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Home > VOLUME 28 > ISSUE 1 > Article 13 Synthesis

Collective payments for ecosystem services: a counterpart of commodification and privatization trends in nature conservation?

Kaiser, J., D. Haase, and T. Krueger. 2023. Collective payments for ecosystem services: a counterpart of commodification and privatization trends in nature conservation? Ecology and Society 28(1):13. https://doi.org/10.5751/ES-13549-280113
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  • Josef KaiserORCID, Josef Kaiser
    Department of Geography, Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin, Germany
  • Dagmar Haase, Dagmar Haase
    Department of Geography, Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin, Germany; Department of Computational Landscape Ecology, Helmholtz Centre for Environmental Research (UFZ), Germany; Integrative Research Institute on Transformations of Human-Environment Systems (IRI THESys), Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin, Germany
  • Tobias KruegerTobias Krueger
    Department of Geography, Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin, Germany; Integrative Research Institute on Transformations of Human-Environment Systems (IRI THESys), Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin, Germany

The following is the established format for referencing this article:

Kaiser, J., D. Haase, and T. Krueger. 2023. Collective payments for ecosystem services: a counterpart of commodification and privatization trends in nature conservation? Ecology and Society 28(1):13.

https://doi.org/10.5751/ES-13549-280113

  • Abstract
  • Introduction
  • ES and Central Characteristics of PES
  • Methods
  • Results
  • Discussion
  • Conclusion
  • Responses to This Article
  • Author Contributions
  • Acknowledgments
  • Data Availability
  • Literature Cited
  • collective action; collective payments for ecosystem services; commodification; community-based payments for ecosystem services; environmental governance; land tenure; privatization; property
    Collective payments for ecosystem services: a counterpart of commodification and privatization trends in nature conservation?
    Copyright © 2021 by the author(s). Published here under license by The Resilience Alliance. This article is under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License. You may share and adapt the work provided the original author and source are credited, you indicate whether any changes were made, and you include a link to the license. ES-2022-13549.pdf
    Synthesis

    ABSTRACT

    Payments for ecosystem services (PES) gained an increasing importance in science and politics within the last decades. Although the enthusiasm about PES is particularly high in Environmental Economics, opponents criticize the market-based character of PES and the associated commodification as well as privatization trends. By means of a systematic literature review we aim at shedding light on the complex and controversial debate about how to define commodification and related privatization processes and how they are linked to PES outcomes. We do so by setting a particular focus on the potentials and challenges of community-based and collective PES (C-PES), also in contrast to PES targeting land under private land tenure (P-PES). Our results reveal that C-PES show promising results when targeting local communities with a high level of social capital. However, there is a lack of studies that systematically assess the relations between different degrees of commodification and the ecological and social outcome of PES programs. For this reason, we provide a new conceptual framework of commodification by highlighting two interrelated spheres, where PES-related commodification processes take place: The first sphere relates to the commodification of ES-providing land, which greatly depends on the land tenure regime in place. The second sphere addresses the commodification of ecosystem services (ES). Our review indicates that C-PES show rather low degrees of commodification in the first sphere because the ES-providing land is often less embedded into private land markets. This is due to often missing alienation rights, more complex decision-making processes, and a potentially lower profit-orientation of the landowners. Empirical long-term studies are needed to investigate changes in both spheres of commodification over time, their potential interactions, and how they affect the outcome of C-PES and P-PES programs.

    INTRODUCTION

    Biodiversity losses have reached an alarming state around the world putting entire ecosystems at risk (IPBES 2019). Thus, there is an urgent need for effective conservation instruments. As one solution, economic and market-based instruments have been developed that complement or even replace classical government-led regulatory conservation instruments (Sattler et al. 2013). This development finds its expression in the monetization of ecosystems and their provided services (ES; Gómez-Baggethun et al. 2010). In this context, payments for ecosystem services (PES) are particularly prominent. PES programs reward owners of ES-providing land for their conservation efforts using positive and conditional economic incentives (Wunder 2015). Since the beginning of the 21st century, the interest of scientists, national governments, and civil society organizations (CSO) in PES as well as the number of implemented PES programs increased strongly. Depending on the underlying PES definition, current estimates assume up to 550 PES programs worldwide (Salzman et al. 2018).

    PES are acclaimed for their higher efficiency compared to regulatory environmental policies because of their flexibility in internalizing environmental externalities into the market sphere by a more precise spatial targeting of particularly endangered ES (Engel et al. 2008). Furthermore, PES advocates highlight the potentials of PES for improving the livelihood of local communities in Global South countries that are embedded in weak governance settings (Wunder 2007, Engel et al. 2008). In contrast, others criticize PES for paving the way for commodification processes in nature conservation by introducing terms such as ”complexity blinder” (Norgaard 2010) or ”commodity fetishism” (Kosoy and Corbera 2010). It is stated that PES conceal the complexity of ecosystems, for example, by putting a monetary exchange-value on particular ES (Kosoy and Corbera 2010). Furthermore, trading these ES as exchangeable commodities is seen critically, as it is often difficult to assign clear boundaries, values, and property rights to ES, which is particularly due to their physical characteristics and, thereby, their common- or public-good character (Bakker 2004, Farley and Costanza 2010, Kosoy and Corbera 2010, McElwee 2012). Thus, it is argued that PES run into danger of focusing on easily commodifiable ES, instead of targeting complex bundles of ES at the landscape scale (Robertson 2006, Corbera et al. 2007, Ghazoul et al. 2009, Kosoy and Corbera 2010, Scales 2015). Opponents of PES also fear potentially negative social implications of PES-related commodification trends (Kosoy and Corbera 2010, McElwee 2012, Fletcher and Büscher 2017). Some authors even reject the entire concept by highlighting PES as a form of “neoliberal conservation” (Büscher 2012, Fletcher and Büscher 2017).

    Various authors highlight that commodification processes and the privatization of ES-providing land are closely related (Mansfield 2007, Gómez-Baggethun and Ruiz-Pérez 2011, McElwee et al. 2014). Secure land tenure structures are pivotal when implementing PES programs (Sattler and Matzdorf 2013, Wunder 2013, Solazzo et al. 2015, Huber-Stearns et al. 2017, Rodríguez-Robayo and Merino-Perez 2017), particularly for a stable participation of ES providers (Swallow and Meinzen-Dick 2009, Bremer et al. 2014a, Liu et al. 2018). At the same time, the empirical PES literature shows that most programs target private landholders (Porras et al. 2008, Börner et al. 2010, Vatn 2010, McElwee 2012, Ezzine-de-Blas et al. 2016, Narloch et al. 2017). Critics argue that these private-individual PES (P-PES) programs might reinforce existing social inequalities, while the social and political capital as well as the potential for collective action within local communities decreases (Kosoy and Corbera 2010, McAfee and Shapiro 2010, Büscher et al. 2012, McElwee 2012, Bremer et al. 2014b).

    Land-related property rights, however, do not have to be privately held (Farley and Costanza 2010, Vatn 2010, Tacconi et al. 2013). An estimated 65% of the global land area is under customary land tenure systems, particularly held by local communities and indigenous people in countries of the Global South, although only a fraction is formally recognized by governments (Rights and Resource Initiative 2015). Therefore, it comes as no surprise that there are also PES programs in place that target groups rather than individual holders of ES-providing land. Such PES arrangements are often referred to as community-based or collective PES (C-PES; Hayes et al. 2017, 2019, Kaczan et al. 2017, Gatiso et al. 2018, Brownson et al. 2019). Various authors highlight that C-PES in some situations are promising by referring to, for example, Ostrom’s famous publication Governing the Commons from 1990 (Vatn 2010, Engel 2016, Kaczan et al. 2017).

    By means of two systematic literature reviews, we aim at shedding light on the complex and controversial debate about how PES-related commodification processes and different land tenure regimes are interrelated and how they affect PES outcomes. Thereby, our overarching objective is to better distinguish analytically different degrees of commodification of PES programs to provide a basis for an easier assessment of the relations between different degrees of commodification and PES outcomes. We do so by setting a specific focus on C-PES by discussing the guiding question of this paper: Do C-PES counter commodification and privatization trends in nature conservation?

    The following three research questions will guide us through this complex topic:

    • How is the term “commodification” defined in PES research?
    • What are the differences between P-PES and C-PES against the background of different land tenure structures?
    • What are the potentials and challenges of C-PES programs and how are they related to commodification processes?

    Drawing connections between commodification processes, land tenure regimes, and PES is very challenging because PES as well as ES are heterogeneously defined in the literature. For this reason, we prepend a section to the main body of this paper, in which we briefly summarize existing definitions of ES and PES. Subsequently, we introduce our methods by introducing the two systematic literature reviews we applied. The results section is divided into three subsections, each addressing one of the research questions. In the discussion we propose a new analytical framework of PES-related degrees of commodification and discuss the similarities and differences between C-PES and P-PES as well as the potential relations between different degrees of commodification and PES outcomes. We close with a brief conclusion.

    ES AND CENTRAL CHARACTERISTICS OF PES

    ES are heterogeneously defined (Danley and Widmark 2016). In this paper, we refer to Daily (1997:3), who defines ES as “conditions and processes through which natural ecosystems, and the species that make them up, sustain and fulfill human life.” Particularly, we highlight Farley and Costanza’s (2010) view on ES, who distinguish between ecosystem goods as physically convertible stock-flow resources that are harvestable at a particular rate, and ecosystem services that can be described as only qualitatively changeable fund-services that “are a particular type of flow, or flux, generated by a particular configuration of stock-flow resources” (Farley and Costanza 2010:2062). It follows that ES do not have the character of classical economic goods, as for example timber that can be defined as a physically delimitable and storable ecosystem good for which it is relatively easy to implement excludability and rivalry.

    PES understandings are far from being homogenous too (Sattler and Matzdorf 2013, Wunder 2015, Kaiser et al. 2021). The existing definitions reach from Coasean conceptualizations describing PES as conditional and voluntary private negotiations between ES providers and ES beneficiaries to much broader Pigouvian conceptualizations also counting government-funded and (partly) involuntary schemes to the PES approach. This variety of existing definitions makes it difficult to investigate the outcome of PES programs in an analytic-empirical manner (Martin-Ortega and Waylen 2018). We characterize PES by referring to three key design elements (Kaiser et al. 2021). First, PES create positive incentives, monetary or in-kind, to reward ES providers for their ES protection efforts and thus to change undesirable behaviors that are harmful to the environment (Wunder 2005). Second, conditionality is a central PES characteristic and includes regular monitoring practices that are related to the state of ES. Thus, ES providers only receive payments from ES buyers, if the ES provision can be verified, or to keep it short: “you only pay for what you get” (Wunder et al. 2018:145). Referring to the ES definition of Daily (1997) implies that ES are very complex and hard to quantify. For this reason, particular ES proxies are used that provide information about the quality of an ES, respectively, the current state of an ecosystem process in order to create a certain degree of rivalry and excludability on ES with public or common good characteristics. There are two ways that conditionality can be applied: by monitoring the ES proxies directly (e.g., tonnes of CO2 sequestered or measuring the water quality) and, less direct, by monitoring specific management practices for which an ES securing effect can be assumed based on scientific research (Muradian et al. 2010). These management practices are monitored by focusing on specific land use indicators. We define management indicators as indirect ES proxies. Still, ES proxies are usually not discrete and physically transformable economic goods. Instead, these proxies can be described as follows: “Because most PES schemes often rely on external assessments of the value of these environmental services to birth the commodities that can be traded and sold, such constructions are similar to what Polanyi deemed ‘fictitious commodities’ in that they do not exist in-toto, but must be created, resulting in commodification that is always incomplete and contested (Polanyi, 1957, p. 76)” (McElwee 2012:414). Third, ES providers can decide voluntarily whether they join the PES contract. Applying the voluntariness criterion only on the ES providers’ side means in reverse that also the public sector can act as ES buyer. We do not consider compensations for environmental legal restrictions as PES because these programs do not fulfil the ES providers’ voluntariness criterion.

    METHODS

    The results of this study are based on a systematic literature review using the search engine Scopus because it provides a high coverage of peer-reviewed literature (Mongeon and Paul-Hus 2016). For identifying relevant literature, we applied two separate systematic literature searches (see Fig. 1). We used the first literature search to focus on the understandings of the term “commodification” in the context of PES (first research question). The second review focused on the issue of property and land tenure structures in the context of PES in order to analytically compare C-PES and P-PES programs (second research question). We used both literature reviews to have a closer look at potentials and challenges of C-PES against the background of commodification processes (third research question). Each terminology included both “payments for ecosystem services” and “payments for environmental services.” Although some authors use both terms interchangeably, others see them as two distinct categories; for details see, for example, Derissen and Latacz-Lohmann (2013). This review uses the term “payments for ecosystem services” for reasons of consistency.

    After applying the two search terminologies in Scopus, relevant scientific publications in the period of 2000 to 2019 were reviewed following the PRISMA guideline (Moher et al. 2009). We start with the year 2000 because of the remarkable increase of PES literature starting after this year (Schomers and Matzdorf 2013). First, we screened abstracts for relevance. Second, the publications identified as eligible were analyzed in detail. Based on the relevant content of these publications a coding structure was developed using the text analysis software MAXQDA. The developed coding structure enabled a clustering of relevant topics addressing the research questions, which led to the guiding structure of the following results section. When other relevant publications addressing the research questions were referenced within the identified literature, we integrated these publications into the literature review as well (snowball system). Of course, if statements from other authors relevant to our research interest were cited within the literature, we traced them back to the primary publications. A detailed overview of the scientific publications identified as eligible can be found in Appendices 1 and 2, indicating also publications detected based on the snowball system.

    RESULTS

    Understandings of commodification in the PES literature

    We identified 27 eligible and accessible publications based on the abstract reviews out of which 10 publications include a more detailed analytically description of the term ”commodification.” Further publications were included based on the snowball system (see Appendix 1).

    Ambiguous understandings of commodification

    Many of the analyzed publications use the term commodification without defining it in detail. Instead, commodification is often mentioned in combination with terms such as “market-based.” Our review suggests that this sometimes leads to misunderstandings about the critique because in these cases commodification is often directly associated with classical markets including a market-based price determination. As a consequence, several authors have already pointed out that PES build only seldomly on ES markets, in which ES commodities are competitively and fully voluntarily traded (Corbera et al. 2007, Tacconi 2012, Muradian 2013, Wunder 2013, Hahn et al. 2015). Does this imply that the relationships between PES and commodification processes are not as strong as some scholars suggest? Our review shows that this depends on the particular understanding of commodification as well as on the PES program in focus. Publications dealing with the term commodification, also outside the PES research, show a high heterogeneity of understandings (Castree 2003). Introductory definitions suggest that markets for clearly defined ES are a necessary part of the commodification of ES (Bakker 2005, Kosoy and Corbera 2010, Gómez-Baggethun and Ruiz-Pérez 2011, Corbera 2012, Kallis et al. 2013, Namirembe et al. 2014, Leimona et al. 2015). Commodification is, for example, defined as “the creation of an economic good through the application of mechanisms intended to appropriate and standardize a class of goods or services, enabling these goods or services to be sold at a price determined through market exchange” (Bakker 2005:544) or as “the conceptual and operational treatment of goods and services as objects meant for trading. It describes a modification of relationships, formerly unaffected by commerce, into commercial relationships. Commodification of ecosystem services thus refers to the inclusion and internalization of ecosystem functions into pricing systems and market relations” (Gómez-Baggethun and Ruiz-Pérez 2011:619).

    Understanding commodification as a process

    Various authors, and often the same ones, also emphasize that commodification should not be understood as a fixed state, but rather as a process, which does not have to be unidirectional and irreversible (Kosoy and Corbera 2010, Muradian et al. 2010, Hahn et al. 2015, Osborne and Shapiro-Garza 2018, Martin-Ortega et al. 2019). Thereby, several of the identified publications refer to Gómez-Baggethun and Ruiz-Pérez (2011), who propose four stages of commodification in the context of ES: “economic framing, monetization, appropriation, and commercialization” (Gómez-Baggethun and Ruiz-Pérez 2011:620). Kosoy and Corbera (2010) highlight three stages of commodification that include the separation of ES from the entire ecosystem, the assignment of single exchange-values to ES, and the linking between ES providers and beneficiaries through a market or market-like exchange. Hahn et al. (2015) come up with a classification of economic instruments for biodiversity and ecosystem services divided into seven degrees of commodification. These are mainly determined by the institutional design of the program, for example the type of price signal or ES buyer. Furthermore, Muradian et al. (2010) emphasize various PES-related degrees of commodification that depend on the definability of ES as tradable commodity, which is particularly determined by the conditionality-related monitoring type. Whereas, for example, schemes based on the direct measurement of ES proxies show a higher degree of commodification, programs building on the monitoring of management practices for which a positive influence on the provision of ES can be assumed are commodified to a lower degree.

    Therefore, it is important to take the respective underlying understanding of commodification in PES research into account. Describing PES as a purely market-based nature conservation instrument certainly falls short against the background of the currently implemented PES programs and their diverse designs. For this reason, Hahn et al. (2015) propose the term “economic instruments” that better covers the diversity of programs, whereby they use the term “market-based” as a subcategory. Wunder (2015) acknowledges this debate, too, by changing his seminal definition from the ES buyer-seller to the ES provider-user. Understanding commodification as a process with different degrees mirrors this debate by allowing for a better differentiation to which degree commodification becomes apparent in different PES designs and how these different degrees are potentially linked to the social and ecological outcome of PES programs. Furthermore, it allows for investigating whether the degree of commodification of a PES program changes over time. Fletcher and Büscher (2017), for example, describe commodification, and more generally neoliberalization, as gradual processes over time and argue that PES programs potentially pave the way for an increasing thinking in terms of commodities and markets in nature conservation in the long run. Thereby, symbolic meanings such as the monetary valuation of ES aimed at gaining attention for ES protection are potential forerunners of a subsequent commodification and marketization of ES because monetary incentives, whether based on true markets or not, introduce a neoliberal thinking in terms of commodities and exchange values (Gómez-Baggethun and Ruiz-Pérez 2011, Fletcher and Büscher 2017, Kolinjivadi et al. 2017).

    The relations between commodification and privatization processes

    Several publications draw relations between the terms “commodification” and “privatization” (McAfee and Shapiro 2010, Kallis et al. 2013, Osborne and Shapiro-Garza 2018, Martin-Ortega et al. 2019). Often, privatization is seen as one component of commodification processes. Osborne and Shapiro-Garza (2018:101), for example, highlight privatization as a step to commodification that includes the transfer of “exclusive rights of a resource to an individual, group, or institution in the form of legal title” by referring to the principal elements of the commodification of nature identified by Castree (2003). Some of the identified papers refer to Gómez-Baggethun und Ruiz-Pérez (2011:620), who emphasize that the ES appropriation, which constitutes one step toward an increase of commodification, “operates through the formalization of property rights on specific ecosystem services, or on the lands producing such services. This stage has often involved privatization, through which ecosystems that were previously in openly accessible regimes, or in communal or public property regimes, have been turned into private property.” However, the definition of the term “privatization” and the relations to commodification processes remain often vague. Therefore, Bakker (2005) calls for an analysis of commodification and privatization as distinct processes.

    Differences between P-PES and C-PES against the background of land tenure structures

    In the following subsection we give an overview of how land-related property, respectively, land tenure structures are defined and what the differences between PES targeting private-individual landowners (P-PES) and those building on common property regimes (C-PES) are. In our literature review we identified 69 eligible and accessible publications that deal with the issue of land tenure structures out of which 15 publications give detailed information about the understanding and conceptualization of land-related property structures in the context of PES programs and the differences between P-PES and C-PES.

    Characterizing land tenure structures using the property rights bundle approach

    Property can be understood as (social) relationships between members of society and objects/valuables (Bromley 1992, von Benda-Beckmann et al. 2006, Mansfield 2007). One way of looking at these property relations is through the lens of bundles of property rights as it was famously introduced for natural resource systems by Schlager and Ostrom (1992). The framework can also help to characterize the diversity of land tenure structures in the context of PES programs (e.g., Kitamura and Clapp 2013, Sikor et al. 2017). According to Schlager and Ostrom (1992:250) bundles of property rights are the product of rules that are defined as “generally agreed-upon and enforced prescriptions that require, forbid, or permit specific actions for more than a single individual.” Schlager and Ostrom highlight five important property rights: access, withdrawal, exclusion, management, and alienation rights. Whereas access and withdrawal rights are classified as first-order operational-level rights, exclusion, management, and alienation rights are classified as second-order collective-choice rights. The latter group of rights gives right holders the opportunity to participate in the definition of first-order rights. Whereas withdrawal rights, for example, give the right holder the permission to use ecosystem goods (stock-flow resources) at a given extraction rate, holders of management rights can change these operational-level withdrawal rights, which leads to the change of internal resource use patterns. The right of alienation is of particular interest when it comes to a change of ownership of land, as this right enables collective-choice rights holders to sell or lease management and/or exclusion rights. Sikor et al. (2017) revise this framework and add under the umbrella of use rights (first-order operational-level rights following Schlager and Ostrom) the right of obtaining indirect benefits via, for example, PES and other result-based payments. Understanding property as a bundle of rights makes the complexity and heterogeneity of property structures visible, even more so when taking into account the complex distribution of rights among different actors, for example, in the case of complex tenant-landowner property structures (Nsoh and Reid 2013). Furthermore, the concept clarifies that property rights owners can possess a bundle of rights of various extent reaching from authorized users holding only access and withdrawal rights to full owners holding all five property rights (Schlager and Ostrom 1992).

    Characterization of P-PES programs

    Most PES programs target privately owned land (Porras et al. 2008, Börner et al. 2010, Vatn 2010, McElwee 2012, Ezzine-de-Blas et al. 2016, Narloch et al. 2017). We did not find any detailed P-PES definitions. However, when referring to the property rights bundle described by Schlager and Ostrom, land targeted by P-PES is usually owned by individual landowners or firms that possess an extensive bundle of land-related property rights, including management, exclusion, and alienation rights too (Mansfield 2007, Ostrom and Hess 2007). However, private property is never all-encompassing and thus, for example, management rights are limited to some extent (Mansfield 2007, Ostrom and Hess 2007, Vatn 2010). Sikor et al. (2017) clarify this point by introducing authoritative rights as a further type of rights that limit the extent of second-order rights. This is the case, when, for example, landowners are legally bound to specific land-use types or by setting minimum environmental standards such as the non-use of pesticides. Taking our understanding of PES into account, landowners possess relatively extensive management rights regarding the land-use practices affecting the provision of ES targeted in the PES program. Otherwise, the voluntariness criterion on the ES-providers’ side cannot be fulfilled.

    Characterization of C-PES programs

    Common or community-based property “includes all situations where rights to own or manage terrestrial natural resources are held at the community level under statutory law” (Rights and Resource Initiative 2015:3). Common property regimes should not be confused with open access regimes that are open to all. In contrast, the members of common property regimes are able to define and “exclude nonmembers of that group from using a resource” (Ostrom and Hess 2010:6). At the same time, the bundles of rights approach emphasizes the complexity and diversity of land-related property structures in terms of the design and distribution of property rights. Therefore, such systems of collective natural resource management can often be understood as forms of hybrid governance, as individuals keep some property rights while transferring particularly management rights to the community level in order to cooperate for a successful and sustainable management of natural resources (Ménard 2011, Muradian 2013). Thus, the complex distribution of property rights among different actors makes it often difficult to clearly distinguish different property categories such as state, common, or private (Wiber 2005, von Benda-Beckmann et al. 2006, Sikor et al. 2017). This blurring becomes illustrated in the case of PES programs where land is formally recognized as common property while each community member enters the PES contracts individually (e.g., Osborne and Shapiro-Garza 2018). Land-related property structures become even more complex when taking the diverse organizational and decision-making structures into account, which are, for example, influenced by legal forms and the organization’s purpose, e.g., for-profit versus non-profit. Furthermore, it can be assumed that social and cultural norms and values of individuals, collectives, and the surrounding society as well as the capabilities (for example, in terms of wealth) of groups or individuals play an important role for the choice of land-use practices too (von Benda-Beckmann et al. 2006). Hence, C-PES can be assumed to be diverse in terms of their land tenure structures and the related social-ecological outcomes as well.

    Our literature review shows that various studies focus on PES programs targeting communities instead of individual landowners, particularly in the Global South. In most publications these PES programs are labeled as ”community-based” or ”collective” PES (Hayes et al. 2017, 2019, Kaczan et al. 2017, Gatiso et al. 2018, Brownson et al. 2019). In Table 1 we provide an overview of the definitions identified. Both terms show great similarities. However, the collective PES definitions are more explicit compared to some community-based PES definitions because all collective PES definitions highlight that the incentives are given to groups (Kerr et al. 2014, Kaczan et al. 2017, Hayes et al. 2019). Particularly, Kaczan et al. (2017) highlight common property of land as a characteristic of collective PES. At the same time, they also mention the opportunity that neighboring landowners join a PES contract together. However, also in such cases, ES-relevant withdrawal rights are collectively adapted at the community level to fulfil the requirements of the PES contract. Thus, landowners agree that former individual management rights are assigned to the community level.

    In contrast, community-based PES definitions are fuzzier because a coupling with common property regimes is often not explicitly mentioned. The definition by Brownson et al. (2019), for example, states that local communities have influence on “program design, implementation or monitoring” (Brownson et al. 2019). This definition does not exclude the implementation of P-PES. The definitions by Brownson et al. (2019), Gatiso et al. (2018), and Dougill et al. (2012) also keep the door open for hybrid PES designs, which means, for example, that a share of the total incentives is given to communities and another share directly to individual landowners, who are members of the community (Brownson et al. 2019). Thus, it is not clear whether ES-relevant management rights are assigned to the individual or to the community level. Only the definition by Sommerville et al. (2010a) points more directly at the existence of common property rights. We assume that the broader conceptualization of community-based PES is due to the existence of linkages to the broader approach of community-based conservation (CBC), which links development and conservation objectives by engaging local community actors at various levels. Brownson and colleagues, for example, highlight that “CB-PES can also be conceived as a subset of CBC which provides direct payments to communities or individuals to increase ES provisioning rather than investing in development projects” (Brownson et al. 2019). From here on, we refer to collective PES using the abbreviation “C-PES” because we are interested in PES contracts that directly target communities or groups.

    Potentials and challenges of C-PES and the relations to commodification processes

    In the following we briefly summarize the findings about the potentials and challenges of C-PES programs. In total, we identified 22 eligible publications. Most of these publications are case studies, but we also refer to the literature reviews about collective and community-based PES by Hayes et al. (2019) and Brownson et al. (2019). We identified only three studies that more explicitly examine relations between commodification processes and C-PES outcomes.

    The potentials of C-PES and the important role of social capital for their success

    Generally, studies examining the outcome of C-PES—for example, regarding the provided ecological additionality as well as potential co-benefits and trade-offs with other ES not directly covered in a program, or regarding effects on the social justice—show mixed results. However, different authors emphasize the pre-existence of social capital as an important factor for the outcome of C-PES. The term social capital is used frequently in various disciplines and attracted particular attention in the social sciences by referring to theories by Pierre Bourdieu (Bourdieu 1986). Understandings and uses of this term depend on the disciplinary context (Jacobs 1961, Putnam et al. 1994). Ostrom’s use of the term social capital refers to shared norms and trust within communities, which enable them to manage common pool resources collectively at low monitoring and enforcement costs (Ostrom 1990, Ostrom and Ahn 2009). Especially the literature about C-PES often follows this broad understanding of social capital, while some authors add further components that constitute social capital. McGrath et al. (2018), for example, emphasize five important components of community-related social capital by referring to Campos et al. (2015): “1. groups and networks, 2. trust and solidarity, 3. collective action and cooperation, 4. information and cooperation, and 5. empowerment and political action.” Brownson et al. (2019) use a more general definition and describe social capital as “relationships and [the] technical and institutional capacity within communities or community-based organizations” (Brownson et al. 2019:7).

    Research about C-PES suggests that a high level of pre-existing social capital in the form of well-functioning and local institutions perceived as fair, strong social networks, trust between community members, and well-established common property regimes coincides with a higher participation rate as well as with increased ecological and social effectiveness (Corbera et al. 2007, Brouwer et al. 2011, Bremer et al. 2014a, Engel 2016, Nieratkaa et al. 2015, Narloch et al. 2017, Hayes et al. 2019, Moros et al. 2019), though systematic empirical research supporting this hypothesis is still lacking (Bremer et al. 2014b). Following this argument, C-PES might outperform P-PES in the case of a pre-existing stable self-governance. Different studies show that C-PES reach a higher legitimacy in such cases because local community needs can be easier taken into account and high levels of procedural and distributional justice can be better guaranteed when it comes to distributing the received benefits (Nieratkaa et al. 2015, Brownson et al. 2019). This might minimize conflict risk at the local level (Bremer et al. 2014b). Furthermore, C-PES can create important incentives for an additional strengthening of the local cooperation, collective action, and contract compliance (Nieratkaa et al. 2015). Furthermore, some studies suggest that C-PES can also lead to a strengthening of previously low levels of social capital by increasing local cooperation, collective action, contract compliance, and land tenure security (Bremer et al. 2014b, Neitzel et al. 2014, Nieratkaa et al. 2015, Alix-Garcia et al. 2018, Brownson et al. 2019, Hayes et al. 2019). Thus, although the reported level of social effectiveness and ecological additionality is rather low in the short run, the strengthening of the communities’ social capital might support the successful management of natural resources in the long run (Clements et al. 2010, Bremer et al. 2014b). Various studies also emphasize the advantageous low transaction costs of C-PES, which is the result of the often significantly lower number of necessary contracts compared to P-PES leading to lower costs of identifying participants, negotiating contracts, and securing monitoring and enforcement of rules (Ghazoul et al. 2009, Vatn 2010, Muradian 2013, Kerr et al. 2014, Midler et al. 2015, Nieratkaa et al. 2015, Narloch et al. 2017). Therefore, parts of the transaction costs are covered by the targeted communities when deciding internally over the distribution of the provided incentives by building on the pre-existing social capital and the available local knowledge about existing costs and benefits (Engel 2016, Narloch et al. 2017). Additionally, smallholders, who particularly in the Global South are often embedded in common property regimes, get supported instead of wealthy and large private landowners because the smallholders’ bargaining power is strengthened (Swallow and Meinzen-Dick 2009). Some studies reveal that C-PES programs lead to an increase of the intrinsic motivation to protect ES, thereby leading to so-called “crowding in” effects (Bremer et al. 2014b, Agrawal et al. 2015, Moros et al. 2019), while other studies show opposite results (Narloch et al. 2012).

    The challenges of C-PES

    Other studies come to opposite conclusions regarding the outcomes of C-PES (Narloch et al. 2012, Gatiso et al. 2018). This can often be explained by a pre-existing low level of self-organization, collective action, and social capital within the targeted communities (Hayes et al. 2017). In this context, many authors highlight the pre-existence of power imbalances, information asymmetries, and the unequal internal distribution of social capital and property rights within the groups as counterproductive for the implementation of C-PES, which leads, for example, to the problem of elite capture by powerful local group members (Agrawal and Gibson 1999, Sommerville et al. 2010a, Kariuki et al. 2018, McGrath et al. 2018). In such cases, C-PES are often perceived as less fair, which potentially fuels conflicts within communities (Muradian et al. 2010, Midler et al. 2015, Nieratkaa et al. 2015, VonHedemann 2019). Generally, the communities’ internal payment distribution and the related ability to act collectively is a key factor for the success of C-PES (Zabel et al. 2014, Nieratkaa et al. 2015, Engel 2016). Here, C-PES often “face[s] a commons dilemma: every group member benefits from the payment, but incurs a private cost on contributing to performance, implying incentives to free ride (Vatn 2010, Zabel et al. 2014)” (Engel 2016:153). This dilemma is also known as “second-order collective action dilemma”: when groups establish a new set of rules, all group members can benefit, while potentially not all group members contribute to the costs of establishing this new set of rules, which, in turn, hinders the motivation to establish those rules in the first place (Ostrom 1990, Hayes et al. 2019). Furthermore, Sikor et al. (2017) emphasize that the implementation of C-PES is challenging because the embeddedness of local communities in complex constellations of external social actors increased strongly in the last decades. Therefore, the establishment of land-related rules and property rights for the successful implementation of C-PES depends not only on the community and its ability for collective action, but also on additional external actors, such as private, governmental, or CSO actors (Sikor et al. 2017). Additionally, the variety and complexity of ES play an important role for the success of C-PES (Swallow and Meinzen-Dick 2009, Fisher et al. 2010, Kinzig et al. 2011). As C-PES programs target different ES with varying characteristics, e.g., regarding the excludability and rivalry of benefits or the scale at which land management changes are required to generate high quality ES, each program design must be examined carefully, taking the specific local circumstances into account.

    Scarce empirical knowledge about the relations between commodification processes and C-PES outcomes

    Most of the publications dealing with PES-related commodification processes remain rather at a theoretical or conceptual level, while case studies analyzing the relation between PES-related commodification processes and PES outcomes are rare. This is not surprising given the diversity of understandings of commodification and the challenge to evaluate the social and ecological PES outcomes holistically. Focusing particularly on C-PES, we identified only very few publications that explicitly evaluate commodification-outcome relationships. Osborne and Shapiro-Garza (2018), for example, gather findings about two forest-based carbon offsetting initiatives targeting communities in Mexico. While one project targets individual smallholders, the other project represents a C-PES with communally held carbon offset rights. The first project is rather negatively evaluated because easy monitoring of carbon services, the embedding into a carbon market, and commercial timber production was prioritized over local ecological and social co-benefits. Thereby, decision making was shifted away from local smallholders to the project managers leading to a weakening of traditional governance structures and practices, to the disadvantage of women, and to the decrease of the ecological quality of the forest ecosystems (Osborne 2011, 2015). Furthermore, carbon prices did not reach expected levels in the long run and producers were exposed to price fluctuations. There have also been attempts to privatize land that was previously under common property (Osborne 2015). In contrast, the C-PES project is more positively evaluated: project participants felt much more engaged. Particularly, the transfer to the authorities of the communities instead of individual smallholders turned out to be advantageous. Furthermore, the project started with non-market funding in the first eight years leading to a more stable funding and more space to integrate local values and desires. The authors also emphasize that the state of Oaxaca, where the participating communities are located, is well known for its strong and stable local community institutions, implying that context and history matter. Therefore, the results of the study correspond very well with the other findings concerning potentials and challenges of C-PES, while suggesting that commodification, expressed, for example, by the type of price determination or local land tenure structures, plays an important role for the program outcome. Another study by Leimona et al. (2015) gathers findings for several cases in Asia, both P-PES and C-PES programs, and discusses commodification under the view point of strict conditionality. Thereby, the authors show that the monitoring of direct water ES proxies can be very challenging and potentially fuels conflicts. Namirembe et al. (2014) gather different tree-based reward mechanisms targeting both individuals and communities in African countries. They identify various carbon PES programs with high degrees of commodification because of their strict focus on emission reduction and carbon sequestration services and their embeddedness in global carbon markets. Thereby, they emphasize risks of crowding out conservation motivations and the challenges associated with low carbon prices for the fairness of the program.

