational language is sometimes used to transmit information about the technological processes of conversion to fuel. Here the categories indicate the process for converting plants into biofuels, with a focus on the part of the plant or plant derivative used to produce fuel. “First generation” indicates the use of fermentation or transesterification to convert starches, sugars, fats, and oils to fuel, while “second generation” refers to hydrolysis and fermentation, as well as pyrolysis, to convert lignin and cellulose to fuel. (On these technologies and distinctions, see Pimentel 2009; Eisentraut 2010. On other chemical, biochemical, and thermochemical conversions of biomass to energy, see Demirbas, Balat, and Balat 2009). Although some analysts predicted that lignocellulosic biofuels would be commercialized by 2015, others were dubious about their potential. For optimism about these technological advances, see Wei 2011, drawing on UN-​Energy 2007; in contrast, Pimentel 2009 expresses significant doubt about the viability of liquid biofuels—​including lignocellulosic fuels—​in light of their negative energy return and dubious thermodynamic benefits. To date, it appears these projections were overly optimistic, although see Valdivia et al. (2016), who still project significant growth in the next decade. Under a food/​nonfood distinction as the dividing line between biofuels generations, the inedible plant Jatropha curcas—​ an oilseed-​ producing plant from which biodiesel can be derived—​would fall into the category of second-​generation fuels (International Service for the Acquisition of Agri-​biotech Applications 2007; Eisentraut 2010; Findlater and Kandlikar 2011; Nahar and Sunny 2011). However, if categorizing by production process, Jatropha’s pressed and purified oil uses the same process as first-​generation biofuels from oil-​bearing plants such as palm, rather than the second-​generation fuels from agricultural and forestry waste products. Other labels also exist. For instance, some analysts split “conventional” from “advanced” biofuels based on their feedstock-​to-​energy conversion processes (Gerasimchuk et al. 2012: 4). Under the terms of the US Renewable Fuels Standard as of 2010, US corn-​based bioethanol was classified as conventional, for example, while Brazilian sugarcane-​based bioethanol was advanced (Lamers et al. 2011). Beyond crop and crop waste fuels, a “third generation” largely based on algae sources is being investigated. Throughout the time period of heightened contestation over biofuels, from the early 2000s through 2012 or so, third-​generation fuels were in research-​and-​development phases. Even since 2012 they have largely occupied a place of technological and political hope as a future biofuels option rather than as a viable commercial alternative. Projections at the end of the first decade of the 2000s of algae-​based biofuels markets could be found in a range of market reports, media coverage, and corporate documents,

172 Notes including Emerging Markets Online, Algae 2020:  Vol 2:  Global Biofuels, Drop-​in Fuels, Biochems Markets and Forecasts, 2011 Update, http://​www.emerging-​markets. com/​algae/​Algae2020StudyandCommercializationOutlook.pdf, with information on corporate partnerships, investments, and venture capital for algae-​based biofuels from, among others, BP:  “BP and Martek Biosciences Enter a Joint Development Agreement to Deliver Advanced Biodiesels,” BP Global Press Release, August 11, 2009, http://​www.bp.com/​en/​global/​corporate/​press/​press-​releases/​bp-​and-​martek-​ biosciences-​enter-​a-​joint-​development-​agreement-​to-​deliver-​advanced-​biodiesels. html; Wall Street Journal commentators: Mara Lemos Stein, “The Summer of Algae,” Wall Street Journal Blogs—​Venture Capital Dispatch, July 14, 2009, http://​blogs.wsj. com/​venturecapital/​2009/​07/​14/​the-​summer-​of-​algae/​; and Novozymes:  “Second-​ Generation Biofuels Are Closer Than You Think,” Biotimes, March 2009, http://​ www.biotimes.com/​en/​articles/​2009/​March/​Pages/​S econd-​generation-​biofuels-​ are-​closer-​than-​you-​think.aspx. The promise of these fuels remains unrealized, with observers expressing doubt about their future potential; for instance, one technology observer offered an updated assessment in 2017 of algae-​based biofuels, doubting they would reach commercial levels for fuel: Eric Wesoff, “Hard Lessons from the Great Algae Biofuel Bubble,” GreenTech Media, April 19, 2017, https://​www. greentechmedia.com/​articles/​read/​lessons-​from-​the-​great-​algae-​biofuel-​bubble#gs. DBZGysU. Along with the generational divides and other categories described earlier, some researchers also differentiate between the scale and type of production of bioethanol and biodiesel by calling small-​scale initiatives “biofuels” and the commercial, large-​scale, industrialized projects “agrofuels.” Others, though, including myself, use the terms interchangeably, without these political connotations. (See McMichael 2010: 609 for further discussion of this term.) 17. For more on US withdrawal from the Kyoto Protocol and the international implications for climate action, see Hovi, Skodvin, and Andresen 2003: 1; on the domestic dynamics and perceptions in the US at the time, see Leiserowitz 2006. 18. As reported in the media, e.g., “Greenpeace in Alternative Fuel Giveaway,” Belfast News Letter, March 6, 2001, site no longer operative; “Greenpeace Joins Drivers for Chat, Tea and a Message,” The Guardian, November 13, 2000, http://​www. theguardian.com/​uk/​2000/​nov/​13/​oil.business. 19. Greenpeace UK, “Cause for Concern:  Extreme Weather and Climate Change Explained,” August 18, 2003, site no longer operative. 20. See also media coverage, e.g., “Greenpeace Joins Drivers for Chat, Tea and a Message”; “Plea for Biofuel Tax Incentives,” Europe Intelligence Wire, March 17, 2004, site no longer operative. 21. “EU Must Ensure Bioenergy Is Really ‘Green,’ ” WWF News Centre, December 7, 2005, http://​wwf.panda.org/​?53140/​EU-​must-​ensure-​bioenergy-​is-​really-​green. 22. See also media report: “Food Crisis Being Felt around World: Market Chaos, Riots,” National Post, April 1, 2008. Some of the unrest was part of what became the Arab Spring, a series of revolutionary protests leading to government challenges and changes in several Middle Eastern and North African states. At the end of 2010 a Tunisian vegetable seller lit himself on fire in a public act of desperation that would

Notes  173 garner media attention around the world and catalyze further uprisings in the country and the region:  Rebecca Solnit, “The Death That Sparked a Revolution,” Salon, October 18, 2011, http://​www.salon.com/​2011/​10/​18/​mohammed_​bouazizi_​ ows/​. The democratization movements were not the product of food price spikes, but food prices and access were viewed by a number of scholars as one of the catalysts for protest (e.g., Rosenberg 2011; Gana 2012). The causes of food price spikes in the Middle East and North Africa were not attributed by all analysts to biofuels; for instance, Sternberg (2012) points to drought in China as a driver of change in global wheat markets and prices, with consequences for food prices in Egypt. Still, even if not the only driver of changing food prices, biofuels were viewed by many as contributing to food price increases and volatility. 23. RSB, “What Is RSB: The Roundtable on Sustainable Biomaterials,” n.d., http://​rsb.org/​ about/​what-​is-​rsb/​. 24. I  attended this meeting as part of the International Institute for Sustainable Development Reporting Service’s Earth Negotiations Bulletin team; to respect confidentiality agreements through IISD, all material used from this meeting is taken from the publicly available ENB (2008) report. 25. See also “UN Independent Rights Expert Calls for Five-​Year Freeze on Biofuel Production,” UN News Centre, October 26, 2007, https://​news.un.org/​en/​story/​ 2007/​10/​237362-​un-​independent-​r ights-​expert-​c alls-​f ive-​year-​f reeze-​biofuel-​ production#.VJ7zosAAM; Julian Borger, “UN Chief Calls for Review of Biofuels Policy,” The Guardian, April 5, 2008, http://​www.guardian.co.uk/​environment/​2008/​ apr/​05/​biofuels.food; Grant Ferrett, “Biofuels ‘Crime against Humanity,’ ” BBC News, October 27, 2007, http://​news.bbc.co.uk/​2/​hi/​7065061.stm. 26. For a later assessment that attributes food price increases in part to biofuels, see Lagi et al. 2011. For another assessment of drivers of the biodiesel industry, see Szulczyk and McCarl 2010. 27. On the concept of a “food regime,” see McMichael 2005, 2009b, 2012. See Clapp (2009a) for an analysis of food price volatility and vulnerability in the context of longer-​term shifts in the global food system. For more systematic assessments of the food system, including the historical development of international food aid and the emergence of the concept of food security, see Clapp (2012a, 2012b) and McDonald (2010), among others. 28. Tracking the relationship between energy prices and other economic sectors is challenging in light of complex causality associated with value chains, and contradictory research exists in the economics literature on the relationship between oil prices and other commodity prices. 29. After documenting the divergent literature, Reboredo (2012:  456) tracks the relationship between crude oil and agricultural markets from 1998 to 2011, with results supporting the “neutrality of agricultural commodity markets to the effects of changes in oil prices.” However, his work also suggests that the correlational relationship between oil and both corn and soybean prices has strengthened over time, especially from 2007 on. Rather than attributing fluctuation in agricultural prices to oil prices, he hypothesizes that there is a common cause for price changes in both sectors. The

174 Notes increasing coupling of food and fuel prices is documented by other scholars too, although with caveats about the significant variations in these estimates based on model assumptions and specifications (Rosegrant and Msangi 2014). 30. As reported by the BBC: “Food Prices Jump Will Hit Poor, World Bank Warns,” BBC News, August 30, 2012, http://​www.bbc.co.uk/​news/​world-​19431890. 31. James Melik, “Nestlé Blames Biofuels for High Food Prices,” BBC News, July 17, 2012, http://​www.bbc.co.uk/​news/​business-​18858444. 32. L.  I. Lula da Silva, “Statement at the FAO High-​Level Conference on World Food Security:  The Challenges of Climate Change and Bioenergy,” June 3, 2008, Rome, http://​www.fao.org/​fileadmin/​user_​upload/​foodclimate/​statements/​brazil_​lula.pdf. 33. The language of emptiness, marginality, and openness has great political significance across social and environmental contexts and has in many cases been linked to a top-​ down project of state control. For a discussion of the power of the “frontier myth” in North America, see Cronon (1995); on empty lands and the African colonial project, see Ngugi (2009); on the politics of characterizing coastal African communities as idle and unproductive, see Havnevik (1993, especially part II). 34. See also Exner et al. (2015) for a close examination of how different terms are used to justify different types of enclosures. 35. With thanks to Andrea Olive for this observation. 36. Georgi Gorev, “Late Publication of Biofuels Study Raises Questions,” EurActiv, March 16, 2016, http://​www.euractiv.com/​section/​energy/​news/​late-​publication-​of-​ biofuels-​study-​raises-​questions/​. 37. Thembi Mutch, “Jatropha Biofuels:  The True Cost to Tanzania,” The Ecologist, February 15, 2010, http://​www.theecologist.org/​trial_​investigations/​414648/​jatropha_​biofuels_​the_​true_​cost_​to_​tanzania.html. 38. These debates have been underway for many years; on the competing analyses of the Green Revolution, see, e.g., Freebairn (1995). 39. See essays in Ross (2014) that use this term, capitalization included; see also, among others, Borras et al. (2012, especially pp. 845–​847). 40. Reuters, “Biofuel Demand Driving Africa ‘Land Grab’—​Report,” August 29, 2010, http://​ www.reuters.com/​article/​2010/​08/​30/​idUSCOC978287; “Hedge Funds ‘Grabbing Land’ in Africa,” BBC News, June 8, 2011, http://​www.bbc.co.uk/​news/​world-​africa-​13688683. 41. Damian Carrington, “UK Firm’s Failed Biofuel Dream Wrecks Lives of Tanzania Villagers,” The Guardian, October 30, 2011, http://​www.guardian.co.uk/​environment/​2011/​oct/​30/​africa-​poor-​west-​biofuel-​betrayal. 42. Figures from Todd Neeley, “US Biofuel Subsidies Too Much:  A Global Subsidies Initiative Report Suggests That the US Back Off Biofuel Subsidies and Examine Other Ways to Boost the Industry,” DTN, October 29, 2007, http://​www.iisd.org/​pdf/​2007/​ media_​us_​biofuel_​too_​much.pdf and “Subsidies to Biofuels: A Time to Take Stock,” Subsidy Watch: Bulletin of the Global Subsidies Initiative, 2007, http://​www.iisd.org/​ gsi/​news/​subsidies-​biofuels-​time-​take-​stock, as noted by Dauvergne and Neville (2009: 1096), and Pimentel (2009: 208) citing Koplow (2006). 43. Friends of the Earth, Environmental Working Group, and Clean Air Task Force, “Joint Letter to the Senate Environmental and Public Works Committee from

Notes  175 Environmental Groups Encouraging the Suspension of the Renewable Fuels Standard,” 2008, http://​libcloud.s3.amazonaws.com/​93/​d6/​6/​1357/​Carper_​RFS_​ letter_​CATF_​FOE_​EWG.pdf. 44. GMWatch, “Environmental Groups Condemn IPCC Call for Large Scale Biofuels as a Climate Disaster in the Making,” May 4, 2007, http://​www.gmwatch.org/​index.php/​ news/​archive/​2007/​4567-​ipcc-​call-​for-​large-​scale-​biofuels-​condemned-​biofuels-​ the-​next-​big-​threat-​to-​africa. 45. See also Branding Strategy Insider, “BP’s Oil and Brand Equity Spill in the Gulf,” The Blake Project, 2010, http://​www.brandingstrategyinsider.com/​2010/​05/​bps-​oil-​and-​ brand-​equity-​spill-​in-​the-​gulf.html. 46. Greenbiz, “Chevron Creates Biofuels Alliance at Texas A&M,” May 30, 2007, http://​ www.greenbiz.com/​news/​2007/​05/​30/​chevron-​creates-​biofuels-​alliance-​texas-​am; “BP Selects UC Berkeley to Lead $500 Million Energy Research Consortium with Partners Lawrence Berkeley National Lab, University of Illinois,” UC Berkeley News, February 1, 2007, http://​berkeley.edu/​news/​media/​releases/​2007/​02/​01_​ebi.shtml. 47. Greenbiz, “Chevron Creates Biofuels Alliance at Texas A&M.” 48. The short form is an amended version of industry’s term fraccing and has generated substantial public and academic debate. Evidence in the literature suggests that the term fracking has negative connotations, although mixed results have emerged from studies of public perceptions of such extractive techniques based on the terminology used to describe these activities (Evensen et al. 2014; Evensen 2016; Stoutenborough, Robinson, and Vedlitz 2016a, 2016b). 49. Industry associations such as the American Petroleum Industry (API) and the Canadian Association of Petroleum Producers (CAPP) point to a history of fracking that dates back to the 1940s and 1950s. For instance, in Canada a CAPP insider wrote a piece for the Yukon News in 2015 titled “Don’t Fear Fracking,” in which he explained, “In jurisdictions where hydraulic fracturing is a long-​standing practice, such as British Columbia, Alberta and Saskatchewan, experience demonstrates the process is done safely and responsibly, a result of robust regulations and industry best practices. More than 215,000 wells have been hydraulically fractured in Alberta, B.C. and Saskatchewan over the past 60 years” (Yukon News, March 4, 2015, https://​ www.yukon-​news.com/​letters-​opinions/​dont-​fear-​fracking/​). Similarly, claiming a lengthy US history of fracking, an article on the API website stated, “Hydraulic fracturing is a proven technology used safely for more than 60 years in more than a million wells. It uses water pressure to create fissures in deep underground shale formations that allow oil and natural gas to flow. First used in the U.S. in 1947, the technology has been continuously improved upon since that time” (“Hydraulic Fracturing: Safe Oil and Natural Gas Extraction,” accessed May 7, 2020, http://​www.api.org/​oil-​and-​ natural-​gas/​wells-​to-​consumer/​exploration-​and-​production/​hydraulic-​fracturing/​ fracking-​safe-​oil-​gas-​extraction). In their work tracing the politics of fracking in Saskatchewan, Carter and Eaton (2016: 395–​396) document the history of fracking technologies, noting their commercial origins in the 1940s and subsequent use in stimulating production from conventional wells and their expansion into unconventional production in the 2000s.

176 Notes 50. Zuckerman (2013) presents an unabashedly enthusiastic look at technological and financial developments in fracking in the US in the 1990s and early 2000s, with a focus on a few individuals who were involved in exploration activities in shale in the US. 51. Clifford Krauss, “There’s Gas in Those Hills,” New York Times, April 8, 2008, https://​ www.nytimes.com/​2008/​04/​08/​business/​08gas.html. The BC provincial government heralded shale as a “game changer” in its Natural Gas Strategy, which it presented as “fuelling B.C.’s economy for the next decade and beyond” (BC Ministry of Energy and Mines 2012: 6). 52. “Obama’s Speech in Lansing, Michigan,” transcript, New York Times, August 4, 2008, http://​www.nytimes.com/​2008/​08/​04/​us/​politics/​04text-​obama.html. 53. Christa Marshall, “Sierra Club Leader Lays Out Climate Vision for the Future,” Environment and Energy News, October 10, 2008, https://​www.eenews.net/​stories/​ 69992; “Sierra Club’s Pro-​Gas Dilemma,” Wall Street Journal, December 21, 2009, A3; “U.S. Gas Fields Go from Bust to Boom,” Wall Street Journal, April 30, 2009, A12. 54. Robert F. Kennedy Jr., “King Coal,” Huffington Post Blog, August 26, 2009, https://​ www.huffingtonpost.com/​robert-​f-​kennedy-​jr/​king-​coal_​b_​245117.html. 55. Peter Lehner, “Natural Gas—​ A Bridge to the New Energy Economy,” NRDC Blog, October 7, 2008, https://​www.nrdc.org/​experts/​peter-​lehner/​natural-​gas​bridge-​new-​energy-​economy. 56. Sierra Club, Beyond Natural Gas Campaign, Facebook page, accessed August 19, 2018, https://​www.facebook.com/​pg/​Beyond-​Natural-​Gas-​Campaign-​for-​Sierra-​ Club-​474410519284048/​about. 57. Details on the Park Foundation’s granting activities are publicly available:  http://​ parkfoundation.org/​grants-​awarded/​?coding=282. 58. Jon Entine, “University of Texas–​Environmental Defense Fund Shale Gas Study Unmasks Politics of Anti-​Fracking Activist Cornell Scientists,” Forbes, September 18, 2013, https://​www.forbes.com/​sites/​jonentine/​2013/​09/​18/​university-​of-​texas-​ environmental-​defense-​fund-​shale-​gas-​study-​unmasks-​politics-​of-​anti-​fracking-​ activist-​cornell-​scientists/​. 59. On the role of Twitter as a tool for organizers to rally geographically dispersed participants and develop a shared sense of solidarity across space, see Hopke (2015). 60. For the Global Frackdown website and list of partners, see https://​globalfrackdown. org/​and https://​globalfrackdown.org/​global-​frackdown-​partners/​. 61. “France Cements Fracking Ban,” The Guardian, October 11, 2013, https://​www. theguardian.com/​environment/​2013/​oct/​11/​france-​fracking-​ban-​shale-​gas. 62. The Delaware-​based NGO Keep Tap Water Safe maintains a list of global bans and moratoria on fracking:  “List of Bans Worldwide,” accessed April 2, 2018, https://​ keeptapwatersafe.org/​global-​bans-​on-​fracking/​. 63. See Malin (2014: 20) on farmers’ incentives to allow gas drilling in Pennsylvania. 64. In the 2000s enthusiasm surged for “scalable” solutions to environment and development challenges, often envisioned as technological advances. These anticipated solutions included geoengineering, which some promoted as a way to speed up carbon sequestration. One such geoengineering strategy is ocean iron fertilization, which involves dumping iron ore into oceans to stimulate planktonic growth that

Notes  177 requires carbon. See Fuentes-​George (2017) on transnational advocacy coalitions and discursive battles over ocean iron fertilization. Along with technological developments, social programs to integrate economic development and carbon mitigation were also of interest to the global community. Governments and corporations alike expressed interest in programs to reduce emissions from deforestation and land degradation while serving development goals in the Global South, as documented by Allan and Dauvergne (2013). Starting in the early 2000s, the use of forests as carbon sinks and programs to promote forest conservation as a climate mitigation strategy have been debated in international negotiations under RED, REDD, and REDD+ titles—​variations on reducing emissions from deforestation and forest degradation, where the “plus” refers to “conservation, the sustainable management of forests, and enhancement of forest carbon stocks” (Allan and Dauvergne 2013: 1308). Many scholars have examined contradictions and challenges within forest carbon projects (the broader category of forest conservation measures for climate aims), including issues of procedural justice (Marion Suiseeya and Caplow 2013), land tenure security (Larson et al. 2013), and the need for community involvement in the implementation and monitoring of REDD+ programs (Pratihast et al. 2013).

Chapter 3 1. Some work on social movements presents similar ideas in terms of “spillover” effects. As Meyer and Whittier (1994:  277) write, “Because social movements aspire to change not only specific policies, but also broad cultural and institutional structures, they have effects far beyond their explicitly articulated goals. The ideas, tactics, style, participants, and organization of one movement often spill over its boundaries to affect other social movements.” These links across diverse movements might be understood in terms of symbolic resonance, strategic learning, and shared repertoires of contention. 2. Even when news reports offered more balanced analyses, the headlines themselves perpetuated the idea of biofuels forcing this stark choice. See, for example, these illustrative news articles:  Susan Albright, “Food vs. Fuel:  Fast-​Rising Costs Raise Specter of Hunger,” MinnPost, April 14, 2008, http://​www.minnpost.com/​ politics- ​ p olicy/​ 2 008/​ 0 4/​ food-​ v s-​ f uel-​ f ast-​ r ising- ​ c osts- ​ r aise- ​ s pecter- ​ hunger; Russell Blinch, “Analysis:  Smaller US Corn Crop Renews Food vs. Fuel Debate,” Reuters, March 31, 2008, http://​uk.reuters.com/​article/​2008/​03/​31/​usa-​crops-​corn-​ idUKN3140546820080331; Lisa Shumaker, “New U.S. Group Defends Ethanol in Food vs. Fuel Fight,” Reuters, July 24, 2008, http://​uk.reuters.com/​article/​2008/​07/​ 24/​us-​biofuels-​alliance-​idUKN2429978720080724; “Solving the Biofuels vs. Food Problem,” Time Science, January 7, 2008, http://​content.time.com/​time/​health/​article/​0,8599,1701221,00.html. 3. On industry claims that fracking is a safe and known technology in the oil and gas industry, see “Fracking: Not New, Not Risky,” Saskatoon Star-​Phoenix, October 21, 2013,

178 Notes reprinted by the Canadian Association of Petroleum Producers, site no longer operative. On the development of contemporary fracking technologies by US wildcatters, see Zuckerman (2013). 4. The “shale gale” language has been used by proponents and critics alike; see, e.g., Eric Wesoff, “Fracking and the Natural Gas ‘shale gale’: Does the Ascendance of Cheap Natural Gas from Fracking Come at the Expense of Renewables?,” GreenTech Media, April 24, 2012, https://​www.greentechmedia.com/​articles/​read/​the-​natural-​gas-​ shale-​gale, and Andrew Nikiforuk, “Opinion: Debunking the ‘Shale Gale’: Industry Has ‘Overblown’ the Benefits of Shale Gas, According to a New Report,” The Tyee, May 16, 2011, https://​thetyee.ca/​Opinion/​2011/​05/​16/​ShaleGale/​. 5. There is an expansive and complex literature on the role of norms in global governance and in transnational contention, which is beyond the scope of this book. While I draw from Keck and Sikkink’s (1998) work on the strategies and sources of power of transnational advocacy networks, I leave to others the work of engaging with norm development, deployment, and diffusion. For instance, building on Keck and Sikkink, Risse and Sikkink (1999) propose a spiral model to explain the unevenness of effectiveness of boomerangs involving transnational advocacy networks, looking at the stages of norm development and diffusion. Further, as examined by Hochstetler (2002) and Khagram (2004), norm deployment can be central to the expansion of local resistance efforts, although the role of norms is mediated by domestic institutions and governance structures. The alignment of norms with preexisting interests and concerns can shape norm uptake: as Blondeel, Colgan, and Van de Graaf (2019) find, in the context of campaigns against extractive industries, “norm campaigns are more likely to succeed when the actions they prescribe are framed as a solution to salient problems that potential adopters face, even if different from the problem that originally motivated norm entrepreneurs.” 6. Similarly, although with attention to where in the world these processes are taking place, Witko (2014: 349) defines financialization as “growth in the relative importance of financial compared to other types of economic activity in affluent economies.” 7. French et al. (2011: 799) identify two central ways that the term has been used in research on changing economic systems:  one, to describe broad transformations in society and the economy, with attention to the growing power of the financial sector; two, to describe the increasing power of financial ideas, values, and tools on shaping the behavior of individual actors (companies, households, people). A deepening literature on financialization, especially in the context of agriculture and farmland, explores concepts of accumulation and investment, with unresolved debates on the intersections of history, geography, and finance in the global economy, and on the exceptionalism (or its lack) of the current financial system. Davis and Kim’s (2015:  203) review article highlights the implications of these financial trends for changing social structures and institutions, pointing to how financialization shapes “patterns of inequality, culture, and social change.” On financialization in agriculture, see especially Martin and Clapp (2015), Clapp (2014, 2015), and Fairbairn (2014), and on the history of the current financial system for agriculture, see Ouma (2016).

Notes  179 8. As also highlighted by Neville et al. (2019), Lazonick and O’Sullivan (2000) document the increasing importance of shareholder value in the US private sector, and Gamble and Kelly (2001) track a similar rise in shareholder power in the UK. 9. The mobility of capital and abstraction of finance have been accelerating since at least the 1970s, a time described by Arrighi (1994) as a pivotal moment in the global economy in terms of the circulation of global capital. While economic globalization is not a new phenomenon, the integration of economies and abstraction of finance, enabled by rapid transportation and extensive telecommunications technologies, has extended the reach and intensified the impacts of globalization. 10. See also Fairbairn (2014: 780–​781) for a discussion of various strands of the literature on financialization and agriculture. 11. Arrighi’s work builds on Fernand Braudel’s analysis of capitalism (Lapavitsas 2013), while ideas of fictitious commodities also follow from Karl Polanyi’s (1944) seminal work on the production of commodities and conditions of exploitation. 12. In work on global financial governance, Germain (2007: 72) highlights the “increasingly integrated nature of the world’s financial systems” and argues that “changes associated with the emergence of the ‘new global finance’ have transformed financial institutions into purveyors of ‘risk products,’ ” whereby these institutions develop new ways of structuring, bundling, and exchanging risk in ways that obscure and increase systemic vulnerabilities. 13. As Baines (2017) describes, hedging and speculative activity in derivatives markets can create price swings for commodities that are abstracted from the actual state of any given commodity’s availability or production. That said, Baines and others do not suggest that financial products are entirely disconnected from their material underpinnings. Isakson (2015: 569) recalls, “The growing array of seemingly ethereal financial products is ultimately tethered to the concrete.” Further, Carter and Power (2018) highlight that although some research suggests that underlying features of commodity markets are disconnected from commodity prices, there is mixed evidence in the economics literature on the consequences of financial speculation on price volatility. 14. Beyond competing theories of the state and work on the rise of global governance and transnationalism, the legitimacy and authority of contemporary states are challenged by scholars of Indigenous politics. Among others, see, for instance, Simpson (2017) on Michi Saagiig internationalism, Coulthard (2014) on Indigenous resurgence and the centrality of land, and Daigle (2016) on the spatial dimensions of colonialism and place-​based ontologies and practices of self-​determination by Omushkegowuk Cree. These theories, models, and accounts challenge colonial models of nationhood and enable an understanding of the coexistence of nations in specific places that transcends anthropocentric models and hierarchical orders. 15. In the academic realm, a surge of articles and special issues of journals on various dimensions of “land grabs” have been published since 2009; for instance, the Journal of Peasant Studies released collections on “new frontiers of land control” (in 2011, vol. 38, no. 4) and “biofuels, land and agrarian change” (in 2010, vol. 37, no. 4), as well as articles including “Green Grabbing:  A New Appropriation of Nature”

180 Notes (Fairhead, Leach, and Scoones 2012) and “Conservation, Green/​Blue Grabbing and Accumulation by Dispossession in Tanzania” (Benjaminsen and Bryceson 2012). Geoforum published a special section on “Beyond Land Grabbing” (Pedersen and Buur 2016). Other journals and popular magazines have also compiled investigations into resource acquisitions and appropriations. National Geographic ran a series on “water grabbing” (Sandra Postel, “Grabbing at Solutions: Water for the Hungry First,” National Geographic, December 14, 2012, http://​farmlandgrab.org/​post/​view/​21433), and Water Alternatives published “Water Grabbing? Focus on the (Re)appropriation of Finite Water resources” (in 2012, vol. 5, no. 2), among others. 16. On land rights and identity, see also Shipton (2009) on the conflicts between community attachment to land and state-​orchestrated land titling and commercialization policies in Kenya (as summarized and cited by Mujere 2011: 1126), and Malkki (1992) on problematizing the link between place and identity to accommodate the creation of new attachments in the context of migration and shifting patterns of mobility (as outlined by Mujere 2011: 1126). For further work on place-​based identity-​ formation, see Groves (2015) on environmental justice and place attachment, and Castree (2004: 137) and Bryant (2002) on the intersections of local, transnational, and translocal approaches to understanding group claims to resources as well as social movements for culture and territory. 17. Notably, and as will be explored in ­chapter 5’s look at the Yukon, the settler-​states of the Global North also have long histories of colonialism, dispossession, and displacement. Exploitation and injustice are shared legacies, although the specific histories and divergent contemporary legal structures around landownership shape the differing uptake of discourses across these national and regional contexts. Across regions and countries, the state (including the judiciary) plays a complicated role in enabling and mediating land acquisitions, as examined by Grajales (2015) in Colombia. 18. In the US, for instance, both subsurface and surface rights are generally private, but these titles are not always linked; this can lead to conflict between landowners and mineral rights owners (e.g., in Pennsylvania, as described by Chalfant and Corrigan 2019: 81; in Colorado, as described by Wylie 2018:6). The split between surface and subsurface rights is also the case in Canada; however, in Canada (and also Australia) most subsurface rights are held by the Crown—​that is, publicly held by the government (Luke and Evensen 2018: 136). 19. See also Chris Tomlinson, “Big Oil Companies Are Rolling Up Shale Plays, Just in Time,” Houston Chronicle, November 4, 2018, https://​www.houstonchronicle.com/​ business/​columnists/​tomlinson/​article/​Big-​oil-​companies-​are-​rolling-​up-​shale-​ plays-​13358909.php; Chris Tomlinson, “Big Oil Is Settling into the Permian, So Where Will the Wildcatters Go Next?,” Houston Chronicle, March 8, 2019, https://​ www.houstonchronicle.com/​business/​columnists/​tomlinson/​article/​Big-​Oil-​is-​ settling-​into-​the-​Permian-​so-​where-​13670505.php. 20. Jad Mouawad, “Oil Tops Inflation-​Adjusted Record Set in 1980,” New  York Times, March 4, 2008, https://​www.nytimes.com/​2008/​03/​04/​business/​worldbusiness/​04oil. html.