    DISCUSSION

    Reframing commodification in the context of PES

    Our review reveals that commodification is diversely understood. This diversity of understandings makes it challenging to investigate PES-related commodification processes and how they affect ecological and social outcomes of C-PES and P-PES. For this reason, we reframe commodification by analytically differentiating between degrees of commodification. Generally, we understand commodification as a process toward the creation of well-defined entities that become tradable through a market(-like) exchange. Thereby, commodification processes pass various degrees that become manifested through the institutional design of an environmental policy instrument (Hahn et al. 2015). This process does not need to be unidirectional; it can also stop at some point or even reverse (Gómez-Baggethun and Ruiz-Pérez 2011). We argue that PES-related commodification processes can be discussed and operationalized using two closely interrelated but distinct spheres (Fig. 2). The first sphere is related to the degree of commodification of ES-providing land and can be investigated taking the bundle of land-related property rights by Schlager and Ostrom (1992) into account. The second sphere refers to the commodification of the ecosystems’ fund-services and, thus, addresses the commodification of ES through the creation of a new type of property rights that is added to the pre-existing bundle of property rights. Most publications we reviewed deal with the second sphere of commodification.

    The commodification of ES-providing land

    The first sphere addresses the commodification of ES-providing land. Land-related commodification processes can be studied by taking the bundle of property rights approach proposed by Schlager and Ostrom (1992) into account. The degrees are determined by the existence of alienation rights, the design of management rights, and the complexity of decision-making processes concerning the use of the given property rights.

    First, the right of alienation is central for transferring land into a commodity-like status by allowing landowners to sell or lease the land-related property rights bundle, including management and exclusion rights, on national and/or international land markets. Private landownership mostly includes alienation rights, while these are rarely in place in the case of common property regimes (Bremner and Lu 2006, Ostrom and Hess 2007). Therefore, we understand land privatizations as the commodification of the land-related property rights bundle to make land marketable on national or international land markets. Already Karl Polanyi (1957) stressed the increasing marketability of land accompanied by the rise of capitalism when he shaped the term “fictitious commodity.” Alienation rights economically mobilize land and can in some cases be a door-opener for international companies to acquire land titles, which can facilitate land and “green grabbing” (Fairhead et al. 2012, Scales 2015) when these alienation rights are strongly deregulated, as also discussed in the context of PES in countries of the Global South (Vatn 2010). However, it cannot be concluded that common/collective or state property would necessarily lead to a more sustainable use of resources, as our review about the complexity and diversity of property regimes shows. Furthermore, it is also important to note that state property is often subject to land deals too, happening between the land-owning state and a foreign state (Vatn 2018).

    Second, the design of management rights affects the degree of commodification of ES-providing land. The extent of management rights in combination with withdrawal rights decisively determines whether or not land-related stock-flow resources (Farley and Costanza 2010), like timber or agricultural goods, can be appropriated and transformed into monetarily valuable goods and treated as commodities that are sold on markets (cf. Richter and Furubotn 2010). Management rights are limited by, for example, regulatory environmental policies (cf. Mansfield 2007). We argue that extensive management rights, which go hand in hand with a retreat of regulatory policies, contribute to a higher degree of commodification because it is easier to use the land and the related stock-flow resources for different economically productive purposes, which in turn increases the economic value of land (Kaimowitz 2002, Vatn 2010). Both, P-PES and C-PES, require extensive management rights, at least regarding management practices that affect the provision of those ES targeted in the PES program, because ES providers sign PES contracts on a voluntary basis and are not obliged to ES-protecting management practices due to regulatory policies. Thus, landowners possess a great individual freedom to use their land as they wish (Mansfield 2007, Vatn 2010). The extent of management rights also affects the opportunity costs of the owners of ES-providing land, besides key influencing factors such as the quality of the land-related resource base, the proximity to markets, the given infrastructure or discount rates (West et al. 2018, Wunder et al. 2018). Opportunity costs describe the loss of economic value due to the renunciation of more commercial forms of land use for reasons of ES conservation and stay in a close relation to the willingness to accept (WTA) of the ES provider (Pagiola et al. 2004). It can be assumed that more extensive management rights increase the opportunity costs in most cases, making it even harder to collect enough funding. However, in practice PES often do not cover the opportunity costs (Kosoy et al. 2007). This can be explained by the fact that ES providers do not only decide to enter a contract by taking solely economic aspects into account (Lima et al. 2019), as the theory of a homo economicus would suggest. Instead, ES providers can also have an intrinsic motivation to provide ES, which in turn lowers the WTA, even though the opportunity costs remain stable. Therefore, not only the design, distribution, and extent of land-related property rights determines the choice of land management practices, but also prevailing cultural norms and values as well as the economic power of actors possessing these rights (von Benda-Beckmann et al. 2006).

    Third, we argue that land under private property is related with a higher degree of commodification of ES-providing land because decisions about the land use are made more individualized and, thus, more direct. In contrast, C-PES often build on complex, aggregated decision-making processes (Hayes et al. 2019). It seems reasonable to assume that individualized decision making eases the adaptation of production processes, which are based on land-related resources and/or ecosystem goods, to changing market prices. Additionally, it can be assumed that private property is more often embedded in a profit-oriented legal form, which might increase the profit-seeking behavior leading potentially to a higher WTA of ES-providers, making it even harder to collect enough funding for PES programs. In contrast, in the case of C-PES, management rights are in place too, but tied to a more complex community level (Ménard 2011, Muradian 2013). We assume that decision-making processes are often not as fast and much more complex in these cases. In our view, this lowers the degree of commodification of ES-providing land because the compatibility with international markets with fast-changing price signals is arguably lower. Furthermore, some studies indicate that communities show a higher intrinsic motivation for nature protection (Bremer et al. 2014b, Agrawal et al. 2015, Moros et al. 2019), which might lead to a lower WTA because joining a PES contract is then not only rooted in pure economic considerations. However, whether these assumptions hold true in practice needs to be investigated. Particularly, it can be assumed that such relationships between property regimes and land use diverge between different geographical regions because of different political, legal, cultural, and ecological circumstances.

    Overall, we assume that the land targeted by C-PES programs shows lower degrees of commodification against the background of often missing alienation rights and the more complex decision making about the land uses. However, because the demarcations between private and common property are not sharp, the degree of commodification should be carefully examined.

    The commodification of ES

    With the second sphere of commodification we refer to the commodification of ES, defined as fund-services which “are a particular type of flow, or flux, generated by a particular configuration of stock-flow resources” (Farley and Costanza 2010:2062). Making these fund-services monetarily valuable requires new types of property rights, which can be considered as an add-on to the property rights described in Schlager and Ostrom’s (1992) framework. In this sense, the commodification of ES can also be interpreted as a subset of land-related commodification processes. These new types of property rights are temporary use rights for using the benefits that fund-services provide and that are sold from ES providers to ES buyers. Thus, the ES providers gain the right of receiving payments (monetary or in-kind) that result from the disposal of temporary use rights; Sikor et al. (2017) call this type of right “indirect use right.” The degree of ES-commodification is determined by different PES design components. We argue that three design components are of particular importance for the determination of the degree: the conditionality type, the type of ES buyer(s), and the price determination. In the upper half of Figure 2, we summarize the ES-related commodification sphere by focusing on these three design components. We joined the type of ES buyer(s) and the price determination on the y-axis by using the term “market-based character.”

    First, the degree of ES-commodification is affected by the conditionality type and, thereby, by the definition and monitoring of ES proxies. Castree (2003) emphasized the important role of proxies for the commodification of nature. If the conditionality is related to the regular measurement of direct ES proxies (e.g., water quality or CO2 sequestration per hectare and year), the degree of commodification is rather high. One example of a C-PES program building on direct ES proxies is a conditional payment program for ecotourism and wildlife friendly agriculture in Cambodia, which couples payments by tourists with the watching of rare bird species (Ingram et al. 2014). In contrast, PES programs that couple the conditionality with the monitoring of management-related indirect ES proxies (e.g., pesticide reduction goals on agricultural land or specific logging methods) contribute to a lower degree of commodification. With this categorization we return to Muradian et al. (2010), who state: “While in some PES schemes the tradable service is relatively clearly commodified, based on outputs from environmental functions — such as tons of carbon sequestered by forests in a given period of time — in many cases the characterization of the commodity is fuzzy, based on inputs and assumptions (shared beliefs) about the relationship between land use and the provision of ecosystem services” (Muradian et al. 2010:1206).

    Second, the type of ES buyers influences the degree of ES-commodification. Private individuals or companies acting as ES buyers contribute to a higher degree of ES-commodification because such PES programs follow rather a Coasean PES conceptualization based on private, voluntary market transactions. Vice versa, PES programs where governments act as ES buyers show a lower degree of commodification because private market transactions are non-existent and classical voluntariness is seldomly given. A well-known government-led PES is the program “Socio Bosque” in Ecuador (Hayes et al. 2015). CSOs stay in between, as they often act as intermediary.

    Third, the price determination differs remarkably between PES programs and affects the degree of ES-commodification. Usually, classical commodities are sold on a market based on a price shaped by supply and demand and/or by negotiation. PES programs based on these classical price determinations contribute to higher degrees of ES-commodification. One example is carbon schemes that couple carbon sequestration services with markets for tradable CO2 certificates (offsetting), as established by the CSO Plan Vivo (Dougill et al. 2012). Such programs differ in how often negotiations about prices for ES proxies are carried out. In contrast, payments can also be determined without any negotiation processes at the start of a PES program. This is often observable in the case of government-financed programs with pre-defined and usually uniform prices set by the state (Wunder 2008). The mainly government-financed program “Pago por Servicios Ambientales” in Costa Rica is one example of a PES program using state-determined but differentiated prices (Pagiola 2008). This form of price determination contributes to a low degree of ES-commodification.

    Finally, there are two additional design components that influence the degree of commodification and thereby the market-closeness of PES programs:

    • Incentive type: PES programs that use monetary incentives show a higher compatibility to classical markets and therefore show higher ES-commodification tendencies than schemes that build on in-kind incentives
    • Number of ES buyers and sellers: the higher the number of ES buyers and sellers the easier the creation of competitive ES markets, which, in turn, increases the degree of ES-commodification

    C-PES as a counterpart of commodification and privatization trends in nature conservation?

    At the beginning of this paper, we asked whether C-PES counter commodification and privatization trends in nature conservation. In the following, we discuss how our proposed framework can help to (1) analytically compare degrees of commodification of C-PES and P-PES and (2) investigate how different degrees of commodification of PES programs are related to social and ecological outcomes. Our understanding of C-PES is summarized in Textbox 1.

    Box 1: Our definition of C-PES.

    Just as P-PES, C-PES use positive incentives, monetary or in-kind, to reward ES providers for their conservation efforts. The incentives are conditional on the provision of ES by monitoring direct or indirect ES proxies. The ES-providing groups have extensive management rights regarding land use practices affecting the provision of the ES targeted in the PES contract and they can decide voluntarily whether they join the PES contract or not. In contrast to P-PES, C-PES are targeting groups holding management rights collectively, which results in complex decision-making processes about joining the contract or not and fulfilling the contractual obligations. Furthermore, the alienation of the collectively possessed property rights bundle is often excluded or more complex than in the case of private property, which is why land under common property is often less integrated into national and/or global land markets than land under private property.

    Analytical differences between C-PES and P-PES regarding their degrees of commodification

    Our two-sphere commodification framework shows that the degree of commodification of ES-providing land is usually lower in the case of C-PES compared to P-PES because of the often missing alienation rights and the more complex decision making. However, the degree of commodification of ES is not necessarily low as well. Thus, there is not necessarily a functional relationship between the two spheres of commodification. This can be illustrated by two C-PES programs: a local PES project in Madagascar and a voluntary carbon scheme in Indonesia. Both programs share a low degree of commodification of the ES-providing land because land under common property is targeted. At the same time, the ES proxies sold reach very different degrees of ES-commodification. The PES project in Menabe targets ES-providing land owned by local communities that collectively possess local forest management rights (Sommerville et al. 2010a, 2010b), which results in a low degree of commodification of the ES-providing land. The degree of ES-commodification is low, too, because the project is CSO-financed while targeting biodiverse forests by providing in-kind incentives in return for the provision of indirect ES proxies such as the prohibitions of hunting lemurs and cutting timber. Furthermore, the price is determined each year by CSO Durrell, which acts as ES buyer (Sommerville et al. 2010b). The voluntary carbon scheme at Lake Singkarak in West Sumatra targets collectively managed land too (Neilson and Leimona 2013, Burgers and Farida 2017). At the same time, the ES-commodification reaches a high degree. ES funding is generated through the selling of carbon certificates by the intermediary organization “CO2 Operate” to private buyers. The price determination is flexible because of the selling of the carbon certificates on carbon markets. The project targets direct and indirect ES proxies. On one hand, the payments are directly coupled to CO2 sequestered by planted trees. On the other hand, the communities are obligated to fulfil management plans. It remains an open question whether C-PES show a lower degree of ES-commodification compared to P-PES on average. Milne and Chervier (2014), for example, emphasize that community-based PES programs in Cambodia show lower degrees of commodification because of the use of in-kind incentives. However, more empirical research is necessary to examine potential differences in other regions and globally.

    A clear empirical finding, however, is that most PES program designs follow rather a Pigouvian approach resulting in low degrees of ES-commodification anyhow (Sattler and Matzdorf 2013). In our view, this comes as no surprise given the physical characteristics of ES that make their commodification in many cases very challenging (cf. Bakker 2004). The commodification of ES follows the aim of creating an artificial scarcity of previously not monetarily valued and often freely accessible as well as non-rival services in order to collect funding for nature protection (Mansfield 2007, Farley and Costanza 2010). In market-based PES approaches the creation of artificial scarcity is related to the aim of increasing the willingness to pay (WTP) of private ES buyers. However, creating this scarcity for ES is not as easy as for classical ecosystem goods (e.g., timber or agricultural products). Ecosystem goods are extractable at a chosen rate, physically transformable and storable, which makes it easier to treat them as market commodities because excludability and rivalry can be easily enforced. In contrast, ES are the result of a specific composition of ecosystem components and therefore only directly consumable and not storable. Direct or indirect ES proxies and their expression in monetary values are used to illustrate the importance, and thus the scarcity, of an ecosystem function for ES beneficiaries (Gómez-Baggethun and Ruiz-Pérez 2011). Thereby, temporary use rights are sold that are tied to ES proxies. The PES mechanism follows the principle of renting a car for a day to enjoy the service of mobility or of renting an apartment for a year to enjoy the service of habitation. However, ES and classical services differ strongly. For most conventional services the exclusion of potential free riders is relatively easy. Furthermore, the rate at which conventional services are provided is usually controllable, which means that the supply (for example of rentable cars or flats) can be flexibly adjusted to the demand. As a result, there is a scarcity for conventional services because of the easier introduction of excludability and the existing rivalry, which together are important prerequisites for the successful market-based price determination. In contrast, the ES-commodification is more difficult because of the spatial and temporal distribution of ES. First, there is often a spatial distance between the ES-providing stock and the location where the benefits occur (Farley et al. 2010, den Uyl and Driessen 2015, Kaiser et al. 2021). The spatial distribution of ES and their related benefits becomes further complicated through leakage effects, when the environmental additionality gained at one place becomes defeated by environmental destruction occurring elsewhere instead (Engel and Muller 2016). Additionally, rivalry for ES is in many cases rather low because the demand is not as easily adjustable as for many conventional services. Therefore, many ES have public service characteristics, which is why creating scarcity for ES and the benefits derived by humans is so complicated (Farley and Costanza 2010). Second, the scarcity of ES often only becomes visible in the future. Anticipating this future scarcity is challenging for economic agents as short-term profits tend to be valued higher in the economic system, leading to the discounting of prospective costs and benefits (Voinov and Farley 2007, Adhikari and Baral 2018, Dasgupta 2021). These discounting effects become further reinforced by uncertainties because it is often not exactly predictable how land use changes on ES-providing land will affect the provisioning of ES (Lima et al. 2017). For example, the concept of ecosystem multifunctionality stresses this complexity of ecosystems and the intertwined relations between multiple ecosystem functions (Hector and Bagchi 2007, Manning et al. 2018). Furthermore, tipping points, where the resilience of ecosystems becomes disrupted (Thellmann et al. 2018, Dakos et al. 2019), increase these uncertainties. Thus, ES are much more complex than conventional services. Often we only find out which of the ecosystem functions are valuable to humans after destroying ecosystem components that are key for those ecosystem functions (Farley and Costanza 2010). We assume that this temporal and spatial masking of the benefits of ES often leads to a low WTP of ES beneficiaries. Hence, government-paid PES programs are so common. They often include pre-determined payment levels by referring, e.g., to land use-related opportunity costs or to other valuation methods instead of using a market-based price determination. This results in often low degrees of ES-commodification. In the end, the choice of the funding source and the price determination depends strongly on the ES type and, thereby, on the question whether potential ES buyers can be made to pay for ES on a voluntary basis in order to collect funding for the protection of endangered ecosystems and their provided ES.

    Furthermore, our commodification framework raises the question whether PES-related degrees of commodification change over time. Fletcher and Breitling (2012), for example, emphasize that government-paid PES are sometimes described as an intermediary step toward the creation of ES markets, suggesting an increase of the degree of ES-commodification over time. At the same time these ambitions often seem to fail, which is likely due to the above-mentioned commodification-resisting character of ES. Furthermore, the question remains open whether PES lead to changes of the degree of commodification of ES-providing land. Gómez-Baggethun and Ruiz-Pérez (2011:620) state that the appropriation of ES “has often involved privatization, through which ecosystems that were previously in openly accessible regimes, or in communal or public property regimes, have been turned into private property.” However, the fact that most PES target private land tenure regimes does not imply that the PES programs actively transformed land tenure toward private property regimes. Instead, it can be assumed that ES-providing land is private already before the program is introduced. In this case a PES program is rather a follower than driver of land privatizations. However, there are also examples, like the study about a carbon PES in Mexico by Osborne and Shapiro-Garza (2018), that confirm that the implementation of PES programs can trigger land privatizations by introducing PES programs targeting individual community members. However, there is a lack of evidence how often PES play a key role for land privatizations (McElwee 2012) and how negotiations about the adaption and introduction of property rights take place at the local level (Kosoy and Corbera 2010). It remains also an open question whether C-PES programs safeguard and strengthen common land tenure regimes, or if C-PES, too, lead in some cases to a privatization of land in the long run. Therefore, more empirical research covering longer time periods is important to better understand how PES programs and land tenure transformations interact, while also taking the local circumstances and the history of land tenure regimes as well as their diverse structures into account.

    Exploring the relations between degrees of commodification and social-ecological PES outcomes

    Our framework of different PES-related degrees of commodification allows for a more nuanced analysis of the potential relations between the degree of commodification of a PES program and the ecological and social outcomes. Generally, there is a research gap regarding the investigation of commodification-outcome relationships (Kosoy and Corbera 2010, Osborne and Shapiro-Garza 2018). This also applies to C-PES, as our review shows. However, the results and our proposed commodification framework also reveal first insights of how degrees of commodification might affect C-PES outcomes.

    According to our PES-related commodification framework C-PES programs show lower degrees of commodification of the ES-providing land. The results of the literature review show that this can be an advantage, particularly if the participating communities have a high level of social capital, because of better outcomes in terms of social justice, minimized conflicts, strengthened local cooperation, and lower transaction costs. Furthermore, it is worthwhile to have a closer look at the relations between degrees of commodification of ES-providing land and the contract length because studies indicate that PES success is positively correlated with contract length (Nsoh and Reid 2013, Sattler et al. 2013, Börner et al. 2017). We assume that a low degree of commodification of ES-providing land potentially supports a higher contract compliance in the long run because land under collective property is possibly less prone to changes in ownership due to the collectively possessed management rights and the often non-existent alienation rights. Additionally, some studies indicate that communities targeted by C-PES show a higher level of intrinsic motivation for protecting ecosystems (Bremer et al. 2014b, Agrawal et al. 2015, Moros et al. 2019), which could imply that the contract compliance at the ES providers’ side is less affected by changing economic conditions (e.g., market price fluctuations of ecosystem goods). In other words, the supply elasticity of products for which the land input is necessary might be comparably low because the decisions about the land use are less driven by opportunity costs and profit-seeking behavior. However, the composition of different values, such as use and non-use values, is highly context dependent as well as influenced by the local community governance and the political and social context (Sachedina and Nelson 2012). This again underlines the need to systematically categorize the underlying types of collective property that C-PES depend on to test our assumptions. In contrast to C-PES, the private land that P-PES build on is potentially prone to land ownership changes because of the often-existent alienation rights. Especially if the land is valuable due to its location and/or resources configuration in combination with the existence of extensive management rights, it is very lucrative for private individuals or profit-seeking private companies to buy such land. These global capitalistic dynamics are also controversially discussed under the “accumulation by dispossession” concept developed by Harvey (2004). Thereby, the profit-seeking behavior of landowners, which potentially increases in the case of ownership changes, might lead to unilateral terminations of PES contracts. This risk could only be prevented if the contract compliance is binding over a longer period, even if ownership changes. Moreover, various authors stress associated risks when PES target private land, for example, that the private enclosure of land could bring benefits for the middle class and rich people or for large private companies at the expense of poor people (Kosoy and Corbera 2010, McAfee and Shapiro 2010, Büscher et al. 2012, McElwee 2012, Bremer et al. 2014b), which, in the worst case, can lead to the displacement of local people by people with enough money and power to acquire land titles (Cavanagh and Benjaminsen 2014, Scales 2015). Again, it is important to investigate more in-depth when and to which extent these negative consequences appear.

    Furthermore, our framework provides a basis for investigating the relations between different degrees of ES-commodification and the outcome of both P-PES and C-PES. Various authors emphasize risks of commodification processes that can be related to our proposed design components determining the degree of ES-commodification. It is, for example, stressed that cash payments could crowd out conservation motivations of the ES providers (Kosoy and Corbera 2010) or that the use of easy-to-measure direct ES proxies could blind the state or importance of other ecosystem functions (Norgaard 2010). Our review of the C-PES literature also reveals that high degrees of ES-commodification can result in negative outcomes, for example when a market-based price determination leads to fluctuations or low prices undermining the acceptance and the social effectiveness of a program (e.g., Namirembe et al. 2014, Osborne and Shapiro-Garza 2018). However, the scarce knowledge on commodification-outcome relationships of PES programs calls for more systematic research that could provide a broader empirical basis. At the same time, such comparative evaluations are challenging given the diverse institutional PES settings as well as the varying political, cultural, and ecological circumstances PES programs are embedded in. A further challenge remains in defining and measuring program outcomes. One program outcome often considered refers to the evaluation of the pre-defined program aims, e.g. by assessing the ecological additionality a PES program might produce (Engel 2016). However, to uncover a potential complexity blinding of PES programs outcomes needs to be assessed from various perspectives, for example by examining how the targeted ES interact with other ecosystem functions in terms of co-benefits and trade-offs or by focusing on the social outcomes of a program, covering also longer periods of time. Frameworks like, for example, the “Social-ecological Systems Framework” (Ostrom 2009, Bennett and Gosnell 2015), the “Institutional Analysis and Development Framework” (Ostrom 2005, Hayes et al. 2017), or the ecosystem multifunctionality approach (Manning et al. 2018) can provide guidance. Otherwise, an overly narrow view on PES outcomes entails the risk that PES research itself might contribute to complexity blinding.

    CONCLUSION

    In this study we explored how commodification and different forms of land tenure are understood and discussed in PES research. We put a particular focus on C-PES programs and how they differ from P-PES programs. Furthermore, we reviewed the potentials and challenges of C-PES and how relations between commodification processes and the outcome of the program are drawn. The results indicate that C-PES show promising outcomes, particularly in the case of a high level of pre-existing social capital of the communities participating. At the same time, research examining the impacts of commodification processes on program outcomes is rare. This is partly due to a blurred understanding of what commodification means. For this reason, we proposed a two-sphere commodification framework distinguishing between the degrees of commodification of land-related property rights bundles and ES-related degrees of commodification. This framework allows for a better analytical comparison of the degrees of commodification of C-PES and P-PES programs as well as their potential relations to program outcomes. In this context, it would also be interesting to investigate how degrees of commodification change over time and how the two spheres of commodification might interact. Last, it is important to consider the great diversity of common land tenure regimes, but also of land tenure regimes generally, by also taking the specific local institutional, cultural, historical, and ecological characteristics into account.

    RESPONSES TO THIS ARTICLE

    Responses to this article are invited. If accepted for publication, your response will be hyperlinked to the article. To submit a response, follow this link. To read responses already accepted, follow this link.

    AUTHOR CONTRIBUTIONS

    Josef Kaiser: Conceptualization, Methodology, Formal analysis, Investigation, Writing – Original Draft, Visualization. Tobias Krueger: Writing – Review & Editing, Supervision. Dagmar Haase: Writing – Review & Editing, Supervision.

    ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

    The article processing charge was funded by the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft (DFG, German Research Foundation) – 491192747 and the Open Access Publication Fund of Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin. Josef Kaiser receives a scholarship by the Heinrich Böll Foundation. Special thanks go to the three members of the Heinrich Böll Foundation’s theme cluster “Transformation Research”: Friederike Mainz, Matthias Middendorf, and Sinje Grenzdörffer for the interdisciplinary and valuable exchange about the understanding and diversity of property structures, which helped to improve the quality of this paper considerably. Furthermore, we thank the anonymous reviewers for their comments that considerably helped to enhance the manuscript.

    DATA AVAILABILITY

    Data/code sharing is not applicable to this article as no new data/code were created or analyzed in this study.

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    Corresponding author:
    Josef Kaiser
    josef.kaiser@hu-berlin.de
    Appendix 1
    Appendix 2
    Fig. 1
    Fig. 1. Methodological steps of this study and quantitative results of the literature review. PES = payments for ecosystem services; P-PES = private-individual PES; C-PES = community-based or collective PES.

    Fig. 1. Methodological steps of this study and quantitative results of the literature review. PES = payments for ecosystem services; P-PES = private-individual PES; C-PES = community-based or collective PES.

    Fig. 1
    Fig. 2
    Fig. 2. Schematic representation of the two spheres of commodification. The placement of the examples in the ecosystem services (ES)-related sphere of commodification is only to be understood as a rough orientation; the exact placement is highly dependent on the individual example in question.

    Fig. 2. Schematic representation of the two spheres of commodification. The placement of the examples in the ecosystem services (ES)-related sphere of commodification is only to be understood as a rough orientation; the exact placement is highly dependent on the individual example in question.

    Fig. 2
    Table 1
    Table 1. Identified definitions for community-based and collective payments for ecosystem services (PES).

    Table 1. Identified definitions for community-based and collective payments for ecosystem services (PES).

    Used term Author Definition
    Community-based PES Brownson et al. 2019:2 “... local PES initiatives that engage local communities, resource users and institutions in program design, implementation or monitoring.”
    Gatiso et al. 2018 “In CBP schemes, protected area (PA)-related benefits are managed by a community council and are used for the provision of community projects, such as building schools.”
    Dougill et al. 2012:3178 “Community-based payment for ecosystem services (CB-PES) schemes allow individuals, governments, non-governmental organisations (NGOs) and private sector companies to pay for environmental public goods such as carbon storage, biodiversity and water conservation [1], by supporting local-level projects that facilitate community development and poverty alleviation.”
    Sommerville et al. 2010a:1262 “Most examples of PES in the literature represent transactions with individual providers or groups of coordinated landowners. However, an increasing number of PES interventions, particularly in the tropics, apply to land that is managed, either legally or informally, by communities.”
    Collective PES Kerr et al. 2014:597 “In a collective PES arrangement, group members must work together to agree upon the conditions of the arrangement they will jointly enter and then monitor each other and enforce the terms of the agreement.”
    Kaczan et al. 2017:48-49 “Collective payments for ecosystem services (PES) programs make payments to groups, conditional on specified aggregate land-management outcomes. ... Collective PES involves contracts negotiated with groups of neighbouring landholders, or with communities that hold land and resources under common title. Responsibility for contract fulfilment is collectivized, as is the distribution of rewards.”
    Hayes et al. 2019:2 “In recent years, policymakers and program managers have increasingly turned to collective PES arrangements in which groups or communities agree to provide ecosystem services on their lands in exchange for a reward that is theoretically conditional on collective fulfillment of contract conditions (Kaczan et al., 2017; Kerr et al., 2014).”
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    Home > VOLUME 28 > ISSUE 1 > Article 12 Research

    What is sacred in sacred natural sites? A literature review from a conservation lens

    Tatay, J., and A. Merino. 2023. What is sacred in sacred natural sites? A literature review from a conservation lens. Ecology and Society 28(1):12. https://doi.org/10.5751/ES-13823-280112
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    • Jaime Tatay, Jaime Tatay
      Universidad Pontificia Comillas
    • Amparo MerinoORCIDAmparo Merino
      Universidad Pontificia Comillas

    The following is the established format for referencing this article:

    Tatay, J., and A. Merino. 2023. What is sacred in sacred natural sites? A literature review from a conservation lens. Ecology and Society 28(1):12.

    https://doi.org/10.5751/ES-13823-280112

  • Abstract
  • Introduction
  • Background
  • Methods
  • Results
  • Discussion and Conclusion
  • Responses to This Article
  • Acknowledgments
  • Data Availability
  • Literature Cited
  • Indigenous and community conserved areas; Landscape management; nature conservation; protected areas; sacred natural sites; taboo; traditional ecological knowledge
    What is sacred in sacred natural sites? A literature review from a conservation lens
    Copyright © 2021 by the author(s). Published here under license by The Resilience Alliance. This article is under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License. You may share and adapt the work provided the original author and source are credited, you indicate whether any changes were made, and you include a link to the license. ES-2022-13823.pdf
    Research

    ABSTRACT

    Sacred natural sites (SNS) are valuable biocultural hotspots and important areas for nature conservation. They are attracting a growing attention in academic, management, and political fora. The relevance and implications of the sacred nature of these sites for the multiple actors involved in their management is widely acknowledged. However, the complexities and ambiguities surrounding the notion of "the sacred" have not been researched in depth. Because few previous scholarly works have specifically examined a topic that has profound implications for conservation as well as for the communities inhabiting these sites, we aim to fill in the gap by unraveling the conceptualizations and assumptions of "the sacred" in academic, peer reviewed SNS publications. Through a systematic review of the literature performed from a conservation lens, our findings unveil that: (1) Conservationists and protected areas managers have paid much more attention to SNS than social scientists and religious studies scholars; (2) The sacredness motif tends to be predominantly associated with taboos, bans, and regulations of community-managed resources; (3) The sacred is a highly complex concept often used in a binary, dichotomous way, as opposed to the profane and wild related; (4) An instrumental view of the sacred can limit the potential to include other intangible values in management and exclude relevant stakeholders; and (5) The insights from cultural anthropology, political ecology, and religious studies unveil the power dynamics and hidden assumptions that often go unnoticed in the literature. These perspectives should be included in the management of SNS and in policymaking.

    INTRODUCTION

    Since the turn of the 21st century, there has been a renewed interest in sacred landscapes and sacred natural sites (SNS) from conservationists, cultural anthropologists, and protected area (PAs) managers as social institutions that have effectively preserved nature and culture. International organizations such as United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization (UNESCO, Ramakrishnan 1996), World Wildlife Fund (WWF; Jeanrenaud 2001, Dudley et al. 2005), and International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN; Mallarach and Papayannis 2007, Dudley 2008, Wild and McLeod 2008, Papayannis and Mallarach 2010, Verschuuren et al. 2010) have acknowledged that SNS not only are rich repositories of biocultural diversity and constitute an important shadow conservation network but may even offer better protection than “secular,” scientifically managed PAs.

    Sacred national sites are natural features, or large areas of land, or water, having special spiritual significance to peoples and communities (Dudley 2008). Over the last two decades, many of these sites are also being recognized as “Indigenous peoples and local communities conserved areas” (abbreviated to ICCAs) preserved through what the 10th Conference of the parties to the Convention on Biological Diversity (CBD 2010) termed “other effective area-based conservation measures” (OECMs). Networks of SNS are found in every continent, vary greatly in size, are usually managed by “Indigenous peoples and local communities” (IPLCs), and the CBD (1992, 2010) acknowledges their importance. In addition, the recognition of spiritual-natural entities as legal persons is taking place in some jurisdictions, making sacred rivers or mountains (and even Mother Earth) legal entities (see a review of cases in Studley and Bleisch 2018). However, the need for greater research, conservation, and development of supplementary guidelines on ICCAs and OECMs still needs to be made explicit in many countries (Jonas et al. 2017).

    In relation to SNS, the focus of research has been placed mainly on the protective effects of the cultural and spiritual values of the community in nature, largely overlooking the multiple and complex meanings the notion of the sacred conveys. In the most widely quoted research papers, “the sacred” is often depicted as a vague concept related to restrictive taboos and prohibitions (Colding and Folke 2001). The many different meanings, approaches, and functions that sacredness plays in society seem to be under researched in the SNS literature. The holy and the sacred are poorly conceptualized because the SNS term was coined and disseminated by conservationists rather than by religious scholars. However, when approaching the natural world as a social-ecological reality rooted in local cultures, the variety of meanings underpinning sacredness has profound implications for conservation, insomuch that the notion is key for understanding human-nature relationships and corresponding relational values and cultural practices (Chan et al. 2016, Anderson et al. 2022).

    It is important to acknowledge that over the past 70 years, the notions of “the holy” and “the sacred” have served as relevant terms in social sciences and humanistic fields of study ranging from anthropology, archaeology, and tourism studies to sociology, psychology, and terrorism research (Stausberg 2017). However, natural scientists’ interest in this concept has been very limited. Nevertheless, SNS are both biological and cultural repositories in which spiritual beliefs and religious practices have supported conservation (Dudley et al. 2009), thus opening a potentially productive space for inquiry into the role of sacredness in preserving cultures, places, landscapes, and ecosystems. It should be noted that the sacred-profane distinction presupposes a Western religious worldview that does not always make sense in other cultures and spiritual traditions (Keller 2014, Cladis 2019).

    Conservationists and PAs managers stand out as a rare exception because of their interest in the relationship between sacred sites and nature conservation. Over the past two decades, an abundant gray literature from conservation practitioners and managers has addressed the wide spectrum of issues related to SNS (Schaaf and Lee 2006, Mallarach and Papayannis 2007, Dudley 2008, Mallarach 2008, Verschuuren et al. 2008, Wild and McLeod 2008, Papayannis and Mallarch 2010, Pungetti et al. 2012, Verschuuren and Furuta 2016, Zogib and Spissinger-Bang 2022). However, even though certain natural places are referred to as “sacred” in the growing academic literature on SNS, there is no comprehensive narrative as to what makes a particular site “sacred,” and what elements articulate its “sacredness.” Even if it is widely used, the meaning of the sacred is not explicitly stated or is an empty signifier that remains undefined. As a well-cited article states: “The full meaning of sacred has challenged thinkers for millennia. Fortunately, we do not have to understand the concept in its entirety to recognize its conservation significance” (Dudley et al. 2009:570). However, given the contested nature of this concept, even within religious traditions, its absence in some cultural contexts, and the multiple possible conceptualizations of sacrality (Paden 2017), the assumptions and meanings made by SNS researchers when dealing with such a significant construct for conservation merit further exploration.

    In sum, we argue that bringing together the fields of conservation sciences and religious studies can shed light on this interdisciplinary juncture. To the best of our knowledge, no published systematic literature review exists that specifically analyzes the meaning of sacredness in the SNS scholarly literature. We aim to fill this gap by shedding light on the potential of SNS for conservation and to open avenues for research on this important topic. For this purpose, we performed a systematic review of the literature on SNS that may allow us to specifically respond to the following research questions:

    1. What do scholars focus on in SNS research?
    2. What notions of “the sacred” emerge in the literature on SNS?
    3. What are the implicit assumptions and the overlooked dimensions of the conventional understandings of the “the sacred” in the SNS literature? and,
    4. How is “the sacred” conceptualized and used in argumentations regarding conservation?

    BACKGROUND

    The concept of “the sacred” is hard to define and has a long history; one we do not pretend to cover extensively. We rather aim at offering a general overview of the notion of sacredness so that it helps to frame our study. The works of William James (1842-1910), James George Frazer (1854-1941), Émile Durkheim (1858-1917), Max Weber (1864-1920), and Rudolf Otto (1869-1937) laid the foundations of the modern, Western, religious studies field. Although the five were aware of religion’s great cultural and historical relevance, they were also aware that religion is a highly complex anthropological, psychological, and sociological phenomenon that must be analyzed from different perspectives.

    At the turn of the 21st century, Berger (1999) and Demerath (2000) noted that despite the secularization and general decline of religion in some industrialized societies, “investigating the wider sense of the sacred not only has a rich past but a burgeoning present” (Demerath 2000:2). Moreover, as Davie (2010:160) affirmed a decade later, “there is considerable evidence for resacralization in the modern world,” although “this evidence is subtle, complex, and constantly changing.” However, to fully grasp the contemporary understandings of the sacred, particularly in relation to SNS, we first need to look at the meaning and history of this rich concept.

    Sacred is described as something “dedicated or set apart for the service or worship of a deity” or “worthy of religious veneration” (https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/sacred). Sacred or holy places, times, persons, and objects, unlike secular ones, inspire fear, awe, or reverence; they deserve respect and devotion. This understanding of sacredness is common among SNS scholars and is indebted to French sociologist Émile Durkheim (Cladis 2019), for whom the distinction between the sacred and the profane was the central characteristic of religion: “A religion is a unified system of beliefs and practices relative to sacred things, that is to say, things set apart and forbidden—beliefs and practices which unite into one single moral community [...] all those who adhere to them” (Durkheim 1965 [1912]:62). Later, religious scholars have built upon this binary, dichotomous understanding of sacredness. For instance, German scholar Rudolf Otto, in his highly influential essay The Idea of the Holy [1917], also pointed out that “the category diametrically contrary to ‘the profane’, the category ‘holy’, which is proper to the numen alone but to it in an absolute degree” (Otto 1936 [1917]:53). Similarly, Mircea Eliade, one of the greatest and most influential 20th century historians of religion, affirmed in his work The Sacred and the Profane [1957] that “the first possible definition of the sacred is that it is the opposite of the profane” (Eliade 1987 [1957]:10). Furthermore, he argued that “sacred and profane are two modes of being in the world, two existential situations assumed by man in the course of his history” (Eliade 1987:14).

    As a result, over the course of the last seven decades, most scholars have assumed the Western, bipolar, dichotomous character of the sacred, often ignoring the diversity of Indigenous spiritualties and categories of sacredness (Liljeblad 2019). This conceptualization not only influenced academia but imposed a sort of epistemological imperialism that had profound implications on how researchers from different disciplines and from different cultures have thereafter approached the complex and diverse ways in which the term “sacred” is socially constructed across contexts and fields. In the conservation field, the concept of “sacredness” as an epistemological construct tends to ignore non-Western, Indigenous worldviews, and concepts. As a result, for conservationists, “the sacredness of nature depends on it being seen as separate from humanity” (Milton 1999:439), in contradiction with the basic ecological principle of interrelatedness, as illustrated by the Rarámuri term of iwígara or “the total interconnectedness and integration of all life” (Salmon 2000:1328). This example shows the importance of Indigenous and local languages in making visible the plurality of understanding of sacredness and spiritual connection to nature among IPLCs.

    METHODS

    It is acknowledged that modern scholarly development in conservation and environmental management requires the conduct of systematic reviews (Pullin and Stewart 2006). The increasing use of this form of literature analysis has led to different models of search strategies (Boice 2019). Among these models are systematic reviews of argument-based literature, which aim to present state-of-the-art overviews of the concepts and ways of reasoning in relation to a certain topic. This evidence-based approach is important for better decision-making in sustainability research.

    We performed the review to better understand the multiple meanings, implicit assumptions, and different uses of “the sacred” in the burgeoning academic SNS literature.

    First, our four research questions were distilled into two groups of concepts to organize the literature search. A set of terms were agreed upon by both researchers through an iterative process based on a preliminary analysis of the foundational works and the most cited articles on SNS (Table 1). Group A concepts include commonly used terms that refer to the diversity of sacred places in nature. Group B concepts focus on conservation topics. Each group was then operationally expressed in specific search strings following a format suitable for performing database queries (Table 2).

    Three electronic literature databases were queried, which covered the fields of conservation, environmental sustainability, and religious studies. The three databases were Web of Science (WoS), Atla (Atla), and Index Theologicus (IndTheo). WoS covers all major journals relevant to our SNS topic and guarantees academic quality (Martín-Martín et al. 2018). Atla and IndTheo include religious studies journals, often not included in WoS, that may approach SNS from a religious perspective. All databases were queried using Boolean searches expressed in English. Figure 1 presents the number of results returned using the search terms.

    The database search was performed on March 23, 2021, using no filters or data restrictions. Resulting citations of the identified articles were exported and managed in an Excel file. Duplicate articles were removed. Both authors screened titles and abstracts. Then, once the articles that met the inclusion and exclusion criteria were identified, the full texts of the identified articles were analyzed (Fig. 1).

    To assess the consistency of our criteria, title and abstract screening were performed independently by both authors. In 92% of the abstracts (590/642), there was agreement about exclusion and inclusion. Later, researchers discussed the doubtful candidate articles (52) together until consensus was reached.

    To be included in the review, articles had to meet three inclusion criteria: (1) centrality of SNS related terms (Table 2) to the research object; (2) application to the field of conservation biology, sustainability science, or religious studies; and (3) published in English. Articles published in archaeology, history, and biblical studies journals were excluded as well as all those published before 2000, because the SNS category had not yet been coined.

    For extraction and synthesis, we developed a particular way of proceeding. First, with the research questions in mind, selected articles were read and reread by both authors, highlighting the relevant sections and the main arguments presented. Second, we designed a coding structure including the following categories: (1) geographical region; (2) faith tradition; (3) definition of the sacred; (4) opportunities and threats to conservation addressed; (5) dynamics of the sacred through processes of sacralization, desacralization, (re)sacralization, or mutation of religious beliefs; and (6) dimensions of the sacred according to Paden’s (2017) naturalistic typology. Finally, both authors extracted the relevant information identified in each paper following the coding structure and saved it in an Excel file.

    RESULTS

    The results from the review of the final sample have been thematically organized. First, we contextualized the scope of the articles by describing the religious traditions and geographical areas that dominate the literature as well as the research problems and goals prevailing in research designs. Then, we reported our findings on the variety of meanings and dimensions attributed to the sacred, together with the dynamic perspective of the sacred underlying the research on SNS. The variety of dimensions of the sacred and the changing and fluid nature of SNS are key issues to the goal of nature-culture conservation.

    Description of studies

    The interest in SNS by conservationists and PAs managers has increased exponentially during the last two decades, in line with the growing institutional attention to the spiritual values of natural sites as key for nature conservation. Figure 2 shows the evolution of all papers identified in our search addressing conservation concerns in SNS. The first references to the term SNS appeared in the late 1990s, but the use of the term became mainstream in the early 2000s. Since then, the number of citations in academic journals (Fig. 3) and the volume of scholarly articles directly addressing SNS from a conservation perspective has grown steadily (Fig. 2). In relation to our research question, only three, nine, and eight articles met the inclusion criteria in the 2000-2005, 2006-2010, and 2011-2105 periods, respectively. In the 2016-2020 period, 26 articles were identified.

    Regarding the characteristics of the SNS under research in the final sample of articles reviewed (Table 3), the interest in sacred forests and sacred groves prevails and attracts most of the scholarly attention. This preference may be the case not just because of their importance as repositories of biodiversity and other valuable natural resources but also because “forests have provided an indispensable resource of symbolization in the cultural evolution of humankind” (Harrison 1992:8). The powerful attraction of mountains may also explain their importance for local communities.

    As for the geographical location, the review shows that the interest of researchers has predominantly focused on Asian SNS (24 articles). Within the Asian continent, India stands out; a deeply religious country in which Hinduism, Buddhism, and traditional spiritualities all converge in a human-nature relationship intensely mediated by the sacred (Woodhouse et al. 2015, Acharya and Ormsby 2017, Mu et al. 2019, Sehnalova 2019). African countries are also a relevant object of empirical research, as illustrated by the many studies on Ethiopian church forests and other sacred groves across the continent (Byers et al. 2001, Sarfo-Mensah 2009, Fournier 2011, Kent and Orlowska 2018).

    European and American SNS have received comparatively less attention than their Asian and African counterparts, although there seems to be a growing interest in former SNS and in the emerging “resacralization” dynamics taking place in natural settings across Europe and the Americas. The dearth of scholarly publications in English in Latin America and parts of Europe and Africa is a preliminary indication that these regions are either under researched, the publications are in other formats (mainly “gray literature”) and languages (French, Spanish, and Portuguese), or the focus of the research has not been on the meanings and implications of “the sacred” in nature conservation.

    Main research focuses on SNS

    Though indirectly approached by many authors, only a few works directly address the conceptualization of the sacred in SNS and its defining elements as a research goal (Fournier 2011, Frascaroli 2016, Aniah and Yelfaanibe 2018, Niglio 2018a). Given the general aim of our review and the selection criteria of papers interested in conservation, an overall goal is dominant whether implicit or explicitly exploring the relationship between socio-cultural issues related to SNS and their influence in nature conservation. However, the approach to this complex relationship largely varies among studies. The range of topics analyzed includes the examination of beliefs, emotions and attitudes, and practices and behaviors located at the interplay between the local communities and both the natural and the supernatural worlds that characterize SNS.

    First, the role of spirituality in nature conservation is widely acknowledged in the literature and is a common starting point for examining people’s beliefs, either grounded on institutional religions, Indigenous worldviews, or in relation to cultural values (Anthwal et al. 2010, Frascaroli 2013, Woodhouse et al. 2015, Bortolamiol et al. 2018, Kent and Orlowska 2018, Uddin 2019).

    A second research interest focuses on emotions (such as fear, veneration, attachment, fascination, and respect) experienced by individuals and local communities inhabiting the territory as well as the corresponding attitudes toward conservation that spring from them. In this regard, as Frascaroli (2016:274) posits, SNS are “manifestations of a deep emotional bond between people and nature,” a form of “place attachment” (Mazumdar and Mazumdar 2004). Furthermore, both emotions and attitudes toward nature are driven and shaped by spiritual beliefs in a distinctive way (Dudley et al. 2009, Cottee-Jones and Whittaker 2015). For instance, the different religious understandings of fig trees in India shape diverse attitudes toward their management (Cotte-Jones and Whittaker 2015).

    Finally, conservation practices and behaviors based on those spiritual beliefs (often interpreted as natural resource management mechanisms) enacted by IPLCs are a focal point in studies that aim to identify and describe taboos and other customary institutions to preserve SNS (Kent 2010, Negi 2010, Bortolamiol et al. 2018, Fernández-Llamazares et al. 2018, Kent and Orlowska 2018, Shaygozova et al. 2018, Kõiva et al. 2020, Maru et al. 2020, Sinthumule and Mashau 2020). As an illustration, the study by Roba (2019) in Guji Oromo, southern Ethiopia, explores the Gada system, a sociocultural, economic, and political system governing Guji society that includes customary laws, punishments, oral declarations, libations, and supplications with a role in conserving SNS. Interestingly, Fournier (2011:10) highlighted that “protection by tradition” is a fluid approach, different from the perspective of nature conservation because “it is the observance of prescriptions and prohibitions that is important, not the material result of them on biodiversity.”

    Underlying these three approaches to the general research goal of conservation in SNS, two ways of problematizing are prevailing. First, there is a clear interest in the way Indigenous and local knowledge (ILK) relates to environmental conservation. Some authors aim at identifying the wide variety of forms of Indigenous knowledge for SNS conservation, as illustrated by Sinthumule and Mashau’s (2020) study of community attitudes and their traditional practices to protect the holy forest of Thate Vondo in South Africa. Others highlight the concept of SNS as an expression of the holistic view that many traditional societies have of the social-ecological relationships of the places they inhabit. For instance, Anthwal et al. (2010) analyzed the long history of biodiversity conservation in the Uttarakhand Himalaya grounded on the different ethical and spiritual views enshrined in the Hindu community. Analogously, Cladis (2019) described the non-hierarchical but variegated notions of the sacred held by native American and Indigenous communities in contrast to the binary Western notions of the sacred imposed on those communities. Consequently, the recognition and vindication of the value of ILK in conservation policies is often emphasized in the definition of the research questions grounded on a critique of decades of conservation management that disregarded traditional worldviews and cultural-spiritual values that bind local communities to their natural environment (Woodhouse et al. 2015, Aniah and Yelfaanibe 2018, Niglio 2018b, Maru et al. 2020). In this sense, some authors make explicit calls to empower Indigenous communities, to “ensure their participation in the conservation process in a more locale- or community- specific manner” (Talukdar and Gupta 2018:516).

    Second, the study of transformation processes undergoing sites also attracts the attention of researchers. The rationale for adopting this focus is twofold: (1) the evolving meaning of the SNS because of political changes, such as the state-planned modernization in China (Sehnalova 2019) or the integration of local policies within globally institutionalized views of conservation in Kenya (Nyamweru 2012); and (2) the interpretation of changing beliefs, as observed in the evolution of narratives in worships or in veneration practices (Shaygozova et al. 2018), sometimes influenced by commercial drivers, such as the transformation of Hindu rituals performed in sacred groves in Kerala studied by Notermans et al. (2016). See Table 4.

    Meanings of the sacred

    A preliminary reading of the SNS literature seems to reinforce the idea that the practice of exclusion and “apartness” for religious or spiritual purposes is linked to the sacredness of nature. Following Frazer, Durkheim, and Eliade, contemporary SNS scholars often assume that rules and taboos concerning purity and pollution are central to the preservation of these sites and stress the sacred-profane dichotomy early religions scholars posited.

    Paradoxically, those who have studied SNS hardly ever define sacredness, and the works that address the notion of “the sacred” or “the holy” as central to the research problem are an exception. That is the case of Niglio (2018a:1) who, aiming to discuss the meaning of the sacred values of landscape affirms: “The sacred landscape establishes the relationship between man and nature, through an aesthetic in which it is not always possible to find a rational dimension.” Sacredness is often acknowledged as a vague, fluid, and complex notion (Mu et al. 2019). As Ringvee (2015:8) wondered, distinguishing between the sacred and the holy: “Where does sacredness start, and where does it end? In this matter, the subjectivity of the experience of the sacred becomes unpleasantly mixed with legal regulations, which require more physical borders than the ambiguous and subjective experience of the Holy.” However, the conversation about such complexity is usually avoided, as in Dudley et al. (2009) and Ormsby (2012), or diverted, as in Nyamweru (2012) in which the author prefers to term SNS as “natural cultural sites,” arguing that the notion of “culture” better serves to highlight the multiple meanings associated with these enclaves. In sum, the implicit characterizations of the idea of sacredness sets the term into a larger context that needs to be uncovered to grasp the overlapping plurality of understandings at play in the literature.

    As a result of the analysis, three interrelated conceptualizations of the sacred stand out. First, sacredness, which is often loosely related to spirituality, is characterized by the presence of divinities, numina, or inhabiting spirits, or as the interface between the natural and the supernatural. In these sites, a contractual relationship (Keller 2014) between the local community and the god(s) or spirits is often established. Studley (2018:368), for instance, referred to “Enspirited Sacred Natural Sites” as places where Tibetan believers “ritually protect SNS [...] on the basis of contractual reciprocity.” The place-bound relational character of SNS also acts as a link among the members of the community, the ancestors, and the supernatural power of divinities inhabiting the site. As Aniah and Yelfaanibe (2018:2496) illustrate in their study of sacred groves and shrines in Bongo District (Ghana), “there is a shared belief among the many people that ancestral spirits and gods influence the affairs of the living.” These locally based conceptualizations often convey an understanding of the sacredness of the site as a “field force,” a “source of life” (Skog 2017), or a “spiritual power spot” (Keller 2014, Rots 2019) that irradiates its sanctity (or life-giving power) toward the surrounding landscape. In this sense, SNS convey strong feelings and emotional bonds between people and nature (Niglio 2018a, Mu et al. 2019), a type of relationship that is “cyclically enacted through ritual” (Frascaroli 2016:272).

    A second attribution of meaning closely relates sacredness to taboos that convey fear and obedience and help establish and enforce prohibitions or bans on natural resource use. Taboos are also in relation to ancestor worship in animistic and traditional religions or the “abode of the saints” in monotheistic ones, especially Islam and Christianity. In both cases, they are conceived as socio-cultural mechanisms that preserve or “set apart” features of the landscape. The “apartness” or separation of the sacred site and the fact of being “free from all human interference” (Dudley et al. 2009:571) is often characterized in a binary, dichotomous way, opposed to the human-dominated anthropic landscape. In the conservation and environmental literature, this characterization of SNS often leads to interpreting sacredness as wilderness (Zeng 2018). However, though marginal, a critical approach to this Western, sacred-profane dualistic interpretation is also found in the literature (Uddin 2019), mainly in studies focusing on non-Western traditions in which all nature is infused with sacred values such as in the understanding of land in Native American worldviews (Keller 2014, Cladis 2019).

    Finally, the sacred is often connected to social practices and the presence of a religious community, a congregation, or a spirit medium. For these understandings, it is the worship, rituals, and devotions of the whole community that make the site sacred. In other words, ritual reenacts sacredness. As Sinthumule and Mashau (2020:6) remarked, “the ritual performed helps in maintaining the potency of the sacred forest.” The holiness or sacredness of the site is either declared by a medium establishing a contractual relation between the local community and the spirits/gods of the place “the spiritus loci,” or transferred to the landscape by the presence of holy people (Dafni 2007). Sacred natural sites are, however, ambivalent sources of identity and stability for the community: sites that enhance the status of some members (priests, mediums, or chiefs) while excluding whole groups (such as non-residents, women, or lower caste). See Table 5.

    Dimensions of the sacred

    We used Paden’s (2017) naturalistic framing of the sacred to further clarify and deepen the previous categorization to unravel and depict the multiple dimensions that make up the sacredness of SNS. Following the shift away from Durkheim and Otto’s framing that has accompanied the general study of religion in the past decades, Paden considered religion “a form of status-generating behavior” and argued that the term sacred “needs to be rescued from usage as a vague synonym for religion” (Paden 2017:704-705). According to his interpretation, sacrality is a complex multifaceted concept that involves at least four types of behavior:

    1. Making-sacred as dedicating something for secure respect (spiritual presence)
    2. Defending sacred order against violation (taboo)
    3. Attributing prestige or enhancing status (community identity)
    4. Responding to sacred prompts with appropriate behaviors within niche environments (community identity).

    The four generic socially mediated behaviors related to the sacred (building, defending, enhancing status, and inhabiting) serve as a hermeneutical lens to interpret and recontextualize important features of SNS found in our review.

    Building

    Sacredness is built around social constructions of reality and social practices. In relation to SNS, several instruments of sacralization such as myths, legends, symbols, and historical events have been identified. In many cases, the construction of a monastery, a temple, a hermitage, or a little chapel also serve as pointers for the sacredness of the site. Moreover, the sacredness of a SNS may be because of the burial of holy individuals that irradiate their holiness. Sacredness is, thus, created by the establishment of a worshipping community that resides either at the SNS or nearby. In the Central Himalayas, Negi (2012:273) argued that to understand “the phenomenon of dedication of the forests to a deity and the inherent taboos with regard to the resource exploitation and other traditional beliefs and customs being practiced,” a symbolic biocultural approach to SNS is required, including an “emotional interpretation” of the landscape based on both objective (e.g., cultural heritage) and subjective (e.g., imagination) elements (Kraft 2010, Niglio 2018a).

    When a site is “dedicated” to a deity, an ancestor, or a saint (or is recognized as the permanent or temporary residence of a spirit, a numen, or a god/goddess) its influence and limits are geographically and ritually demarcated. This demarcation manifests when the site itself is defined as a deity such as the Tibetan Mountains (Sehnalova 2019), or the sacred forests described in the Rig Veda as Aranyani, or mother goddess (Anthwal et al. 2010). Marking a SNS with symbols and retelling the story of the site are common ritual practices that must be repeated and reenacted to preserve its sacredness. As Mantsinen (2020:23) put it, “these traces thus become the enacted sacred.” In Norway, Kraft (2010:57) claimed from the point of view of political ecology that “sacred places constitute a demarcation of particular landscapes as being Sami.” However, because the native Sami do not claim sovereignty over their lands, “sacred places provide an alternative mapping - an appropriation of particular landscapes and thereby a demarcation and visualization of Sápmi.” In sum, making a natural place sacred is sometimes a political act or declaration, a quest for recognition of Indigenous rights.

    Defending

    In most SNS, there is a belief that deities (Chandrashekara et al. 2002, Khumbongmayum et al. 2005, Kraft 2010, Negi 2012), demons (Colding and Folke 2001), supernatural creatures (Sarfo-Mensah 2009), ancestral spirits (Byers et al. 2001), or totemic animals (Notermans et al. 2016, Bortolamiol et al. 2018, Talukdar and Gupta 2018, Uddin 2019) serve as the guards of the site. The fear of punishment or vanishment (Kraft 2010, Negi 2012, Roba 2019) is often associated with taboos that regulate the access and the use of the natural resources (Colding and Folke 2001). In India, Kent (2010:224) explained how “people avoided the groves for fear of upsetting the resident deity by exposing him or her to pollution or txttu.” In sacred groves in Kerala, many inhabitants are afraid of damaging vegetation because the snake gods will bring misfortune as punishment (Notermans et al. 2016). Similarly, in Ethiopia’s Church Forests, the “inviolable zone of ritual purity” (Kent and Orlowska 2018:25, Roba 2019), which constitutes the heart of the SNS has made people refrain from overexploiting the forest. When dealing with SNS, there is no doubt that this is the dimension of the sacred that has attracted the attention of conservation biologists. Taboos, however, as cultural anthropologists have warned, carry positive moral implications not just prohibitions (Osterhoudt 2018). They are complex cultural constructions that need to be handled carefully (Tiedje 2007). Furthermore, even if “sacred sites are the oldest method of habitat protection on the planet” (Anthwal et al. 2010:963) and constitute a priceless “shadow conservation network” (Watson 2016), it should be kept in mind that the protection offered by SNS is a side effect, not the reason why SNS were established. Or, as Kent and Orlowska (2018) have vividly expressed, custodians are not PAs managers but rather “accidental environmentalists.”

    Enhancing

    Status and group identity are also two of the main community’s motivations for what outsiders, especially conservation biologists and PAs managers, regard as ecological stewardship. A theme that emerges in the literature is that, for local inhabitants, SNS are primarily a source of status, identity, and pride, a “symbol of the town” (Kraft 2010:56), a place where value exceeds utility. In Ghana, Sarfo-Mensah (2009:49) stressed that “local chiefs and elders derived tumi from the landscape; this enhanced respect and fear for them, which they in turn used to protect nature and to ensure social harmony.” Sehnalova (2019:245), for instance, remarked that the ritual pilgrimage to a sacred mountain in Tibet builds and maintains the local identity; it is a way of enhancing the status of the pilgrim, although “the traditional qualitative notion of merit based on physical suffering and duration of a pilgrimage is being replaced by a quantitative reckoning based on number of visits and also the finances spent on offerings.” Worship and ritual around SNS are, thus, deeply intertwined with social practices, group identity, and power dynamics. These are practices that empower some groups although marginalizing others. A sacral spatial hierarchy often correlates with a social hierarchy. This explains why, in many places around the world, foreigners, ethnic minorities, or menstruating and pregnant women (Negi 2012) are not allowed into SNS. In India, for instance, Negi (2010) pointed out that lower caste residents are restricted from entering sacred forests and are, thus, bereft of access to natural resources at large. Or, as Notermans et al. (2016:11) have observed, through ritual, those who can legitimately participate in the liturgies that take place in the groves “gain social and symbolic capital that give both deities and devotees more power.”

    Inhabiting

    Finally, the literature review shows that SNS are also interactive, participatory environments for residents. The prestige and charisma of the sites are tangible and concrete; the presence of spirits, ancestors, or gods “sacralizes” the site and begs for a response. These are places to be inhabited not just visited. Frascaroli (2016:277), regarding natural shrines in central Italy, highlighted that the natural values and ecological diversity of SNS are not so much the result of human exclusion but rather the contrary: “these sites tend to be more ecologically diverse and valuable because they are used respectfully and in line with certain customs but used all the same.” In SNS, ritual and worship become the appropriate language to communicate with the sacred, the “link with the invisible” (Fournier 2011:18). There are usually “ritual specialists” (Notermans et al. 2016, Aniah and Yelfaanibe 2018, Roba 2019, Uddin 2019), i.e., priests, shamans, or mediums, who conduct certain sacred practices (i.e., libations, offerings, or sacrifices) in which the community participates. Ritual implies the establishment and reenactment of a contractual relationship (Sarfo-Mensah 2009, Kraft 2010, Woodhouse et al. 2015, Acharya and Ormsby 2017), one that ensures social harmony (Sarfo-Mensah 2009), delimits who belongs to the community and who does not (Negi 2012, Acharya and Ormsby 2017, Kent and Orlowska 2018), and legitimizes the transformation (or even the destruction) of a SNS (Notermans et al. 2016). This finding confirms what Otto (1936[1917]:140) had pointed out long ago: “a numen attached to some locality [...] is a guardian and guarantor of the oath and of honorable dealing, of hospitality, of the sanctity of marriage, and of duties to tribe and clan” (Table 6).

    Dynamics of the sacred: desacralization, (re)sacralization, and mutation

    When it comes to SNS, three different dynamics are at play in relation to the role of the sacred: desacralization, (re)sacralization, and mutation.

    Desacralization

    Desacralization is the most widely described dynamic of the sacred in the SNS literature. For many SNS scholars, the erosion of customary institutions and the decline in religious beliefs (Byers et al. 2001, Khumbongmayum et al. 2005, Bhagwat 2009, Sarfo-Mensah 2009, Anthwal et al. 2010, Negi 2010, Fernández-Llamazares et al. 2018, Mu et al. 2019) because of secularization, modernization, and migration are pinpointed as some of the main drivers leading to the abandonment or degradation of SNS. Conservation biologists see with growing dismay and anxiety the decline of religious beliefs, social institutions, and cultural mechanisms that have preserved natural sites over the centuries. Desacralization, however, is not only due to secularization, although it may have been the case in Western Europe and some Asian countries (Rots 2019); it is often driven by a complex mix of factors, depending on the cultural context and the history of the site such as urbanization (Notermans et al. 2016), development (Kent and Orlowska 2018), migration (Sarfo-Mensah 2009), mass tourism (Mu et al. 2019), and politics (Sehnalova 2019). For instance, in China, during the cultural revolution of the 1960s and 1970s, state-sponsored atheism and poverty led to widespread hunting (Woodhouse et al. 2015, Sehnalova 2019) and the destruction of SNS (Zheng 2018). As Sehnalova (2019:216) has pointed out in her analysis of one of the most sacred Buddhist mountains of Tibet, A-myes-rma-chen, its declaration as a National Geopark by the Chinese government was part of a “state-planned modernization and development within the ‘Great Development of the West.’” Paradoxically, becoming a protected area is sometimes interpreted by political ecologists both as a “forced sacralization” (Nyamweru 2012) or a hidden desacralization process (Sehnalova 2019). There is also evidence that increased pilgrimage and mass-tourism often follow the declaration of a protected area becoming a “nature sanctuary” and can potentially degrade both the spiritual and natural values of the site (Mu et al. 2019). Finally, Hinduization, Islamization, and Christianization have also played a role in the disappearance of taboos and nature-based beliefs, as “modern religions” (Aniah and Yelfaanibe 2018), as well as other subtle forms of religious imperialism, erased or transformed previous animistic beliefs and “idolatrous cults” (Khumbongmayum et al. 2005, Sarfo-Mensah 2009, Nyamweru 2012, Ormsby 2012, Frascaroli 2013, Bortolamiol et al. 2018).

    (Re)sacralization

    But SNS are not declining everywhere. On the contrary, (re)sacralization is an ongoing, contemporary dynamic taking place in many natural enclaves, led sometimes by unexpected actors such as new religious movements, lay associations, or even the secular state. Sacred sites are being reappropriated by different actors (Studley 2018). Relatively new religions are generating new SNS. For instance, the Shrine of Bahá’u’lláh in Acre and the Shrine of the Báb in Haifa, Israel, could be considered Bahá’i SNS of recent creation. Similarly, in the USA Mormonism has transformed a 150-acres grove into a sacred site (Brown 2018). Thousands of Mormons and Bahá’i pilgrims visit these places every year. And even in a highly secularized country like Estonia an Indigenous neopagan religious association has successfully lobbied “for the protection of sacred landscapes or natural sacred sites” (Ringvee 2015:1). Religious scholar James Chappel (2020) has recently suggested that the logic of sanctuary is an appropriate spatial metaphor for the study of contemporary religion. However, it is also useful for the study of modern PAs. In relation to SNS, it is important to remember that nature sanctuaries were not created in a remote, static, and primordial time. In China, Zeng (2018:174) has noted in her study of sacred groves (or holy hills) that, “after a forest was destroyed, it could be resurrected and re-sacralized through community engagement,” to a great extent because these sites are “very significant for Manlang as an expression of community identity” (p. 184). Sacred natural sites are, thus, constantly created, transformed, and recreated. Alongside or within new PAs, sacred landscapes are being established across the world, even in Western, secularized contexts such as Norway (Kraft 2010), Estonia (Ringvee 2015, Heinapuu 2016), and Finland (Mantsinen 2020). In fact, as Kõiva et al. (2020) have noted, “the sacralization of natural places (and nature as a whole) is among the messages of many humanistic movements, beginning with religious groups and ending with the bearers of the radical and critical idea of the equality of humans and nature” (p. 130).

    Finally, the discussion on the impact of tourism on some SNS offers, again, a valuable insight on the dynamics of the sacred in natural settings. This is a complex process in which, as Cohen (1979) argued long ago, religious pilgrimage and secular forms of tourism often intertwine in complex ways. In Nepal, Mu et al. (2019) have recently argued, following Kraft (2010), that “under the influence of tourism development, the boundary of sacred space and secular space has been blurred due to the modern process of dedifferentiation” (Mu et al. 2019:13). Rediscovered or institutionally promoted pilgrimage, an ancient cultural phenomenon, is interpreted by some authors as a (re)sacralization mechanism potentially leading to overcrowding (Byers et al. 2001, Colding and Folke 2001, Anthwal et al. 2010, Enongene and Griffin 2018, Shepheard-Walwyn and Bhagwat 2018, Mu et al. 2019, Sehnalova 2019).

    Mutation

    The sacredness of SNS is in flux. It is not fixed but rather adapts and evolves constantly. When it comes to nature conservation, several scholars have realized the complex and dynamic character of the sacred. For instance, drawing from ethnographic work in Madagascar, Osterhoudt (2018:13) affirmed that the cultural and religious taboos (Fady) related to natural sites mutate constantly: “Yet in reality, Fady are not followed blindly by all people on all occasions — rather, they are considered within shifting, dynamic intersections of personal, spiritual, social, and political sensibilities.” Likewise, Byers et al. (2001:212-213) found in their study of Zimbabwean sacred groves that “in Shona religion the ‘sacredness’ of a place can be added or removed as needed for effective social and environmental management.” According to Acharya and Ormsby (2017), in Indian sacred groves (devithans) the sacred is also a malleable concept, an element within an adaptive cultural strategy: “Hence, devithans move beyond the trappings of a static ecological idyll and become complex and dynamic sites located at the heart of ‘cross-cutting matrixes of culture, power, and history’” (Acharya and Ormsby 2017:240). Similarly, Notermans (2016:1) realized that, in Kerala, “the destruction of sacred groves has less to do with a loss of faith but more with a change of faith.”

    The arrival of theism, specially Hinduism, Christianity, and Islam, has long been interpreted as a threat to the previous animistic beliefs underpinning the taboos and worldviews that had traditionally protected SNS (Khumbongmayum et al. 2005, Sarfo-Mensah 2009, Nyamweru 2012, Notermans et al. 2016, Aniah and Yelfaanibe 2018, Bortolamiol et al. 2018, Maru et al. 2020). For Fracaroli (2013) and Harrison (1992), the destruction of sacred groves started when first, Imperial Rome and, later, Christianity transformed the Mediterranean landscape culturally, politically, and religiously. According to Khumbongmayum et al. (2005:1580), in Manipur, Northeast India, “the advent of Hinduism during the reign of kings also contributed to the erosion of traditional beliefs of the Meiteis. Moreover, the influence of Christianity added a new dimension in religion and culture, which also acted as an important factor in causing the degradation of sacred groves.” There is also evidence that, in Asian and African countries, the arrival of Islam has led to the decline of animistic beliefs that underpinned SNS (Sarfo-Mensah 2009, Nyamweru 2012, Notermans et al. 2016).

    Other scholars, however, argue that taboos are pervasive and often survive disguised under the new (mono)theistic dressing (Byers et al. 2001, Dudley et al. 2009, Ormsby 2012, Frascaroli 2016, Talukdar and Gupta 2017, Shaygozova et al. 2018, Tatay-Nieto and Muñoz-Igualada 2019). For instance, Talukdar and Gupta (2018:515) claimed that “a mutual exchange and enrichment of worldviews can be said to have occurred, with the nature-centric aspects of the worship of animist deities influencing Hindu religious beliefs and rendering them more environmentally benign.” Similarly, Shaygozova et al. (2018:66) affirmed that pilgrimage to SNS in Kazakhstan “combines Islamic elements (Quran recitation, prayers, appeal to the Islam moral values, sacrifice, etc.) and visible pre-Islamic and non-Islamic rites as appeal to ancestors/aruakhs, who guard this sacred place, ‘nodular magic’, animism (worship of water, soil, wind, sun).” Just like in Spain, where Tatay (2021) has argued that many rural, mostly Marian sanctuaries with nature-related names are ancient, pre-Christian SNS.

    In sum, a flexible and dynamic understanding of sacredness is required to fully grasp the complexity of SNS because the significance of the sacred varies over time, space, and even from person to person (Notermans et al. 2016, Kent and Orlowska 2018, Rots 2019). It is important to acknowledge this dynamism of the sacred because it can lead to different conservation strategies and relationships among both stakeholders and rights holders in the territory.