Notes  181 21. James Surowiecki, “How Low Can Oil Go?,” New Yorker, December 22, 2014, https://​ www.newyorker.com/​magazine/​2014/​12/​22/​low-​can-​oil-​go; Brad Plumer, “Why Oil Prices Keep Falling—​and Throwing the World into Turmoil,” Vox, January 6, 2015, https://​www.vox.com/​2014/​12/​16/​7401705/​oil-​prices-​falling; although note that there are conflicting findings about the role of speculation in driving price volatility (Boyd, Harris, and Li 2018). 22. Efforts to exploit Alaskan oil reserves were already underway by the early 1970s, with the development of the Trans-​Alaska Pipeline System; renewed commitment to this project accompanied the constriction of energy supplies. Coates (1991:  248–​249) documented the signing of the Trans-​Alaska Pipeline Authorization Act by President Richard Nixon and the launch of “Project Independence,” aimed at US energy self-​sufficiency. 23. On the dynamics of corporate-​controlled agriculture, see also Clapp and Fuchs (2009). 24. Oxfam, “Global Food and Beverage Companies Call for G20 Action on Biofuels, High Food Prices,” November 3, 2011, https://​www.oxfam.ca/​news/​global-​food-​and-​ beverage-​companies-​g20-​statement-​2011-​11-​03/​. 25. The 2001 WTO Ministerial in Doha had been anticipated as the “development round,” where countries of the Global South were hopeful that previous imbalances in trade negotiations—​especially on agriculture—​would be mediated; the unwillingness of northern countries to compromise on domestic protectionist measures in agriculture, among other issues, led to an impasse and to protracted negotiations that are still currently underway (WTO, “The Doha Round,” n.d., https://​www.wto.org/​english/​ tratop_​e/​dda_​e/​dda_​e.htm). As Clapp (2004: 1440) notes, the success of the Doha Round hinged on issues of trade in agriculture, specifically “a revision of the 1994 Agreement on Agriculture,” including with respect to implications for rules on food aid and export credits. 26. This analysis draws from ideas of the environmentalism of the poor, as articulated by Guha and Martínez Alier (1997) and Martínez Alier (2002) and expanded by others (e.g., Nixon 2011; Anguelovski and Martínez Alier 2014), where communities (often racialized) who bear the social and ecological burdens of environmental degradation are on the front lines of resistance, using creative, adaptive, and sophisticated strategies of mobilization and alliance-​building. 27. Although sometimes there are unexpected tipping points in mobilization, leading to mass participation beyond the expectations and organizational capacities of movement leaders. For a detailed look at the intersection of such moments of mass uprising with longer-​term structural organizing in nonviolent resistance, see Engler and Engler (2016); on scholarly debates over the role of organizations in mass mobilization, see also Snow, Soule, and Kriesi (2004: especially 9–​10) and Amenta et al. (2010: especially 288–​289).

182 Notes

Chapter 4 1. This event was also described and analyzed in Neville (2012). As noted in Neville (2012:  176), the events surrounding the court hearing and subsequent meeting with the vice-​president were described in a website post by Serah Munguti, the communication and advocacy manager for NatureKenya, 23 February 2011, www. tanariverdelta.org. The same information was shared with a collection of conservation groups, researchers, and activists by email. As I was in Kenya for fieldwork at the time, I observed both the high court gathering and the conversation with the vice president; the email from NatureKenya was also shared with me. 2. Private correspondence with advocacy organizations in Kenya, February 2011. 3. Royal Society for the Protection of Birds Media Centre, “Biofuels Plan Lands Government in Court,” July 17, 2008, https://​ww2.rspb.org.uk/​our-​work/​rspb-​news/​ news/​194515-​biofuels-​plan-​lands-​government-​in-​court. 4. See also media and NGO reports, including Zeddy Sambu, “Involve Tana Residents in Land Use Planning, Court Rules,” Business Daily, February 7, 2013, www. businessdailyafrica.com/​Involve-​Tana-​residents-​in-​land-​use-​planning/​-​/​539546/​ 1687628/​-​/​3udcwgz/​-​/​index.html, and Royal Society for the Protection of Birds Media Centre, “Biofuels Plan Lands Government in Court,” July 17, 2008, https://​ww2.rspb.org. uk/​our-​work/​rspb-​news/​news/​194515-​biofuels-​plan-​lands-​government-​in-​court. 5. At the time, many of the FAO and other international organizations’ publications and research documents admitted to the complexity of these labels and land uses and to the still unknown consequences of projects like biofuels. For instance, the FAO’s 2008 State of Food and Agriculture report cautioned, “It is not unusual to hear claims that significant tracts of marginal land exist that could be dedicated to biofuel production, thus reducing the conflict with food crops and offering a new source of income to poor farmers. Although such lands would be less productive and subject to higher risks, using them for bioenergy plantations could have secondary benefits, such as restoration of degraded vegetation, carbon sequestration and local environmental services. In most countries, however, the suitability of this land for sustainable biofuel production is poorly documented” (67). On the need for definitions of marginality and other similar terms, and land estimates of these areas, see Cotula, Dyer, and Vermeulen (2008:  especially 3, 20–​23,  61). 6. These poverty statistics are based on data taken from the Kenya Integrated Household Budget Survey from the Kenya Bureau of Statistics, as reported by Kenya Open Data (https://​opendata.go.ke/​Poverty/​Poverty-​Rate-​by-​District/​i5bp-​z9aq). The report explains that the survey measures “the percent of population and number of poor below the Kenya poverty line of Ksh 1,562 per month in rural areas; and Ksh 2,913 in urban areas per person per month; based on estimated expenditures on minimum provisions of food and non-​food items.” 7. Some of these projects have been advanced by international financial and development institutions. As Temper (2013: 144) writes, “The Tana region could house a museum featuring failed World Bank (WB) projects. From conservation parks

Notes  183 constructed as zoos to keep the local population out, to shrimp farms that destroyed valuable mangroves, to misconceived irrigation projects, the delta is testament to the failure of the Bank’s strategy of top-​down projects that fail to take the local peoples and environments into account.” 8. See Duvail et al. (2012), Emerton and Bos (2004), Odhengo et al. (2012), Temper (2012). See also news reports, e.g., “Jinxed Tana Delta Takes the Stage as State Mulls over Stalled Projects,” Standard Digital News, June 22, 2010, https://​www. standardmedia.co.ke/​business/​article/​2000012213/​jinxed-​tana-​delta-​takes-​the-​ stage-​as-​state-​mulls-​over-​stalled-​projects; Parselelo Kantai, “Kenya’s Tana Delta Burning,” Africa Report, December 11, 2012, http://​www.theafricareport.com/​News-​ Analysis/​kenyas-​tana-​delta-​burning.html. 9. Laura Secorum, “ ‘I Can’t Abandon My Land’: The Livelihoods Threatened by Kenya’s Tana River​Plans​,” The Guardian, December 12, 2016, https://​www.theguardian.com/​ sustainable-​business/​2016/​dec/​12/​tana-​river-​kenya-​dam-​water-​business. 10. Communities were first approached in 2008, according to local villagers in the Tana delta with whom I  spoke on December 3, 2010. This account conflicts with Krijtenburg and Evers (2014: 2737), who report that discussions with ranch owners began in 2009. 11. Mukhwana et al. (2016: 120) note that a seventh ranch was initially part of the Bedford development plan. 12. Faße and Grote (2015) present the potential for Jatropha curcas to support rural livelihoods in Tanzania through its role as a host plant for spices, leading them to conclude (cautiously) that it might be a valuable addition to an integrated agroforestry system. 13. Such agroforestry options were not mentioned in the environmental impact assessment for the Bedford project (Bedford Biofuels 2010). 14. Meeting with villagers, December 3, 2010, Tana delta. See also a quote from a member of the Tana Youth Federation Network on the potential employment benefits from the project from interviews by Arevalo et al. (2014: 142). 15. Meeting with villager, December 3, 2010, Tana delta. 16. Meeting with villagers, December 3, 2010, Tana delta. 17. Meeting with villager, November 30, 2010, Tana delta. 18. See Robyn Dixon, “Biofuel Project in Kenya Ignites Land, Environmental Disputes,” Los Angeles Times, June 22, 2013, http://​articles.latimes.com/​2013/​jun/​22/​world/​la-​ fg-​kenya-​biofuel-​20130622; Nature Canada, “Bedford Biofuels’ Kenyan Plantation in an Important Bird Area Goes Belly Up,” June 3, 2013, http://​naturecanada.ca/​news/​ blog/​bedford-​biofuels-​kenyan-​plantation-​in-​an-​important-​bird-​area-​goes-​belly-​ up/​. Details on Bedford and its projects were also obtained in meetings with Tana delta villagers, December 2010. For a timeline of Bedford’s activities, see Arevalo et al. (2014: 141). The conditions under which Bedford left the delta remain unclear, but Mukhwana et al. (2016: 124) suggest that the Bedford project was abandoned as a result of low prices in global carbon markets. 19. As reported by the Alberta Securities Commission, August 16, 2017, “Settlement Agreement and Undertaking:  David Gregor McClure. Citation:  Re McClure,

184 Notes 2017 ABASC 144,” http://​www.albertasecurities.com/​Notices%20Decisions%20 Orders%20%20Rulings/ ​ E nforcement/ ​ M CCLURE,%20David%20Gregor%20 SAU%202017%2008%2016%205350606v6.pdf, and in the media, e.g., “ASC Concludes Settlement Agreement with David Gregor McClure,” Newswire, August 18, 2017, https://​www.newswire.ca/​news-​releases/​asc-​concludes-​settlement-​agreement-​ with-​david-​gregor-​mcclure-​641005623.html. 20. Ethical Sugar, “News Today,” October 30, 2006, site no longer operative. A Reuters article on the deal was published in 2005, placing the value of the deal at $300 million: https://​fp.brecorder.com/​2005/​09/​20050915325093/​. 21. MAT International’s involvement in the delta has had a troubled trajectory; the title deed dispute, among other conflicts, interfered with their commercial plans, according to a community representative, interviewed December 8, 2010, in Garsen. See also High Court of Kenya (2006). 22. Meeting with villager, December 8, 2010, Garsen. 23. “Jinxed Tana Delta Takes the Stage as State Mulls over Stalled Projects.” 24. Meeting with villager, December 6, 2010, Tana delta. 25. Meeting with villagers, November 29, 2010, Tana delta. 26. Meeting with villagers and village leaders, December 1, 2010, Tana delta. 27. See Sala, Sax, and Leslie (2009) on biodiversity consequences of biofuels production; Donald (2004) on environmental damage from agrichemicals; McCarthy (2010) on the political ecology of oil palm plantations; and Laurance (2010) on agriculture as a driver of habitat degradation. 28. Similar challenges with reconciling customary and statutory land rights and claims have been recorded in many parts of the world, as documented by Cotula (2007, on West Africa), Chimhowu and Woodhouse (2006, on sub-​Saharan Africa), Tripp (2004, on Uganda), Ho and Spoor (2006, on economies in transition), Fitzpatrick (2005, on Africa and the South Pacific), Valenta (2003, on Brazil), Benjaminsen and Sjaastad (2008, on South Africa). 29. Bernard Momanyi, “52 People Killed in Tana River Clashes,” Capital FM, August 22, 2012, http://​www.capitalfm.co.ke/​news/​2012/​08/​48-​people-​killed-​in-​tana-​river-​ clashes/​; Michael Gachanja, “Kenya: Scarcity of Land Cause of Tana Delta Violence,” The Star (Nairobi), August 24, 2012, http://​allafrica.com/​stories/​201208250194.html; Calvin Onsango and Alphonce Gari, “Kenya: Attackers Ferried to Tana—​NSIS,” The Star (Nairobi), August 27, 2012, http://​allafrica.com/​stories/​201208280218.html. 30. “Kenya to Disarm Rural Tribes after More Than 50 Die in Clash between Farmers and Herders,” Hamilton Spectator, August 23, 2012, http://​www.thespec.com/​news-​story/​ 2253355-​kenya-​to-​disarm-​rural-​tribes-​after-​more-​than-​50-​die-​in-​clashes/​. 31. “Kenya: Minister Linked to Tana Violence,” The Star, August 24, 2012, http://​allafrica. com/​stories/​201208250141.html. 32. For work linking Indigenous survival with resource contestation debates, see Schlosberg and Carruthers (2010: 13). 33. Meeting with an Orma village leader, November 22, 2010, Tana delta. 34. Meeting with villagers, November 29, 2010, Tana delta. 35. Meeting with villagers and village leaders, December 1, 2010, Tana delta.