    DISCUSSION AND CONCLUSION

    Our review has explored the multiple meanings attributed to the notion of the sacred for conservation purposes by a growing body of research. The sacred is a contested and ambiguous concept that, nonetheless, is intrinsically linked to the management and preservation of natural sites because of their implicit understanding as places separated or set apart.

    It is remarkable, however, that the conservation literature has largely overlooked the notion of the sacred/holy as an explicit research object. Sacred natural sites related topics have recently been brought into the social-ecological literature and are being used especially in relation to conservation but have not been the subject of reflection by academic disciplines with a long tradition of studying the sacred. The findings of this systematic review show that SNS are conceptualized by scholars as places where the human and the wild, the cultural and the natural, and the immanent and the transcendent meet, reflecting the multidimensional character of the sacred. Across these studies, the elements of the sacred in relation to conservation range from emotions and beliefs to attitudes and behaviors; from invisible cultural and spiritual roots to visible systems of practices; from individual experiences to collective rituals and devotions; and from the informal to the institutional. Sacred natural sites also intersect with a growing debate on the instrumental, intrinsic, and relational value of nature (Anderson 2022). Interestingly, such relational interplay between the social, the natural, and the supernatural is viewed as coevolutionary, entailing a variety of consequences for conservationists, policymakers, and local actors interacting in SNS (Fig. 4).

    By inquiring into the kaleidoscopic notion of sacredness as used in the burgeoning body of research on SNS, we respond to the call by conservation social science scholars for a better understanding of human dimensions of environmental issues for a more robust and effective conservation (Bennet et al. 2017). Specifically, our review offers an answer to the growing claim on the need for IPLCs, insights, and practices on conservation (WWF et al. 2021), beyond the reductionistic, instrumental, Western-centric concept of “resource management” (review by Berkes 2017). Several implications and related future research proposals derive from the findings of our review, all sharing the critique of unquestioned assumptions in the SNS literature, with relevance for conservation and policymaking.

    First, despite being considered in the literature mostly as a positive force for environmental conservation, our review shows a more nuanced view of the role played by the sacred in SNS, depicting it as both opportunity and threat to conservation. In fact, as Lynn White (1967) famously argued half a century ago, and several scholars have stressed in our review (Notermans et al. 2016, Osterhoudt 2018, Zeng 2018, Cladis 2019), religious worldviews, rituals, and practices are a double-edged sword that can either protect or destroy nature. Along these lines, Osterhoudt (2018:3) warns that “not all cultural taboos lead to environmental preservation; indeed, some may actively encourage ecologically damaging behaviours,” for example, when the imposition of a taboo on an abundant species ends up encouraging the use of another endangered species (Colding and Folke 2001). Moreover, even when beliefs, taboos, and rituals actively protect a SNS, we should keep in mind that nature conservation is not the main aim of these complex cultural institutions (Fomin 2008, Studley 2018) but rather an unintended result or “accidental environmentalism” (Kent and Orlowska 2018). As Fournier (2011:11) warned: “when a sacred site is said to be strictly protected ‘by tradition’, scholars in ecology should be cautious because villagers’ ideas of protection may be very different from theirs. The notion that wooded shrines are an ‘endogenous’ means for achieving biodiversity conservation must be firmly discarded: protection is definitely only a side-effect of this sort of ‘placing apart’.”

    Indeed, the paradoxical character of the sacred is emphasized in the research findings of several authors. Cladis (2019:136), in consonance with White, affirmed that the Western “notion of the sacred has contributed to both environmental protection and environmental harm.” For Keller (2014:98), “sacred is a Eurocentric term” that must be used carefully in Indigenous contexts. A dichotomous, binary understanding of the sacred may even lead to environmental degradation because it grants legitimacy to the idea of non-sacred places as profane, sacrificial zones. Regarding the place, demarcation of the sacred may lead to an indirect desacralization, because a site declared sacred often makes the surrounding area profane and thus, implicitly unworthy of protection. This dynamic is eloquently discussed by Cladis (2019) in reference to the more nuanced Navajo notion of the sacred, one that extends to all lands, making them worthy of care and respect. Another source of discrimination emerges from the extension of the sacred-profane binary from place to people. Access and use of the SNS natural resources are hierarchically structured, as political ecologists have persuasively argued (Notermans 2016). Power dynamics may grant access to some groups while excluding others defined as outsiders (and thus assimilated with the profane), such as women, laypeople, or ethnic minorities (Negi 2012).

    The critique of the sacred-profane binary relates to other poststructuralist efforts to break down binaries, a movement of the unmaking, the rejection of stable structures, and the elimination of distinctions, as in other stratified sociological categories such as gender or race (Risman 2018). Future SNS research might benefit from further adopting post-structural lenses in the attempt to deconstruct the stratified sacred/profane dichotomy through questions on the construction and maintenance of those binaries as well as the exclusions, inclusions, identities, and practices they involve (Frohard-Dourlent et al. 2017).

    Second, although the portrayal of taboos as means of conservation is central in the literature, there is also a critique of the reductionist view of taboos as mere instruments for nature protection (Fernández-Llamazares et al. 2018), on what Tiedje (2007) has denounced as the “misappropriation of taboo.” The conservationist view often ignores the complex cultural processes underlying the construction and evolution of taboos and other social institutions, which calls for a further study on their broader historical, political, and cultural context (Osterhoudt 2018). A social and relational understanding of the role of taboos will help overcome the instrumental view although acknowledging its intrinsic value (Anderson et al. 2022). Relatedly, an additional source of simplification arises from the (mis)identification of sacredness and wilderness (Zeng 2018). Such questionable association reinforces the separation of nature and culture while idealizing “the wild” in SNS. Conservation biology, restoration ecology, and invasion biology have been characterized as “Edenic sciences” given their common aim of bringing ecosystems back to an original, primeval state (Bowman et al. 2017). Fletcher et al. (2021:1) have recently criticized the pervasive conservation ideal of protecting a pristine wilderness, free from the role of humans, often “denying Indigenous and local peoples’ agency, access rights, and knowledge in conserving their territories.” Analogously, some SNS scholars tend, like Edenic scientists, to associate the wild, natural state with the sacred. However, as Heinapuu (2016:164) warns, “Sacred Natural Sites should not be presumed to represent pristine nature. Rather, they are products of complex culture-nature interactions,” and as such they should be considered in future research as well as in policymaking.

    Third, the findings of our review also highlight the importance of adopting a dynamic and relational understanding of the sacred regarding SNS. These sites are marked by the coevolution of multiple dimensions (natural, cultural, and spiritual), a complex and reversible process that includes desacralization, (re)sacralization, and mutation. Sacredness is not fixed but rather malleable. In fact, new and ancient sacralization dynamics are at play not only at SNS but also in many other natural settings. However, as Manfredo et al. (2016:772) warned in their analysis of social values, “deliberate efforts to orchestrate value shifts for conservation are unlikely to be effective.” Conservation managers may want to induce social change, but they should keep in mind that a mere instrumental approach to the sacred (a central cultural value) will unlikely lead to transformative practices or rapid cultural shifts. The term “sacred,” thus, should not be considered a loose metaphor but rather an analytically relevant and dynamic concept that requires attention because of its impact on contemporary perceptions of nature. Applying the lessons learnt from SNS could open new avenues for conservation management and land-use planning.

    Fourth, SNS studies reveal the centrality for conservation of Indigenous cultures, spiritualities, and languages, many of which are vanishing at a fast pace. Indigenous tongues are an important repository of worldviews, ontologies, and epistemologies in relation to biocultural heritage. The acknowledgement of such plurality of perspectives in turn poses a challenge to conservation management insomuch as it involves interacting realities evolving with diverse views. As Verschuuren (2019) argued, addressing this challenge goes well beyond accepting that the voices of Indigenous people on the sacredness of a site are heard in the SNS discourse. Their worldviews and ontologies should be on equal footing with those dominant in conservation management. In sum, given the historically rooted power asymmetries, Indigenous actors and perspectives should be included in SNS research and policymaking, with “Indigenous actors acting on their own behalf” (Liljeblad 2019:6).

    Fifth, colonial and imperial expansionism is a critical aspect of global histories, the effects of which have fundamentally transformed societies, cultures, and their practices. As environmental historians argue, ecological and cultural imperialism share a common ancestry (Crosby 1993), one that has left an imprint in the way many conservationists interpret nature as wilderness (Fletcher et al. 2021). As noted in the SNS literature “the sacred” is often equated with “the wild,” imposing Western, dichotomous conceptions of a pristine nature set apart from humans (Milton 1999). Moreover, religious proselytism is also a form of cultural imperialism that has significantly shaped and transformed many SNS in Africa, Asia, and America. The advent and expansion of theism (mainly Christianity, Hinduism, and Islam) often transformed the animistic beliefs underpinning taboos and worldviews, although many of them adapted, mutated, and survived dressed in new religious clothes (Sarfo-Mensah 2009, Nyamweru 2012). Against this background, building, inhabiting, and defending SNS often become political acts employed by Indigenous peoples and local communities as an alternative to Western approaches to nature conservation.

    In sum, a dichotomous, static, oversimplified understanding of the sacred generates subtle forms of discrimination that need to be brought to the fore in nature conservation studies and landscape management. Declaration of PAs and recognition of SNS should not focus only on restricting access to natural resources. Because taboos and other cultural institutions are easily misunderstood and oversimplified, natural scientists, policymakers, and PAs managers should pay attention to the wisdom and management experience IPLCs can offer to avoid falling into a similar conceptual trap when creating new legal forms of protection, i.e., the declaration of a national park (Studley 2019). Sacred natural sites are highly complex cultural mechanisms, collective identity markers, and dynamic settings in which different logics overlap (Skog 2017, Mishchenko 2019). Their diversity and complexity beg for alternative management strategies that consider the importance of relational values (Chan et al. 2016, Anderson et al. 2022) and include the broadest possible scope of participants, especially IPLCs (WWF et al. 2021). The experience of SNS shows us that conservation strategies go well beyond incorporating prohibitions and establishing boundaries; researchers might also explore ways in which Indigenous rights holders, as well as visitors and other stakeholders, can actively participate and inhabit the territory considering their religious backgrounds and cultural values.

    Finally, no study is without limitations. Systematic reviews generally share potential shortcomings in the selection process of the publications that might exclude some pertinent information. In this case, the search strings focused on SNS-related topics identified through an iterative process, but because these terms do not exhaust the whole range of relations between the sacred and nature, we excluded studies focusing on similar issues that use a different vocabulary. Considering Indigenous terms and concepts coded in local and native languages into reviews would deepen and enrich the knowledge of the sacred in SNS. We did not include peer-reviewed publications on archaeology, history, and biblical studies that could certainly enrich the vision and historical role of SNS in conservation. And, our English language inclusion criterion excluded relevant work published in other languages (mainly Chinese, French, German, Portuguese, Russian, and Spanish). The dearth of publications from Latin America, parts of Europe, and French-speaking Africa is partly because of this methodological limitation. Finally, to facilitate the review and limit the sample size, we focused almost exclusively on academic peer-reviewed literature. In relation to SNS, however, there are certainly many high-quality peer-reviewed publications outside of this body of literature. The so-called gray literature (Mahood et al. 2014), however, is difficult to access systematically and should be reviewed in the future.

    RESPONSES TO THIS ARTICLE

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    ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

    We are grateful to the anonymous reviewers who helped us improve the manuscript.

    DATA AVAILABILITY

    Data sharing is not applicable to this article because no data/code were analyzed in this study.

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    Corresponding author:
    Jaime Tatay
    jtatay@comillas.edu
    Fig. 1
    Fig. 1. PRISMA flow chart showing the electronic search, identification, screening, 198 eligibility, and final inclusion for reviewed articles.

    Fig. 1. PRISMA flow chart showing the electronic search, identification, screening, 198 eligibility, and final inclusion for reviewed articles.

    Fig. 1
    Fig. 2
    Fig. 2. Evolution of the number of scholarly papers on sacred nature sites (SNS).

    Fig. 2. Evolution of the number of scholarly papers on sacred nature sites (SNS).

    Fig. 2
    Fig. 3
    Fig. 3. Evolution of the number of quotes of scholarly articles on sacred nature sites (SNS).

    Fig. 3. Evolution of the number of quotes of scholarly articles on sacred nature sites (SNS).

    Fig. 3
    Fig. 4
    Fig. 4. Dynamics of the sacred in sacred nature sites (SNS).

    Fig. 4. Dynamics of the sacred in sacred nature sites (SNS).

    Fig. 4
    Table 1
    Table 1. Groups of organizing concepts and associated database search terms.

    Table 1. Groups of organizing concepts and associated database search terms.

    Group A: Sacred natural sites (SNS) related terms Group B: Conservation related terms
    sacred natural site; natural sacred site; sacred grove; sacred forest; church forest; sacred tree; sacred mountain; holy mountain; sacred cave; sacred landscape; sacred landform; sacred spring; sacred river; sacred lake; sacred fish; sacred commons;
    holy well
    conservation; preservation; preserve; protected; protection; protective; sustainable; sustainability; ecology; ecological; environment; biological; biodiversity; biocultural; biodiverse
    Table 2
    Table 2. Search strings stratified according to organizing concepts [(A) AND (B)].

    Table 2. Search strings stratified according to organizing concepts [(A) AND (B)].

    Group A: Sacred natural sites (SNS) related terms Group B: Conservation related terms
    sacred natural site* OR natural sacred site* OR sacred grove* OR sacred forest* OR church forest* OR sacred tree* OR sacred mountain* OR holy mountain* OR sacred cave* OR sacred landscape* OR sacred landform* OR sacred spring* OR sacred river* OR sacred lake* OR sacred fish* OR sacred commons* OR holy well* conserv* OR preserv* OR protect* OR sustain* OR ecol* OR environment* OR bio*
    Table 3
    Table 3. Characteristics of reviewed studies on sacred nature sites (SNS).

    Table 3. Characteristics of reviewed studies on sacred nature sites (SNS).

    Type of SNS Country
    Forests-Groves 19 India 12
    Trees 3 China 4
    Mountains 5 Nepal 3
    Wildlife 3 Ethiopia 3
    Landscape 3 Italy 3
    Caves 1 Ghana 2
    Stones 1 Madagascar 2
    Lake/water 1 Other Asian countries 5
    Other African countries 5
    Religion Other European countries 5
    Hinduism 9 Other American countries 1
    Buddhism 6
    Christianity 6 Year of publication
    Islam 2 2000–2005 3
    Traditional/Animism 12 2005–2010 9
    Neo(Pagan) 3 2010–2015 8
    2015–2020 26
    Table 4
    Table 4. Main research focuses on sacred nature sites (SNS).

    Table 4. Main research focuses on sacred nature sites (SNS).

    Main research focuses and interests
    Role of spiritual beliefs in nature conservation Colding and Folke 2001, Dudley et al. 2009, Sarfo-Mensah 2009, Cottee-Jones and Whittaker 2015, Aniah and Yelfaanibe 2018, Shepheard-Walwyn and Bhagwat 2018, Talukdar and Gupta 2018, Mu et al. 2019, Roba 2019, Kõiva et al. 2020, Maru et al. 2020
    Emotions and attitudes toward conservation Chandrashekara et al. 2002, Dafni 2007, Dudley et al. 2009, Cottee-Jones and Whittaker 2015, Frascaroli 2016, Niglio 2018a, Talukdar and Gupta 2018, Mu et al. 2019, Sinthumule and Mashau 2020
    Practices and behaviors (taboos and customary institutions) Kent 2010, Negi 2010, Bortolamiol et al. 2018, Fernández-Llamazares et al. 2018, Kent and Orlowska 2018, Shaygozova et al. 2018, Kõiva et al. 2020, Maru et al. 2020, Sinthumule and Mashau 2020
    Underlying research interests
    Native wisdom and TEK Byers et al. 2001, Colding and Folke 2001, Negi 2010, Skog 2017, Aniah and Yelfaanibe 2018, Cladis 2019, Roba 2019, Maru et al. 2020, Sinthumule and Mashau 2020
    Transformation processes undergoing sites Sarfo-Mensah 2009, Kent 2010, Nyamweru 2012, Ringvee 2015, Notermans et al. 2016, Enongene and Griffin 2018, Shaygozova et al. 2018, Sehnalova 2019
    Table 5
    Table 5. Conceptualizations of the sacred and main themes.

    Table 5. Conceptualizations of the sacred and main themes.

    The sacred as Main themes References
    Spiritual presence Divinities, numina, or inhabiting spirits Nyamweru 2012, Notermans et al. 2016, Sehnalova 2019, Sinthumule and Mashau 2020
    Interface between the natural and the supernatural Kent 2010, Fernández-Llamazares et al. 2018, Osterhoudt 2018, Mu et al. 2019, Roba 2019, Sinthumule and Mashau 2020
    Source of life and energy Skog 2017, Rots 2019, Sinthumule and Mashau 2020
    Link between ancestors, divinities, and community Byers et al. 2001, Colding and Folke 2001, Kent 2010, Fournier 2011, Notermans et al. 2016, Aniah and Yelfaanibe 2018, Fernández-Llamazares et al. 2018, Roba 2019
    Taboo Bans on access and resource use Chandrakanth and Romm 1991, Colding and Folke 2001, Chandrashekara et al. 2002, Dafni 2007, Fomin 2008, Dudley et al. 2009, Anthwal et al. 2010, Kent 2010, Cottee-Jones and Whittaker 2015, Ringvee 2015, Osterhoudt 2018, Shepheard-Walwyn and Bhagwat 2018, Talukdar and Gupta 2018, Zeng 2018, Mishchenko 2019, Sehnalova 2019
    Abode of ancestors or saints Chandrashekara et al. 2002, Cottee-Jones and Whittaker 2015, Osterhoudt 2018, Zeng 2018
    Apartness Dudley et al. 2009, Anthwal et al. 2010, Frascaroli 2013, Enongene and Griffin 2018, Niglio 2018a
    Community identity Contractual relation with the divine Byers et al. 2001, Dafni 2007, Ringvee 2015, Kent and Orlowska 2018, Mishchenko 2019, Sehnalova 2019
    Instrumental role of spirit mediums and religious congregations Byers et al. 2001, Dafni 2007, Ringvee 2015, Kent and Orlowska 2018, Mishchenko 2019, Sehnalova 2019
    Ritual reenactment Fournier 2011, Acharya and Ormsby 2017, Zeng 2018
    Table 6
    Table 6. Dimensions of the sacred and main themes in relation to sacred nature sites (SNS).

    Table 6. Dimensions of the sacred and main themes in relation to sacred nature sites (SNS).

    Main themes References
    Building Construction of a religious building
    Burial of a holy figure
    Establishment of a worshipping community
    Dedication and demarcation of sites
    Dafni 2007, Nyamweru 2012, Frascaroli 2016, Kent and Orlowska 2018, Niglio 2018b, Roba 2019, Uddin 2019
    Defending Presence of ancestral spirits, demons, supernatural creatures, totemic animals
    Existence of taboos that regulate the access and the use of natural resources
    Fear of punishment or vanishment
    Byers et al. 2001, Colding and Folke 2001, Chandrashekara et al. 2002, Khumbongmayum et al. 2005, Sarfo-Mensah 2009, Kraft 2010, Negi 2012, Notermans et al. 2016, Bortolamiol et al. 2018, Talukdar and Gupta 2018, Uddin 2019
    Enhancing Source of status, identity, and pride
    Repositories of community identity
    Exclusion of foreigners, ethnic minorities, or menstruating and pregnant women
    Colding and Folke 2001, Kraft 2010, Negi 2010, Woodhouse et al. 2015, Notermans 2016, Acharya and Ormsby 2017, Kent and Orlowska 2018
    Inhabiting Ritual and worship as appropriate language to communicate with the sacred
    Establishment and reenactment of a contractual relationship
    Community participation
    Guarantee of social harmony
    Chandrashekara et al. 2002, Kraft 2010, Notermans et al. 2016, Acharya and Ormsby 2017, Fernández-Llamazares et al. 2018, Shaygozova et al. 2018, Talukdar and Gupta 2018, Roba 2019
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    Home > VOLUME 28 > ISSUE 1 > Article 11 Research

    Using public litigation records to identify priority science needs for managing public lands

    Foster, A. C., S. K. Carter, T. S. Haby, L. D. Espy, and M. K. Burton. 2023. Using public litigation records to identify priority science needs for managing public lands. Ecology and Society 28(1):11. https://doi.org/10.5751/ES-13708-280111
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    • Alison C. FosterORCID, Alison C. Foster
      U.S. Geological Survey, Fort Collins Science Center, Fort Collins, Colorado, USA
    • Sarah K. CarterORCID, Sarah K. Carter
      U.S. Geological Survey, Fort Collins Science Center, Fort Collins, Colorado, USA
    • Travis S. HabyORCID, Travis S. Haby
      Bureau of Land Management, National Operations Center, Denver, Colorado, USA
    • Leigh D. EspyORCID, Leigh D. Espy
      Bureau of Land Management, Eastern States State Office, Falls Church, Virginia, USA.
    • Malia K. BurtonORCIDMalia K. Burton
      Bureau of Land Management, Colorado State Office, Lakewood, Colorado, USA.

    The following is the established format for referencing this article:

    Foster, A. C., S. K. Carter, T. S. Haby, L. D. Espy, and M. K. Burton. 2023. Using public litigation records to identify priority science needs for managing public lands. Ecology and Society 28(1):11.

    https://doi.org/10.5751/ES-13708-280111

  • Abstract
  • Introduction
  • Methods
  • Results
  • Discussion
  • Conclusion
  • Responses to This article
  • Acknowledgments
  • Data Availability
  • Literature Cited
  • Bureau of Land Management; coproduction; environmental analysis; legal; National Environmental Policy Act; science priorities
    Using public litigation records to identify priority science needs for managing public lands
    Copyright © 2022 by the author(s). Published here under license by The Resilience Alliance. This article is under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License. You may share and adapt the work provided the original author and source are credited, you indicate whether any changes were made, and you include a link to the license.
    Research

    ABSTRACT

    Relevant science is essential for effective natural resource decision making, including on public lands managed by the United States Department of the Interior (DOI) Bureau of Land Management (BLM), that cover 1/10th of the United States. Most of the BLM’s management decisions require analyses under the National Environmental Policy Act, and the use of science in these decisions is often challenged. Using coproduction, we assembled an interagency team of scientists and resource managers to develop a method for using public litigation to identify priority science needs for the BLM. We searched publicly available case documents finalized from 2015–2019 in Wyoming, Colorado, Utah, and New Mexico within federal courts and the DOI Office of Hearings and Appeals, and identified 108 case documents that involved challenges to the BLM’s use of science. We retained 48 case documents that contained at least one challenge about the BLM’s use of science for a specific resource. We categorized all challenges in each case document according to the proposed action, affected resource, type of science challenged (data about resources, science relevant to potential impacts, methods for analyzing potential impacts, and mitigation actions), and specific nature of the challenge (e.g., challenging direct effects analysis). We identified priority science needs based on the frequency of challenges, the number of states where similar challenges occurred, whether the BLM lost the challenge, and whether the case was remanded. Top needs related to oil and gas development actions and included science about effects on air quality and climate, water, and socioeconomics; data for air quality and climate; and methods for analyzing potential impacts to cultural resources and air quality and climate. The BLM can use this information to prioritize actions (e.g., funding new research or science syntheses) to strengthen its science foundation for decision-making.

    INTRODUCTION

    Public lands provide ecosystem services such as wildlife habitat, recreational and therapeutic opportunities, renewable and traditional sources of energy, grazing lands for livestock, cultural and historical sites, and a host of other resources, values, and services (Brown et al. 2014, Reese et al. 2019, Havlick et al. 2021, Swette and Lambin 2021). Federally managed public lands also provide substantial conservation value (Clancy et al. 2020), that is relevant to meeting conservation goals set recently by governments across the world (European Commission 2020, Executive Order 2021; https://www.hacfornatureandpeople.org/hac-launch-at-one-planet-summit-advisory).

    A strong science foundation can support and ease some aspects of the complex decisions that are needed to manage federal public lands (Mills et al. 2002, Szaro and Peterson 2004, Wilhere and Quinn 2018). Consideration of science in public lands decision making is often required by law (e.g., 42 U.S.C. § 4321 and 16 U.S.C. § 1533(b)(1)(A)); for example, the National Environmental Policy Act (NEPA; 42 U.S.C. § 4321) in the U.S. requires the consideration of the natural and social sciences in all major federal decisions that may impact the human environment. Federal agencies recognize the importance of science in decision making, and have consistently been directed to use the best available science and data in their decisions (Tzoumis 2007, U.S. Department of the Interior 2014, Natural Resources Canada 2018). Mills et al. (2002) found that federal agency staff believe that science is essential to garnering public support in management decisions, and that defensible decisions grounded in science can also reduce vulnerabilities to litigation (Mills and Clark 2001, Szaro and Peterson 2004).

    Litigation that challenges public lands decisions is common, and a repeatedly expressed concern of land management agencies (Mortimer and Malmsheimer 2011, Wollstein et al. 2021). Challenges to management decisions on federal public lands have increased over time (Ruple and Race 2020). Some suggest that frequent litigants to federal decisions use the legal process as a means, in and of itself, to affect agency actions: lawsuits bring publicity to controversial actions, and continued litigation can delay projects for substantial amounts of time (Malmsheimer et al. 2004, Keele et al. 2006, Prestemon et al. 2006, Mortimer et al. 2011). Litigation can also have long-term effects on management by damaging stakeholder relationships and setting precedent that counters established management approaches (Jones and Taylor 1995, Broussard and Whitaker 2009). Legal challenges can significantly delay decision making and involve staff time for multiple years: the mean time from case filing to judicial decision in challenges to the U.S. Forest Service, a primary land manager in the United States, is almost two years (Adelman and Glicksman 2018, Keele and Malmsheimer 2018).

    The frequency of litigation, its importance for federal agencies, and the level of detail in litigation documents, make litigation a potentially fertile data source for helping land management agencies to better understand their science needs. Understanding the aspects of the agency’s use of science are challenged in litigation, and the outcome of these challenges, can help agencies identify what topics should be prioritized for new or additional scientific studies, developing syntheses of existing science, or other actions to support science-informed decision making in the agency. To our knowledge, litigation has not yet been used to identify potential science needs to support agency decision making. We developed these methods to capitalize on litigation documents as data source and used the largest manager of public lands in the U.S., the Bureau of Land Management (BLM), as a case study.

    In the United States, approximately 28% of all land is federal public land. The BLM, within the U.S. Department of the Interior, manages the majority (38%) of these public lands: 98 million hectares of surface land and approximately 283 million hectares of subsurface minerals, primarily located across the contiguous western states and Alaska (Hardy Vincent et al. 2020). The BLM manages these lands for multiple uses and values, including recreation, livestock grazing, mining, scenic and historic values, wildlife habitat, and food, while also managing for sustained yield of renewable resources (Federal Land Policy and Management Act of 1976 [43 U.S.C. §§ 1701–1787]).

    Most of the BLM’s management decisions are subject to NEPA (42 U.S.C. § 4321), which requires federal agencies to consider the reasonably foreseeable and potentially significant environmental impacts, and potential alternatives to proposed actions, and to consider the best available science in that process. Proposed actions in the BLM commonly include activities such as livestock grazing permits, oil and gas development, and trail construction, which are typically analyzed using a category of NEPA analysis called an Environmental Assessment. The BLM produced an average of 1435 Environmental Assessments annually between 2015 and 2019 (Bureau of Land Management 2020). BLM also conducts a relatively high number of Environmental Impact Statements, the most complex type of NEPA document, compared to other federal agencies (Tzoumis 2007, Ruple and Tanana 2020). Both Environmental Assessments and Environmental Impact Statements are comprehensive analyses. Accordingly, many of the BLM’s staff spend a substantial amount of time conducting NEPA analyses, with some estimates by BLM authors being as high as fifty percent of a BLM resource specialist’s time. Challenges to these analyses, and the associated decisions, are thus a substantial issue for the agency.

    There is both room for, and interest in, strengthening science-informed decision making on federally managed public lands (Smith 2006, Cerveny and Ryan 2008, Broussard and Whitaker 2009, Ma et al. 2018). The BLM in particular is committed to using science-informed decision making at every level and in every program (Kitchell et al. 2015). Specifically, the agency is working to increase the use of science in agency decisions in multiple ways, including funding development of annotated bibliographies and science syntheses on topics of management concern (Hanser et al. 2018, Carter et al. 2020). However, the types and topics of science that federal decision makers need may not always be available (Fazey et al. 2005), or even known. Use of science in federal agency decision making has been studied for some agencies (e.g., U.S. Forest Service; Szaro and Peterson 2004, Cerveny and Ryan 2008), but prioritizing needs for science and data to strengthen the foundation of agency decisions, particularly for the BLM, has not been fully explored.

    Our goal was to use public litigation records to help identify priority science needs to support the BLM’s decision making on federal public lands. Our objectives were to: (1) describe characteristics of case documents challenging the BLM’s use of science, (2) identify how and where the BLM is commonly challenged on its use of science, and (3) use the challenges and associated information from case documents to identify priority science needs. To our knowledge, this study is the first to use publicly available litigation records to identify and prioritize science needs.

    METHODS

    Staff from the U.S. Geological Survey (USGS) and the BLM worked closely together to develop methods and to help ensure correct understanding and interpretation of information in case documents. The BLM is a management-focused agency and the USGS is an important science provider to the BLM. This coproduction effort (Meadow et al. 2015, Beier et al. 2017) involved staff with collective expertise in federal public lands research, policy, planning, management, and litigation. All document coding was performed by USGS employees to minimize any potential bias in coding. Our focus was to develop an objective, repeatable prioritization approach, and to provide the level of detail in our findings that was needed by the BLM to take specific actions to strengthen its science foundation for decision making. A group of master’s degree program students at the University of California, Davis also helped to inform our methods development and validate the repeatability of the methods by applying them to similar case documents in California. We note that we consider all priorities identified in this study to be potential priorities; the BLM will ultimately determine which of these, if any, constitute priorities for action.

    Study area

    We studied litigation filed in response to BLM management decisions in states of the recently defined Upper Colorado Basin region (Executive Order 2017), that includes Wyoming, Colorado, Utah, and New Mexico (Fig. 1). A diverse suite of management actions occur across the Upper Colorado Basin, including those traditionally associated with the BLM, such as livestock grazing and oil and natural gas development, as well as actions that are becoming increasingly common, such as recreation (Streater 2021). The region is also home to diverse ecosystems, species, and resources (e.g., Pinyon-juniper woodlands, archaeological resources, and threatened, endangered, and sensitive species such as Sage-Grouse [Centrocercus urophasianus and Centrocercus minimus]), and are representative of the types of actions and resources that the BLM commonly considers in its planning and management decisions.

    Selecting relevant case documents

    We searched publicly available case documents challenging BLM decisions finalized by the Department of the Interior (DOI) Office of Hearings and Appeals and federal courts (the two major venues where BLM decisions are challenged) over a five-year period from 1 January 2015 to 31 December 2019. Our sample spanned multiple presidential administrations and thus differing policy initiatives. To obtain case documents with challenges related to our objectives, we used the search terms “Bureau of Land Management” and either “data” or “scien*,” where the asterisk allows searching for words with any subsequent letters. DOI Office of Hearings and Appeals case documents were searched using the office’s web-based search function (U.S. Department of the Interior, Office of Hearings and Appeals https://www.doi.gov/oha). Within the DOI Office of Hearings and Appeals, our search returned challenges before two of the three primary administrative review bodies: the Interior Board of Land Appeals and the Departmental Cases Hearings Division. BLM cases before the latter primarily involved livestock grazing or certain mining decisions. U.S. federal court documents (including U.S. District Court and the U.S. Circuit Courts of Appeals) were searched using Westlaw, an online legal research database, via the DOI law library. Administrative appeals made through the DOI Office of Hearings and Appeals and litigation in federal courts are the primary avenues for challenging a BLM decision (Fig. A1.1). Select decisions may be challenged through additional means (e.g., protests, State Director review), but documents from these avenues are not publicly available and may only pertain to certain actions.

    An individual case (defined here as a challenge to a federal public land management decision or action) often spans several years and typically has multiple associated case documents, each of which makes one or more decisions or rulings about aspects of the case. The lifespan of a case may not, and in our sample, often did not, fit neatly into our five-year sample period. Thus, we considered an individual published case document to be our sampling unit, rather than treating an individual case as our sampling unit. In addition, not all case documents may raise a science issue or be publicly available. It was important to us that all documents were publicly available, as we did not want to inadvertently release information, by publishing this study, about challenges that were not yet resolved or were not public. We also wanted to ensure this study was replicable.

    From our initial case document search, we retained only those documents that included at least one challenge that (1) involved the BLM, (2) identified a specific, potentially affected resource, and (3) alleged an issue related to the BLM’s use of science or data. Our initial search returned 108 case documents; 48 (mean page length 18 pages, range 3–135 pages) met our inclusion criteria (Table A1.1). All results are based on this sample of 48 case documents. We categorized types of science using categories that are directly related to the steps of the NEPA process. These categories were: absence of consideration of a resource; resource data; science relevant to potential impacts; methods for analyzing potential impacts (including direct, indirect, and cumulative impacts); and mitigation actions (Table 1).

    Identifying characteristics of case documents challenging the BLM’s use of science

    We first recorded basic information from each case document including: the state where the challenged action occurred; the venue where the case document was reviewed; the type of BLM NEPA or planning document(s) that were challenged (Determination of NEPA Adequacy, Categorical Exclusion, Environmental Assessment, Environmental Impact Statement, or Resource Management Plan); the year the case document was finalized; the proposed action that was challenged; whether or not the BLM decision was remanded; and the statute(s) that were alleged to have been violated (Table 2).

    Identifying common challenges to the BLM’s use of science

    We then coded each individual challenge within a case document to identify potential science needs based on the number of case documents that included a challenge to a particular subject. We define a single challenge for the purposes of this study as the combination of a single: (1) affected resource, (2) science category (absence of consideration of a resource, resource data, science relevant to potential impacts, methods for analyzing potential impacts, or mitigation actions; Table 1), and (3) subject. Note that subjects ultimately became 12 challenge categories after three rounds of qualitative coding (Table A1.2). Specifically, we used a descriptive coding method, which is also known as “topic coding,” where we copied the text of each individual challenge, summarized the challenge into a short phrase, and then performed three iterations of inductive reasoning to create 12 focused categories of challenges (Saldaña 2009). Affected resources were selected from a comprehensive list of resources that the BLM considers in its NEPA analyses. Challenges that involved multiple affected resources, science categories, or subjects were divided and coded accordingly such that each recorded challenge disputed a single affected resource, science category, and subject.

    Prioritizing science needs

    Potential science needs were identified at the level of individual “topics.” We defined topics as a combination of a specific type of proposed action, affected resource, and science category. A topic was the addition of a proposed action to a challenge. Note that our primary analysis of potential science needs was done at the level of individual topics, but we also provided some analyses that were at the more detailed level of challenge categories that were nested within science categories (Figs. A1.3–A1.5).

    We identified potential science needs using a two-step process. First, we searched for individual topics that were challenged in three or more case documents. Second, we identified the subset of topics identified in the first step that additionally met two or more of the following three criteria: the topic was in a BLM decision that was remanded, the challenge to the topic was lost by the BLM in at least one case document, or the topic was challenged in the majority of states in the region (three or more states). Topics that met criteria in both steps were identified as priority needs.

    RESULTS

    Characteristics of case documents challenging the BLM’s use of science

    We identified 394 individual challenges within the 48 case documents that met our inclusion criteria. Within our sample, four cases had more than a single case document (one case had three individual documents and three cases had two documents). Each of these case documents was analyzed individually.

    The greatest number of challenges occurred in Utah (35% of case documents), followed by New Mexico, Colorado, and Wyoming (Fig. 2). Challenges were made most frequently to the Interior Board of Land Appeals (40% of all case documents) and in U.S. District Court (38% of all case documents). Just over two-thirds (69%) of case documents challenged Environmental Assessments, and 57% challenged Environmental Impact Statements (Fig. 2). NEPA was most often used as the basis for bringing the challenge (73% of case documents), followed by the Federal Land Policy and Management Act (48%), the Administrative Procedure Act (40%), and laws related to specific actions or resources (Mineral Leasing Act, 23%; National Historic Preservation Act, 12%; Taylor Grazing Act, 10%; and Wild and Free-Roaming Horses and Burros Act, 10%; Figure A1.2).

    Common challenges to the BLM’s use of science

    Oil and gas development was the most frequently challenged proposed action (35% of case documents), followed by livestock grazing and range management (19%), and mining (19%; Fig. 3). Mining includes leasable mining, locatable mining, and saleable mining, that respectively refer to organic minerals such as coal that are subject to the Mineral Leasing Act of 1920, hard rock minerals that are located via a lode or placer claim and are subject to the General Mining Act of 1872, and low-value resources such as sand and gravel that are subject to the Materials Act of 1947. Challenges to management of wild horses and burros occurred in 10% (five) of the 48 case documents.

    Thirty-two of the 47 resources that BLM commonly considers in its decision analyses were challenged in one or more of our case documents (Fig. 4). Challenges related to air quality and climate (considered collectively as a resource by the BLM in its analyses) were the most frequent (occurring in 40% of case documents), followed by challenges related to grazing and range (occurring in 25% of case documents), water (19% of case documents), minerals (17% of case documents), and soils (17% of case documents).

    Across the different science categories (Table 1), challenges to the resource data used in BLM decisions were most common (occurring in 63% of case documents). The specific categories of challenges, or challenge categories, that we coded associated with data were an alleged issue with the BLM’s resource data (54% of case documents), or an alleged issue with the BLM’s methods for collecting resource data (23% of case documents; Fig. 5). Of our science categories, the category for science relevant to potential impacts was the second most frequently challenged (occurring in 52% of case documents). Challenges to science relevant to potential impacts included the challenge categories of an alleged failure by the BLM to properly assess a potential impact (52% of case documents), and an alleged issue with BLM’s use of science (21% of case documents). The BLM’s methods for quantifying or qualitatively analyzing potential direct, indirect, cumulative, or unspecified impacts were challenged in 50% of the 48 case documents, with analyses of cumulative effects challenged most frequently (35% of case documents). Mitigation actions were also frequently challenged (31% of case documents) and encompassed the challenge categories of alleged failure by the BLM to adequately mitigate impacts (19% of case documents), an alleged issue with the BLM’s process of determining mitigation measures (13% of case documents), and an alleged issue with the BLM’s monitoring or implementation of mitigation measures (6% of case documents). The science category for absence, or alleged failure to consider a potential effect of the proposed action to a resource, was challenged in 17% of case documents.

    Prioritizing science needs

    We identified priorities across all five of our science categories and across multiple resources (Fig. 6; Figs. A1.3–A1.5). Identified priorities occurred within three categories of proposed actions: oil and gas development, mining, and management of wild horses and burros. The greatest number of science priorities were identified for oil and gas development decisions, with three of the science categories (data, science, and analysis methods) emerging as priorities for air quality and climate as an affected resource. Other priorities related to oil and gas development actions were science about water and also specifically about water quality, methods for analyzing potential indirect impacts to cultural resources, and science about socioeconomic resources (Fig. 6; Fig. A1.3). Example challenges that contributed to these identified needs included contentions that the “BLM relied upon underestimated methane emissions data” (Wilderness Workshop v. U.S. Bureau of Land Management, 342 F. Supp. 3d 1145 [D. Colo. 2018], that was coded as data about air quality and climate) and that the “BLM improperly failed to ‘follow basic economic logic’ and account for the increased demand for oil and gas that would result from production on the leased parcels” (WildEarth Guardians v. Zinke, 368 F. Supp. 3d 41 [D.D.C. 2019], that was coded as science about socioeconomic resources).

    Data and science relevant to potential impacts to wild horses and burros in wild horse and burro decisions emerged as priorities, as did data about mineral resources in leasable mining decisions. Challenges contributing to these identified needs included contentions that the BLM “...used empirically deficient estimates to calculate the total wild horse population” (Colorado Wild Horse v. Jewell, 130 F. Supp. 3d 205 [D.D.C. 2015], that was coded as data about wild horses and burros), that NEPA documents failed to “...adequately [account] for recent scientific literature on the effects of PZP [porcine zona pellucida, a horse contraceptive] treatment on mares—particularly the impact of consecutive PZP injections” (Friends of Animals v. U.S. Bureau of Land Management, 232 F. Supp. 3d 53 [D.D.C. 2017], that was coded as science about wild horses and burros), and that the “BLM erred in concluding that mining... would be uneconomical because it relied on insufficient drillhole data obtained ‘more than 1000 feet away’” (COP Coal Development Co., 190 IBLA 199 [2017], that was coded as data about mineral resources).

    DISCUSSION

    The BLM manages a large area of federal public lands in the western United States and is frequently challenged on its planning and management decisions. We studied a subset of recent challenges to those decisions that involved challenges related to the BLM’s use of data about resources, science relevant to potential impacts, methods for analyzing potential impacts, and mitigation actions. We found that the most common types of challenges were to the BLM’s resource data (challenged in 63% of case documents), and that oil and gas development projects were the type of BLM action most frequently challenged during the sample period. Using a novel prioritization method, we identified a set of 13 potential priority science needs for the BLM based on litigation records.

    Characteristics of case documents challenging the BLM’s use of science

    Within our case document sample, challenges occurred within most of the venues where a challenge could be brought against the BLM, except for the Interior Board of Indian Appeals and the U.S. Supreme Court. This is consistent with the fact that the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs is responsible for Native American concerns, the BLM is typically a secondary actor in these decisions, and that it is rare for cases to be accepted for review by the U.S. Supreme Court (Solimine and Gely 2005). Environmental Impact Statements were the second most frequently challenged type of document (Fig. 2b), similar to findings from numerous other studies of challenges to the BLM and other federal agencies (Smith 2007, Broussard and Whitaker 2009, Miner et al. 2014, Adelman and Glicksman 2018, Fleischman et al. 2020, Ruple and Race 2020). There is a common perception among resource managers that Environmental Impact Statements are more defensible than Environmental Assessments because the former typically involve greater analysis and thus are often the preferred analysis approach if there is concern of a decision going to litigation (Stern and Mortimer 2009, Mortimer et al. 2011). There were relatively few challenges to Determinations of NEPA Adequacy, which did not surprise BLM managers, because Determinations of NEPA Adequacy are always connected to another NEPA document (e.g., an Environmental Impact Statement; Bureau of Land Management 2008). The NEPA was the statute that was used most frequently to bring challenges regarding the BLM’s use of science or data, and it was also the statue most frequently referenced in other studies of legal challenges to federal land management agencies (Malmsheimer et al. 2004, Keele et al. 2006, Miner et al. 2014).

    Common challenges to the BLM’s use of science

    We found oil and gas development to be the most frequently challenged proposed action in case documents involving a challenge to BLM science or data, that is consistent with findings from another recent review of litigation in Wyoming, Colorado, Utah, and New Mexico (Palenik 2020). Other studies of challenges to the U.S. Forest Service, that also has a multiple-use, sustained yield mandate (Multiple-Use Sustained-Yield Act of 1960 [16 U.S. Code § 528]) have found challenges to oil and gas development, livestock grazing and range management, and mining as found here, although U.S. Forest Service challenges are dominated by challenges to logging and vegetation management (Teich et al. 2004, Keele et al. 2006, Miner et al. 2014).

    Of our science categories, 50% of our sample documents challenged methods for analyzing potential direct, indirect, or cumulative impacts, with challenges specific to cumulative impacts being the most common (35% of case documents). Cumulative impacts have been studied in detail, and are widely considered to be difficult to quantify, which may explain our finding that they were frequently challenged. Others have highlighted their broad scope and that there are limited specific guidance, processes, and methods available to help managers assess cumulative impacts (Burris 1997, Hegmann and Yarranton 2011, Joseph et al. 2017). Further, others have also found cumulative impacts to be frequently challenged in litigation (Schultz 2012, Adelman and Glicksman 2018), specifically highlighting challenges where federal agencies failed to consider “adequate analysis of all past, present, and reasonably foreseeable future actions,” and the “adequacy of data or rationale used in the [cumulative impacts] analysis” (Smith 2006).

    Priority science needs for the BLM

    The highest priority needs that we identified were needs for data about potentially affected resources, science relevant to potential impacts, and methods for analyzing potential impacts of oil and gas development. These priority needs are topically aligned with recent articles in law reviews and journals of cases outside of our study sample (Palenik 2020, Siros et al. 2020). Indirect effects of greenhouse gas emissions and not using the social cost of carbon protocol (a process for quantifying socioeconomic impacts related to air quality and climate) to assess the effects of oil and gas development on climate were common topics in our study sample and are considered unsettled points of law (Palenik 2020, Siros et al. 2020). Science about socioeconomic impacts in oil and gas development decisions emerged as a potential priority, and a previous study surveying BLM and U.S. Forest Service managers found that integration of socioeconomics information into decision making was “especially challenging” (Koontz and Bodine 2008). Numerous BLM oil and gas leases were recently revoked by courts because of inadequate analyses of downstream greenhouse gas emissions, specifically the failure to look at combined climate impacts from multiple lease sales (Farah 2020, 2021), illustrating the potential consequences of these decisions to federal managers.

    Not all topics that were commonly challenged emerged as priority needs. Notably, livestock grazing and range management actions did not emerge as a top need using our prioritization framework. Although the BLM’s use of science and data in livestock grazing and range management decisions were frequently challenged in our sample, our criteria for designating a topic as a priority were not met: no individual challenges were lost by the BLM, no BLM decisions were remanded, and none of the challenges were brought in more than one state. BLM staff were surprised that science and data related to livestock grazing and range management decisions did not emerge as priorities, because BLM livestock grazing decisions are commonly litigated. However, BLM staff generally consider the volume of litigation collectively, rather than considering only those cases that challenge the BLM’s use of science or data. Livestock grazing and range management challenges in our sample occurred in only Utah and New Mexico.

    BLM initiated this project to identify potential science needs for the agency. Agency leaders with specific program knowledge and subject area expertise can now use our results to help prioritize agency science funding and efforts. However, it is also important to note that not all of the potential needs identified here are best addressed by the creation of new science. For example, some of the topics identified in this study may have emerged as priorities because of policy issues, or staffing or training limitations (Rose et al. 2020). Additionally, it is possible that science or data identified as potential needs may exist, but may not be regularly used or documented in agency decision documents, which are the basis for the challenges examined in this study. Other potential needs identified here may have been topics of high interest for specific policy initiatives during our 2015–2019 study period, but may not be top concerns for the BLM currently or in the long term. Additionally, topics that are frequently challenged but not lost by the BLM (which did not emerge as priorities using our method) may still be of interest to the agency, because they require agency resources to respond to a challenge and may be topics of heightened public concern about the BLM’s use of science. These uncertainties provide opportunity for further study, such as investigating what data and science currently exist that could be used to address potential needs, or how potential needs may correspond to administrative priorities.

    Application of findings

    Although there have been numerous reviews of legal challenges to federal land management agencies over the last two decades (Teich et al. 2004, Broussard and Whitaker 2009, Miner et al. 2014, Ruple and Race 2020), little exists about challenges specifically to the BLM and with this level of analysis. Detailed and actionable information about legal challenges is important to land management agencies, as legal challenges can significantly delay projects and paralyze active land management (Morgan and Baldridge 2015, Adelman and Glicksman 2018, Keele and Malmsheimer 2018). This is especially important to the BLM, which has historically had fewer staff and less funding than other federal land management agencies in the United States (U.S. Department of Agriculture 2021, U.S. Department of the Interior 2021). There is also greater need for delivering clear and actionable science on priority topics to the BLM, because it lacks the type of internal science support that is present in other similar agencies, such as the research stations within the U.S. Forest Service and the inventory and monitoring programs of the National Park Service. Additionally, access to science at relevant scales and in useable formats is a common and recognized limitation to science integration (Mills et al. 2002, Archie et al. 2014, Carter et al. 2020).

    We present findings for a specific agency, the BLM. However, the method that we developed can be applied to any agency that regularly makes decisions that are challenged in court or another venue on the basis of the agency’s use of science, and for which those documents are publicly available. Given the broad applicability of NEPA to many decisions in the United States, and the presence of similar laws in other countries (e.g., Australia’s Planning, Development, and Infrastructure Act of 2016, Japan’s Environmental Impact Assessment Law, Germany’s Act on the Assessment of Environmental Impacts) that require the consideration of science in decision making, opportunities for application of this framework for prioritizing agency science needs are plentiful. Results can help agencies and organizations target efforts and funding toward improving data sets, conducting new science studies or syntheses, documenting or clarifying analysis methods, or developing or evaluating mitigation measures.

    Our methodology has limitations. We only analyzed publicly available case documents to increase the transparency and repeatability of our study, but in doing so, we did not consider documents from cases that were settled or not publicly available. Such case documents may involve different types of challenges than those that are publicly accessible. We also sampled individual documents from a case rather than an entire case. This decision ensured that our sample documents involved at least one challenge that referenced a specific resource and action. By using this approach, we may have lost some of the nuance of particular challenges. This was a trade-off addressed early on, and BLM authors decided that the approach we selected would produce the most useful results for identifying potential science needs for the agency. Additionally, some BLM decisions may be challenged through other avenues. For example, certain minerals decisions may be challenged via State Director review, and Resource Management Plans have their own specific protest process. We did not include challenges made through these processes because the full case documents associated with these challenges are not readily available to the public, and because State Director review is only available for certain mining claims and oil and gas development decisions.

    CONCLUSION

    Use of the best available science in decisions supports defensible decision making (Mills et al. 2002) and helps to ensure that agencies comply with federal laws and directives (e.g., Bureau of Land Management 2008, Executive Memorandum 2021). Decision-making on federally managed public lands is challenging, as evidenced by the increasing number of legal challenges to BLM decisions and decades-long discussions by both practitioners and academics about defensibility in the NEPA analysis process (Laband et al. 2006, Tzoumis 2007, Ruple and Race 2020). Litigation and administrative appeals may be reshaping managers’ approaches to land-use decisions in some federal agencies, as managers are increasingly prioritizing actions that can withstand legal challenges (Mortimer and Malmsheimer 2011, Mortimer et al. 2011).

    Legal challenges to federal public land management are abundant in the United States and are commonly viewed as a negative, in that they point to alleged deficiencies and errors. We argue that legal challenges can highlight clear opportunities for strengthening the scientific foundation for management decisions that are of strong interest to the public. The methodology that we developed here provides an opportunity for agencies to utilize legal challenges to help prioritize funds and staffing to strengthen the science and data foundation for their decisions. Coproduction was an essential aspect of the methodology that we developed, as it helped ensure that the ensuing findings fit within a useable framework and provided a level of detail that met the agency’s needs.

    RESPONSES TO THIS ARTICLE

    Responses to this article are invited. If accepted for publication, your response will be hyperlinked to the article. To submit a response, follow this link. To read responses already accepted, follow this link.

    ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

    We are grateful to Karen Prentice, Megan Gilbert, and multiple staff at the BLM Colorado State Office, including Chris Domschke, Sam Dearstyne, Amy Stillings, Kelly O’Toole, and Jennifer Whyte, for their input and assistance in developing our approach and methods for this project, and insights in interpreting results. We thank Amy Bilyeau from the DOI Library for conducting our case document search in Westlaw, and Paul Griffin, Cameron Aldridge, and Nancy Zahedi for providing helpful reviews of earlier drafts of this manuscript. We would also like to acknowledge Toni Lundeen and Aimee Oberti-Murray from the DOI Office of Hearings and Appeals, Interior Board of Land Appeals, for helping us understand the administrative review process within the Department of Interior and for their assistance in properly citing the litigation and administrative appeal documents in our study sample. Four masters’ students at the University of California Davis, Keiko Mertz, Edlyn Nuñez, Ruyu Bai, and Lisa Wu, applied these methods to case documents in California that helped to inform and validate our methods, and we greatly appreciate their work. Any use of trade, firm, or product names is for descriptive purposes only and does not imply endorsement by the U.S. Government.

    DATA AVAILABILITY

    The data used here were retrieved from the Department of the Interior–s Office of Hearings and Appeals online database (https://www.doi.gov/oha) and the Westlaw online legal database (https://legal.thomsonreuters.com/en/westlaw). A complete list of the documents that were analyzed is provided in Table A1.1 in the Appendix.

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    Corresponding author:
    Alison C. Foster
    alison.c.foster@gmail.com
    Appendix 1
    Fig. 1
    Fig. 1. Map of study area (Upper Colorado Basin that includes Wyoming, Utah, Colorado, and New Mexico) in relation to Bureau of Land Management (BLM) managed lands (yellow shading) in the western United States. (Sources: U.S. Census Bureau Cartographic Boundary Files, BLM Landscape Approach Data Portal, ESRI World Countries, USGS The National Map).

    Fig. 1. Map of study area (Upper Colorado Basin that includes Wyoming, Utah, Colorado, and New Mexico) in relation to Bureau of Land Management (BLM) managed lands (yellow shading) in the western United States. (Sources: U.S. Census Bureau Cartographic Boundary Files, BLM Landscape Approach Data Portal, ESRI World Countries, USGS The National Map).

    Fig. 1
    Fig. 2
    Fig. 2. Forty-eight case documents from 2015 to 2019 were examined in this study (study area: Wyoming, Colorado, Utah, and New Mexico). (A) The number of case documents within the Department of Interior’s Office of Hearings and Appeals (the Departmental Cases Hearings Division and the Interior Board of Land Appeals) and federal courts (U.S. District Court and U.S. Court of Appeals) by state within the Colorado River Basin that challenged the BLM’s use of science. (B) The number of case documents that included a challenge to a decision document issued by BLM. Note: a single case document may have challenged multiple documents; no challenges to Categorical Exclusions (CXs) were recorded. Abbreviations are as follows: Categorical Exclusion (CX); Environmental Assessment (EA); Environmental Impact Statement (EIS); Resource Management Plan (RMP); Determination of NEPA Adequacy (DNA).

    Fig. 2. Forty-eight case documents from 2015 to 2019 were examined in this study (study area: Wyoming, Colorado, Utah, and New Mexico). (A) The number of case documents within the Department of Interior’s Office of Hearings and Appeals (the Departmental Cases Hearings Division and the Interior Board of Land Appeals) and federal courts (U.S. District Court and U.S. Court of Appeals) by state within the Colorado River Basin that challenged the BLM’s use of science. (B) The number of case documents that included a challenge to a decision document issued by BLM. Note: a single case document may have challenged multiple documents; no challenges to Categorical Exclusions (CXs) were recorded. Abbreviations are as follows: Categorical Exclusion (CX); Environmental Assessment (EA); Environmental Impact Statement (EIS); Resource Management Plan (RMP); Determination of NEPA Adequacy (DNA).

    Fig. 2
    Fig. 3
    Fig. 3. (A) Percent of case documents that challenged each type of proposed action. (B) Count of case documents that challenged each combination of a proposed action and a science category in regard to the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) use of science in our study area (Wyoming, Colorado, Utah, and New Mexico) from 2015 to 2019. Proposed action categories are within columns and categories of science are within rows. Darker shading within a cell signifies combinations of proposed actions and science categories that were challenged in a larger number of case documents. Leasable mining includes organic minerals subject to the Mineral Leasing Act of 1920, including coal and potash. Locatable mining includes hard rock minerals located via a lode or placer claim and subject to the General Mining Act of 1872, including gold, lead, uranium, and gemstones. Saleable mining includes low-value resources subject to the Materials Act of 1947, such as sand, gravel, and flagstone.

    Fig. 3. (A) Percent of case documents that challenged each type of proposed action. (B) Count of case documents that challenged each combination of a proposed action and a science category in regard to the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) use of science in our study area (Wyoming, Colorado, Utah, and New Mexico) from 2015 to 2019. Proposed action categories are within columns and categories of science are within rows. Darker shading within a cell signifies combinations of proposed actions and science categories that were challenged in a larger number of case documents. Leasable mining includes organic minerals subject to the Mineral Leasing Act of 1920, including coal and potash. Locatable mining includes hard rock minerals located via a lode or placer claim and subject to the General Mining Act of 1872, including gold, lead, uranium, and gemstones. Saleable mining includes low-value resources subject to the Materials Act of 1947, such as sand, gravel, and flagstone.

    Fig. 3
    Fig. 4
    Fig. 4. (A) Percent of case documents that contained a challenge to each potentially affected resource. Affected resources were selected from a comprehensive list of resources that the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) considers in its analyses under the National Environmental Policy Act. (B) Count of case documents that challenged each combination of an affected resource and a science category in regard to the BLM’s use of science in our study area (Wyoming, Colorado, Utah, and New Mexico) from 2015 to 2019. Affected resources categories are within columns and categories of science are within rows. Darker shading within a cell signifies combinations of affected resources and science categories that were challenged in a larger number of case documents.

    Fig. 4. (A) Percent of case documents that contained a challenge to each potentially affected resource. Affected resources were selected from a comprehensive list of resources that the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) considers in its analyses under the National Environmental Policy Act. (B) Count of case documents that challenged each combination of an affected resource and a science category in regard to the BLM’s use of science in our study area (Wyoming, Colorado, Utah, and New Mexico) from 2015 to 2019. Affected resources categories are within columns and categories of science are within rows. Darker shading within a cell signifies combinations of affected resources and science categories that were challenged in a larger number of case documents.

    Fig. 4
    Fig. 5
    Fig. 5. The 12 challenge categories and the percent of case documents containing that challenge arranged by science category (see Legend) in the 48 case document sample of challenges to the BLM’s use of science in U.S. Department of the Interior Region 7 (Wyoming, Colorado, Utah, and New Mexico) from 2015 to 2019. Bolded words are the five categories of science considered in our analysis (see Table 1 for definitions).

    Fig. 5. The 12 challenge categories and the percent of case documents containing that challenge arranged by science category (see Legend) in the 48 case document sample of challenges to the BLM’s use of science in U.S. Department of the Interior Region 7 (Wyoming, Colorado, Utah, and New Mexico) from 2015 to 2019. Bolded words are the five categories of science considered in our analysis (see Table 1 for definitions).

    Fig. 5
    Fig. 6
    Fig. 6. The priority science needs that we identified for the study area (Wyoming, Utah, Colorado, and New Mexico) based on a sample of case documents that contained a challenge to the Bureau of Land Management’s use of science from 2015 to 2019. Priority science needs consist of a single proposed action, affected resource, and science category; see Table 2. Bolded words are the five categories of science considered in our analysis (see Table 1 for definitions). We had two related water categories: water quality and water, where the latter encompasses other aspects of water such as water use and water quantity.

    Fig. 6. The priority science needs that we identified for the study area (Wyoming, Utah, Colorado, and New Mexico) based on a sample of case documents that contained a challenge to the Bureau of Land Management’s use of science from 2015 to 2019. Priority science needs consist of a single proposed action, affected resource, and science category; see Table 2. Bolded words are the five categories of science considered in our analysis (see Table 1 for definitions). We had two related water categories: water quality and water, where the latter encompasses other aspects of water such as water use and water quantity.

    Fig. 6
    Table 1
    Table 1. Five categories of science used by the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) in its decision making and analysis under the National Environmental Policy Act. These categories were defined through a coproduction effort between the BLM and U.S. Geological Survey. Definitions for each science category and examples of challenges in case documents that challenged the BLM’s use of science are provided in the table below. A full list of the case documents that were sampled can be found in Table A1.2. Abbreviations are as follows: Bureau of Land Management (BLM); National Environmental Policy Act (NEPA); Interior Board of Land Appeals (IBLA); District (D., as in District Court); Circuit (Cir., as in Circuit Court).

    Table 1. Five categories of science used by the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) in its decision making and analysis under the National Environmental Policy Act. These categories were defined through a coproduction effort between the BLM and U.S. Geological Survey. Definitions for each science category and examples of challenges in case documents that challenged the BLM’s use of science are provided in the table below. A full list of the case documents that were sampled can be found in Table A1.2. Abbreviations are as follows: Bureau of Land Management (BLM); National Environmental Policy Act (NEPA); Interior Board of Land Appeals (IBLA); District (D., as in District Court); Circuit (Cir., as in Circuit Court).

    Science category Definition Example challenges
    Absence An alleged failure to consider potential effects of the proposed action to a resource “BLM failed to consider the impacts of granting the leases in four distinct areas of concern: (1) greenhouse gas emissions and climate change, (2) air quality, (3) water resources: including the impacts to water quantity, groundwater quality, and surface water quality” (San Juan Citizens Alliance v. U.S. Bureau of Land Management, 326 F. Supp. 3d 1227 [D.N.M. 2018]).
    “Defendants [BLM] violated NEPA and the APA [Administrative Procedure Act] by failing to ‘consider SFC #1 [the well]–s impacts on the San Luis Valley environmental justice community’” (San Luis Ecosystem Council v. U.S. Bureau of Land Management, Civil Action No. 14-cv-00680-RM [D. Colo. Jun. 19, 2015]).
    Data Data about potentially affected resources of concern “BLM failed to accurately assess the environmental baseline, especially ‘livestock-degraded ecological conditions of the lands and waters traversed by the line,’ because it failed ‘to conduct necessary on-the-ground baseline inventories over all periods of [the] year for the broad range of BLM sensitive species affected by the biological footprint of the project’” (Western Watersheds Project, 188 IBLA 277 [2016]).
    “BLM did not use the best available scientific information because it did not conduct a sufficiently detailed, granular analysis of soil type and use that data and Ecological Site Descriptions (ESDs) to identify expected natural vegetation. As a result, BLM incorrectly identified expected natural vegetation in the Project area as sagebrush, instead of pinyon and juniper” (Southern Utah Wilderness Alliance, IBLA 2019-0094 [Sept. 16, 2019] [Final Order setting aside BLM’s wildfire management decision]).
    Science Science relevant to the potential for a proposed action to affect resources of concern “BLM failed to adequately consider the likely air quality impacts of the proposed POD [Plan of Development]... particularly the impacts associated with emissions of volatile organic compounds (VOC), nitrogen dioxide (NO2), and particulate matter less than 2.5 microns in diameter (PM2.5)” (WildEarth Guardians, 185 IBLA 193 [2015]).
    “Plaintiff contends that neither the DNA [Determination of NEPA Adequacy], nor any of the prior NEPA documents that it incorporates, adequately accounts for recent scientific literature on the effects of PZP [porcine zona pellucida; horse contraceptive] treatment on mares—particularly the impact of consecutive PZP injections” (Friends of Animals v. U.S. Bureau Land Management, 232 F. Supp. 3d 53 [D.D.C. 2017]).
    “BLM based its subsidence analysis on unsupported assumptions and inapplicable studies” (COG Operating, LLC, 190 IBLA 49 [2017]).
    Analysis methods Methods for quantifying or qualitatively analyzing potential impacts (specifically direct, indirect, cumulative, or other) of proposed actions on resources Direct impacts



    Indirect impacts
    “BLM failed to quantify the amount of elk habitat that would be impacted, and provided only ‘sweepingly general statements’ such as stating that impacts would be minor to moderate, depending on the amount of seasonal movement through the area” (Confederated Tribes of the Goshute Reservation, 190 IBLA 396 [2017]).
    “BLM ‘underestimated’ VOC [volatile organic compounds] emissions from oil and gas operations ‘by nearly 30-fold’” (WildEarth Guardians, 185 IBLA 193 [2015]).
    “Plaintiffs contend that GHG [greenhouse gas] emissions from ‘downstream’ use of oil and gas were an indirect effect of BLM’s leasing decisions that BLM ‘failed to even acknowledge’” (WildEarth Guardians v. Zinke, 368 F. Supp. 3d 41 [D.D.C. 2019)].
    “BLM arbitrarily defined an area of potential effects for each APD [Approval to Drill] in a way that excluded cultural sites that might be indirectly affected by Mancos Shale development” (Dine Citizens Against Ruining Our Environment v. Bernhardt, 923 F. 3d 831 [10th Cir. 2019)].
    Cumulative impacts “BLM entirely failed to address the likely cumulative impacts...and past, present, and reasonably foreseeable future actions on air quality” (WildEarth Guardians, 185 IBLA 193 [2015]).
    “...after quantifying GHG emissions, BLM should have applied a tool to quantify the emissions’ cumulative impact on climate change... by not utilizing the ‘social cost of carbon’ and the ‘global carbon budget,’ BLM ‘arbitrarily dismissed the need to analyze cumulative GHG [greenhouse gas] impacts’” (WildEarth Guardians v. Zinke, 368 F. Supp. 3d 41 [D.D.C. 2019)].
    “BLM failed to adequately consider the cumulative impacts of the Project on migratory bird populations and habitat because it did not consider impacts from other proposed vegetation treatment projects” (Southern Utah Wilderness Alliance, IBLA 2019-0094 [Sept. 16, 2019][Final Order setting aside BLM’s wildfire management decision]).
    Other impacts “BLM erred in estimating applicable costs and requiring an increase of its statewide bond...[the] anticipated cost to plug and abandon this well is ‘substantially lower than estimated by the BLM’” (Mar/Reg Oil Company, 192 IBLA 1 [2017]).
    “Petitioner contends that BLM violated NEPA by relying on an incorrect traffic operations analysis...Petitioner contends that the traffic modeling ultimately relied on to develop the mitigation measures in the FEIS [Final Environmental Impact Statement] was flawed because the Vissim traffic modeling system did not take into account all of the factors that could potentially impact traffic flow” (Rags Over The Arkansas River, Inc., v. Bureau of Land Management, 77 F. Supp. 3d 1038 [D. Colo. 2015)].
    Mitigation Mitigation actions to minimize any negative effects of proposed actions on resources of concern “BLM’s conclusion that underground potash mining would not significantly impact oil and gas operations rests entirely ‘on hypothetical mitigation measures’ that are yet to be developed, and that ‘BLM simply assumes will magically work’” (COG Operating, LLC, 190 IBLA 49 [2017]).
    “BLM improperly deferred consideration of mitigation until the permitting stage of development” (San Juan Citizens Alliance v. U.S. Bureau of Land Management, 326 F. Supp. 3d 1227 [D.N.M. 2018]).
    BLM “violated the RMP [Resource Management Plan] and FLPMA [Federal Land Management Policy Act] by approving the Project without sufficient pollution mitigation measures to ensure air quality” (Southern Utah Wilderness Alliance v. U.S. Department of Interior, 250 F. Supp. 3d 1068 [D. Utah 2017]).
    Table 2
    Table 2. Definitions of terms used in the study. Terms may be specific to the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) and used in its analyses under the National Environmental Policy Act (NEPA), common terms used in litigation, or language that was termed as a part of this study to develop a process to identify priority science needs for the BLM.

    Table 2. Definitions of terms used in the study. Terms may be specific to the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) and used in its analyses under the National Environmental Policy Act (NEPA), common terms used in litigation, or language that was termed as a part of this study to develop a process to identify priority science needs for the BLM.

    Term Definition
    Case document A single document challenging a federal public land management decision or action. Here these documents are publicly available decisions issued by the reviewing authority concerning a dispute in the overall case but are not typically the final overall decision in the case. A single case typically has multiple associated case documents, however here we considered a single case document as our sampling unit because not all case documents may have fallen within our study period (2015–2019), be publicly available, or raise a science issue.
    Challenge A single claim disputing an action or decision made by the BLM. Here a single challenge disputes one affected resource, science category, and a subject (which ultimately became a single challenge category after three rounds of qualitative coding; see below). If the text of a case document challenged multiple affected resources or science categories, the text was divided such that only one affected resource and science category were disputed in a single challenge.
    Proposed action The type of proposed project (e.g., a proposed gather and removal of wild horses, vegetation restoration project, or oil and gas lease sale).
    Affected resource Resources (e.g., cultural and natural) are what may be impacted by a BLM action. The resources we considered are based on a list of the resources that BLM commonly considers in its NEPA analyses.
    Science category One of the five categories within a framework for organizing the types of scientific information used in NEPA analyses. These categories were defined through a coproduction effort between the BLM and the U.S. Geological Survey. The science categories are absence of consideration of a resource, resource data, science relevant to potential impacts, methods for analyzing potential impacts, or mitigation actions (Table 1).
    Challenge category One of 12 challenge types that were commonly observed in our sample of litigation case documents. These categories were derived through qualitative coding of the subjects of each challenge to arrive at a set of more generalized challenge categories that encompassed all individual challenges in our sample (Table A1.2).
    Topic The combination of a single proposed action, affected resource, and a science category. Commonly challenged topics that met two or more of our three criteria became priority science needs.
    Remand To remand a decision means to send a decision back to the agency for further review. Impacts to a federal agency from a remand vary, but they often create more work for agency staff. A remand could mean that an entire NEPA analysis needs to be redone, or that resource managers need to revise an aspect of an analysis or decision. Remand of a decision was one of our criteria for determining a topic to be a priority science need.
    Challenge lost A challenge where the judge determines that the BLM lost the challenge. A topic that was lost in one or more case documents was one of our criteria for determining a topic to be a priority science need.
    Priority science need Topics that were challenged in three or more case documents and met two or more of our criteria (a decision that was remanded, a challenge that was lost in at least one case document, or topics that were challenged in three or more states in the region) were identified as priority science needs. All needs identified here are potential priority science needs; the BLM will ultimately determine which of these constitute priorities for action.
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    Home > VOLUME 28 > ISSUE 1 > Article 10 Synthesis

    Collective responsibility and environmental caretaking: toward an ecological care ethic with evidence from Bhutan

    Allison, E. 2023. Collective responsibility and environmental caretaking: toward an ecological care ethic with evidence from Bhutan. Ecology and Society 28(1):10. https://doi.org/10.5751/ES-13776-280110
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    • Elizabeth AllisonElizabeth Allison
      California Institute of Integral Studies

    The following is the established format for referencing this article:

    Allison, E. 2023. Collective responsibility and environmental caretaking: toward an ecological care ethic with evidence from Bhutan. Ecology and Society 28(1):10.

    https://doi.org/10.5751/ES-13776-280110

  • Abstract
  • Introduction
  • Eco-Social Context of Bhutan
  • Feminist Ethics of Care
  • Methodology
  • Implicit Care Ethic in Bhutanese Traditional Ecological Practices
  • Bhutan’s Covid-19 Response: Care Grounded in Cultural Values
  • Conclusion: Toward an Ecological Care Ethic
  • Responses to This Article
  • Acknowledgments
  • Data Availability
  • Literature Cited
  • Bhutan; care ethic; community-based natural resource management; COVID-19 pandemic; cultural resources; Himalayas; intangible resources; spiritual ecology; traditional ecological knowledge
    Collective responsibility and environmental caretaking: toward an ecological care ethic with evidence from Bhutan
    Copyright © 2021 by the author(s). Published here under license by The Resilience Alliance. This article is under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License. You may share and adapt the work provided the original author and source are credited, you indicate whether any changes were made, and you include a link to the license. ES-2022-13776.pdf
    Synthesis, part of a special feature on Collaborative Management, Environmental Caretaking, and Sustainable Livelihoods

    ABSTRACT

    Attention to environmental caretaking practices of Indigenous, traditional, and rural societies is an important strategy for Indigenous sovereignty and self-determination, as well as for greater ecological sustainability and resilience. Rural practices of caring for the eco-social commons in Himalayan Bhutan demonstrate an implicit care ethic. Mahayana Buddhism and indigenous animism blend to create distinctive attitudes and practices of environmental caretaking displayed in rural relationships with forests, mountains, and water bodies that influence community-based natural resource management. Elements of an eco-social care ethic became even more vivid in the nation's response to the Covid-19 pandemic. Bhutan's response was among the world's most successful, forestalling any deaths at all for the first nine months of the pandemic and limiting deaths to nine total as the pandemic entered its third year in March 2022. Bhutanese Buddhist values and practices parallel the care ethics articulated by Western moral theorists, providing a contemporary example of caring for the common good and alternative pathways toward flourishing futures.