Notes  185 36. Meeting with villagers, December 4, 2010, Tana delta. 37. Meeting with a village leader, November 22, 2010, Tana delta. 38. Statements from meetings with villagers, December 3, 2010, Tana delta. Similar comments were recorded by Smalley and Corbera (2012:  1053) in their research on biofuels projects in the Tana delta: “In another form of asserting access, several Pokomo respondents described Orma and Wardei neighbours as Cushites or wageni (strangers or guests), discursively framing them as newcomers with weaker claims to land.” 39. Meeting with village leader in Orma community, November 22, 2010, Tana delta. 40. One interviewed Orma community leader suggested that Pokomo communities are split evenly on the issue of biofuels, with one-​third in favor, one-​third opposed, and one-​third uncertain; December 1, 2010, Tana delta. 41. Meeting with villagers, December 6, 2010, Tana delta. 42. One villager described the Kenya Wildlife Service as a “very corrupt government institute”; December 3, 2010, Tana delta. 43. Hamerlynck et  al. (2010:  60) explain that “the irrigation scheme collapsed totally during the 1997–​1998 El Nino floods.” For a more in-​depth history and analysis of the Tana Delta Irrigation Project, see Lebrun et al. (2010). 44. Meeting with villagers, December 6, 2010, Tana delta. 45. Other identities are also relevant when considering land use change and governance authority in the Tana delta and more widely across regions, including, notably, gender. Gender-​based inequalities are of significance in industrial transitions, relations of capitalist exchange, and mobilization processes—​although were not the focus of my research for this book. For an incisive critiques of gender in the differentiated consequences of sugarcane production in Tanzania, see Sulle and Dancer (2020); for consideration of gender in land reform governance in Tanzania and globally, see Collins (2014a, 2014b). 46. In a meeting with a local organizer, December 8, 2010, Tana delta, I learned of the Ozi Community Conservation Organization, which acted as an umbrella organization to coordinate activities of community-​based organizations, including work toward the designation of a community conservation area. 47. Meeting with local organizer, December 8, 2010, Tana delta. 48. Local perspective on these relationships provided at a meeting with a local organizer, December 8, 2010, Tana delta. 49. Comment reportedly made by company representative in 2010 in the Tana delta. 50. These concerns were also expressed by villagers in community meetings, November 29 and December 1 and 3, 2010, Tana delta. 51. For an analysis of the benefits and costs for local groups of integration with transnational advocacy networks in a different issue area, see, for example, Lerche (2008), who assesses the price paid by movements working for the rights of people of the Dalit caste from their integration with transnational advocacy networks and the adoption of international human rights discourses. For further work on challenges in working across different scales of social movements and actions, see Dufour and Giraud (2007)

186 Notes on women’s rights movements. On the differing forms of authority that confer power at domestic and international scales, see Balboa (2018). 52. Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, “UK ‘Green’ Fuels Will Destroy an Extra 1.6 Million Hectares of Natural Habitat by 2020,” November 8, 2010, http://​ww2.rspb.org. uk/​our-​work/​rspb-​news/​news/​details.aspx?id=tcm:9-​263613. 53. Jim Lane, “Biofuels Mandates around the World: 2016,” Biofuels Digest, January 3, 2016, http://​www.biofuelsdigest.com/​bdigest/​2016/​01/​03/​biofuels-​mandates-​around-​the-​ world-​2016/​; Jim Lane, “Biofuels Mandates around the World 2018,” Biofuels Digest, January 1, 2018, http://​www.biofuelsdigest.com/​bdigest/​2018/​01/​01/​biofuels-​mandates-​ around-​the-​world-​2018/​. 54. Arthur Nelsen, “Lawmakers Vote to Block EU Biofuels Bill,” Euractiv, October 31, 2013, http://​www.euractiv.com/​energy/​european-​parliament-​votes-​block-​news-​531161. 55. Friends of the Earth, “EU Biofuels Policy Comes at an Unacceptably High Economic, Social and Environmental Cost—​Time to Fix a Failed Policy,” June 2013, http://​www. foeeurope.org/​sites/​default/​files/​news/​foee_​open_​letter_​fix_​failed_​biofuel_​policy_​ june2013.pdf. 56. Friends of the Earth, “EU Biofuels Policy.” 57. Jill Evans, “ ‘We Could Feed 380000 People in Wales with the Amount of This Food We Currently Burn in Our Cars’; MEP’s View,” Western Mail, September 3, 2013, https://​www.thefreelibrary.com/​%27WeW+could+feed+380%2C000+people+in+W ales+with+the+amount+of+this+food...-​a0341604612. 58. “Growing Food for People or Fuel?,” letter to the editor, Irish Times, November 15, 2013, https://​www.irishtimes.com/​opinion/​letters/​growing-​food-​for-​people-​or-​fuel-​ 1.1595032. 59. Will Ross, “Kenyans Fear Dakatcha Woodlands Biofuel Expansion,” BBC News, March 23, 2011, http://​www.bbc.co.uk/​news/​world-​africa-​12819035. 60. An overview of the configurations of land tenure laws, consultation processes, and challenges to community control over development projects in six countries are taken up by Vermeulen and Cotula (2010). Their discussion suggests that land rights and secure tenure alone are insufficient for protecting communities’ interests in land negotiations. 61. A  villager in the delta described efforts to protect the Tana under the Ramsar Convention on Wetlands as “doing politics for their own cause”; December 3, 2010, Tana delta. 62. Interview with individual in the private sector, February 8, 2011, Nairobi. 63. For more on boomerangs, see Keck and Sikkink (1998); also see Risse and Sikkink (1999) for a more complex, “spiral” model of transnational networks and domestic change.

Chapter 5 1. “Yukon Rejects Oil Exploration in Whitehorse Trough:  Energy Minister Says Public Opposition ‘a Major Factor’ in the Decision,” CBC News, April 13, 2012, http://​www.cbc.ca/​ news/​canada/​north/​yukon-​rejects-​oil-​exploration-​in-​whitehorse-​trough-​1.1201434.

Notes  187 2. Details on isolated grids, electricity generation, and power supplies available at Yukon Energy, https://​yukonenergy.ca. 3. Yukon Energy, “Frequently Asked Questions,” https://​www.yukonenergy.ca/​ customer-​centre/​faq/​. 4. Electricity production in the territory is primarily from hydropower, although energy use is dominated by fossil fuels (for transportation and other demands). Renewable power, including hydro, provides about 17% of the territory’s overall energy needs: “Yukon Energy Strategy,” 2009, 11, https://​yukon.ca/​sites/​yukon.ca/​files/​ emr/​emr-​energy-​strategy-​for-​yukon.pdf. 5. Yukon Energy, “Annual Report,” 2007, https://​yukonenergy.ca/​media/​site_​ documents/​854_​YEC_​2007.pdf. 6. YEC, “20-​ Year Resource Plan:  2011–​ 2030,” December 2011, http://​www. yukonenergy.ca/​media/​site_​documents/​1204_​Resource%20Plan%20-​%20full%20 document.pdf; YEC, “Charrette Report,” 2011. 7. YEC, “20-​Year Resource Plan:  2011–​2030”; YEC, “Charrette Participant Guide Book,” 2011, https://​www.yukonenergy.ca/​media/​site_​documents/​charrette/​docs/​ yec_​participant_​guidebook.pdf. 8. YEC, “2013 Business Plan,” December 2012, https://​www.yukonenergy.ca/​media/​ site_​documents/​1237_​2013%20Business%20Plan_​final.pdf. 9. YEC, “Charrette Report,” 2011, 16. 10. YEC, “Liquefied Natural Gas Workshop Report,” January, 2012, 6https://​www. yukonenergy.ca/​media/​site_​documents/​1120_​LNG%20Workshop%20Report%20 January%202012.pdf. 11. “Yukon Energy 20-​ Year Resource Plan,” Walk Softly:  Newsletter of the Yukon Conservation Society, Autumn 2012, 7. 12. YESAB, “Annual Report 2013–​2014,” http://​www.yesab.ca/​wp/​wp-​content/​uploads/​ 2014/​08/​2013-​2014-​AR.pdf. 13. YEC, “Back-​up Electricity:  Diesel Facilities,” 2015, https://​www.yukonenergy.ca/​ energy-​in-​yukon/​our-​projects-​facilities/​back-​up-​electricity/​diesel-​facilities/​. 14. Yukon Territorial Government, “Natural Gas Generators Will Save Yukoners Money and Reduce Environmental Impact,” Press release, July 2, 2013, https://​open.yukon. ca/​data/​sites/​default/​files/​20130702NaturalGasGeneratorsWillSaveYukonersMoney ReduceEnviroImpact.pdf. 15. Until 1987 the federal government’s Northern Canada Power Commission owned the Yukon’s electrical generation facilities, but these were devolved to the Yukon Territorial Government, which created the Yukon Energy Corporation (Yukon Energy, “Profile:  History”). As a publicly owned company and a subsidiary of the Yukon Development Corporation, Yukon Energy is officially independent from YTG. Its president and CEO, along with the management team, has oversight from a board of directors appointed by the Development Corporation, and the corporation’s operations are regulated by the Business Corporations Act, the Public Utilities Act, and the Yukon Water Act:  Yukon Energy, “Board of Directors and Governance,” n.d., https://​www.yukonenergy.ca/​about-​us/​profile/​board-​of-​directors-​and-​governance/​. Still, while officially at arm’s length, the corporation is seen by many citizens as closely

188 Notes tied to the government. These perceptions are perhaps a result of the utility being bound by policy decisions made by the Yukon Territorial Government about energy futures and priorities; they might also be shaped by the revolving door between industry and government, exacerbated by the small size of the Yukon and the specialized knowledge required to run an energy utility. Many of its past and present senior officials have had positions in the government prior to joining Yukon Energy, creating close ties (or at least the perception of such ties) between the corporation and the government. 16. Jesse Winter, “Yukon Energy Defends Natural Gas Plans,” Yukon News, July 10, 2013, http://​yukon-​news.com/​news/​yukon-​energy-​defends-​natural-​gas-​plans/​. 17. “Whitehorse Diesel Natural Gas Conversion Project, Project Number 2013-​0115,” The Voice:  YESAB Newsletter, no.  11 (Spring/​Summer 2014), http://​www.yesab.ca/​ wp/​wp-​content/​uploads/​2014/​08/​VOICEspring-​summer-​2014.pdf. 18. “Environment Board OKs Yukon Energy’s LNG Generators,” CBC News, June 12, 2014, http://​www.cbc.ca/​news/​canada/​north/​environment-​board-​oks-​yukon-​energy-​s​lng-​generators-​1.2673312; “Yukon Government Approves Whitehorse LNG Project,” CBC News, July 9, 2014, http://​www.cbc.ca/​news/​canada/​north/​yukon-​ government-​approves-​whitehorse-​lng-​project-​1.2701302. 19. Yukoners Concerned email, March 5, 2014, also cited in Neville and Weinthal (2016b: 579). 20. At least fifty of nearly seven hundred submissions (written and verbal) referred to LNG, and thirty-​one individuals in seven of the twelve communities where hearings were held spoke about LNG, with roughly half of those speakers mentioning the Whitehorse backup power plants (Neville and Weinthal 2016b: 579). 21. Government of Yukon, Yukon Bureau of Statistics, “Gross Domestic Product (GDP) by Industry at Basic Prices 2013,” http://​www.eco.gov.yk.ca/​stats/​pdf/​gdp_​2013.pdf. 22. The gold rush is often reported to have started in 1896 with a discovery along the Yukon River, although see Cruikshank (1992) for a longer history of gold in the region. Notably, by comparing oral histories shared by Tagish elders with written settler narratives of the gold rush, Cruikshank reveals that the idea of “discovery” reinforces an event-​based understanding of history that is at odds with a longer process-​based account and obscures important relational elements that have shaped the development of the region. 23. Government of Yukon, “Yukon Historical Timeline,” http://​www.gov.yk.ca/​ aboutyukon/​history.html. 24. Notably, the Ross River First Nation, as part of the Kaska Dena Council—​which has transboundary land claims that span the Yukon, Northwest Territories, and BC—​ has been in discussions with the Yukon government about settling land agreements outside the UFA: Philippe Morin, “Yukon First Nation Could Negotiate Land Claim outside Umbrella Final Agreement,” CBC News, April 13, 2017, https://​www.cbc.ca/​ news/​canada/​north/​ross-​river-​dena-​land-​claim-​negotiation-​1.4068765. The final agreements are self-​government agreements; they include several types of “settlement lands” and “traditional territories” (differing in surface and subsurface rights). There are provisions in the UFA about the extent of land that can be claimed by First Nations,

Notes  189 how land is to be selected under each category, and that First Nations traditional and subsistence land uses are protected on both settlement and nonsettlement lands. 25. Alexie (2015) is describing the basis of Gwich’in land claims in the Yukon and Northwest Territories, but these phrases documenting Indigenous histories and land connections are heard across many nations. 26. Public hearings, June 24, 2014, Teslin, Yukon (YLA 2015). 27. These debates recall contestation over “the commons” and shared resources and regions. See, e.g., Bardhan and Ray (2008) for a discussion of how different disciplines understand and approach the study of conservation and the commons, examining who claims resources, how resources are used, and how resources are seen by different groups within a community. 28. The CBC launched a special series on shale gas in September 2011, titled Cornering Gas. “Shale Gas Boom Making Us Sick, Say B.C. Residents,” CBC News, September 28, 2011, http://​www.cbc.ca/​news/​canada/​british-​columbia/​shale-​gas-​boom-​making-​ us-​sick-​say-​b-​c-​residents-​1.1061342; “Special Report: B.C.’s Shale Gas Boom,” CBC News, September 26, 2011, http://​www.cbc.ca/​news/​canada/​british-​columbia/​ special-​report-​b-​c-​s-​shale-​gas-​boom-​1.1003198. 29. Northern Cross Energy Limited, “About,” http://​northerncross.ca/​about/​. According to CNOOC’s 2015 Annual Report, this investment represented majority ownership (60% interest) in Northern Cross (CNOOC 2015: 104). CNOOC Ltd. is a publicly traded company, with 64% ownership by the Chinese government:  Chester Dawson and Brian Spegele, “How a Chinese Company Slipped on Canada’s Oil Sands,” Wall Street Journal, July 22, 2015, https://​www.wsj.com/​articles/​how-​china-​ slipped-​on-​canadas-​oil-​sands-​1437616832. CNOOC has been publicly listed since 2001: CNOOC Ltd., “About us,” 2005, http://​www.cnoocltd.com/​col/​col7251/​index. html. 30. As reported in the news:  Emily Blake, “Mammoth Suit Filed against Yukon Government: Northern Cross Ltd. Has Filed a $2.2‐Billion Lawsuit against the Yukon Government over a Fracking Moratorium,” Whitehorse Daily April 10, 2017, Star, http://​ www.whitehorsestar.com/​News/​mammoth-​suit-​filed-​against-​yukon-​government. 31. See also “Could the Yukon Be Canada’s Next Oil and Gas Frontier?,” Alberta Oil Magazine, October 13, 2014. 32. CNOOC’s offer involved $15 billion in equity, along with the acquisition of over $4 billion of Nexen’s debt. See Dawson and Spegele, “How a Chinese Company Slipped on Canada’s Oil Sands”; Christopher Helman, “CNOOC-​Nexen Deal Is Just the Beginning of the Great American Oil and Gas Grab,” Forbes, July 23, 2012, https://​ www.forbes.com/​sites/​christopherhelman/​2012/​07/​23/​why-​cnoocs-​19-​5-​billion-​ offer-​for-​nexen-​is-​a-​done-​deal/​#1a6a36187d37. 33. As reported in “Could the Yukon Be Canada’s Next Oil and Gas Frontier?” The company’s focus on conventional oil and gas was reiterated in public hearings on fracking in 2014, as reported in the media: Chuck Tobin, “Fracking Not Part of Northern Cross’ Drilling Horizon,” Whitehorse Daily Star, June 18, 2014, http://​ whitehorsestar.com/​News/​fracking-​not-​part-​of-​northern-​cross-​drilling-​horizon.