    INTRODUCTION

    The current Covid-19 pandemic, when so many of the systems of the global order have been found to be lacking, is an ideal time for re-thinking social priorities and values (Walker et al. 2020). An important axis of this shift is a recognition and re-incorporation into public discourse and policy values that have long been excluded for reasons of sexism and racism, including values of care and care work. For the past several decades, care theorists have called for the elevation of care ethics and care work out of the private realm, associated with women as caregivers, and into the public sphere (Tronto 1993, Hirschmann 2018). Care ethicists have emphasized the intertwining of the political and the moral, such that care ethics takes its place alongside Kantianism, virtues ethics, and other political theories (Fisher and Tronto 1990, Tronto 1993, Robinson 1997, Engster 2018).

    The Covid-19 (hereafter, C-19) pandemic has underscored the degree to which care work is associated with essentialized constructs of gender and race, and has also begun to break care work away from these shackles. Care has been thrust onto center stage as C-19 patients require caring attention from healthcare workers; parents juggle caring for their children while pursuing their paid work; and elderly, chronically ill, and disabled people have had their access to healthcare upended by overwhelmed hospitals. The centrality of issues of care during the pandemic creates a prime opportunity for examining care ethics in the eco-social commons and separating care from its gendered foundations.

    Likewise, Indigenous[1] studies scholars have identified a care ethic embedded within Indigenous cultures that prioritize relationships between and among humans and other living beings. The incorporation of nonhuman beings into the ethical realm suggests that care ethics may be an important component of environmental ethics (Warren 2000). Attention to Indigenous care ethics opens the possibility of learning from nondominant groups to elevate values of connection, interdependence, collectivity, and situational problem solving, an approach that contrasts with hegemonic Western emphases on universalizable, objective, context-independent approaches to value (cf. Cajete 2000, Kimmerer 2013, Whyte and Cuomo 2016, Nelson and Shilling 2018, Beamer et al. 2023).

    To demonstrate how this new awareness of the importance of care might contribute to and be expressed in environmental caretaking, and to specify some values and practices of an ecological care ethic, I describe practices of caring for the eco-social commons through two brief case studies from Himalayan Bhutan. Distinctive attitudes and practices of environmental caretaking are evident in rural relationships with forests, mountains, and waterways, shaping community-based natural resource management. Elements of a care ethic became even more vivid in the nation’s response to the C-19 pandemic, itself an eco-social phenomenon, the expression of which is contingent on environmental and social conditions. Bhutan’s response was among the world’s most successful, forestalling any deaths at all for the first nine months of the pandemic, and limiting deaths to nine total as the pandemic entered its third year in March 2022. By July 2022, 21 people had died. In describing the parallels between Bhutanese Buddhist values and practices, and care ethics articulated by Western moral theorists, I draw on political scientist Joan Tronto’s (1993) explication of care ethics, which identifies four central elements: attentiveness, responsibility, competence, and responsiveness.

    Scholarly debate about the existence of a distinctively Buddhist environmental ethic has focused on the examination of canonical texts to elucidate original intentions and directives (De Silva 1998, Sahni 2008), as well as identifying strands within Buddhist texts that harmonize with contemporary ecological ideas (Tucker and Williams 1997, Kaza and Kraft 2000). Buddhism has been found to promote an environmental virtue ethic (Sahni 2008). The accumulation of virtue (sonam) is crucial for Buddhists on the journey toward enlightenment. The Buddhist virtues of compassion (karunā), universal love (mettā), non-injury (ahimsā), gentleness (maddava), tenderness (soracca), and generosity (dāna) correspond with virtues and practices that care ethicists elevate. To act on virtues is to express care as an affective, embodied practice of lived experience. The evaluation of an implicit care ethic in Bhutanese Buddhism adds another perspective for understanding Buddhist environmental ethics. Blending digital ethnography and ethical reflection to explore lived ecological ethics, this paper identifies and articulates extant values and practices that contribute to eco-social well-being, offering a model for alternative sustainable futures.

    ECO-SOCIAL CONTEXT OF BHUTAN

    Mountainous, landlocked Bhutan borders the Tibetan Autonomous Region of China and shares a porous southern border with India, its largest trading partner. The sparsely populated country has roughly one-third the land area of nearby Nepal, and less than one-thirtieth of Nepal’s population. Internationally known for its environmental commitments, Bhutan enshrined them in its 2008 Constitution, which obliges citizens to protect the natural environment, and requires that 60% of the country remain under forest cover in perpetuity. In 2016, 71% of the country was under forest cover (Royal Government of Bhutan [RGOB] 2018). More than half of Bhutan’s territory is within parks, protected areas, and the biological corridors joining them—one of the highest proportions in the world. Bhutan’s forests serve as a “carbon sink” of global importance. At the 2009 United Nations Climate Change Conference of the Parties (COP 15), Bhutan presented a statement declaring “The Land of Gross National Happiness to Save our Planet,” in which it vowed to continue to be carbon negative and serve as a global carbon sink (RGOB 2011).

    Bhutan’s 1200-year history of Mahayana Buddhism blends with indigenous animistic and shamanistic beliefs to create a unique socio-spiritual context that has influenced its constitution, government policies, the landscape, and daily life (Whitecross 2004, Phuntsho 2013, Allison 2017).[2] Buddhism teaches the Four Noble Truths: life is suffused with suffering, caused by ignorance and craving for permanence, and that the cessation of suffering is possible by following the Noble Eightfold Path (involving guidance, meditation, and right action, among other steps, leading to freedom from suffering, that is, to enlightenment). The 2008 Constitution recognizes Mahayana Buddhism, the guiding values of which are wisdom and compassion for the good of all sentient beings, as the cultural heritage of Bhutan. Buddhism infuses the built and social landscape in the form of temples, chortens, and prayer flags, daily household practices of prayers and offerings, and cultural events. A Central Monastic Body (Zhung Dratshang) under the guidance of the chief abbot, or Je Khenpo, His Holiness Trulku Jigme Chhoeda, as well as numerous monasteries and temples across the country, support Buddhist practice.

    Arising from the country’s Buddhist context, Gross National Happiness (GNH) is the guiding policy paradigm against which new initiatives are measured. GNH seeks to balance good governance, sustainable and equitable socioeconomic development, cultural preservation, and environmental conservation. To monitor progress toward GNH, the Centre for Bhutan Studies devised a series of nine GNH variables, or “domains,” comprising living standards, education, health, environment, community, vitality, time use, psychological well-being, good governance, and cultural resilience and promotion, each of which is further divided into numerous indicators on which researchers survey the populace regularly. The social, ecological, and political foundations create a particular context in which values of care are prevalent.

    FEMINIST ETHICS OF CARE

    The incorporation of care ethics into environmental analysis builds on the affective turn in political ecology and the environmental humanities. Following the groundbreaking work of moral theorist Carol Gilligan (1993), who observed that developmental hierarchies of moral values failed to capture the concerns of girls and women, feminist philosopher Nel Noddings developed a moral theory based on the foundational experience of caring. In her classic formulation, care ethics locates the “wellspring of ethical behavior in human affective response,” with relation as ontologically basic (Noddings 2003:3). Care thus begins at the very beginning of human, or mammalian, life.

    Prioritizing caring relationships and subjective feelings of compassion, love, and empathy, feminist ethics of care elevates emotions and relationships to a moral role (Beauchamp and Childress 2001). As such, ethics of care contrasts with ethical theories that begin with universal first principles and elevate the public realm, while submerging as trivial the so-called private realm of relationships, organized and structured predominantly by women. In the context of frailty and dependency, which all humans will eventually encounter, and which many ecosystems are facing in the present, compassion, responsiveness, and attentiveness to needs are appropriate and effective moral responses.

    Care work is a central practice of maintaining households, social groups, and surroundings, including ecological surroundings. To take caring out of the private, voluntarist, domestic sphere, Fisher and Tronto (1990) define caring as “a species activity that includes everything we do to maintain, continue, and repair our ‘world’ so we can live in it as well as possible” (34); caregiving then is the “concrete (sometimes called hands-on) work of maintaining and repairing our world" (37). This definition clarifies that care work is not gender-bound and that it necessarily includes caring for the more-than-human ecological systems that support human life. Care is the “concrete work of maintenance” (de la Bellacasa 2017:5), therefore central to any ethic or practice of environmental stewardship, a notion that Pope Francis amplified in his 2015 encyclical, Laudato Si’: On Care for Our Common Home, strengthening the idea of “creation care” in Christian eco-theology (Daly et al. 1989, DeWitt 1994, Pope Francis 2015). To further elucidate the particular practices of an ecological care ethic, I build on Tronto’s formulation of the four elements of a care ethic: attentiveness (awareness of others’ interests and needs), responsibility (ability to act on those interests and needs), competence (adequate skill and efficacy), and responsiveness of the care-receiver (remaining “alert to the possibilities for abuse that arise with vulnerability”; 1993:135). In addition to these, the case studies from Bhutan point to two additional elements: humility and vulnerability.

    METHODOLOGY

    Drawing together four disparate bodies of literature (feminist care ethics, traditional ecological knowledge [TEK], community-based natural resource management [CBNRM], and contemporary pandemic response), this article presents two brief case studies from Bhutan, one on rural land management beliefs and practices and the second on its response to the C-19 pandemic, to demonstrate an eco-social care ethic embedded in Bhutanese values and traditional practices.

    The case study of TEK in rural land management builds on ethnographic fieldwork in Bhutan between 2000 and 2008 in eight of the 20 Bhutanese districts (Allison 2009, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2019), along with the work of numerous Bhutanese and foreign researchers who have published on the localized values and practice related to Bhutanese CBNRM (e.g., Pommaret 1996, Giesch 2000, Dorji and Webb 2003, Giri 2004, Pommaret 2004, Chhetri 2010, Phuntsho 2011, Dorji et al. 2014, Phuntsho 2013, Kuyakanon and Gyeltshen 2017, Montes et al. 2020a, Montes et al. 2020b).

    Digital ethnography (Salmons 2018), conducted through observation of and participation with Bhutanese and international colleagues in extant public social media groups, such as Drukrig Network of Bhutan Scholars, Samdrup Jonkhar Initiative, Loden Foundation, and Druk ge Ney (pilgrimage sites of Bhutan), as well as a review of Bhutan’s newspapers (Kuensel, Bhutan Times, and The Bhutanese) generates the C-19 response case study. Additional documents reviewed for this case study include news reports, the 37 journal articles on Bhutan and C-19 found in Web of Science in 2021–2022, and all Instagram posts of the Ministry of Health, beginning 1 February 2020 through 11 March 2022. Publicly available materials are hyperlinked in a document archived at osf.io under the author’s name.

    IMPLICIT CARE ETHIC IN BHUTANESE TRADITIONAL ECOLOGICAL PRACTICES

    Never colonized, Bhutan has preserved a unique history of cultural continuity shaping rural beliefs and practices that demonstrate restraint and reciprocity with the landscape. TEK is deep-rooted cultural knowledge, developed over extended time, conveyed through stories, and passed down through the generations, perceiving humans as integral participants in an interconnected, responsive landscape (Berkes 2018). Over the centuries, ancient animist and shamanist practices blended with Buddhism to provide the ontological foundations for an indigenous care ethic that connects humans, landscape, and guardian deities. Through respectful relationships with the landscape and other-than-human beings, rural Bhutanese traditional culture extends care to forests, waters, mountains, wild species, and the landscape as a whole, demonstrating attentiveness, responsibility, competence, and responsiveness in relation to the landscape.

    The rural Bhutanese ontology perceives protector and guardian deities inhabiting the landscape and designating some places as set apart from humans, as is common throughout the Tibetan cultural sphere of the Himalaya and Tibetan Plateau (Nebesky-Wojkowitz 1975, Samuel 1993, Pommaret 1996, Ura 2001). As the Royal Society for the Protection of Nature observes in the foreword to its Buddhism and the Environment publication, a document that both describes and prescribes an ideal Bhutanese relationship with the landscape: “Even today, mountains, lakes, rivers, streams, and rocky cliffs are respected by communities as abodes of spirits and deities and remain free from human contact and pollution” (2006). These unseen beings exert material effects, occupying physical space, including forest groves, river bends, and mountainsides, and influencing rural land management through territorial prohibitions and propitiatory demands (Allison 2004, Chhetri 2010, Phuntsho 2011, Wangdi et al. 2014, Kuyakanon and Gyeltshen 2017).

    Territorial and landscape deities are understood to be the original owners of the land, exerting parental control over the people residing in their domain. This reciprocal relationship is often expressed through familial terms of kinship, such as Apa/ Ap (“father”), Ama (“mother”), or Meme (“grandfather”), whereas the protector deity neypo (Dz.[3] gnas po) is literally “host” of an area, who requires appropriate etiquette and deference from visitors (Pommaret 2004). Kinship terms knit together relations between humans, deities, and the landscape, invoking the responsibilities of care inherent in reciprocal relationships and extending kinship across the landscape. Such reciprocal relations show that human well-being exists only in relation to the original owners of the lands and waters.

    Attentiveness and responsibility to landscape

    Beliefs and practices related to deities and their landscape abodes or “citadels” (Dz. pho drang), just a few of which are described below, contribute to customary community institutions for natural resource management (Allison 2004, Giri 2004). For example, one traditional form of forest management, continuing in some villages today, is the appointment of a reesup (village forest guard) to ensure a sufficient and fair harvest for all villagers. The reesup has the power to impose la dam or reedum (Dz. ri bsdam = mountain and “to close” or “to seal”), a mountain forest closure and prohibition on harvesting timber and/or bamboo during the summer to avoid trespassing in the territory of the local guardian deity (Wangchuk 2001, Allison 2004, Giri 2004, Wangdi et al. 2014, Kuyakanon and Gyeltshen 2017).

    This practice requires attentiveness to seasonal changes and signs from deities, responsibility to invoke the closure, competence to organize the community to maintain the closure, and responsiveness to monitor the closure period from both human and nonhuman perspectives. In recent decades, increasing interest in cultural preservation according to GNH principles, as well as scientific evidence of the value of community-based natural resource management, has found some government officials promoting TEK and reminding villagers of the practices of their parents and grandparents (Tshering 2006, Allison 2017).

    Villagers express attentiveness, one component of Tronto’s (1993) care ethic, to subtle social, ecological, and spiritual conditions. They may consult with a diviner known as a pawo (Dz. dpa’ bo) to perceive the deities’ requirements for offerings of grain, milk, or incense, the timing and boundaries for seasonal closures of forest groves and mountainsides, as well as restrictions on behavior near water sources (Giesch 2000, Allison 2004, Giri 2004). Competent responses with prayers and offerings are understood to be necessary to maintain reciprocal relationships with the deities who control fertility and prosperity of the local area. The deities’ and landscape’s responsiveness to this care is perceived through timely precipitation, bountiful harvests, and congenial village conditions.

    The centrality of protector deities to Bhutan’s cultural and territorial identity can be seen in efforts to appease them during the C-19 pandemic, demonstrating humility and vulnerability in light of an emergent and unpredictable pandemic. Six months into the pandemic, the Monastic Body performed a three-day Lhamo Bakchog kurim (Dz. sku rims) ceremony to appease Palden Lhamo (or Mahakali), one of Bhutan’s chief protective deities, encouraging her to withdraw diseases and calamities (Wangchuk 2020). A year later, the Je Khenpo, Bhutan’s spiritual leader, discerned that numerous kurim protective rituals were needed along the southern border and that raising 1000 prayer flags in the border area was necessary to pacify C-19 and secure well-being (Ministry of Health 2021, Penjor 2021).

    Attentiveness and responsibility to water

    Within the mountainous landscape, special attention to sources of fertility and prosperity, essential for rural villages, is demonstrated through attentiveness and responsibility to hydrological features, including lakes, water springs, and mountains, on the slopes of which accumulate the snow and ice that feed rivers and irrigation. Lakes are often home to gift-giving deities, or tsomen (Dz. mtsho sman), easily offended by moral, spiritual, or material pollution, which causes them to depart, rescinding their gifts (Phuntsho 2013, Allison 2015). Villagers demonstrate responsibility, humility, and competence through adherence to strict rules governing behavior in these places to avoid spiritual pollution, including refraining from using “strong” foods, cooking, or burning meat. Water springs may be home to lu (Dz. klu) spirits, guardians of underground treasure, able to influence abundance and prosperity provided humans demonstrate the attentiveness and responsibility to keep their home free from spiritual contamination and human waste, and show their competence through appropriate offerings (Allison 2019, Montes et al. 2020a, Montes et al. 2020b). Water features are understood to exhibit responsiveness, dehydrating or departing when mistreated, and imposing vulnerability on villagers whose livelihoods would suffer without water. Villagers’ awareness of this vulnerability generates humility and reciprocal responsibility, requiring the maintenance of water sources so that they remain free of human, material, and ritual pollution, and the provision of appropriate prayers and offerings to ensure positive relations with water-dwelling deities and spirits.

    BHUTAN’S COVID-19 RESPONSE: CARE GROUNDED IN CULTURAL VALUES

    This relational ontology that offers holistic attentiveness to the needs of myriad beings became even more evident during the C-19 pandemic. When the C-19 pandemic broke out in early 2020, Bhutan appeared to be uniquely vulnerable, with 48 hospitals (and only three intensive care facilities), 376 doctors (only one of whom was trained in critical care; none specializing in infectious diseases, virology, or immunology), eight ventilators available for C-19 patients, and 3000 health workers to serve three-quarters of a million people, two-thirds of whom live in rural areas (Lamsang 2020, Dorji 2021, Dorji and Tamang 2021, Drexler 2021).

    Despite this apparent vulnerability, Bhutan has limited its C-19 cases to 20,116 (as of 16 March 2022) and deaths to 21 (RGOB 2022). Various political, demographic, and physical conditions have been hypothesized as contributing to this successful control of the pandemic: planning and preparation, including an eerily prescient pandemic simulation; decisive action of the king and parliament; a young population; rapid, extensive contract tracing and testing; a 21-day quarantine requirement; and the country’s high elevation (Dorji 2021, Tshokey et al. 2021a).

    In addition, Bhutan’s response built on religious and indigenous ontological and epistemological foundations, incorporating “soft technology” (attitudes, social practices, and habits of mind) into culturally relevant public health strategies (Dorji 2021, Kaul 2021, Rocha 2021). Bhutan’s pandemic response exemplifies the four elements of Tronto’s 1993 care ethic: attentiveness,[4] responsibility, competence, and responsiveness, as well as humility and recognition of vulnerability.

    Values of care: attentiveness

    Government leaders demonstrated attentiveness in their awareness of the interests and needs of the citizens for stability, comfort, and guidance in relation to the pandemic. In particular, the leaders centered Buddhist and indigenous cultural foundations in Bhutan’s pandemic response, grounding emergent conditions in a familiar context. As the prime minister noted in his State of the Nation 2020 report: “In all pursuits, we seek refuge in the Triple Gem and our religious bodies. In such turbulent times, as much as we rely on scientific discoveries, this nation always found answers in our spirituality” (Tshering 2020:16).[5] Religious leaders, revered by the populace, were at the forefront of pandemic response, advocating for masks, distancing, and vaccines; advising on navigating the restrictions of quarantine; and conducting prayers and ceremonies to forestall the pandemic, as well as to commemorate global deaths (Dorji 2021, Namgay 2021, Tsheten et al. 2022). The Je Khenpo encouraged those in Covid quarantine or lockdown to recite the Chenrezi and Vajra Guru mantras to remedy outer and inner illnesses (Palden 2020). Likewise, the Ministry of Health encouraged people to take care of their mental health during lockdown by, for example, contacting friends and family, and to “pray, meditate, prostrate, and engage in spiritual deeds” (Ministry of Health 2022a).

    The nation’s mass vaccination effort demonstrated attentiveness to the religious and cultural needs of the populace, along with attentiveness to the significant health threat of the virus. Government offices, including those of the prime minister, foreign minister, and health minister, undertook a massive vaccine public education campaign to allay fears and prepare the populace for vaccinations (Tsheten et al. 2022). The first vaccination campaign was scheduled for an auspicious time as indicated by the Zhung Dratshang (Central Monastic Body). Although Bhutan received its first shipment of vaccines in early 2021, the Year of the Ox, the vaccination campaign was postponed because the Bhutanese month of Dana, 14 February to 13 March, was seen as inauspicious (Rocha 2021). A woman born in the Year of the Monkey, according to the Bhutanese calendar, received the first shot at 9:30 AM on 27 March 2021, from a nurse also born in the Year of the Monkey,[6] accompanied by chanted prayers and lighted butter lamps, per the Monastic Body’s guidance (Rocha 2021). Between 27 March and 9 April 2021, more than 94% of the eligible adult population were vaccinated with the AstraZeneca vaccine provided by India, with vaccinations delivered by helicopter and on foot to remote regions (Dorji and Tamang 2021, Tsheten et al. 2022). Previous eradication of vaccine-preventable diseases such as poliomyelitis in 1988 and measles in 2017 facilitated receptivity to vaccinations (Dorji and Tamang 2021). The second round of vaccinations began on 20 July 2021, an auspicious day, reaching 95.6% of the eligible adult population over the next two weeks (Tsheten et al. 2022).

    The actions of the Fifth King, His Majesty Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuk, and the praise of the prime minister, expressed normative values of attentiveness to citizen needs, care, and compassion. The king commanded that “no Bhutanese citizen should succumb to the virus” (Tshering 2020:28), traveling to remote parts of the country to convey necessary pandemic health protocols (Tsheten et al. 2022). The prime minister commended the “compassionate King,” who “cloaked his nation in safety and comfort, taking all concerns and sacrifices upon himself” (Tshering 2020:8). Creating a narrative both descriptive and normative, the prime minister emphasized the king’s “empowering benevolence” and “incomparable altruism” as “most compassionate” “acts of kindness,” and cited the “love and encouragement of the people” as being a key strength in addressing the pandemic (Tshering 2020:12).

    Values of care: responsibility

    Bhutan’s C-19 control initiative elevated the idea of collective responsibility. On 20 March 2020, the Je Khenpo began a three-day televised and social media broadcast of the protective Sangay Menlha (Medicine Buddha) initiation against disease, watched by more than 9000 Bhutanese at home and abroad (Palden 2020, Verma and Wangmo 2020, Rocha 2021). The Je Khenpo reminded practitioners of the importance of attentiveness and responsibility: “If we are reckless, we will not only harm our fellow beings but the entire nation will be affected. Putting into practice the instructions given by the Ministry of Health is absolutely essential” (Palden 2020). The Je Khenpo warned of lenchak or “karmic retribution” for humanity’s negative deeds, which could include eating other animals and the destructive capacity of nuclear weapons (Palden 2020).

    The Je Khenpo launched the Our Gyenkhu (Our Responsibility) initiative at Tashichho Dzong, the seat of government in Thimphu, in a special ceremony in October 2020, emphasizing the necessity of collectivity for addressing the pandemic (Ministry of Health 2020). Government leaders, including the prime minister, the king, the health minister, and others, issued a consistent message to the populace to recognize “our gyenkhu—our responsibility,” calling on citizens to wear masks, wash their hands, and exercise regularly to maintain their health, via television, radio, and social media messages conveyed in multiple languages and dialects, and gaining commendation from the World Health Organization (WHO) and the United Nations (Tshedup 2020a, Daly 2021, Dorji 2021).

    The king's call for a collective response and shared sacrifice helped mobilize tens of thousands of trained volunteer desuups, or Guardians of Peace, to support public health interventions such as the promotion of mask wearing, contract tracing, testing, delivering food and care to people quarantining at home, feeding street dogs, and staffing quarantine facilities (Dorji 2021, Tsheten et al. 2022). An outpouring of giving, or dāna, a Buddhist virtue, from ordinary citizens and parliamentarians enhanced the prime minister's Covid-19 Resilience Fund (Nu 30 billion, approximately USD $405 million) and the king's Druk Gyalpo’s Relief Kidu Fund, wrapping impoverished citizens in economic care (Verma and Wangmo 2020, Dorji 2021). At the beginning of 2022, the king praised the citizenry for unity, cooperation, sacrifice, and volunteerism (Drukpa 2022).

    Values of care: competence

    Bhutan’s public health response emphasized competence, adopting high standards for nonpharmaceutical interventions. For example, despite more than 2600 positive cases and three deaths in the first year and a half of the pandemic, Bhutan’s 906 healthcare workers involved in C-19 care remained infection free, an outcome attributed to the ready availability of full suites of personal protective equipment (PPE), including certified N95 respirators, goggles, and face shields; frequent training on their use; as well as clustered management of Covid cases at four national Covid centers (Tshokey et al. 2021b). The provision of appropriate PPE preserved the well-being of the precious human resources that healthcare workers (HCWs) represent. As a report drily concluded: “Such situations contribute greatly in motivation, dedication, and confidence of HCWs and also avert HCW burnout and shortages” (Tshokey et al. 2021b:248).

    The government prioritized public health interventions over economic indicators in keeping with GNH (Dorji 2021, Tshedup 2021). The valuable tourism sector shut down quickly, as Bhutan closed its borders and instituted a strict lockdown, with mass testing and a 21-day quarantine policy for anyone found to be infected (Tamang et al. 2021). Healthcare is provided free of cost. Returning Bhutanese citizens were subject to the 21-day quarantine, which revealed several cases during the third week of quarantine, preventing exposure of the larger community (Dorji 2021). Cases detected in the Indian border towns of Gelephu and Phuentsholing led to a national 21-day lockdown (Dorji 2021).

    Values of care: humility and vulnerability

    The caring values discussed above depend on the ability to decenter the self to perceive the needs of others: a practice of humility, which, along with the related recognition of vulnerability, was evident in the pandemic response. The Ministry of Health (2022b) asserted that humility was an important value in addressing C-19 via its Instagram page, where it advised “I wear my facemask in public FOR THREE REASONS: Humility: I don’t know if I have COVID-19, as it is clear that people can spread the disease before they have symptoms.”

    Likewise, the country’s pandemic preparedness, planning, and prevention demonstrated humility and the recognition of vulnerability. With awareness of the country’s vulnerability to infectious disease, the Ministry of Health and WHO had conducted a public health simulation in November 2019, just months before the pandemic broke out, to test their response to an international passenger suspected of carrying a “coronavirus disease” at the Paro International Airport, the only air entry point, allowing relevant agencies to identify areas for improvement (WHO 2020). The simulation readied government agencies to begin preparedness planning in early January 2020, shortly after the novel coronavirus was recognized in China, and to begin screening airport arrivals for the novel coronavirus in mid-January 2020, long before many other nations took the threat seriously (Tshedup 2020b). In recognizing possible threats, learning from weaknesses discovered in the simulation, and developing responses, the Bhutanese displayed caring values of humility and vulnerability. The addition of humility and vulnerability to the elements of a care ethic emphasizes the need for mutual support, deepening into recognition of holistic eco-social interdependence.

    CONCLUSION: TOWARD AN ECOLOGICAL CARE ETHIC

    Attention to care ethics and the environmental caretaking practices of Indigenous, traditional, and rural societies is an important strategy for both Indigenous sovereignty and self-determination, and for greater ecological sustainability and resilience. For too long, affective approaches to care have been conflated with the “natural” capacities of women and people of color and derided as subjective and unscientific. However, caring relationships are part and parcel of mammalian life from its very earliest stages, enticing people to devote time and attention to others who need support, in turn strengthening and deepening social relationships that form the fabric of society. Specific values and practices of environmental and social caretaking have sustained culture and life in Bhutan, in both rural and urban contexts, demonstrating the relevance and efficacy of care ethics for building sustainable futures. I have shown how caring practices of attentiveness, responsibility, competence, and responsiveness, as well as humility and vulnerability, shape rural interactions with the landscape and informed the Bhutanese response to the C-19 pandemic. In identifying specific values and practices of care for the eco-social commons in Bhutan, I have brought specificity to care ethics in a particular cultural context, demonstrating the resonance of Bhutanese Buddhist values and care ethics, and have laid the groundwork for developing a more widely applicable ecological care ethic.

    __________

    [1] I capitalize Indigenous in reference to an identity. Lowercase “indigenous” refers to an entity or practice long existing in a geographic place.
    [2] About one-quarter of the populace, residing mainly in southern Bhutan and often politically marginalized, follows Hinduism. In the late 1980s and 1990s, tensions between the Buddhist majority and Hindu minority erupted, and thousands of Lhotsampas, or Southern Bhutanese, fled the country, ending up in refugee camps in Nepal in a highly contentious situation (see Hutt 2003 for details). The discussion here refers to Buddhist cultural groups, with whom I have conducted fieldwork on the intersection of religion and environmental conservation, and more broadly eco-social sustainability.
    [3] Dzongkha, related to the Tibetan language, is the national language, along with English. Depending on how dialects are counted, as many as 20 languages are spoken across the country.
    [4] In this Buddhist context, attentiveness and responsibility merge in the Buddhist notion of compassion: observing, recognizing, and noticing the concerns of another, along with the desire to take action to respond to their concerns.
    [5] In Buddhism, the Triple Gem refers to the Buddha, the Dharma (the teachings of the Buddha), and the Sangha (the community of Buddhist practitioners).
    [6] The Bhutanese lunar calendar designates years with animal names, such as Ox, Monkey, Rooster, and Dragon, according to a 12-year cycle. News reports indicated the birth year of the vaccine recipient and nurse as a standard way of reporting age, with the matching birth years being seen as auspicious.

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    ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

    The author appreciates helpful comments from the guest editors, two anonymous reviewers, and Eric Biber, which strengthened this article.

    DATA AVAILABILITY

    Data/code sharing is not applicable to this article because no data/code were analyzed in this study. A list of publicly available news articles and web sources has been archived at osf.io.

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    Corresponding author:
    Elizabeth Allison
    eallison@ciis.edu
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    Island and Indigenous systems of circularity: how Hawaiʻi can inform the development of universal circular economy policy goals

    Beamer, K., K. Elkington, P. Souza, A. Tuma, A. Thorenz, S. Köhler, K. Kukea-Shultz, K. Kotubetey, and K. B. Winter. 2023. Island and Indigenous systems of circularity: how Hawaiʻi can inform the development of universal circular economy policy goals. Ecology and Society 28(1):9. https://doi.org/10.5751/ES-13656-280109
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    • Kamanamaikalani Beamer, Kamanamaikalani Beamer
      Dana Naone Hall Chair, Kamakakūokalani Center for Hawaiian Studies, Hawaiʻinuiākea School of Hawaiian Knowledge, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa; Ka Huli Ao Center for Excellence in Native Hawaiian Law, Williamson S. Richardson School of Law, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa; Hui ʻĀina Momona Program, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa
    • Kawena Elkington, Kawena Elkington
      Kamakakūokalani Center for Hawaiian Studies, Hawaiʻinuiākea School of Hawaiian Knowledge, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa; Department of Geography and Environment, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa
    • Pua Souza, Pua Souza
      Kamakakūokalani Center for Hawaiian Studies, Hawaiʻinuiākea School of Hawaiian Knowledge, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa; Department of Curriculum Studies, College of Education, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa
    • Axel Tuma, Axel Tuma
      Resource Lab, Institute of Materials Resource Management, Center for Climate Resilience, University of Augsburg, Germany
    • Andrea Thorenz, Andrea Thorenz
      Resource Lab, Institute of Materials Resource Management, Center for Climate Resilience, University of Augsburg, Germany
    • Sandra Köhler, Sandra Köhler
      Resource Lab, Institute of Materials Resource Management, Center for Climate Resilience, University of Augsburg, Germany
    • Kānekoa Kukea-Shultz, Kānekoa Kukea-Shultz
      Kākoʻo ʻŌiwi
    • Keliʻi Kotubetey, Keliʻi Kotubetey
      Paepae o Heʻeia
    • Kawika B. WinterKawika B. Winter
      Hawaiʻi Institute of Marine Biology, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa; Natural Resources and Environmental Management, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa; Hawaiʻi Conservation Alliance

    The following is the established format for referencing this article:

    Beamer, K., K. Elkington, P. Souza, A. Tuma, A. Thorenz, S. Köhler, K. Kukea-Shultz, K. Kotubetey, and K. B. Winter. 2023. Island and Indigenous systems of circularity: how Hawaiʻi can inform the development of universal circular economy policy goals. Ecology and Society 28(1):9.

    https://doi.org/10.5751/ES-13656-280109

  • Abstract
  • Introduction
  • Islands as Model Systems for Studying the Circular Economy
  • Key Components of the Ancestral Circular Economy in Hawaiʻi
  • Filling the Gap: Aloha ʻĀina as Social Justice in Hawaiʻi
  • Conclusion
  • Responses to This Article
  • Data Availability
  • Literature Cited
  • ancestral circular economy; circular economy; Indigenous; island systems; regenerative economy; social justice; sustainability
    Island and Indigenous systems of circularity: how Hawaiʻi can inform the development of universal circular economy policy goals
    Copyright © 2021 by the author(s). Published here under license by The Resilience Alliance. This article is under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License. You may share and adapt the work provided the original author and source are credited, you indicate whether any changes were made, and you include a link to the license. ES-2022-13656.pdf
    Synthesis, part of a special feature on Collaborative Management, Environmental Caretaking, and Sustainable Livelihoods

    ABSTRACT

    Given the dire consequences of the present global climate crisis, the need for alternative ecologically based economic models could not be more urgent. The economic and environmental concerns of the circular economy are well-developed in the literature. However, there remains a gap in research concerning the circular economy’s impact on culture and social equity. The underdeveloped social and cultural pillars of the circular economy, along with universal policy goals calling for a context- and need-based framework, makes it necessary to bridge natural and social science objectives in the circular economy. Islands can serve as model systems for studying the circular economy. We examine how Hawaiʻi, through the philosophy of aloha ʻāina, the Hawaiian ancestral circular economy, and contemporary community approaches toward advancing Indigenous economic justice can be one model system for understanding principles of circularity and policy advocacy. We introduce the concept of the ancestral circular economy and how aspects of this Indigenous institution can inform the development of universal circular economy policy goals. Furthermore, we present aloha ʻāina as a framework for reciprocal care between human–environment relations while addressing the social and cultural pillars that aid in the development of these dimensions of the circular economy.

    INTRODUCTION

    The universal transition toward a circular economy is one that begins with policy-makers, businesses, and the finance sector’s ability to directly determine the materials and products they deem best fit to put on the market. It is not until these products are already in the consumption stream that communities are then recognized as key uptakers of the circular business models and products that are preset for them. The need to align policy and reform efforts among private, government, and university sectors—as it relates to innovations in design, production, and consumption—is an identified target in efforts to develop viable circular economies. However, the implementation of policy aimed at a circular transition will need to be place-specific, recognizing that the starting points of each place will be different depending on context and need (Ellen MacArthur Foundation 2021). Although the Ellen MacArthur Foundation (2021) Universal Circular Economy Policy Goals report provides an overarching policy framework for transition, it falls short in addressing the social and institutional restructuring that is necessary for innovation. We find that social equity and social justice should be integral outcomes of the circular economy. While the goals of circularity are considerably focused on economic prosperity coupled with environmental sustainability, its impact on social equity and equality is rarely brought to the forefront (Sauvé et al. 2016, Moreau et al. 2017). Murray et al. (2017) noted that circular economy models emphasize the redesign of material waste cycles (thus contributing to more sustainable business models) but fail to include the social dimension of sustainable development. In an analysis of 114 definitions of circular economy, Kirchherr et al. (2017:221) also found that models of the circular economy are frequently depicted as a “combination of reduce, reuse and recycle activities,” while its impact of social equality and community stakeholders is scarcely mentioned.

    It is difficult to envision a circular economy that can be environmentally sustainable without also achieving social reforms of the current oligopolistic market systems because these very systems inhibit our communities’ ability to act as agents of environmental change. This unclear stance on the social predispositions and impacts necessary for transition, along with the Ellen MacArthur Foundation’s (2021) call for a more contextual and need-based framework, necessitates a bridge between natural and social science objectives in the circular economy. High islands can serve as scalable models for the complexities of continental systems, and for this reason, many scholars have looked to Hawaiʻi and the social-ecological systems there (Vitousek 2002, Winter et al. 2018a). The Indigenous people of Hawaiʻi (ʻŌiwi, Hawaiian) have a form of Indigenous agency, known as aloha ʻāina, which has shaped frameworks of thinking (Winter et al. 2021). The philosophy of aloha ʻāina describes a set of core values and practices grounded in the relationship of kinship between environment and people (Beamer et al. 2021). When employed, aloha ʻāina serves as a guide in the stewardship of ecological systems and resources, as well as an agent of change within our current social, political, and economic systems (Winter et al. 2021). Practicing aloha ʻāina includes being active in mind, spirit, action, and policy to fulfill an unswerving commitment to act as protectors of land, natural resources, and the overall health of the natural world. Situated firmly at the core of ʻŌiwi society, aloha ʻāina today defines a movement to achieve social, cultural, and ecological justice in Hawaiʻi through the integration of ancestral knowledge and practices into contemporary social-ecological management efforts (Goodyear-Kaʻōpua 2013a, Kealiikanakaoleohaililani and Giardina 2016, Beamer et al. 2021). By bridging aloha ʻāina with circular innovations, the overarching framework presented by the Ellen MacArthur Foundation can be shifted to identify policy-makers, businesses, and communities as fundamental determinants of markets and products. Context-specific policy development allows space for aloha ʻāina in a circular economy. It would draw on both ancestral and community knowledge systems when deciding how to stimulate design; manage resources to preserve value; make the economies work; invest in innovation, infrastructure, and skills; and collaborate for system change (Ellen MacArthur Foundation 2021).

    Our team is a multi-disciplinary and international group of researchers. We are ʻŌiwi (Indigenous Hawaiian) scholars from Hawaiʻi with expertise in Indigenous Hawaiian knowledge and biocultural ecology who have partnered with a team of industrial ecologists from the University of Augsburg. By putting into conversation differing worldviews, areas of expertise, and tools of inquiry, our partnership seeks to produce emancipatory research that bridges non-Western and Western approaches to sustainability studies. We are inspired by shared commitments to sustainability and a common goal of achieving sustainable and equitable societies. We have included the investigation of archival material and moderate participant observation in an ultimately empirical process to present a discussion of why islands are important models for studying the circular economy and sustainability. We see Hawaiʻi as a living laboratory for studying sustainable development, and explore the manners in which societal and cultural components are integrated into an Indigenous circular economy that has existed for centuries. In order to juxtapose an Indigenous circular economy with a market-based circular economy, we must (1) determine components of the Indigenous socio-cultural systems that supported a thriving economic infrastructure and promoted ecological health, which can now inform a modern circular economy, and (2) discuss aloha ʻāina as an intervention that addresses the underdeveloped social and cultural pillars of the circular economy (Moreau et al. 2017, Vergunst 2019, Padilla-Rivera et al. 2020, Schröder 2020). To achieve this, we first conduct thorough literature reviews on the potential of islands as model systems for studying the circular economy, and key components of the ancestral circular economy in Hawaiʻi. We then delineate how Indigenous knowledge has the potential to inform the redesign of global economic processes toward sustainability. Subsequently, we introduce the initiative of the “Āina Aloha Economic Futures” (AAEF), with the goal of uplifting ʻŌiwi values to lead economic recovery efforts. The AAEF is informed by a community-centered engagement strategy which demonstrates that socioeconomic embeddedness is necessary to achieve the goals of a circular economy, as stated by Laurenti et al. (2018). Laurenti et al. (2018) also proposed an integrative framework, consisting of a material flow analysis, a structural agent analysis, and a circular economy framework to establish a circular economy in practice. Within this framework, the AAEF acts as the structural agent analysis that leads to an integrative circular economy framework. Material flow analysis has not yet been included in the AAEF initiative but can serve as a useful tool to monitor and manage resource flows, as discussed in the following section.

    ISLANDS AS MODEL SYSTEMS FOR STUDYING THE CIRCULAR ECONOMY

    The notion of the circular economy has gained traction as a potential solution to a number of critical challenges facing humanity, such as climate change, resource depletion, and biodiversity loss. The planetary boundaries are exceeded due to human industrial activities (Steffen et al. 2015). The idea of closing the loops is a strategic attempt to reduce negative impacts on environmental and human health. Nevertheless, a systematic study of the interactions between human activities and the environment are necessary in order to limit pressures toward the planetary boundaries (Graedel 1994). Industrial ecology is a growing field of science that examines industry embedded in nature through a systems approach. Within industrial ecology, the study of island metabolism is an emerging field (Deschenes and Chertow 2004). In the global development context, island societies are often seen as facing barriers toward economic growth. Because of isolation and size, island systems are perceived to be dependent on world markets (Kakazu 1994). However, islands are attractive as modeling systems in numerous disciplines because of several characteristics. Unique biological and cultural features provide many opportunities for discovery, while human–environment relationships provide examples of societies existing with relatively finite resources. Because of their bounded, isolated environments, and the discrete unit of available land, the speed at which the realities of complex environmental problems occurring within also complex natural systems can be rapidly seen and studied in island systems, such as sea level rise, natural resource overexploitation, food shortage, and pressure on energy resources (Singh et al. 2020). Because of the same characteristics, islands can also be potential sites for innovation toward sustainable living. The scale of islands makes these systems theoretically simpler for different political or economic sectors to collaborate in order to develop sustainability at a scale that is manageable (Kueffer and Kinney 2017).

    A great body of literature has focused on environmental, social, cultural, and economic sustainability challenges within the island context (Connell 2018). Examples of analyzed issues include climate change (Merschroth et al. 2020, von Seggern 2021), food security (Gupta 2014, Bogadóttir 2020), water insecurity (Lefebvre 2018, Schiffer and Swan 2018, Fischer-Kowalski et al. 2020), resource management (Cecchin 2017, Bahers et al. 2020, Winter et al. 2020b), and waste management (Eckelman et al. 2014, Elgie et al. 2021). The circular economy is not the answer to all these challenges, but it incorporates these elements into building the basis for a sustainable economy. One important method for identifying possibilities to close loops is the study of material flows, also called material flow analysis. Houseknecht et al. (2006) applied this method on Hawaiʻi Island and found that only limited resource extraction, primary processing, or manufacturing was occurring locally, and the island’s material flows were dominated by imports; consequently, the local economy was strongly dependent on service and tourism industries. According to Houseknecht et al. (2006), future research should focus on possibilities for substituting imported goods with locally produced or recycled resources, and approaches to improving overall material efficiency. A more recent study introduced the concept of a holarchic system for Hawaiʻi by using a material and energy flow analysis. It focused on the metabolic linkages between interacting systems, and the proposed approach provides a basis for discovering material, energy, and societal connections (Chertow et al. 2020). These examples show the manifold challenges high islands are facing, and how the study of local conditions and solutions can bridge the gap toward sustainable development. While not all of the identified approaches may be applicable to different regions, a generalization of the island approach is possible (Towle 1984, Deschenes and Chertow 2004).

    Given the current situation in Hawaiʻi, where approximately 90% of food is imported, policies have emerged to address issues of sustainability (Loke and Leung 2013, Ige 2016). The overextraction of resources, driven by the dominant market economy, has contributed to declines in native habitats and biodiversity, as well as the quality of other natural resources (i.e., biocultural resources) (Chang et al. 2019). In response, there are also calls to catalyze a circular economy for the sake of economic resilience in an uncertain future, as well as for the health of Hawaiʻi’s biocultural resources and the well-being of its people (Beamer et al. 2021). A clearer understanding of Hawaiʻi’s Indigenous economy (which has previously been categorized as subsistence) is needed to inform how Indigenous economies thrived while promoting the health of biocultural resources. Such an understanding could inform efforts to catalyze circular economies within the context of the dominant market systems of today. This may be a key to success in achieving Hawaiʻi’s sustainability and economic goals (Hawaiʻi Green Growth 2018). It is not our intention to comprehensively analyze all the complexities of Indigenous economies. Rather, our goal is to identify circular principles in an Indigenous economy that may be critical in catalyzing an ecologically sustainable circular economy within today’s dominant market structure. Using Hawaiʻi as a model system, we look to ancestral Hawaiian social-ecological structures before they were adulterated by the process of imperialism.

    KEY COMPONENTS OF THE ANCESTRAL CIRCULAR ECONOMY IN HAWAIʻI

    Twentieth-century economists described the pre-colonial Indigenous economy in Hawaiʻi as “barter and trade” (e.g., Morgan 1948) or “subsistence” (e.g., Matsuoka et al. 1994). Both terms lack recognition of the nuance and complexities of the Indigenous Hawaiian economy. There are no words in the Hawaiian language for “barter and trade,” indicating an imposition of foreign concepts on Indigenous culture and practice. Such a label incorrectly assumes a commodity-focused economy that is counter to the general understanding of the function of the Indigenous economies in Hawaiʻi. Subsistence economies are moneyless systems that rely on natural resources to provide for human needs through various means, such as hunting, fishing, gathering, agro-ecology, and aquaculture (Boyd et al. 2010). Subsistence economies have been described as evolutionary precursors to market economies. They are characterized as having minimal economic surplus, with the excess being used to trade for basic goods. Indigenous subsistence economies can, in fact, persist embedded within market economies (Kuokkanen 2011). However, economic theory that perceives the existence of a market economy as a precursor to civilization and describes subsistence economies as evolutionarily inferior to markets is overly simplistic and perpetuates false dichotomies. Furthermore, this characterization carries value-laden assumptions embedded in the linear economy that suggest that prior to colonization, the economic system of Indigenous peoples merely allowed them to “subsist” (Beamer 2020). Rather than simply subsisting, we contend there are valuable components of Indigenous economies that enabled communities to thrive while achieving circularity. Surplus in these systems was often shared for community and natural resource regeneration. Indigenous economies persisted for centuries and produced minimal waste because of leadership and decision-making frameworks that sought to benefit future generations. There is much we can learn from these systems.

    A more accurate perspective of Indigenous economies can be gained by examining the words and contexts in the Hawaiian language that relate to the exchange of goods, and by exploring the cultural foundations of those practices (Vaughan and Vitousek 2013). The Hawaiian understanding of land, and the relationship between land and people, can be understood through renowned 19th century ʻŌiwi scholar, David Malo, who stated, “ma ka noho ana a kanaka, ua kapa ia he aina ka inoa” (Malo 1838). This translates roughly to “it is because people live and interact with a place, that it is called ʻāina.” The idea behind this definition of ʻāina, or “land”, articulates how the concept of nature, environment, and land in a Hawaiian context is interconnected with humanity. This highlights the inherent relationship between people and the environment as one of reciprocity and stewardship. An evaluation of noncommercial distribution of small-scale inshore fishery catches based on a traditional system of sharing indicated that such networks provide benefits well beyond the provision of food that strengthen social and ecological resilience. The word “mahele” describes both the act of distributing harvest abundance among community members and the share each family received from the harvest. Management of the harvest followed a strict code of conduct based on the reciprocal and spiritual relationships between humanity and the environment (Vaughan and Vitousek 2013). The ʻōlelo noʻeau “hānai a ʻai,” which is roughly translated to “feed [the fish], and [you may] eat,” captures an application of Kānaka circular relationships to the management of fish stocks. This refers to the practice of feeding fish surplus land-based carbohydrate sources during their spawning season to increase fecundity. This represents a coupled approach to resource management by promoting abundance through specific human action geared to enhance natural resources (Winter et al. 2020b). Foundational ʻŌiwi scholar of the 20th century, Mary Kawena Pukui, explored the notion of “Ko koā uka, ko koā kai—Those of the upland, those of the shore,” which refers to the exchange of products between relatives and friends (Pukui 1983). Those from the upland and those on the shore would exchange harvested resources, prepared foods, crafted items, or performances from their respective home areas as “hoʻokupu,” or gifts intended to cultivate relationships. Hoʻokupu are offered freely with aloha (love) to express gratitude, respect, appreciation, and a desire to honor the relationships between the giver and the intended receiver, which may include other people, places and land, kūpuna (ancestors), and akua (gods). Hoʻokupu are not given with an expectation of receiving something in return. The practice of hoʻokupu is a method where resources are distributed while prioritizing reciprocal relationships (Kanahele 1986).

    The persistent and intimate relationships that provide sustenance through practices such as mahele and hoʻokupu derive from connections between people and the environment. An Indigenous approach to sustainability promotes regenerative relationships. As an example, the ancestral Hawaiian economic system mirrored the natural structures of the water cycle. Ancestral societies created social systems and institutions that mimicked water’s natural regenerative processes while enabling social-environmental equity. Recognizing the water cycle as nature’s original circular system, Hawaiian ancestral society used it as both an informant and guiding model within their economy. Abundance of, and accessibility to, water were primary indicators of wealth. These became essential in the creation of holistic resource management structures. Economic surplus in ancestral Hawaiʻi was accomplished through modeling and maintaining the circular cycles of our environment, which allowed for a continuous flow of resource redistribution and regeneration. Ancestral economies informed by water could be considered some of the earliest forms of circular economies.

    These examples of embedded relationships between social and natural systems can provide insights in understanding circular economies. We introduce the term “ancestral circular economy” to describe the economic systems of Indigenous peoples prior to colonization. We examine the ancestral circular economy of Hawaiʻi, which had the ability to sustain a relatively high population (>1 million people) (Kurashima et al. 2019), to identify principles of circularity within this economy. A closer look at an island system and the persistence of an ancestral circular economy that endures within a capitalist market economy can inform how circular economies in capitalist market systems can be refined and sustained in the contemporary period.

    Indigenous Hawaiian society developed high levels of socio-political hierarchy manifested in complex systems of land tenure, resource management, and taxation that had the capacity to sustainably support a large island population (Abad 2000, Winter et al. 2018b, Kurashima et al. 2019). Scholars such as Hommon (2013) have argued that Hawaiʻi is one of nine civilizations to have independently developed into a state system. The attainment of a state of ʻāina momona (sustainable resource abundance with perpetual surplus), which supported the existence of the Hawaiian civilization, was achieved by using a Polynesian form of ecosystem-based management, coupled with innovative approaches to agro-ecology and aquaculture (Winter et al. 2018b, 2020a). Economic entities—goods and services—were not seen as purely economic. Instead, the relationship between socioeconomic needs of the population and resource management hinged on the interplay of social activities, spiritual processes, and economic entities (Kanahele 1986). In other words, the economy revolved around a give, take, and regenerate model (Beamer 2020) in order to balance social needs and environmental health. Three crucial features of the ancestral circular economy are (1) achieving optimal productivity using regenerative practices to yield enough to provide for the socioeconomic needs of the entire population, while (2) using and managing resources with minimal waste or pollution, and (3) redistributing resources regularly to achieve equity and prioritize network relationships.

    Hawaiian monarchs took advantage of Hawaiʻi’s strategic placement between Asia and North America by positioning the Hawaiian Kingdom as a player in the nascent global market economy of the 19th century. This is documented through treaties with numerous other nation-states, including China, Japan, America, Britain, France, Spain, etc. (Beamer 2014a). Hawaiʻi continues as a regional hub of the global linear economy today, which further positions it as a viable model for circular economies. However, prior to European contact in 1778, the Hawaiian civilization was driven by a complex ancestral circular economy. Hawaiʻi was eventually occupied by, and claimed as a state of, the United States of America. Hawaiʻi’s current economy is chained to the U.S. market economy, yet elements of the Hawaiian ancestral circular economy persist in an embedded form, especially in rural areas (McGregor 2007, Vaughan 2018). Components of the Hawaiian ancestral circular economy have been documented by Hawaiian historians (e.g., Kamakau et al. 1968, Malo 2006). Despite the global climate crisis and economic instability, many community efforts perpetuate and advocate for ancestral economic practices and values. A few of the main components of the Hawaiian ancestral circular economy are explored.

    Balanced bottom-up and top-down resource governance

    Hawaiʻi’s relative isolation from other land masses made clear the precious and finite amounts of natural resources available to sustain life on the islands. As the Indigenous population expanded and increased, ʻŌiwi royalty developed a complex set of palena or “place boundaries” that defined peoples’ collective and regional rights to resources from the mountains and into the sea. These palena helped establish specific units of management, such as the moku (regions or districts) (Winter et al. 2018b) and the ahupuaʻa. Ahupuaʻa are defined as “culturally appropriate, ecologically aligned, and place specific unit[s] with access to diverse resources”, and are one of the most important land divisions in resource administration (Gonschor and Beamer 2014:71). This system of boundaries, in partnership with a highly functioning governance structure, achieved a balance of bottom-up and top-down approaches toward the management and allocation of resources across society. People had access to a diverse set of terrestrial and marine resources within these “place boundaries” that empowered them to develop regenerative agricultural and aquacultural systems. This enabled a somewhat adaptive approach toward the management of resources. For example, the harvest of specific fish species could be regulated in a place-based manner that allowed for the protection of aquatic species during their spawning periods (Winter et al. 2018b). Additionally, intergenerational knowledge gathered by people rooted in ancestral places informed top-down approaches toward overall management that could be both place- and resource-specific. We find the balance of bottom-up and top-down decision-making, and shared governance over resources, as key principles of circularity in the Hawaiian ancestral circular economy.

    Regular and systematic redistributions of wealth and power (Kālaiʻāina)

    Socio-cultural institutions serve key functions in social-ecological systems. They develop and maintain a framework of values and ethics that is passed from generation to generation. These institutions are foundational to maintaining robust and resilient systems (Winter et al. 2020b), and can serve a similar function within market economies by contributing to feedback loops toward actualizing a circular economy. The Kālaiʻāina was an institution embedded in the Hawaiian ancestral circular economy. This particular institution was designed to produce regular and systematic redistributions of wealth and power. It was foundational in achieving the social conditions that enabled the Hawaiian ancestral circular economy to accomplish a kind of equity and balance. The process of the Kālaiʻāina was inspired in part by the water cycle. Kālaiʻāina mimicked the natural processes of streams that would ebb and flow and thus kālai (carve) ʻāina (land) while cycling nutrients downstream and later evaporate and produce rain that would again fill the streams. A Kālaiʻāina was the process in which land (and thus the resources of those lands) were redistributed at the beginning of the reign of every new mōʻī (supreme sovereign of an island) (Kameʻeleihiwa 1992, Beamer 2014a). These regular (often generational) redistributions of resources ensured that certain individuals, families, and factions of power would not be able to accumulate vastly inequitable amounts of resources. Unlike primogeniture in European feudal systems, where all the land and property of a lord went to the eldest son, the process of Kālaiʻāina ensured that the land holdings and resources of a particular mōʻī were redistributed following his/her death. Both male and female descendants received resources once controlled by the mōʻī, while native inhabitants of place continued to have access to diverse sets of resources. These regular redistributions of wealth and power prevented the emergence of an extremely wealthy class. Wai—the Hawaiian word for water, and waiwai—the Hawaiian word for wealth, demonstrate that health and abundance of natural resources were essential in the Hawaiian view of prosperity (Chang et al. 2019). The centrality of water in waiwai describes how wealth is defined by access to and management of freshwater and all the natural resources in the islands it supports (Sproat 2011). Along this vein, Kālaiʻāina ensured the rearrangement of wealth in every generation to prioritize environmental health through resource management. Therefore, a third key principle in the Hawaiian ancestral circular economy is the regular and systematic redistributions of wealth and power.

    Environmental kinship

    The Hawaiian ancestral circular economy is grounded in a genealogical connection between ʻŌiwi and the surrounding environment. This is based on concepts of lineal descent demonstrated in cosmogonic origin traditions and ancestral beliefs. Many of the islands of the Hawaiian archipelago were birthed by Papahānaumoku, earth mother. Her descendants also include Hāloa, the taro plant and staple crop of Hawaiian society, and eventually, the first Hawaiian people. In this way, the land and people of Hawaiʻi are genealogically connected (Kameʻeleihiwa 1992). Operating from the worldview that people are lineal descendants of the land, the responsibility to care for and steward the environment and natural resources in a kinship manner is inherent and ingrained in all aspects of Indigenous society (Kanaʻiaupuni and Malone 2006, MacKenzie et al. 2007). This central familial relationship between people and the environment has been sustained for centuries, and is continuously referred to in Indigenous-led efforts in Hawaiʻi today (Beamer et al. 2021, Winter et al. 2021).

    Kin-centric interactions that are incorporated by Indigenous peoples into land management techniques enhance ecosystems and maintain environmental integrity (Kimmerer 2017, Salmón 2000, Whyte 2020). Due to the rise of cultural revitalization movements in recent decades, there has been increased interest in biocultural approaches to environmental restoration in Hawaiʻi (Chang et al. 2019). The employment of biocultural approaches has led to tangible successes when Indigenous practices, based on perceiving the environment as kin, guide conservation efforts (Bremer et al. 2018, Morishige et al. 2018, Friedlander et al. 2000, Winter et al 2020c). We find that seeing ecosystems as kin is another key principle of the Hawaiian ancestral circular economy, and it serves as the foundation for building circular practices and outcomes in that economy.

    FILLING THE GAP: ALOHA ʻĀINA AS SOCIAL JUSTICE IN HAWAIʻI

    The circular economy has historically aimed to make human industrial processes more sustainable by closing material cycles (Kirchherr et al. 2017, Urbinati et al. 2017). The related field of sustainability is based on economic, social, and environmental pillars (Gibson 2010, Hansmann et al. 2012). On a political level, the circular economy aims to incorporate the economic, environmental, and social pillars of sustainability (European Commission 2020). Up until this point, the circular economy has focused mainly on the economic and environmental pillars, with limited investment in the social or cultural perspectives (Sauvé et al. 2016, Moreau et al. 2017, Murray et al. 2017, Padilla-Rivera et al. 2020). The gap in research on the social dimension is confirmed by the extensive literature review by Kirchherr et al. (2017). They found that only 13% of circular economy definitions in their sample referred to all three sustainability dimensions. The most prominently considered dimension was the economic one (46% of definitions), followed by environmental quality (37–38% of definitions), while social equity was incorporated in only 18–20% of definitions (Kirchherr et al. 2017). In a recent review on social aspects of the circular economy, Padilla-Rivera et al. (2020) classified indicators found in the literature into four thematic areas. They found that the area of society had the highest percentage of indicators (49%), followed by labor practices and decent work (41%), human rights (2%), and product responsibility (2%) (Padilla-Rivera et al. 2020).

    Employment was the social aspect most cited in Padilla-Rivera et al.’s (2020) review, which highlights the positive impact of the circular economy on job growth. This is particularly true for studies with a more strategic, generic, and aggregated goal and scope. One example is the Greenfield optimization problems for strategic supply chain design, under which studies on closed-loop supply chain design fall (Messmann et al. 2020). Social equity is one of the most common aspects within the thematic area of society. Despite its frequent citation, the authors found that “there is no knowledge about how a circular economy could support the promotion of social equity, there has been no detailed analysis, and it is necessary, explicitly, that a circular economy empirically supports this fact” (Padilla-Rivera et al. 2020:9).

    Social justice is an integral part of broader political frameworks of sustainable development, such as the 2030 Agenda for Sustainable Development (and Sustainable Development Goals), which were adopted by the United Nations Member States in 2015. So far, the circular economy has been criticized by some authors for not explicitly targeting the social dimension of the Sustainable Development Goals (Geissdoerfer et al. 2017, Millar et al. 2019, Borrello et al. 2020). The circular economy, as a concept for sustainable development, focuses mainly on the planetary boundaries. The planetary boundary approach defines a safe operating space for humanity, in which the stability and resilience of the Earth system is not disturbed (Rockström et al. 2009). Closing material cycles, reducing resource use, and reducing emissions facilitates operating within environmental limits. Raworth (2012) complements the concepts of the nine planetary boundaries with 12 more dimensions of the social foundation, which are derived from internationally agreed upon minimum social standards. Raworth (2012:4) points out that “sustainable development means ensuring that all people have the resources needed — such as food, water, health care, and energy — to fulfill their human rights”. This must be accomplished while correcting the imbalances that have pushed critical earth-system boundaries to an unstable state (Raworth 2012). This highlights that not only material needs should be considered in a transition into circular systems, but also societal needs, such as fairness, equity, and justice. Circularity should not be achieved at any price; rather, the quality of closing the loops and the effects on society demand careful consideration. To achieve an integration of all sustainability aspects, the circular economy agenda thereby needs to become more contentious and political (Hobson and Lynch 2016, Kębłowski et al. 2020, Borrello et al. 2020, Corvellec et al. 2021).

    Indigenous knowledge has exceptional potential to inform the redesign of global economic processes toward sustainability (Senanayake 2006, Watene and Yap 2015, Klein 2020, Beamer et al. 2021). The following conversation is situated in an emerging trend in literature that articulates the value of Indigenous economies in the modern context. In Aotearoa, recent triumphs in political activism have led to Māori reasserting their rights to serve as kaitiaki, or guardians, in alignment with traditional practices to perpetuate intergenerational well-being of the land and people (Wolfgramm et al. 2020, Rout et al. 2021). In North America, Indigenous communities that have retained traditional methods of living sustainably inform processes that connect environmental ethics with sustainable ecological practices both in and out of the private sector (Trosper 2009, Miller et al. 2019). Ultimately, Indigenous frameworks of economy and economic development challenge dominant narratives of the unfettered capitalist-driven economy by emphasizing relationships rather than individualism. While these examples do not represent the breadth of Indigenous economic views, they provide insight into movements around the globe that are similar to aloha ʻāina in Hawaiʻi.

    Aloha ʻāina informed the development of the Hawaiian ancestral circular economy, and the principles of circularity we discussed earlier. This has evolved over time to frame community responses to crucial modern issues, including climate change, oligopolistic markets, militarism, and resource management (Beamer et al. 2021). Within a Hawaiian ancestral circular economy, nearly every resource held a purpose and role within a broader system that recognized kinship between people and nature. As caretakers of these resources, ʻŌiwi worked to ensure that every resource and material held values and a function, thereby eliminating the idea of waste as a “natural” result of resource and material flow. While social, political, and economic landscapes shifted drastically throughout Hawaiʻi’s Aliʻi and Kingdom eras (Table 1), the ancestral circular economy remained at the forefront of many economic progressions. The linear economy that rapidly advanced with the American occupation of Hawaiʻi suppressed the ancestral circular economy into smaller management systems. This forced the ancestral circular economy into kīpuka (centers of spiritual power wherein Hawaiian customs, beliefs, and practices continue to be a practical part of everyday life) which must now work to undo centuries of social-environmental damage (McGregor 2007:8–15).

    Aloha ʻāina can inform the gap in research on social justice components within the circular economy. While some may contest kinship relationships between people and nature, at a minimum, we must identify people and communities as stakeholders playing a functional role in ecological and economic system stewardship. This is essential to filling the research gaps in social justice in the circular economy. In contemporary times, aloha ʻāina is a place-based framework for achieving justice—social and environmental—through political and activist practice (Goodyear-Kaʻōpua 2013b, Beamer 2014b, Grandinetti 2019). The continuation of Indigenous circularity in community efforts can be seen in examples across Hawaiʻi. In recent decades, there has been a revival of putting ancestral economic thought into practice across the islands. For example, in 2006, Hāʻena on the north shore of Kauaʻi became the first designated community-based subsistence fishing area. This allows community members to co-develop place-based management strategies for fishing areas based on Indigenous values and intergenerational practices (Delevaux et al. 2018). Thereafter, a number of communities received the same designation, including Kaʻūpulehu on Hawaiʻi Island’s Kona coast (Delevaux et al. 2018) and Moʻomomi on Molokaʻi (Akutagawa et al. 2016). Another example is the community-based non-profit Kākoʻo ʻŌiwi, which has restored nearly 2 acres (0.8 ha) of loʻi (traditional stone-faced terraced pondfields for growing kalo) since 2008, which has resulted in environmental, cultural, and economic benefits (Bremer et al. 2018). Projects like these are developed in holistic, interconnected contexts. Because these projects operate inside and outside the market economy, and because they prioritize ancestral Indigenous values, it is difficult to assess overall outcomes based solely on traditional market economy valuation measures. Rather, success is measured by associated cultural, environmental, and economic benefits that result from the application of Indigenous knowledge. In the case of the Hāʻena community-based subsistence fishing area, long-term monitoring has determined that the increase in fish abundance and diversity (Rodgers et al. 2021) is a direct result of local-level management founded in place-based, intergenerational knowledge and practices (Delevaux et al. 2018). The biocultural restoration of social-ecological systems in Kākoʻo ʻŌiwi has proven to meet multiple sustainability goals at both state and community levels (Bremer et al. 2018). By prioritizing environmental abundance and community well-being, Indigenous-led movements in aloha ʻāina may serve as examples in addressing the social and cultural gaps in circular economy research. These innovative efforts grounded in ancestral knowledge not only model sustainability but also redefine economic valuation measures. All these projects seek to achieve social equity and ecological abundance by balancing community governance and decision-making.

    Another example of aloha ʻāina in practice is the ʻĀina Aloha Economic Futures initiative, which formed in response to the economic crisis caused by the COVID-19 pandemic. The global pandemic imposed a forced pause on tourism. Many local residents welcomed this as an opportunity to re-evaluate tourism’s extractive effect on Hawaii’s economic industries. In May 2020, a group of established ʻŌiwi community organizers formed the ʻĀina Aloha Economic Futures, with the goal of uplifting ʻŌiwi values to advise economic recovery efforts. The group reflects “the interconnected and overlapping roles that individuals, ʻohana, organizations, coalitions, and networks play” in Hawaiʻi communities (ʻĀina Aloha Economic Futures 2020). The ʻĀina Aloha Economic Futures Declaration was the first in a four-step community-based process to advise sustainable and equitable recovery grounded in ʻāina aloha-beloved homeland. This declaration was delivered to the Governor in mid-May 2020. It outlines four ancestral principles (Table 2) that have guided and continue to guide Hawaiʻi communities toward resiliency at local, national, and international levels. The declaration was created by 14 collaborative authors, and by December 2022, more than 3000 community members, businesses, colleges, and organizations had signed on in support of the group’s economic development strategies centered around ʻāina aloha. More significant than the sheer number of supporters that have signed on is the breadth of diverse sets of interests that endorse the initiative. The list includes long-time community leaders and activists, such as Uncle Walter Ritte, Aunty Pua Kanakaʻole-Kanahele, and Uncle Neil Hannahs, as well as some of the most powerful economic drivers for the Hawaiʻi economy, such as the Hawaii Tourism Authority, the Kamehameha Schools, KHON2 news outlet, and Hawaiʻi Community Foundation.

    The AAEF policy playbook is an example of applying Indigenous economic values in the contemporary context, and demonstrates how ancestral circular economy principles continue to direct Indigenous-led economic initiatives. The AAEF policy areas of achieving circular economies and advancing economic equity in Hawaiʻi would be informed by ancestral circular economy values, as both would enact necessary changes to improve environmental health and community well-being. Policy areas such as developing regenerative business and prioritizing community and environmental well-being in decision-making recall from the ancestral circular economy the redistribution of wealth and power. By shifting away from extractive industries, and investing in areas that foster community agency, wealth and power may be redistributed in an effort to empower communities and prioritize environmental health. Investing in local food systems and empowering community-based resource management recall the ancestral circular economy value of balanced resource governance, which enacted bottom-up and top-down approaches toward managing resources and allocating them across communities. Both of these policy areas would encourage the application of intergenerational knowledge to resurrect regenerative agricultural and aquacultural systems that revitalize abundance.

    The initial co-authors of the AAEF are all committed ʻŌiwi organizers in Hawaiʻi whose individual efforts have garnered community trust over decades of experience in diverse fields. They considered the unprecedented conditions caused by the global pandemic to be an opportunity to take action in commanding positive transformation for Hawaiʻi’s economy and environment. Although it is a technically “informal” organization, as of December 2022, the members had collectively volunteered hundreds of hours and delivered their achievements through the use of virtual platforms. It is important to note that the AAEF is not merely a theoretical approach. There are communities around Hawaiʻi whose current work aspires to catalyze viable circular economies in ways that inspired the AAEF framework. Several of these communities, such as Heʻeia on Oʻahu, Waipā on Kauaʻi, and Puanui on Hawaiʻi Island, are attempting to do so at the ahupuaʻa scale. Future research will explore the process of catalyzing a circular economy in these communities.

    The AAEF initiative is a representation of how ʻŌiwi leaders continue to apply aloha ʻāina and ancestral circular economy principles to address modern-day challenges. Engaging community members at every step allows community voices to inform the development of documents and tools (such as the Huliau Action Agenda and the AAEF policy playbook), while the AAEF co-authors use their extensive networks and decades of community organizing to actualize results. The AAEF’s introduction of more than a dozen measures to the 2021 Legislative Session exemplifies top-down and bottom-up decision-making and shared governance in an attempt to institutionalize goals outlined in the AAEF policy playbook. The AAEF assessment tool, informed also by community voices, continues to guide various entities in the evaluation of policies, projects, and programs to prioritize the advancement of the AAEF’s core principles. Next steps for the initiative revolve around formal establishment to reinforce and continue efforts to fulfill their mission: “taking action to bring to life a resilient economy through [the] core value of ʻāina aloha” (Abad et al. 2020). The methods, practices, and accomplishments achieved by the AAEF can inform gaps in universal policy goals by (1) modeling engagement with all stakeholder groups that make up communities, and 2) incorporating Indigenous knowledge systems and values in the design and employment of a circular economy. What the AAEF is missing so far is integration with the industrial ecology method of material flow analysis, as pointed out by the integrative circular economy framework (Laurenti et al. 2018). Material flow analysis could also be applied to the case of Hawaiʻi in order to monitor the status quo and identify which material flows need to be optimized and where loops could be closed in resource and waste management.