190 Notes 34. Meagan Gillmore, “Oil and Gas Opponents Stay Vigilant:  Former MLA [Member of the Legislative Assembly] Don Roberts Wants to Ensure the Yukon Government Keeps Its Commitment to Keep Oil and Gas Development out of the Whitehorse Trough,” Yukon News, July 6, 2012, https://​www.yukon-​news.com/​news/​oil-​and-​gas-​ opponents-​stay-​vigilant/​. 35. John Thompson, “Shallow Fracking Ban Small Comfort to Critics,” Yukon News, March 30, 2012, http://​www.yukon-​news.com/​news/​shallow-​fracking-​ban-​small​comfort-​to-​critics. 36. The government specified that the moratorium would hold unless there was a “significant shift” in public opinion:  Ainslie Cruickshank, “Moratorium Imposed on Petroleum Exploration,” Whitehorse Daily Star, April 13, 2012, 4, http://​ whitehorsestar.com/​News/​moratorium-​imposed-​on-​petroleum-​exploration. 37. Brian Westenhaus, “Apache Corp Make the World’s Largest Shale Gas Discovery in British Columbia,” Oil Price, June 18, 2012, https://​oilprice.com/​Energy/​Natural-​ Gas/​Apache-​C orp-​Make-​t he-​Worlds-​L argest-​Shale-​Gas-​Discovery-​in-​British-​ Columbia.html; Jacqueline Ronson, “Yukon to Review Fracking in Territory,” Yukon News, April 1, 2013, https://​www.yukon-​news.com/​news/​yukon-​to-​review-​fracking-​ in-​territory/​. 38. Meagan Gillmore, “Northern Cross Drops Fracking from Plans,” Yukon News, October 12, 2012, http://​yukon-​news.com/​news/​northern-​cross-​drops-​fracking-​from-​plans. 39. “Company Withdraws Request for Fracking in Yukon:  Yukoners Want Public Debate on Whether Practice Should Be Allowed in Territory,” CBC News, October 11, 2012, http://​www.cbc.ca/​news/​canada/​north/​company-​withdraws​request-​for-​fracking-​in-​yukon-​1.1299473. 40. Personal correspondence with several environmental leaders in the territory suggested that the shift was a result of lobbying by community organizers in conjunction with the efforts of some members of the Legislative Assembly. 41. For details on the Select Committee’s schedules and activities, see YLA (2015). 42. Public hearings, September 25, 2014, Whitehorse, Yukon (YLA 2015). 43. Public hearings, September 27, 2014, Whitehorse, Yukon (YLA 2015). 44. Pierre Chauvin, “Northern Cross Sues YG over Fracking ‘Moratorium,’ ” Yukon April 7, 2017, News, https://​www.yukon-​news.com/​news/​northern-​cross-​sues-​yg-​over-​ fracking-​moratorium/​; Lori Garrison, “Not a Chance Name Change Will Affect $2.2 Billion Lawsuit against YG, Company Formerly Known as Northern Cross Says,” Yukon News, July 31, 2017, https://​www.yukon-​news.com/​news/​not-​a-​chance-​name-​ change-​will-​affect-​2-​2-​billion-​lawsuit-​against-​yg-​company-​formerly-​known-​as-​ northern-​cross-​says/​. 45. As of 2020, the case remained in the courts: in February, the company had refiled its claim for compensation, and in March, the government filed an application to dismiss most of the lawsuit; Chris Windeyer, “Yukon Government Seeks to Have Bulk of Oil Company's $2.2B Lawsuit Thrown Out,” CBC News, April 23, 2020, https://​www.cbc. ca/​news/​canada/​north/​yg-​seeks-​chance-​lawsuit-​thrown-​out-​1.5542856. 46. Public proceedings, Whitehorse, Yukon, January 31, 2014 (YLA 2015). 47. Public hearings, Pelly Crossing, Yukon, July 8, 2014 (YLA 2015).

Notes  191 48. Public hearings, Carcross-​Tagish, Yukon, September 24, 2014 (YLA 2015). 49. Public hearings, Whitehorse, Yukon, September 25, 2014 (YLA 2015). 50. Public proceedings, Whitehorse, Yukon, May 27, 2014 (YLA 2015). 51. Public hearings, Whitehorse, Yukon, September 25, 2014 (YLA 2015). 52. Public hearings, Carcross-​Tagish, Yukon, September 24, 2014 (YLA 2015). 53. Public hearings, Haines Junction, Yukon, September 23, 2014 (YLA 2015). 54. For critiques of the colonial politics of recognition, see Coulthard (2014) and Daigle (2016), where participating in the processes of land claims and conceding to colonial legal systems can be seen as accepting the state’s production of authority. As Lund (2011: 885) states, “A government institution’s control over land does not represent or reflect pre-​existing sovereignty. It produces it.” 55. The Canadian government redistributes some federal tax money across the country, providing unconditional financial transfers to the territories. According to an archived website from 2016 from the Canadian Department of Finance, “Territorial Formula Financing (TFF) is an annual unconditional transfer from the federal government to each territorial government. It enables territorial governments to provide a range of public programs and services to their residents that are comparable to those offered by provincial governments, at comparable levels of taxation,” https://​www.canada.ca/​en/​department-​finance/​news/​2016/​02/​ backgrounder-​territorial-​formula-​financing.html. The federal government changed the formula for the 2016–​2017 fiscal year, which reduced all territorial budgets; that year, according to the CBC, federal transfer payments to the Yukon were $930 million ($24,333 per capita), “Federal gov’t to restore $67M in territorial formula funding,” CBC, February 16, 2016, https://​www.cbc.ca/​news/​canada/​north/​ federal-​goverment-​restores-​territorial-​formula-​funding-​1.3450621. 56. Public hearings, Pelly Crossing, Yukon, July 8, 2014 (YLA 2015). 57. Public hearings, Old Crow, Yukon, June 25, 2014 (YLA 2015). 58. Public hearings, Watson Lake, Yukon, June 23, 2014 (YLA 2015). 59. Northern Cross Yukon Ltd., “LNG Charette: Eagle Plain Natural Gas,” January 19, 2012, https://​yukonenergy.ca/​media/​site_​documents/​1109_​LNG%20Presentation%20-​ %20David%20Thompson.pdf. 60. “EFLO Energy Yukon Ltd. Ordered to Clean Up Kotaneelee Fuel Spill,” CBC News, August 11, 2015, http://​www.cbc.ca/​news/​canada/​north/​eflo-​energy-​yukon-​ltd​ordered-​to-​clean-​up-​kotaneelee-​fuel-​spill-​1.3186476. 61. Public proceedings, Whitehorse, Yukon, January 31, 2014 (YLA 2015). 62. “Company Overview of MGM Energy Corp.,” Bloomberg, accessed April 14, 2018, https://​www.bloomberg.com/​research/​stocks/​private/​snapshot.asp?privcapId= 31131261. 63. Public proceedings, Whitehorse, Yukon, May 28, 2014 (YLA 2015). 64. Public proceedings, Whitehorse, Yukon, May 28, 2014 (YLA 2015). 65. Public proceedings, Whitehorse, Yukon, May 28, 2014 (YLA 2015). 66. Highlighted in 2013 in a budget address by Premier Darryl Pasloski, as reported in the Whitehorse Daily Star, Apache Resources had “reported discovery of one of the largest shale gas deposits in the world, which straddles the Yukon, B.C. border”: “Delay Oil,

192 Notes Gas Disposition Process: YCS,” Whitehorse Daily Star, March 25, 2013, https://​www. whitehorsestar.com/​News/​delay-​oil-​gas-​disposition-​process-​ycs. 67. Public hearings, Carcross-​Tagish, Yukon, September 24, 2014 (YLA 2015). 68. Public hearings, Whitehorse, Yukon, September 25, 2014 (YLA 2015). 69. The letter is no longer available on the website of Natural Resources Canada, but has been archived by multiple news outlets: “An Open Letter from the Honourable Joe Oliver, Minister of Natural Resources, on Canada’s Commitment to Diversify Our Energy Markets and the Need to Further Streamline the Regulatory Process in order to Advance Canada’s National Economic Interest,” Global News, January 9, 2012, https:// ​ g lobalnews.ca/ ​ news/ ​ 1 97214/ ​ an- ​ open- ​ l etter- ​ f rom- ​ t he- ​ honourable- ​ j oe-​ oliver-​minister-​of-​natural-​resources/​. 70. Public hearings, Whitehorse, Yukon, September 25, 2014 (YLA 2015). 71. Public hearings, Carcross-​Tagish, Yukon, September 24, 2014 (YLA 2015). 72. Public hearings, Teslin, Yukon, June 24, 2014 (YLA 2015). 73. Public hearings, Whitehorse, Yukon, September 25, 2014 (YLA 2015). 74. Public hearings, Carmacks, Yukon, July 8, 2014 (YLA 2015), also quoted in Neville and Weinthal (2016a: 590). 75. As with note 6, on Yukon identity narratives, some of the ideas and writing in this chapter are drawn from the conference paper I cowrote with Erika Weinthal in 2016, “Indigenous-​Conservation Alliances and Land Use Debates in Northern Canada,” presented at the Borders in the North workshop, Borders in Globalization summer institute, Whitehorse, Yukon, June 21–​22, and the International Studies Association, Atlanta, Georgia, March 16–​19. We owe thanks to David Neufeld for discussions and insights on these themes. 76. The Peel Watershed Planning Commission’s planning process is described on their website, http://​peel.planyukon.ca/​planning.html. 77. Yukon Land Use Planning Council, “Frequently Asked Questions,” https://​planyukon. ca/​index.php/​about-​us/​frequently-​asked-​questions. 78. Ainslie Cruickshank, “Endless Line of Peel Supporters Address Lengthy Rally,” Whitehorse Daily Star, January 30, 2014, http://​whitehorsestar.com/​News/​ endless-​line-​of-​peel-​supporters-​address-​lengthy-​rally. 79. “Gwich’in Protest Peel Plan in Yukon and N.W.T.; Youth in Whitehorse, Fort McPherson and Inuvik, N.W.T. Planning Walks,” CBC News, January 28, 2014, http://​www.cbc.ca/​ news/​canada/​north/​gwich-​in-​protest-​peel-​plan-​in-​yukon-​and-​n-​w-​t-​1.2513868. 80. The case proceeded in several stages. Following YTG’s approval of its Final Plan for the Peel at the beginning of 2014, plaintiffs filed their initial statement of claim in the Yukon Supreme Court; Justice Ron Veale heard the case in July, with an additional day in October to consider remedies in more detail, and delivered his decision in December; the government filed a notice of appeal later that month. The Yukon Court of Appeal heard the case in August 2015 and delivered its decision that November; the court upheld the ruling that YTG had failed to honor its treaty obligations, but differed from Justice Veale’s decision on the remedy required, sending the land-​use planning process back to an earlier stage. In December 2015, in light of their disagreement with the proposed remedy, the plaintiffs announced they would seek leave

Notes  193 to appeal the case to the Supreme Court of Canada. Throughout the case, the focus in the courtroom has been on the treaty obligations of the government. The Yukon Supreme Court underscored in its December 2014 decision, “The role of the Court in this proceeding is not to determine whether more or less protection for the Peel Watershed is appropriate. Rather, the Court’s job is to interpret whether the planning process envisioned in the Final Agreements has been followed and to determine the appropriate remedy if it has not” (Supreme Court of Yukon 2014:  5). The remedy was decided (and contested) on the grounds of the provisions of the UFA, not the conservation value of the watershed. By the time of the Supreme Court of Canada hearing in March 2017, the Yukon government had changed, following an election in November 2016, when the majority Yukon Party government was replaced by a majority Liberal government. The Supreme Court of Canada heard the appeal and issued its decision on December 1, 2017, ruling in favor of the plaintiffs and the remedy of the government returning to the Planning Commission’s final recommended plan and finalizing land-​use planning from that point. This was widely seen as a victory for the First Nations and conservation organizations and was also described as a victory by the Liberal Yukon territorial government. CPAWS Yukon and the Yukon Conservation Society offer a timeline of events on their shared Protect the Peel website, http://​protectpeel.ca/​our-​story/​timeline_​story, and the court battles have been widely described in media and NGO coverage, with a compiled list of some of the stories also available on the Protect the Peel page, http://​protectpeel.ca/​news/​media-​ coverage-​of-​the-​peel-​watershed-​supreme-​court-​decision/​. 81. On the CPAWS Yukon website, “Peel Watershed.” 82. Available on the Peel campaign website, “Media Release:  Peel Watershed Case:  Application for Leave to Appeal Filed with the Supreme Court of Canada, December 15,” http://​protectpeel.ca/​news/​application-​for-​leave-​to-​appeal-​to-​be-​ filed-​with-​supreme-​court-​of-​canada. 83. See the Peel campaign website, http://​protectpeel.ca/​news/​application-​for-​leave-​ to-​appeal-​to-​be-​filed-​with-​supreme-​court-​of-​canada. 84. Tom Clynes, “Victory for Yukon Wilderness Is “Game-​Changer,” National Geographic, December 6, 2014. 85. Public hearings, Dawson City, Yukon, June 26, 2014 (YLA 2015). 86. Public hearings, Whitehorse, Yukon, September 27, 2014 (YLA 2015). 87. For more on these legacies, see, e.g., Keeling and Sandlos (2009), Sandlos and Keeling (2016). 88. Pierre Chauvin, “YG Hopes to Resolve Northern Cross Lawsuit out of Court,” Yukon News, April 10, 2017, https://​www.yukon-​news.com/​news/​yg-​hopes-​to-​resolve-​ northern-​cross-​lawsuit-​out-​of-​court/​. 89. Newsletter from Yukoners Concerned, circulated via email list on October 11, 2016.

194 Notes

Chapter 6 1. Kenya Evelyn, “ ‘It’s a Racial Justice Issue’:  Black Americans Are Dying in Greater Numbers from Covid-​19,” The Guardian, April 8, 2020, https://​www.theguardian.com/​ world/​2020/​apr/​08/​its-​a-​racial-​justice-​issue-​black-​americans-​are-​dying-​in-​greater-​ numbers-​from-​covid-​19. 2. This book does not undertake an in-​depth investigation of neoliberalism and counter-​ neoliberal movements, although these concepts and movements are linked to, and often underpin, antiglobalization and anticorporate campaigns and actions. For a discussion of neoliberalism in the wake of the financial crisis, and especially the structure of and potential for regulatory reform, see Peck, Theodore, and Brenner (2012). As with the unpredictable nature of many contentious claims and claim-​making processes, these authors point to the “constitutively​ uneven, ​institutionally hybrid, ​and​ chronically ​unstable ​character ​of ​neo-​liberalizing​forms​of ​regulatory transformation” (268). Usefully for the ensuing discussion in this book, Peck, Theodore, and Brenner see neoliberalization as involving regulatory changes, noting it “strives to ​intensify​ commodification” and “​often ​mobilizes ​speculative ​financial​ instruments ​to ​open ​up new ​arenas ​for ​capitalist ​profit ​making,” and also see it as following path-​dependent processes, where past contestation shapes regulatory contexts (269). 3. See, e.g., Ernst and Wahl (2010), Tang and Xiong (2010), Clapp (2009b), Radetzki et al. (2008) with a focus on mineral prices, and Irwin and Sanders (2011) with reference to index funds. 4. Venture capital in the agrifood sector, largely from multinational corporations, increased by 800% between 2004 and 2007, according to Holt-​Giménez (2007). 5. Monsanto, “Bayer Closes Monsanto Acquisition,” news release, June 7, 2018, https://​ monsanto.com/​news-​releases/​bayer-​closes-​monsanto-​acquisition/​. 6. Valerie Richardson, “Former Greenpeace Leader Defies Environmentalists by Defending Fracking,” Washington Times, October 19, 2016, https://​www. washingtontimes.com/ ​ n ews/ ​ 2 016/ ​ o ct/ ​ 1 9/ ​ f ormer-​ g reenpeace-​ l eader-​ d efies-​ environmentalists-​/.​ 7. Bill McKibben, “To Stop Global Catastrophe, We Must Believe in Humans Again,” The Guardian, April 23, 2019, https://​www.theguardian.com/​commentisfree/​2019/​apr/​23/​ stop-​global-​catastrophe-​believe-​humans-​again-​geoengineering. 8. Chuck Tobin, “Energy Future Debated at Public Meeting,” Whitehorse Daily Star, June 11, 2019, https://​www.whitehorsestar.com/​News/​energy-​future-​debated-​at-​public-​ meeting. I learned of some of these efforts through the Yukoners Concerned ongoing email newsletters, and others through continued conversations with Whitehorse residents engaged with the group. The group’s activities included not only energy-​ related advocacy but also attention to climate action and mining issues. 9. As Coulthard (2014) also argues, the Canadian state relies on the continued dispossession of Indigenous people from their land, requiring an Indigenous politics of refusal and resurgence, rather than recognition, to counter current capitalist accumulation models.

Notes  195 10. This passage from Maniates (2001) includes reference to IPAT, which he describes earlier in the article as a widely used formula for assessing environmental impact, where impact = population x affluence x technology; he proposes replacing IPAT, which he sees as worryingly apolitical, with IWAC, where environmental impact = quality of work x meaningful consumption alternatives x political creativity, as he suggests this might encourage the development of richer democratic imaginations and collective mobilization toward sustainable futures.

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Index For the benefit of digital users, indexed terms that span two pages (e.g., 52–​53) may, on occasion, appear on only one of those pages. Figures are indicated by f following the page number ActionAid,  100–​1 Africa (general) biofuels development, 80–​82, 143 land narratives, 66–​35, 82 See also Kenya; Tana delta; Tanzania agricultural sector, 20–​21, 146 biofuels development, 26, 72, 144 corporate control, 68–​69, 72, 147, 194n.4 financialization of, 62–​63, 178n.7 Kenya’s, 82–​84, 87–​88,  143–​44 land,  33–​36 markets, 30, 32, 80–​81, 173–​74n.30 sub-​Saharan Africa’s, 82 trade, 72–​73, 179–​80n.14 US’s, 23 See also grain trade agroforestry, 90–​91, 183n.12 Alaska, 70–​71, 181n.21 Alberta Securities Commission, 87–​88, 183n.18 alliance building activists, 126–​27, 153 claim-​making and, 49–​50,  53–​54 community,  121–​23 local-​global connections, 13–​14, 36, 105–​6, 113,  126–​27 Tana delta networks, 98–​101 Alliance for Abundant Food and Energy, 72 alternative energy sources, 3–​4, 12, 14, 145, 169n.6 resisting,  46–​47 scientific uncertainty and, 57–​58 US motivation for, 19–​20, 26–​27, 169n.5 See also renewable energy

American Petroleum Industry (API), 175n.50 anti-​biofuel coalitions, 36, 37, 80,  100–​2 anti-​extractive movements,  126–​27 anti-​fracking campaigns, 111–​13, 112f, 126–​27, 130–​32,  136–​37 global,  43–​45 Apache Corporation, 116–​17, 124–​25, 191–​92n.64 Archer Daniel Midlands, 27–​28, 62–​63, 72, 147 autonomy, 1–​3, 65–​66, 96–​97, 142–​43, 156, 165n.11 community, 27 territorial, 114, 120–​21 Bedford Biofuels bankruptcy and disappearance, 87–​88 n.18,  101–​2 environmental impact assessment, 95 plan and controversy, 86–​90, 93 Bello, Walden, 72–​73 belonging claims of, 92, 94 identity and, 95, 97–​98, 112–​13 narratives and discourses of, 12, 113, 125, 143–​44, 162 place and sense of, 65, 66 Berger, Thomas, 128–​30 biodiesel Brazil’s production, 22–​23, 70–​71 energy balance calculations, 33 EU production, 23–​25 global production, 23–​25, 24f Greenpeace lobby for, 27–​28

236 Index biodiesel (cont.) Kenya’s strategy and projects, 7–​8, 10–​ 11, 86, 88–​89, 91 NGO promotion of, 81 sources and production process, 21–​22, 71–​72,  80–​81 See also Jatropha curcas biodiversity, 28–​29, 32–​33, 57–​58,  98–​99 bioethanol energy balance calculations, 33 global production, 23–​25, 24f Kenya’s production, 7–​8, 80–​81, 88 production process, 21–​22 subsidies,  35–​36 biofuels agricultural companies and, 72, 147 debate strategies and discourses, 152–​53 environmental impacts, 29–​30, 98–​99 EU policies and promotion, 21, 28–​29, 30–​31,  101–​2 feedstocks, 23–​25, 24f, 71–​72, 147 food prices vs., 30, 31–​33, 172–​73n.23 fracking vs., 5 generational divides and categories, 71–​72, 171n.17 global production, 3–​4, 14, 23–​25, 24f, 101 governance initiatives, 31 images, 56 interests of oil companies, 36–​37 Kenya’s production, 7–​8, 10–​11, 46–​47, 80–​81,  91 land-​use change for, 33–​36, 103–​5,  182n.5 material characteristics, 144–​45 opponents/​opposition, 12–​13, 36, 46–​ 47, 72, 79–​80, 101–​2, 147–​48 optimism and lobbying for, 16, 26–​28, 34, 41, 72 scientific uncertainty of, 57–​58, 142–​43 subsidies,  35–​36 Tana delta debates, 94–​96, 100–​1, 103–​ 5, 185n.40 US and Brazil’s production, 6–​7, 22–​25 See also Bedford Biofuels Biomass Action Plan (EU), 28–​31 BirdLife International, 29–​30, 99, 101–​2 Boel, Mariann Fischer, 27

Brabeck-​Letmathe, Peter, 32 Brazil biofuels production, 22–​25, 70–​71 ethanol claims, 32–​33, 35–​36 trade agreements, 69–​70 British Columbia, 40–​41, 54–​55, 114–​15,  116 British Petroleum (BP), 24f, 36–​37, 68–​69, 171n.17 brokerage, 14–​16, 50, 56–​57, 105 anti-​fracking campaigns and, 113,  131–​32 description, 52 disparate communities and, 72–​73, 79–​80,  143 local and global relationships, 98–​102 Brune, Michael, 41–​42 Bush, George W., 19–​20, 26–​27 Canada, 69–​70, 87–​88, 118–​19, 180n.17 national energy debate, 125 Canadian Association of Petroleum Producers (CAPP), 175n.50 Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society (CPAWS), 128, 129–​30 capital, 11–​12,  61–​63 movement or flows, 13–​14, 141–​42,  179n.9 venture, 143, 194n.4 carbon emissions, 12–​13, 18, 38–​39, 57–​58 footprint of shale gas, 42 land-​use changes and, 34, 57–​58 neutrality of biofuels, 9, 46–​47, 57–​58,  142–​43 sequestration, 56–​57, 158, 176–​77n.65 sinks, 159, 176–​77n.65 See also low-​carbon fuel Cargill, 62–​63, 72, 147 cash crops, 7–​8, 10–​11, 82–​84,  89–​90 Cathers, Brad, 107 cattle, 84f,  93–​94 charcoal, 1, 2f, 138–​40, 140f Chesapeake Energy, 40, 67 Chevron, 36–​37,  68–​69 China, 113, 118–​19, 172–​73n.23

Index  237 China National Offshore Oil Corporation (CNOOC), 116, 118–​19, 124–​25, 189n.28, 189n.31 claim-​making, 101–​2, 106, 116, 151–​52, 153, 155–​56, 194n.2 advocacy networks, 59 competing, 145 ethnic identities and, 94 mechanisms of, 50, 51–​52, 60 power-​holders and, 49–​50, 74–​75, 133–​35,  158 role of symbols in, 56 scale of, 9–​10, 105–​6, 144–​45 tools and strategies of, 9, 53–​55, 131–​32 climate change, 3–​4, 136–​37, 147–​48, 151–​ 52, 168n.20 extreme weather events, 18–​19 international action on, 18–​19, 168n.2 mitigation, 29, 40–​41, 136–​37, 155–​56, 176–​77n.65 urgency, 145, 149 coal, 41, 138 mining, 64–​65,  121–​23 transition from, 40–​41, 45, 147–​48 coalitions anti-​biofuel, 36, 37, 80, 100–​2 formation and strategies, 54–​55, 151–​ 52, 153, 176–​77n.65 See also transnational advocacy networks collective action, 8–​10, 48, 54, 63, 112–​13,  152–​53 identities and, 92 colonialism, 67, 82–​84, 160–​61, 179n.13, 180n.16 commodities agricultural, 10–​11, 23–​25, 31, 72, 80–​81,  82–​84 biofuels as, 71–​72, 91, 144 discursive,  142–​43 energy, 6–​7, 16, 62–​63, 72–​73, 91, 151–​ 52, 168n.20 exchange, 69–​70,  89–​90 financialization and investors, 60–​64 global markets for, 67, 106, 149 local, 105, 156 new technologies and, 6, 9, 16–​17,  140–​41

prices, 22–​23, 72–​73, 145, 146, 179n.12 production and control of, 68–​69 trade, 72–​74, 90–​91, 106, 130–​31,  148–​49 commodity chains, 5, 10, 106 distances in, 49–​50, 60–​61, 63–​64, 86, 102–​3,  133–​35 See also supply chains Commodity Credit Corporation Bioenergy Program, 26 Common Agricultural Policy (CAP) (EU), 26 communities advocacy efforts and mobilization, 8–​ 10, 48, 73–​74, 111–​12, 181n.25 costs and benefits of energy projects to, 12, 45 fragmented or disconnected, 69, 72–​73, 75, 98, 140–​41, 153 identities and belonging, 121–​23,  143–​44 innovative,  157–​58 international alliance building, 98–​100 marginalized, 34–​35, 140–​41, 143,  157–​58 project participation, 155–​56 shared dynamics of resistance, 5–​6, 9–​10,  51 state relations, 166n.13 community-​based organizations, 93–​94, 98, 185n.45 connectedness, 162 conservation areas and enclosures, 33–​34 land,  128–​30 Tana delta organizations, 98–​99, 103–​5, 185n.45 Yukon organizations, 110–​11, 128,  129–​30 contentious politics alternative categorizations of, 52f,  52–​53 definitions, 161 mechanisms of, 50–​53, 59–​60, 74–​75 mobilization and, 8–​10, 48, 167n.19 political economy of, 10–​11, 13–​14, 16–​17,  154 supply chains and power-​holders and,  49–​50

238 Index control corporate, 14–​16, 61, 68–​69, 124–​25, 147–​48, 154–​55,  157 decision-​making power and tracking, 11–​12,  88–​89 development projects and, 16, 155–​56, 186n.60 land and frontier, 35–​36, 64–​65, 105, 115–​16, 155–​56, 166n.13 local, 79, 113, 121, 143–​44, 154–​55, 156 new technologies and, 158 trade flows and, 69 corn bioethanol, 21–​22, 27–​28, 29, 35–​36, 71–​72, 171n.17 Mexico’s import of, 72–​73 yields,  23–​25 Council of Canadian Academies, 44–​45 countermovements, 10, 49–​50, 51–​52, 53–​55,  59–​60 court cases Peel Watershed, 127–​31, 136–​37, 138, 159–​60, 192–​93n.78 Tana delta, 76–​80, 98–​99, 105–​6 COVID-​19 pandemic,  145–​46 crisis, 46, 145–​49 food, 31, 32, 46–​47, 146, 148–​49 See also financial crisis (2008) decision-​making processes, 11, 58–​59, 92, 142–​43,  158 evidence-​based,  117 investors and, 61–​62, 63–​64 land and, 65–​67 deforestation, 82–​84, 176–​77n.65 Dempster Highway, 1–​3, 2f developing countries, 26, 69–​70 See also Global South diesel, 22–​23, 28–​29, 136–​37,  150–​51 backup generators, 8, 40–​41, 107–​12, 119–​20,  135 imports,  123–​24 See also biodiesel discourses,  53–​54 strategic, 14, 25, 153 displacement community, 37, 46–​47, 94, 100 ecological systems, 34, 57–​58

dispossession, 57–​58, 194n.9 ownership and dynamics of, 37, 64–​69,  103–​5 distances, 113, 151 commodity chains, 61–​63, 86, 133–​35 financial and investment, 63–​64, 87–​92, 102–​3, 105,  141–​42 local and global activist, 105–​6 East African Wild Life Society, 76–​77,  98–​99 economic geography, 166–​67n.14 economic growth, 3–​4, 127–​28, 140–​41, 148–​49, 159, 161, 168n.2 economic opportunities, 3–​4, 20, 40–​41, 57–​58, 92, 123–​24, 151 farmers, 26, 27, 45, 148–​49 Tana delta, 95–​96, 103–​5, 160–​61 energy frontiers, 6, 16–​17, 73–​75, 166n.13 See also frontier regions energy imports, 22–​23, 26–​27, 28–​29,  69–​70 US’s dependence, 19–​20, 38–​39, 169n.7 Yukon’s dependence, 8, 119–​20, 121,  123–​24 energy policies Energy Act (Kenya), 81, 91 Energy Policy Act (US), 21–​22,  26–​27 Energy Security Act (US), 23 Energy Tax Act (US), 23 National Energy Policy (Kenya), 81, 91 Renewable Fuel Standard (US), 21–​22,  36 energy politics, 6–​7, 12–​13, 60, 74–​75,  91–​92 alternative,  52–​53 for the future, 16–​17, 161 global, 14, 70 land-​use politics and, 64–​65 energy sector, 3–​4, 16, 20, 144, 148–​49, 167n.15 climate change and, 12–​13, 168n.20 corporate actors, 36–​37 global food system and, 72–​73 energy security, 3–​4, 22–​23, 35–​36, 142–​43,  169n.5 Yukon’s, 123, 125–​26

Index  239 energy technologies, 3–​4, 41, 49–​50, 56, 147–​48,  154 controversies, 4–​5, 6, 16 global developments, 20–​21, 60–​61 political economy and, 140–​41, 144–​45,  154 renewable,  156–​57 resistance, 9 scales of, 161 Environmental Defense Fund, 42 environmental impact assessment (EIA),  155–​56 Bedford Biofuels, 86, 95, 183n.13 environmental impacts biofuels, 29, 30–​31, 98–​99 fracking, 8, 43, 142–​43 land-​use changes, 1, 34 natural gas extraction, 110–​11, 142–​43 shale gas, 42–​43, 44–​45 technological solutions, 150–​51 environmental justice, 45–​46, 56, 126–​27, 167n.15, 180n.15 environmental protection, 95, 103–​5, 128–​30,  135–​36 Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), 42 ethanol cellulosic, 34 corn for, 29, 71–​72 good vs. bad, 32–​33, 35–​36 sugarcane for, 21–​25, 71–​72 See also bioethanol European Commission, 27, 28–​30, 101–​2 European Union (EU) biofuels policies and production, 21, 23–​29, 30–​31,  101–​2 farmers, 26, 27 preferential trade agreements, 69–​70 Fairlie, Joanne, 111 FAO. See Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations (FAO) feedstocks biofuels, 23–​25, 24f, 71–​72, 90–​91, 147, 171n.17 land acquisition for, 35–​36, 46, 57–​58 nonfood crops as, 33–​34 production, 29, 89–​90

finance commodities and investors, 61–​64 foreign investment, 116–​19, 124–​25,  133 ownership and trade relationship, 11–​13, 14, 16, 72–​73, 103, 141–​42, 157,  160–​61 rise of, 60 scales and distances of investment, 87–​ 92, 102–​3, 105, 143, 155–​56 financial crisis (2008), 20, 38–​39, 45, 67, 70–​71, 142–​43,  148–​49 financial flows, 26, 63–​64, 69–​70 financialization, definition, 61–​62, 178nn.6–​7 flex crops, 90–​91 Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations (FAO), 82, 146, 182n.5 High-​Level Conference on World Food Security, 31, 32–​33 food prices action to control, 72 biofuels feedstocks and, 90–​91 riots, 30, 74–​75 spikes in, 30–​33, 142–​43, 145, 146, 172–​73n.23 food security, 7–​8, 12–​13, 126–​27, 144 biofuels debates and, 31–​33, 101–​2, 106,  148–​49 land concerns and, 35–​36, 106 food system, 5, 29, 62–​63 corporate control, 72, 147, 157 global, 72–​73, 146 forests carbon sinks and, 176–​77n.65 coastal, 82–​84,  138–​40 Tanzanian, 138–​40, 140f threats to, 34, 57–​58, 82–​84, 90–​91 fossil fuels, 3–​4, 11, 126, 164–​65n.9 carbon emissions, 18, 25 divided support for, 41–​42, 147–​48 Kenya’s dependence, 81 potential in the Yukon, 114–​15, 117–​18, 119–​20, 124–​25, 143,  160–​61 resistance to, 113 US’s dependence, 40

240 Index fracking bans, 8, 44–​45, 75, 114–​15, 116–​17, 118, 132,  136–​37 biofuels vs., 5 foreign investors, 20, 72, 112–​13,  116–​19 images, 12–​13, 56 land grabs and, 67 major corporate operators, 68–​69 material characteristics of, 144–​45 methane leakages, 43, 142–​43 potential in the Yukon, 116–​20, 135, 143, 159 process, 3–​4,  37–​38 rise of, 6–​7, 14, 37–​41, 114–​15, 175n.50 risks of, 56–​57 shareholder resistance to, 63–​64 subsurface rights and, 67–​68 terminology, 175n.49 fracking debates crisis narratives, 147–​49 eastern Canada, 4–​5, 56–​57 economic benefits, 41, 123–​24, 142–​43 global opposition, 43–​45 identity narratives, 120–​23 insider/​outsider status,  124–​25 multiple scales of, 133 NGO positions, 147–​48 renewable energy alternatives, 125–​26 scientific uncertainty, 42–​43, 45–​46, 58–​59, 142–​43,  147–​48 shifting strategies and discourses,  152–​53 US opposition, 135 Yukon opponents/​proponents, 13–​14, 111–​13, 121,  123–​26 See also anti-​fracking campaigns; Select Committee Regarding the Risks and Benefits of Hydraulic Fracturing frames, 53–​55, 131–​32, 151–​52, 153 France, 8, 44–​45 Friends of the Earth, 27–​28, 29–​30, 36,  101–​2 frontier regions, 6, 121, 166n.13 gas. See natural gas; shale gas Gasland (2015), 41–​42, 56, 74–​75, 131–​32 geoengineering, 152–​53, 154, 176–​77n.65

G4 Industries Limited, 88–​89 Global Commission on the Geopolitics of Energy Transformation, 156–​57 global economy, 20, 62–​63, 73–​74, 166n.13, 178n.7, 179n.9 changing patterns, 13–​14, 61–​62 Global Frackdown, 43–​44, 74–​75 globalization, 60, 166–​67n.14, 179n.9 Global North, 3–​4, 20, 60, 69–​70, 141–​43 energy nationalization, 70 food systems, 72–​73 Global South, 18–​19, 21–​22, 73–​74, 103, 141–​42, 176–​77n.65 emerging economies of, 26, 73–​74 land narratives, 33–​35, 67, 142–​43 trade negotiations, 20, 69–​70, 72–​73, 181n.24 global warming, 18, 156–​57 governance corporate, 61–​62, 63 energy, 19–​20, 169n.4 global, 62–​63, 178n.5, 179n.11, 179n.13 initiatives for biofuels, 31, 101–​2 land and resource, 115–​16, 160–​61 local, 103–​5, 106 participatory and shared, 154, 159–​60 scales of, 51 technological optimism and, 149–​50 territorial, 120–​21,  136–​37 grain trade, 23, 68–​69, 72–​73 grazing lands, 57–​58, 87, 100–​1 access rights, 93–​95 greenhouse gas emissions biofuels and reduction of, 29–​31 EU transportation sector and, 25 Kyoto reduction targets, 18, 168n.2 land-​use changes and, 34 methane, 42–​43, 58–​59, 133, 142–​43 Greenpeace, 27–​28, 29–​30, 56, 147–​48 Green Revolution, 82 grievances contentious energy politics and, 143 emergence of, 46–​47, 48–​49, 52–​53, 62–​ 63, 75, 144–​45, 151–​52 historical or existing, 4, 9, 100, 103–​5,  154–​55 local and distant, 106, 113, 126–​27 mobilization and, 8–​10

Index  241 grizzly bears, 1–​3, 122f Gwich’in First Nations, 1–​3, 121, 189n.24 Hamal, Wayne, 123 Hansen, James, 18–​19 Hogg, John, 123 Howarth, Robert, 42 human security, 35–​36, 142–​43 Hunsberger, Carol, 27, 77–​78 hydropower Fraser River, 165n.11 Tana River, 85 Yukon, 8, 108–​11 identities, 12, 103–​5 collective or group, 9–​10, 59, 75, 79–​80, 98, 106 community conflicts and, 121–​23 contentious repertoires and, 55 cultural and religious, 95, 97–​98 ethnic, 92–​94,  97–​98 formation and complexity of, 92 northern, 112–​13, 120–​21, 123 place-​based, 66, 115–​16, 160–​61, 180n.15 politics, 79–​80, 106, 132 identity activation, 14–​16, 74–​75, 106, 121–​23, 140–​41, 151–​53,  155–​56 definition,  51–​52 mobilization and, 9–​10, 50–​51, 113 IKEA,  101–​2 images, 12–​13, 56, 131–​32, 133–​35 Indigenous peoples, 132–​33, 135–​37,  161–​62 dispossession, 194n.9 governance,  159–​60 land claims agreements, 114, 120–​21, 128, 188–​89n.23 Peel Watershed court case, 127–​30, 192–​93n.78 relationships with the land, 1–​3, 121, 179n.13 industrialization, 9, 62–​63, 64–​65, 166n.13 infrastructure development, 40–​41, 123–​24,  150–​51 natural gas and fracking, 43–​44, 67–​68, 107–​8, 117–​18, 119–​20, 136, 159

insider/​outsider status, 12, 51–​52, 92, 113,  124–​25 intergovernmental bodies, 31, 32–​33 investment agrifood industry, 62–​63 biofuels, 27–​28, 36–​37, 46, 70–​71, 72, 82, 145 chains of, 11–​12 community, 100 foreign, 20, 72, 112–​13, 116–​19, 124–​25,  133 institutional, 60–​61,  63–​64 risk,  62–​63 scales and distances of, 87–​92, 105, 143, 156 technologies and, 149–​51 Investor Environmental Health Network, 63 investors, 91–​92, 113, 144–​45, 153,  154–​55 commodity chains and distant, 60–​64,  102–​3 foreign, 116–​19,  124–​25 hedge fund, 34–​35 local communities and distant, 87–​90,  143 irrigation projects, 85, 96–​97 IUCN, 36–​37,  101–​2 Jaccard, Mark, 119–​20 Jatropha curcas, 33–​34, 183n.12 Bedford Biofuels’ proposal, 86–​90, 93 corporate production, 88–​89, 147 food/​nonfood distinction, 171n.17 oil-​bearing seed, 82f opposition and support, 95–​96,  103–​5 promoted for biodiesel, 10–​11, 21–​22,  81 Jatropha Growers Company, 88–​89 Johnny, Jimmy, 129–​30 justice. See environmental justice; social justice Kaska First Nation, 121, 135–​36 Keck, Margaret E., 54–​55, 56, 99, 131–​32,  178n.5 Kennedy, Robert F. Jr., 40

242 Index Kenya agricultural projects, 143–​44 biofuels production, 7–​8, 10–​11, 46–​47, 80–​81,  91 colonial history and land reorganization, 93, 96–​97, 103 energy legislation, 81, 91 landscape and population, 1, 82–​84 map, 77f tribal identities and violence, 93–​94 See also Tana delta Kenya Wetlands Biodiversity Research Team (KENWEB), 163n.7 Klondike Gold rush, 114, 188n.21 Kyoto Protocol, 18, 26–​27, 168n.2 land, relationships farmers and, 45 identity and, 66 Indigenous peoples and, 1–​3, 115–​16, 129–​30, 189n.24 livelihood and, 1 land claims, 115–​16, 189n.26, 191n.52 Indigenous, 114, 120–​21, 128–​29, 135–​ 36, 188–​89n.23 Tana delta, 76–​77, 85–​86, 92, 103–​5 land grabs, 34–​35, 57–​58, 101–​2, 106, 179–​80n.14 terminology, 65–​66, 67 landownership, 45 Global North/​South dynamics, 67, 180n.16 identity and belonging and, 97–​98,  115–​16 mineral rights and, 67–​68, 180n.17 Tana delta, 87, 94 land rights, 64–​65, 100, 126–​27, 184n.28 pastoralists and, 94–​95 politics of belonging and, 66 surface and subsurface, 67–​68, 180n.17 title and, 34–​35, 76–​77, 88 Yukon,  135–​36 land tenure, 186n.60 insecurity, 34–​35, 100 Kenya, 82–​84, 93–​94, 96–​97, 103 land use, 7–​8, 10–​11, 12, 35–​36, 48 changes in Tanzania, 138–​40

conversion for biofuels, 33–​35, 57–​58, 89–​90, 101–​2,  163n.7 fracking conflicts, 109f, 113 local scale of, 1, 105 Peel Watershed plan, 127–​31, 135, 159, 192–​93n.78 politics, 64–​65,  103–​5 Tana delta, 76–​77, 94–​96 Yukon, 11, 112–​13, 128 language, deployment of, 56 leasing land, 45, 85, 94–​95 Lehner, Peter, 41 Liberal government (Yukon), 132–​33, 136–​37, 192–​93n.78 life-​cycle assessment, 29 liquefied natural gas (LNG), 123–​24,  150–​51 backup generators, 107–​12, 119–​20, 130–​31, 135, 188n.19 livelihood activities, 93–​95, 97–​98, 100–​1 LNG. See liquefied natural gas (LNG) low-​carbon  fuel biofuels as, 21 LNG as, 111–​12, 135 search for, 40, 141–​42, 145 Mackenzie Valley Pipeline Inquiry, 128–​29 Maniates, Michael, 161, 195n.10 marginal lands, 33–​35, 174n.34, 182n.5 margins, 6, 73–​74, 143, 161–​62 markets agricultural, 80–​81, 102–​3, 147, 173–​74n.30 biofuels, 23–​25, 71–​72, 81–​82, 90–​91, 101–​2,  136–​37 commodity, 7–​8, 10–​11, 16–​17, 49–​50, 60–​63, 133, 179n.12 flexible,  91–​92 global energy, 6–​7, 69–​71, 101, 106, 144 green,  142–​43 scale and, 136 transportation fuels, 36–​37, 101 Yukon energy, 123–​24, 125–​26, 133–​35 MAT International, 88–​89, 94–​95, 96–​97, 184n.21 McAdam, Doug, 8–​9, 13–​14, 52–​53, 92, 98, 167n.19 McKibben, Bill, 156–​57

Index  243 McMichael, Philip, 62–​63, 72–​73 Mervyn, Simon, 129–​30 methane, 42–​43, 58–​59, 133, 142–​43 Middle East, 70, 169n.5, 172–​73n.23 mineral rights, 45–​46, 67–​68, 107, 180n.17 mining, 11, 125, 131f, 157 mistrust of government, 96–​97, 113, 126, 130–​31,  154–​55 mobilization, 16–​17, 144–​45, 151–​52, 154, 159 community, 8–​10, 73–​74, 113, 181n.25 grievances and, 48–​49, 52–​53 identities and, 92 mass, 181n.26 mechanisms of, 50–​51, 60 strategies, 12–​13,  74–​75 theories, 168n.21 See also protests; social movements Monsanto, 72, 147 Morrison, David, 111 Mumias Sugar Company, 76, 88–​89, 94–​95,  100 Musyoka, Stephen Kalonzo, 76, 182n.1 Na-​Cho Nyäk Dun, 129–​30, 132–​33 Nairobi, 76, 77–​79 National Biofuels Committee, 91 National Environmental Management Agency (NEMA), 76, 87 nationalization,  70–​71 natural gas divided support for, 41–​42, 142–​43,  147–​48 emissions, 42, 142–​43 exports, 69–​70, 123–​24, 136 global production, 39f investment in, 117–​20 prices, 41, 45, 141–​42, 169n.6 transition fuel narratives, 40–​41, 45, 147–​48,  150–​51 US production, 38–​40, 39f, 46, 114–​15,  142–​43 water contamination, 43 Yukon debate, 107–​11, 123–​24, 133–​35,  136 See also liquefied natural gas (LNG); shale gas

Natural Resources Defense Council (NRDC), 41 NatureKenya, 76–​77,  98–​99 neoliberalism, 133–​35, 194n.2 Nestlé, 32, 72 new technologies, 38–​39, 144–​45, 152–​53,  158 commodities and, 6, 16–​17, 49, 60–​61,  140–​41 power imbalances of, 150–​51 risk and, 56–​57 nongovernmental organizations (NGOs), 41,  147–​48 for/​against biofuels, 27, 31, 41, 81,  100–​2 against fracking, 43–​44 Kenya, 10–​11, 76–​77,  98–​99 norm development, 59, 178n.5 Northern Canada Power Commission, 187–​88n.14 Northern Cross Energy Limited, 116–​ 17, 118–​19, 123, 124–​25, 189n.28, 189n.32 Obama, Barack, 40, 148–​49 ocean iron fertilization, 56–​57, 176–​77n.65 oil and gas exploration, 45, 70–​71, 85, 107, 116–​17, 133, 136 oil and gas extraction, 21, 40–​41, 126–​27 foreign investors, 116–​19 impacts of, 41–​42, 110–​11, 130–​31 infrastructure development for, 136 technologies, 37–​38, 68–​69,  151–​52 Yukon’s history of, 112–​13, 114–​15 oil palm, 10–​11, 34, 71–​72, 80–​81, 83f,  90–​91 oil prices agricultural markets and, 173–​74n.30 high, 3–​4, 23, 26–​27, 31–​32, 41, 45 volatility of, 19–​20, 70–​71, 169nn.5–​6 oil-​producing regions, 70–​71, 145,  169n.5 oil sands, 38 Oliver, Joe, 125 Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC), 70, 169n.7 Orma, 92–​98, 185n.38, 185n.40

244 Index ownership corporate, 68–​69, 147 energy nationalization and, 70 finance and trade relationship, 11–​13, 14, 16, 103, 112–​13, 141–​42 government,  79–​80 land politics and, 64–​67 project, 65, 143–​44, 154–​56 resource, 67–​68, 180n.17 Oxfam,  101–​2 Ozi Community Conservation Organization, 185n.45 participatory processes, 79–​80, 154–​56,  159 pastoralists, 34–​35, 76, 92–​98, 150–​51 Peel Watershed, 127–​31, 135, 136–​37, 192–​93n.78 canoe trip, 138, 139f,  159–​60 performances, 55, 74–​75, 76–​79, 131–​32 philosophy,  58–​59 place, 69, 144–​45 attachment and, 115–​16, 154–​55,  160–​61 belonging and identity and, 65, 66, 121–​ 23, 180n.15 Pokomo, 92–​98, 185n.38, 185n.40 polarization,  51–​52 political economy biofuels projects in the Tana delta and, 104f contentious politics and, 10–​11, 13–​14, 16–​17, 75, 136–​37, 140–​41, 154 fracking projects in the Yukon and, 134f international, 49, 160–​61 intersections with, 141–​45, 157–​58 mechanisms of contention and, 50–​51, 52–​53, 60, 79–​80, 156 new energy projects and, 10, 13–​14, 15f resistance and, 157 spatiality and, 105 values and, 149 poverty,  101–​2 alleviation, 20, 27 Kenya, 82–​84, 182n.6 power-​holders, 86, 151–​52, 153 claim-​makers and, 49–​50, 74–​75, 133–​35,  158 tools and strategies, 53–​54, 55, 105

power relations, 20, 56, 98, 149, 150–​51,  160–​61 agrifood sector, 147 international relations, 166–​67n.14 PRÓÁLCOOL program, 22–​23 production and exchange, 49, 69 protests, 9, 48–​49, 59, 65, 75, 161 biofuels, 36, 46–​47, 153 food riots, 30 fracking, 43–​44, 112f, 112–​13, 126–​27,  153 performance of, 55, 74–​75, 76–​79 repertoires of, 53–​54, 130–​31 successes and failures, 4 public hearings. See Select Committee Regarding the Risks and Benefits of Hydraulic Fracturing Public Utility Regulatory Policies Act (US), 23 Queensland, 40–​41,  45–​46 racial inequalities, 145–​46 raising awareness, 49–​50, 77–​78, 118,  129–​30 rapeseed, 23–​25, 27–​28,  71–​72 REDD+ programs, 176–​77n.65 renewable energy, 141–​42 corporate initiatives, 36–​37 EU promotion of, 28–​29, 30–​31, 69–​70 global and social transformation and,  156–​57 potential in the Yukon, 8, 125–​26, 159 prices, 169n.6 solar, 154, 156–​57 total world use, 101 US transition, 23, 40, 70–​71 wind,  155–​56 repertoires of contention, 9, 53–​54, 55, 177n.1 research methods, 58–​59, 163n.7, 165n.11 resistance biofuels, 13–​14, 46–​47,  112–​13 community, 4, 11 dynamics of, 6, 8–​10, 49–​50, 59–​60 fracking, 14–​16, 113, 114–​15, 126–​27 local, 53–​54, 75, 178n.5

Index  245 multiscale politics of, 14, 61, 106,  140–​41 new energy projects and, 154–​56 nonviolent, 74–​75, 181n.26 performative dimensions of, 55, 76–​79 political economy and, 157 resource development, 1–​3, 66, 73–​74,  76–​77 resource peripheries, 6, 166–​67n.14 rice farming, 72–​73, 85, 96–​97 Riegos Agricolas Espanolas (RAESA),  88–​89 risk, 49–​50,  56–​59 financial and investment, 62–​63, 89–​90, 179n.11 fracking and, 63, 124–​25 Roundtable on Sustainable Biofuels (RSB), 31,  101–​2 Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB), 27–​28,  29–​30 rubber production, 66 rural development biofuels projects and, 7–​8, 26, 27, 142–​43,  147–​48 fracking benefits, 45, 123–​24 land use and, 48, 65–​66 trade and, 20 Samsø (Denmark), 155–​56 scale,  149–​50 contentious politics and, 9 investment and, 86, 87–​90, 91–​92, 117–​18,  136 local and global, 105–​6, 155–​56 production, 10–​11, 89–​90,  91–​92 transnational, 59, 100–​1 scale shifts, 9–​10, 14–​16, 79–​80, 86, 106,  140–​41 biofuel projects, 89–​90, 91–​92 fracking controversies, 116, 118 meaning, 50–​51,  52–​53 scientific uncertainty, 12–​14, 56–​57,  144–​45 biofuels and, 32–​33, 118 fracking and, 42–​43, 45–​46, 58–​59,  147–​48 Scott, James C., 149–​50, 158, 165n.11, 166n.13

seismic activity, 43, 116 Select Committee Regarding the Risks and Benefits of Hydraulic Fracturing, 121, 123–​24,  136 expert hearings, 119–​20, 123, 133 formation and purpose, 107–​8, 117 LNG generator debate, 111–​12, 119–​20 mistrust of, 126 Peel Watershed plan, 130–​31 renewable energy discussion, 125–​26 settler-​states, 120–​21, 180n.16 shale basins, 6–​7, 40, 46, 108f,  142–​43 Eagle Plains, 116–​17, 119, 123–​24, 130–​ 31, 132–​33, 159 Liard, 116–​17, 123–​24, 135–​36, 159 Whitehorse Trough, 107, 116–​17 shale gas campaigns against, 5–​6 as a climate bridge, 119–​20 development, 44–​45, 58–​59, 151–​52, 169–​70n.9 exploration, 8, 67, 114–​15, 116, 176n.51 global and US production, 39f land grabs, 67 methane emissions, 42, 58–​59, 133,  142–​43 proponents, 123 “revolution,” 38–​39,  58–​59 water contamination, 43 See also fracking shareholders, 61–​62, 63–​64, 68–​69, 179n.8 Shell,  36–​37 Sierra Club, 31, 40, 41–​42 Sikkink, Kathryn, 54–​55, 56, 99, 131–​32,  178n.5 social justice, 126–​27, 145–​46, 148–​49, 152–​53,  161–​62 social movements changing nature of, 157–​58 framing strategies, 54 mobilization, 8–​10, 48–​49, 168n.21 performative dimensions, 55 renewable technologies and, 156–​57 spillover effects, 177n.1 Somalia,  92–​93 soy, 21–​22, 31, 90–​91 squatters, 95 stray gases, 8, 43

246 Index sugarcane, 76–​77, 81 bioethanol, 21–​25, 35–​36, 71–​72, 171n.17 Tana delta controversy, 88–​89, 90–​91,  95–​96 sugar prices, 22–​23 supply chains, 46, 49–​50, 154–​55, 161 biofuels, 48, 89–​90 global, 12, 13–​14, 19–​20 Supreme Court of Canada, 128–​30, 138, 159, 192–​93n.78 surface water, 8, 43 symbols, 12–​13, 56, 105–​6, 131–​32,  152–​53 Tana and Athi River Development Authority (TARDA), 76–​77, 85, 88–​89,  91 Tana Delta Irrigation Project, 96–​97 Tana delta Bedford Biofuels controversy, 86–​88 biofuels debate, 95–​96, 100–​1, 103–​5, 185n.40 colonial history and landscape, 82–​84,  93 employment opportunities, 7–​8, 87,  94–​97 ethnic groups and livelihoods, 92–​95,  97–​98 failed development initiatives, 85–​86, 182–​83n.7 land use and land rights, 76–​77, 94–​95 location, 77f mistrust of government projects, 96–​97, 103–​5, 185n.42 national and international alliances, 98–​101,  105–​6 political economy of biofuel projects, 104f sugarcane production projects,  88–​89 timeline of biofuel events, 78f villager demonstrations, 76–​80 Tana Delta Conservation Organisation (TADECO), 76–​77,  98–​99 Tana Integrated Sugar Project (TISP), 76–​77, 80, 81, 88, 90–​92, 98–​99, 106 Tana River, 85, 96–​97

Tanzania, 86, 87–​88, 96–​97, 138–​40, 140f, 183n.12 Tarrow, Sidney G., 13–​14, 52–​53, 54, 92, 98, 167n.19 tar sands, 38 technological optimism, 16, 136–​37, 149–​ 50, 171n.17 technological solutions, 46, 150–​52, 160–​ 61, 176–​77n.65 Territorial Formula Financing (TFF), 191n.53 Tilly, Charles, 13–​14, 52–​53, 55, 92, 98, 167n.19 trade agricultural, 26, 72–​73, 181n.24 biofuels and, 101–​2 finance and ownership relationship, 11–​ 13, 14, 16, 103, 112–​13, 141–​42 grain, 23, 62–​63 international relationships and networks,  69–​74 rural development and, 20 systems, 60–​61, 72–​73,  126–​27 trade agreements, 19–​20, 69–​70, 72–​73, 119, 181n.24 See also World Trade Organization (WTO) Trans-​Alaska Pipeline System, 181n.21 transnational advocacy networks, 9, 12–​ 13, 59, 178n.5, 185–​86n.50 Tana delta, 99–​101, 105–​6 transport fuels, 26–​27, 36–​37, 101–​2 trust. See mistrust of government Umbrella Final Agreement (1993) (UFA), 114, 128–​29, 130–​31, 159, 188–​ 89n.23, 192–​93n.78 uncertainty. See scientific uncertainty United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC), 18–​ 19, 168nn.1–​2 United States (US) biofuels production, 22–​25, 26–​27 economy, 20, 142–​43, 145, 169–​70n.9 food system, 72 fracking history and regulations, 40, 68–​69, 135, 148–​49, 175n.50 natural gas production, 38–​39, 39f

Index  247 oil dependency, 19–​20, 70, 169n.5, 169n.7 renewable energy policies, 23, 171n.17 Veale, Justice Ron, 192–​93n.78 village authority structures, 163n.7 violence,  93–​94 slow, 145–​46, 151 Wardei, 92–​94, 185n.38 water contamination, 8, 43, 56–​57, 67–​68, 116, 121 wells, 37–​38, 43, 48, 116–​18, 175n.50 Whitehorse, 107–​8, 111–​12, 133–​35, 159 location, 108f population,  116–​17 Whitehorse Trough, 107, 116–​17 wildcatters, 38, 68–​69 Wind River, 138, 139f World Bank, 33–​34, 72–​73, 182–​83n.7 Food Price Index, 32 world systems, 166–​67n.14 World Trade Organization (WTO), 20, 26, 72–​73, 181n.24 Wyman, Richard, 119 Yukon ban on fracking, 136–​37, 159 energy grid and diesel generators, 8, 107–​10, 187–​88n.14 energy supply and local market, 123–​24,  136–​37 extractive industries, 112–​13, 114–​15, 130–​31, 132,  136–​37 First Nations, 114, 121, 127–​30, 132–​33, 136–​37, 188–​89n.23, 192–​93n.78 foreign investors and fracking interest, 46–​47, 116–​19, 124–​25,  133

identities and land relationships, 121 landscape,  159–​60 LNG proposal and debate, 108–​12, 119–​20, 135, 150–​51, 188n.19 map, 108f narratives of resistance, 11 territorial governance, 114, 120–​21, 191n.53 timeline of fracking events, 109f See also Peel Watershed Yukon Conservation Society (YCS), 110–​11,  128 Yukon Electrical Company Limited,  108–​10 Yukon Energy Corporation (YEC), 108–​12, 135, 187–​88n.14 Yukon Environmental and Socio-​ economic Assessment Board (YESAB), 110–​12,  116–​17 Yukoners Concerned about Oil and Gas Development, 111–​12, 116–​17, 135, 159, 194n.8 Yukon Party, 107, 114–​15, 126, 132–​33, 135, 192–​93n.78 Yukon Supreme Court, 128–​29, 192–​93n.78 Yukon Territorial Government (YTG), 107, 114, 120–​21, 125–​26, 187–​88n.14 federal transfer payments, 121, 191n.53 land-​use planning process, 128–​29, 192–​93n.78 party change, 132–​33, 192–​93n.78 Yukon Utilities Board, 108–​10,  111–​12 Ziegler, Jean, 31–​32