    CONCLUSION

    Water was the primary organizer of the ancestral circular economy. Economic structures and institutions such as the Kālaiʻāina mimicked circular aspects of the water cycle in order to achieve equity and productivity between people and the environment. Water-informed circular processes of resource redistribution and regeneration allowed for intergenerational and sustainable resource management and consumption within ancestral society. Three thousand miles (4828 km) away from the nearest continent, ʻŌiwi society thrived with finite resources because of the ancestral circular economy. Key principles of the ancestral circular economy in Hawaiʻi are (1) prioritizing the enhancement of relationships between people and nature, (2) creating balanced governance structures, (3) conducting systemic and regular redistributions of wealth and power, (4) promoting regenerative social-ecological processes and equity, and (5) maintaining environmental kinship. While we have not presented an extensive account of ancestral circular economies in Indigenous systems, we have framed a sustainable economic infrastructure that promoted the health of social-ecological systems while supporting a thriving island civilization for centuries. These principles continue to be perpetuated and actualized while also evolving within today’s Indigenous-led political and environmental movements (Sachs and Clamp 2016, Whyte and Cuomo 2016, Burow et al. 2018). The adoption of a circular economy in Hawaiʻi today would not involve taking on a completely foreign economic strategy (Fig. 1). Like other Indigenous communities (Gutierrez 2018, McDonald et al. 2019, Nelson 2019), Hawaiʻi has the potential to build upon and reclaim ancestral economic and ecological values of stewardship that promoted reciprocity, redistribution, and relationships to achieve a circular economy.

    A future circular economy is possible because Hawaiʻi has already demonstrated the existence of an ancestral circular economy within the global market economy (see Table 1). The ʻĀina Aloha Economic Futures initiative, community-based subsistence fishing area designations, Kākoʻo ʻŌiwi, Waipā, and Puanui are all examples of ancestral circular economy principles that have persisted throughout Hawaiʻi’s history to influence economic possibilities of tomorrow. Hawaiʻi is positioned to be an ideal setting for studying the effects of sustainable development and circular economy on a smaller and more controlled scale. While there continue to be social and cultural gaps in publications on the circular economy, we find there are also similarities between the ancestral circular economy and the universal circular economy policy goals. The Ellen MacArthur Foundation’s universal circular economy policy goals that closely align with ancestral economic principles include (1) requirements for multi-stakeholder collaboration for system change; (2) investments in innovation, infrastructure, and skills required to install circularity; (3) management of resources to preserve value and function; and (4) circular design aimed at eliminating waste and pollution. Given these similarities, however, the social-environmental justice and equity components embedded within the ancestral circular economy can strengthen current research and policies to inform the circular economy transition. Our findings have the potential to inform modern applications of the circular economy. The social and cultural dimensions of circular economy reform have received less focus than environmental and economic dimensions. This has resulted in a need for publications that address important social equity gaps and the concerns of community stakeholders. Key ancestral circular economy concepts, such as aloha ʻāina and the principles of circularity we have identified, can aid in filling these gaps and closing loops.

    Aloha ʻāina is founded on the relationship of kinship between ʻŌiwi and the environment. It informed the key elements of the Hawaiian ancestral circular economy, and ensured continued investment in maintaining the well-being of people and the natural systems through shared governance. There is an urgent need to develop just and equitable economic structures that are regenerative to the environment. The tremendous effort and thoughtful research on the development of the circular economy provides hope for alternative futures, especially in relationship to the economic and environmental dimensions of sustainability. However, there is a need for more intellectual investment and inclusive research in the social and cultural dimensions of sustainability. This paper is one needed intervention in the social and cultural dimensions of sustainability. We find that using Indigenous perspectives of economies, such as the Hawaiian ancestral circular economy, to inform gaps in research while confronting social equity issues can contribute to comprehensive circular economy policies. Indigenous knowledge systems and economies have persisted for millennia because of kinship relationships with nature, and because they were circular. Uplifting them will inform the potential futures for circular economy around the world.

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    DATA AVAILABILITY

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    Corresponding author:
    Kawena Elkington
    kjelking@hawaii.edu
    Fig. 1
    Fig. 1. Circular economy (CE) policy goal gaps and Indigenous informed economy.

    Fig. 1. Circular economy (CE) policy goal gaps and Indigenous informed economy.

    Fig. 1
    Table 1
    Table 1. Time periods in Hawaiʻi with corresponding economic classifications.

    Table 1. Time periods in Hawaiʻi with corresponding economic classifications.

    Time period Economic classification
    Pre-Aliʻi - Aliʻi Era (4000 BC–1810 AD) Ancestral circular economy (ACE)
    Kingdom Era (1810–1893 AD) ACE within the global market economy
    Occupation Era (1893 AD–present day) Linear economy with pockets of ACE
    Possible futures with circular economy transition ACE within the global market economy
    Table 2
    Table 2. ʻĀina Aloha economic futures guiding principles.

    Table 2. ʻĀina Aloha economic futures guiding principles.

    Principles Description
    ʻĀina Aloha We are of and from this ʻāina that ultimately sustains us. We employ strategies for economic development that place our kuleana to steward precious, limited resources in a manner that ensures our long-term horizon as a viable island people and place.
    ʻŌpū Aliʻi Our leaders understand that their privilege to lead is directly dependent on those they serve. From the most vulnerable to the most privileged, we seek to regenerate an abundance that provides for everyone. decision-makers understand and embrace their duty and accountability to Community. Our social, economic and government systems engage and respond to a collective voice in integrative ways to balance power and benefit.
    ʻImi ʻOi Kelakela We are driven by creativity and innovation, constantly challenging the status quo. We are mindful and observant of needs, trends, and opportunities, and seek new knowledge and development opportunities in ways that enhance our way of life without jeopardizing our foundation of ʻāina aloha.
    Hoʻokipa We are inclusive and embrace the collective that will call Hawaiʻi home, grounded in the fundamental understanding that it is our kuleana to control and manage our resources in a way that allows us to fulfill our role as hosts here in our ʻāina aloha.
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    Home > VOLUME 28 > ISSUE 1 > Article 8 Synthesis

    A place to belong: creating an urban, Indian, women-led land trust in the San Francisco Bay Area

    Middleton Manning, B., C. Gould, J. LaRose, M. K. Nelson, J. Barker, D. L. Houck, and M. Grace Steinberg. 2023. A place to belong: creating an urban, Indian, women-led land trust in the San Francisco Bay Area. Ecology and Society 28(1):8. https://doi.org/10.5751/ES-13707-280108
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    • Beth R. Middleton Manning, Beth R. Middleton Manning
      University of California, Davis
    • Corrina Gould, Corrina Gould
      Sogorea Te' Land Trust
    • Johnella LaRose, Johnella LaRose
      Sogorea Te' Land Trust
    • Melissa K. Nelson, Melissa K. Nelson
      Arizona State University; The Cultural Conservancy
    • Joanne Barker, Joanne Barker
      San Francisco State University
    • Darcie L. Houck, Darcie L. Houck
      Attorney at Law
    • Michelle G. SteinbergMichelle G. Steinberg
      Underexposed Films

    The following is the established format for referencing this article:

    Middleton Manning, B., C. Gould, J. LaRose, M. K. Nelson, J. Barker, D. L. Houck, and M. Grace Steinberg. 2023. A place to belong: creating an urban, Indian, women-led land trust in the San Francisco Bay Area. Ecology and Society 28(1):8.

    https://doi.org/10.5751/ES-13707-280108

  • Abstract
  • Introduction
  • Methods
  • Homeland Context
  • Results: Developing a Vision for Land and Community
  • Discussion: The Land Trust Movement Through Different Eyes
  • Conclusion: A Thriving Urban, Indian, Women-led Land Trust
  • Responses to This Article
  • Acknowledgments
  • Data Availability
  • Literature Cited
  • Indigenous; land trust; resilience; urban; women
    A place to belong: creating an urban, Indian, women-led land trust in the San Francisco Bay Area
    Copyright © 2021 by the author(s). Published here under license by The Resilience Alliance. This article is under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License. You may share and adapt the work provided the original author and source are credited, you indicate whether any changes were made, and you include a link to the license. ES-2022-13707.pdf
    Synthesis, part of a special feature on Collaborative Management, Environmental Caretaking, and Sustainable Livelihoods

    ABSTRACT

    When grounded in Indigenous epistemologies, land trust structures provide an effective, inclusive vehicle to enact community and landscape care in the face of colonial disruptions. The Sogorea Te’ Land Trust in Lisjan (Ohlone) homelands in the San Francisco East Bay Area is the first Indigenous, women-led, urban land trust in the world. Two Indigenous women active in the Bay Area Indigenous community saw multiple community needs that coalesced around a lack of land. Without land, there is no place for grounded spiritual practice, cultivation and processing of foods and medicine, and recognition of the First Peoples of the San Francisco East Bay area. Without land, ongoing colonial relations perpetuate exclusion of Indigenous peoples and desecration of their sacred places. We explore the development, framing, application, and expansion of the Sogorea Te’ Land Trust as a vehicle for rematriating land and creating community in a diverse and dense urban Indigenous space. Through the Sogorea Te’ Land Trust, the potential, goals, and possibilities of land trusts are reimagined beyond conservation to inclusive eco-cultural-community restoration and well-being.

    INTRODUCTION

    Well, you know, when I look at the Bay Area, it’s always home. So I’m blessed to wake up home. And when I say home, that means I was originally planted there. My ancestors have been there since the beginning of time.... So that’s a blessing. But it’s a double-edged sword ... driving down the street and seeing bulldozers pulling up the street, and not knowing if my ancestors are going to be there as well, and having to deal with that, and knowing that of all the 425+ shellmounds, burial sites of my ancestors, have mostly been destroyed because of development. [Corrina Gould, 22 October 2013]

    When Corrina Gould (Chochenyo Ohlone) and Johnella LaRose (Shoshone-Bannock) started Indian People Organizing for Change (IPOC) 25 years ago, they were going door to door and figuring out ways to help Native people access basic resources like food, electricity, and shelter. They both worked at the American Indian Family Healing Center and, as services were being reduced by various Indian organizations and agencies, Johnella and other women in the community began doing house calls to learn about and respond to people’s concerns. What they learned from the East Bay Indian community led them to their present work to develop the first urban, Native, women-led land trust.

    Tribes and Native nonprofits around the nation, particularly in California, are developing Native land trusts and using conservation easements to protect, access, and steward culturally important lands. Land trusts are non-profit organizations with conservation as their principal purpose. They may purchase land or receive land donations (and the donor may receive a tax deduction), and they may hold conservation easements to prevent development on land owned by other parties. Conservation easements are a restriction on title that prevents development and may enable certain other uses (such as traditional stewardship, limited recreation, and restoration). There are at least ten Native land trusts nationally and numerous examples of tribes using conservation easements to protect culturally important places. The movement has been particularly important in California, where many tribes do not have title to ancestral lands in part because of the non-ratification of treaties negotiated between tribes and the federal government 1851–1852. Although Native land trusts are beginning to thrive, there is little specific discussion in the land trust movement of the role of Native women or the importance of urban Native land trusts.

    METHODS

    This article focuses on and honors the work of Corrina Gould and Johnella LaRose to develop an urban, Native, women-led conservation mechanism to build community and protect sacred places. It emerges from an ongoing dialogue initiated by Corrina and Johnella with five other women (representing Mohawk, Anishinaabe, Lenape, Afro-Caribbean, Jewish, and other heritages) working in Native governance, law, and conservation. These five women (who, along with Gould and LaRose, are co-authors of this article) are San Francisco State University professor and chair of American Indian Studies Joanne Barker (Lenape), whose books include Sovereignty Matters: Locations of Contestation and Possibility in Indigenous Struggles for Self-determination (2005) and Native Acts: Law, Recognition, and Cultural Authenticity (2011); Arizona State University professor of Indigenous Sustainability Melissa K. Nelson (Anishinaabe), president of The Cultural Conservancy and editor/contributor to Original Instructions: Indigenous Teachings for a Sustainable Future (2008) and Traditional Ecological Knowledge: Learning from Indigenous Practices for Environmental Sustainability (2018); Indian law attorney Darcie Houck (Mohawk, Ottawa); University of California, Davis professor of Native American Studies Beth Rose Middleton, author of Trust in the Land: New Directions in Tribal Conservation; and independent filmmaker Michelle Grace Steinberg, who has made two films on Corrina’s work, Buried Voices (2012) and Beyond Recognition (2014). We convened initially at the California Indian Environmental Alliance (CIEA) office in Oakland, hosted by CIEA director, Sherri Norris (Osage). We share an interest in Native women’s participation and leadership in Native land trusts and decolonial land stewardship rooted in Indigenous values. Together, we generated ideas and strategies to support what began as IPOC’s land trust project and grew into the internationally recognized Sogorea Te’ Land Trust. Our work together is also discussed in Beyond Recognition (2014), which focuses on the project and has been shown on Public Broadcasting Service television stations and in regional and national film festivals. Our conversations on the potentials and challenges of an urban Native land trust examined how Sogorea Te’ Land Trust’s work to rematriate the land, uplift urban Indigenous women, and build de-colonial community may reframe the land trust movement.

    HOMELAND CONTEXT

    I think what you both are trying to do here as Native women of the East Bay and traditional ancestral caretakers of this land is to create a really new type of land trust. [Melissa Nelson, 1 March 2014]

    The history of Indigenous peoples in the San Francisco Bay Area (hereafter the Bay Area) is one of violent, overlapping periods of attempted genocide and colonization. Beginning with the Spanish Mission system (1769–1821), through the Mexican land grant period (1821–1848), the Gold Rush (1849–1851), California statehood (1850), and the non-ratification of treaties with California tribes (1851–1852), there was an active state-sanctioned commitment to the extermination of all Indians, our lifeways, and political structures (Forbes 1969, Heizer and Almquist 1977, Heizer 1993, Trafzer and Hyer 1999, Johnston-Dodds 2002, Lindsay 2012).

    When the Spaniards first arrived on the California coast in 1542 and “claimed” it, unbeknownst to the Indigenous peoples of California, there were at least 55 distinct Native nations in the Bay Area (Milliken 1991). The first Spanish settlements in 1776 (Missions San Francisco and Santa Clara) led to disease, destruction of and enclosure of food procurement areas, and outright violence, causing a massive Native population decline of perhaps of 80% or more by the late 1880s (Forbes 1969, Heizer and Almquist 1977; King 1994, Leventhal et al. 1994, Goldberg and Champagne 1996). The non-ratification of treaties negotiated with California Indians from 1851–1852 and the formal end of treaty making in 1871 ensured that the majority of California Indians were pushed off at least part of their homelands and left vulnerable to the horrific depredations of state-authorized white vigilantes. When funds were set aside in the early 20th century for the purchase of rancherias or small parcels of land for “homeless California Indians,” these parcels were typically lower-value lands outside of white settlements. They were not established in places that had already become urban centers with valuable land bases, such as San Francisco, Oakland, and Berkeley. In addition, the “expert” opinions of Kroeber and other anthropologists (Castillo 1994, Leventhal et al. 1994) that Bay Area Indigenous peoples were “extinct” silenced any examination of the need for Native land bases and/or the recognition of Native populations in the Bay Area.

    Today, the San Francisco-Oakland-Berkeley Metropolitan Area, called the Bay Area, has one of the highest urban Indian populations in the nation—over 65,000 American Indian/Alaska Native residents, according to 2020 Census data (U.S. Census Bureau 2020). This is because of both the survival of California Indian people and the large number of Native Americans who signed up for the Bureau of Indian Affairs’ Indian Relocation Program (1952–1973) and moved to the Bay Area in search of work opportunities (Lobo 2002, Ramirez 2007). Despite the high population of Indian peoples in the region, because of the history described above, there are no federally recognized tribes in the Bay Area. The legal options to protect traditional places are severely limited for federally unrecognized tribes. Commercial, municipal, and industrial development in the greater Bay Area continues to result in displacement, just as it did in the early 19th century. As Corrina Gould (28 November 2013) explains, “There has been no slowdown in development, and no developers coming forward to work together to protect sites.” IPOC responds to these challenges by reclaiming traditional places and affirming cultural survival against persistent odds. Sogorea Te’ Land Trust (STLT) emerged from IPOC, which still exists simultaneously alongside STLT, and focuses on acquiring sites for restoration, stewardship, ceremony, and resilience.

    Indian People Organizing for Change (IPOC)

    In the fashion of a grassroots, community, urban Indian organization, IPOC responds to issues raised in the urban Indian community—including local Lisjan (Ohlone) issues, California Indian issues, and Indian country-wide concerns. IPOC worked to address Native homelessness in Oakland, supported the Makah Tribe’s struggle to continue traditional whaling in the Pacific Northwest, advocated for the development of the American Indian public charter school, and supported the survival of the Intertribal Friendship House. As people became aware of their work and commitments, IPOC began to get calls about Native burials being disturbed during construction. “It was the ancestors that started appearing,” said Corrina (28 November 2013), describing how IPOC became increasingly focused on site protection.

    One of the key issues in Bay Area site protection is the shellmounds, ancient pyramid-like structures of shells that served as both burials and monuments (Hedgecoke 2006, Sheynin 2015). Corrina (28 November 2013) likens the shellmounds to sites like Stonehenge in Scotland, “spiritual places, points of reference” for coastal Native communities. When the development of the large shellmound at Emeryville became imminent in 2001, Corrina, Johnella, and others went on the site and protested. They continue to do so on major shopping days like the day after Thanksgiving. They began shellmound peace walks in 2005 in collaboration with Buddhist monks and nuns who walked with American Indians during the 1978 Longest Walk.

    The monks and nuns of the Nipponzan Myohoji order began working with American Indians following the teachings of Nichidatsu Fujii, who survived the bombing of Hiroshima in 1945. Fujii believed that American peace was connected to world peace because American policies and practices had the power to influence world peace. He believed that America could not be at peace until it resolved its troubled relations with American Indians in particular. He saw the connection between the devastation caused by the atomic bomb in Japan and the devastation caused in the Navajo/Dine homelands where the uranium used to make the bomb was made. Because of the colonial history within the United States, Fujii believed that American Indians needed support, and he sent Buddhist monks and nuns to offer prayer and service in Indian Country. As LaRose (25 May 2022) explained, “The relationship between this Japanese Buddhist sect and the American Indian Movement was a spiritual connection which also included the work for non-violent civil disobedience along with deep prayer and sacrifice to support the American Indian Movement.” The monks and nuns came to the Oakland American Indian Movement (AIM) house in the late 1970s. The first person to arrive was nun Jun Yasuda who has crossed the country on peace walks with American Indians five times (Dunlap 2003; Grafton Peace Pagoda, http://www.graftonpeacepagoda.org/). Part of the Nipponan Myohoji practice is walking and chanting for peace. “Every walk we’ve ever had the Buddhists have been with us,” LaRose recalled (26 September 2014).

    The walks are a broad call to the public to walk between each of 425 shellmounds in the Bay Area, witnessing the desecration of the mounds and offering prayers. Although walks for peace and justice have a prominent history throughout the mid-twentieth century Civil Rights movement and anti-colonial non-violent resistance around the world, the specific inspiration for the shellmound walks came from Johnella’s experience on a walk at Ground Zero in New York City after 11 September 2001. After she returned and continued coalition work on site protection in the Bay Area, it came to her to help organize a walk.

    We wanted to go around and just say a prayer. We weren’t really quite sure what we were doing. We did this walk—I think it was 22 days, but 19 days of walking and we just went to these shellmounds. Some of them of course are covered up with buildings.... We went, and we said prayers. We really felt like we had a responsibility ... we knew that we had to start somewhere. [Johnella La Rose, 28 November 2013]

    With five shellmound walks to date and numerous actions around the Bay Area to respond to or prevent desecration of traditional places, IPOC’s work increasingly began to focus on site protection and on fostering a community connection to land.

    Indian People Organizing for Change was never intentionally created to do work around the shellmounds or to do work around Ohlone issues. What happened as a result of the work we were doing in the Indian community was that these things came up. I really believe in my heart that the ancestors said, “It’s time.” They chose us to do this work as a part of Indian People Organizing for Change. [Corrina Gould, 28 November 2013]

    One of IPOC’s longtime partners in site protection work, Wounded Knee DeOcampo (Miwok), had worked for over a decade to raise awareness to protect a traditional burial ground currently owned by the City of Vallejo, Sogorea Te’, or Glen Cove (SS&PRT, n.d.). Wounded Knee collected signatures, organized Indian people and allies to attend meetings, and monitored the proposals to develop Sogorea Te’ into a recreational site. When IPOC learned that the City of Vallejo’s Parks and Recreation District was planning to bulldoze Sogorea Te’ in April 2011, they took over the land and held the site for 109 days. A sacred fire lit by Fred Short (Ojibwe), the spiritual adviser for the American Indian Movement of Northern California, became the center of a broad and diverse community that sensed the importance of protecting the traditional place.

    The focus on building peace carried over from the walks to Sogorea Te’. In this context, the practice of peace specifically included exercising nonviolent behavior, even in the face of police presence. At the spiritual encampment, participants were required to be nonviolent and drug free, and leaders clearly enforced these parameters. The safety of everyone—including small children—at the site was at risk if any inappropriate behavior took place. As such, the land taught people how to carry themselves and to interact with one another.

    We took the American aggression out, we let go of colonialism. The land teaches you how to behave.... What does peace mean? Taking it back to the way the land might have been treated, and taken care of.
    [Johnella LaRose, 26 September 2014]
    At Sogorea Te’ ... we built a community there. This land was the cure to a lot of problems that we were having in our community. I think we need that space, that open space. It’s not just for Indian people it’s for everybody. [Johnella LaRose, 28 November 2013]

    IPOC’s takeover of Sogorea Te’ predated the popular Occupy movement by about two years. The Occupy movement called attention to the divisions between a small ruling class (the 1% or Wall Street and the rest of the population or the 99%) and called for the masses to occupy—physically inhabit—places that were deemed public but were still subject to exclusion (e.g., parks, universities) or that were closed off to them (e.g., corporate headquarters; Juris 2012). Although IPOC supporters created an encampment at Sogorea Te’ to stop the construction on the sacred site, their takeover was distinctly different from Occupy because of its spiritual center.

    We base the work that we are doing around spirituality, around having ceremony, around our original teaching. We were all praying all the time. I really believe that the ancestors heard those prayers. It was a sacred site, it was a fire that was lit, it was around spirituality, and it was what kept us together and kept us safe. [Corrina Gould, 28 November 2013]

    People from diverse communities, many of whom were familiar with IPOC’s work to protect the shellmounds and other Bay Area sacred sites, came to support the struggle at Sogorea Te’. Spiritual leaders from different parts of California and elsewhere, including the South Pacific, offered songs and dances. According to Corrina and Johnella, the work at Sogorea Te’ became increasingly important because it offered a place for people to develop a spiritual community on the land in which everyone had a place.

    Indigenous people can come together around those thoughts and ideas and hold land down ... if you are Native or non-Native, you walked onto that land, you had community there, you belonged some place, that is what really resonated with people, they were human beings again. [Corrina Gould, 28 November 2013]

    As such, the land cared for people, and people cared for the land. An ethic of care guided collective action for land protection. For the first time in many of the participants’ lives, they had a safe place to be, with one another and the land, in an urban space.

    RESULTS: DEVELOPING A VISION FOR LAND AND COMMUNITY

    The IPOC land trust vision applied the tools of a land trust and conservation easements (a protective covenant that prevents development for a designated period) to enable local Indigenous peoples to steward tracts of their land in a traditional manner. Native land trusts facilitate both the transfer of land back to Native peoples and generate opportunities for creating cultural easements. These easements allow Native people to access and protect their sacred places.

    After the encampment ended at Sogorea Te’, Corrina was invited to a meeting of Native land trusts, and, in consultation with Johnella and community members, advisers, and colleagues following the meeting, the idea for an urban, Indigenous, women-led land trust was born.

    Indigenous land trusts are really about reengaging people back into the land, really touching the land and really working with the land and bringing medicines and ceremony ... back. And not only Indigenous people, but really trying to bring everybody along with us. (Corrina Gould 2022 podcast, https://forthewild.world/listen/corrina-gould-on-settler-responsibility-and-reciprocity-encore-277)

    IPOC held a series of community meetings in the urban Native community and broader dialogues with women in conservation and Native land trusts to solidify the design and goals of this unprecedented urban, Native, women-led land trust.

    [It’s] really facilitated by our ancestors because we’re doing the work and they believe that we can do it ... that’s how we really approach the work, that we really have the faith to do the things that they want us to do.... And now I’m hoping that these conversations ... will help us to really facilitate how that’s going to look ... with this group of women and another group of women ... and then a whole community to envision this and to dream this out with us. And I think that that’s what’s really important, that we have to be in this state of mind where we’re able to dream outside of the parameters that we’ve been given. And that it’s an important that it’s a dream that encompasses a lot of people’s ideas. [Corrina Gould, 1 March, 2014]

    With seed funding from a local foundation, IPOC transitioned from an entirely volunteer-run grassroots entity to an organization that can support the work of its founders and increase its scope. As IPOC continues to organize campaigns around sacred site protection, they are also conducting research on obtaining land and creating outreach materials to broaden the involvement of local Native peoples and build solidarity among people of other backgrounds. STLT has now grown into its own distinct 501(c)(3) organization (i.e., tax exempt) focused on rematriation of land, stewardship, and mutual resilience in the face of climatic and political-economic change.

    Gould and IPOC partners envisioned the land trust as serving as a cultural conservation entity in the Bay Area that could also hold land for the return, or repatriation, of ancestral remains unearthed in projects throughout the region. An Indigenous land trust could recreate a shellmound where ancestors could be reinterred in a traditional fashion. Some of these ancestors are ones who continue to appear as development increases, and others have been held for years for research at the University of California, Berkeley and other institutions. Currently, all the federally unrecognized Indian peoples of the Bay Area have “no land to take [the ancestors] home to.... We pray to have remains returned to us, and to be able to recreate a shellmound to share what our monuments look like, and to put our ancestors back to rest in the land.” [Corrina Gould, 9 February 2014]

    IPOC and Sogorea Te’ Land Trust support the California Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act and its mandates to repatriate ancestral remains, associated funerary objects, sacred objects, and objects of cultural patrimony to federally recognized tribes. The practice of repatriation, returning something to the father, is known around the world and is recognized by settler colonial nation-states. Sogorea Te’ Land Trust is asserting a new type of return, a rematriation, that resists patriarchal settler colonialism and control of land. Rematriation “can undermine the patriarchal paradigm of capitalistic landownership and possession” (Wires and LaRose 2019:33). Rematriation is about return of homelands, waters, and relations, as well as ancestors and sacred items. Sogorea Te’ Land Trust’s work resonates with Ts’msyen scholar Dr. Robin R. Gray’s (2022:5) description of rematriation, as follows:

    Rematriation, as an embodied praxis of recovery and return, is about revitalizing the relationship between Indigenous lands, heritage, and bodies based on Indigenous values and ways of knowing, being, and doing.... As a socio-political mode of resurgence and refusal, rematriation redirects our energy, attention, activism, and resources toward sustaining, nurturing, managing, protecting, healing, adapting, renewing, creating, and generating our relationality with all of creation and within and between our families, communities, and nations.

    Rematriation encourages a return of land and associated relatives to women’s leadership, care, and stewardship. As a beautiful hand-painted sign at the Village of Lisjan reminds us, “To Rematriate is to Restore a People to their Rightful Place in Sacred Relationship with their Ancestral Lands.”

    Both Sogorea Te’ Land Trust and IPOC work to increase opportunities for Native people to influence and guide local land management, with a particular focus on bringing young people and women into the process. Whereas IPOC focuses on organizing and direct action, its sister organization, Sogorea Te’ Land Trust, does land acquisition and land stewardship. With support from the Shuumi Land Tax, grants, and donations, the Sogorea Te’ Land Trust now employs over fifteen staff, largely land team members and youth program leaders. Activities at the different garden sites foreground opportunities for youth, with a goal to motivate youth to pursue formal education in fields including land management, language, anthropology/archaeology, and botany, which they could then apply to the work of the organizations. Youth also participated in the creation of web content to support both IPOC and the film project, Beyond Recognition. Another film, Buried Voices (2012), by the same director (co-author Michelle Grace Steinberg) documented efforts to protect a sacred site from recreational development by a regional park. These educational, hands-on projects all contribute to fostering creative strategies—including the application of land trust structures and conservation easement tools—to address the legacies of colonization in the Bay Area.

    Mitigating development: consultation requirements and realities

    Government agencies and private developers consistently desecrate areas sacred to Native peoples. In this process, hundreds of burials have been disturbed and university basements and storage rooms are filled with ancestors of the Ohlone people. Although repatriation to non-federally recognized tribes is possible under CalNAGPRA, the process remains slow, and the repatriation may not be complete.

    Federally recognized tribes have clear status as recognized governmental entities for purposes of government-to-government consultation regarding development on culturally important places. In many cases, state and local agencies are required to consult with federally recognized tribes. Requirements for consultation with non-federally recognized tribes are not so clear under the law, and such consultation is often considered discretionary. For example, for projects under federal jurisdiction there is no requirement to consult with non-federally recognized tribes. For projects under state jurisdiction, California state law acknowledges certain non-federally recognized tribes for certain purposes but does not provide the same legal standing that federally recognized tribes have under state law. As Corrina reflects, this means that non-federally recognized tribes are continually asserting their own existence.

    You know, the United States government, all along the coastline has not recognized people. When you are a recognized tribe, you are entitled to land. You are entitled to housing. You are entitled to education and medical. So, as unrecognized people in our own land, we do not get any of those things. It’s really difficult to be thought of as in the past and still know that you’re here. I think that’s the difficulty of being a non-federally recognized tribe, is always having to put your voice out there and say, “We are still here. We have not gone anywhere.” [Corrina Gould, 12 July 2013]

    The result of having no tribe that is mandated to be at the table for consultation and no requirement to protect sites once identified during consultation is the mass unearthing of graves, desecration of sites, and disregard for cultural places. If consultation were required, federally unrecognized tribal members could inform developers where not to build and/or excavate to avoid disturbing burials or cultural places. If actions to protect places were required once impacts were identified, tribal members could ensure that the cultural information they shared would result in culturally appropriate development.

    I think, one of the hardest things is that ... I guess when I was growing up, I always knew that I was Ohlone. I always knew that I was Indian. I always knew where we were enslaved. Federal recognition never crossed my mind. It’s because I knew who I was, and I didn’t need to prove that to anybody. It wasn’t until I began to really deepen, going into the work about the ancestors, that this whole recognition piece came up. But that’s not my life work. My life work is not to get that recognition. My life work is to recognize those ancestors, so that they could recognize the work that we’re doing, so that the healing can begin here. [Corrina Gould, 22 October 2013]

    California has several laws and processes that appear to promote protection of cultural resources and Native American traditional properties. However, the laws often are procedural rather than substantive and often require significant time and money to fully participate in consultation and review. The decision makers are typically non-Native, and Native peoples are almost always put at a disadvantage in this foreign legal system. Senate Bill 18 (SB 18, Traditional Tribal Cultural Places) may be the most helpful statute in non-federally recognized tribal efforts to establish a Native land trust because it authorizes non-federally recognized tribes to acquire and hold conservation easements under state law (California Civil Code § 815.3). The nonprofit conservation organization structure provides a critical mechanism for California Natives in the Bay Area to have a seat at the table in pursuit of securing protection of resources, traditional cultural properties, sacred sites, and sacred burial sites.

    DISCUSSION: THE LAND TRUST MOVEMENT THROUGH DIFFERENT EYES

    IPOC’ and now Sogorea Te’ Land Trust’s vision extends the importance and applicability of land trusts and other private conservation tools to urban settings. Land trusts may be an increasingly important tool for federally unrecognized tribes working to acquire land or rights to access lands.

    [For] unrecognized tribes ... your only option for having a relationship with land is private property or access agreements, perhaps, with state or federal land ... but the whole concept of a tribal land base is not an option for you because you can’t be recognized, and you can’t get tribal trust lands. So, a land trust enables you to own, to steward, to manage, to caretake some land base as a collective body ... that intergenerational aspect of it is so important ... [to have] an actual legal tool that has this “in perpetuity” language matches people’s relationship to place over time and the way [they] want it to carry forth into future generations. [Melissa Nelson, 1 March 2014]

    Land trusts have provided smallholders throughout the nation with the rights to continue to work land in an economy that does not support small-scale farmers or foresters. For example, the American Farmland Trust applies conservation mechanisms to help family farmers stay in business, and the Pacific Forest Trust develops working forest conservation easements to help owners of working forests continue sustainable harvest. Both organizations, however, like many in the land trust movement, are majority white-led, and the outcomes of their projects may continue to fence Indigenous peoples out of their homelands. A series of initiatives in large conservation groups, such as the Land Trust Alliance, have been working to address and integrate diversity, equity, and inclusion (for context, Atencio et al. 2013) and to bring Native people and non-Native land trust staff together on the land to learn from one another and develop ways to collaborate (Oregon Land Justice Project, https://www.oregonlandjustice.org/learning-journey.html).

    There are also Black and Indigenous-led land trusts, which generally center concepts of justice and repair in their missions and work. For example, the Black Family Land Trust protects African American land ownership in a context of land loss and unfulfilled land promises. The Northeast Farmers of Color Land Trust is working to build communication, collaboration, and healing between African American and Indigenous peoples seeking redress for centuries of colonial harm and the opportunity to tend and steward land for ecological and community health. Sogorea Te’ Land Trust also works to foster and steward connections between Indigenous people and People of Color for whom the East Bay is also home. As Corrina Gould (2022) explains,

    We don’t talk about the genocide of Indian people in this country, we don’t talk about the genocide of African people and the taking of their language and their traditional belief systems and bringing them to a land that that they didn’t know, and making them have to be enslaved. And so, we don’t talk about those things because people, I think, are afraid to touch the pain. And I think that’s what today is asking us to do, is to touch that pain to open it wide. And then from there, we have to heal, we have to bring it back to the rematriation of land. It’s important that Indigenous people have access to their land, to be given back the land that was stolen from them, to acknowledge that this land, this new country, this very young country, has done horrific things and they owe both Indigenous people and African American people a huge debt. And so, unless we begin to talk about these conversations, unless we’re very honest about it, we’re not going to move forward.

    Further, as Johnella explains, Native approaches to inclusive land stewardship are needed in the urban setting.

    Yes, we want to grow food, but we also want to pray. We want to pray on this land. And we want to make sure that this land is here forever. I really just see like little plots of land everywhere all over the bay area, that [are] sacred space, that we treat as sacred space. Just like we do Sogorea Te’. Sacred space [where] people can just come and just be and just have their place to pray. Right now, we don’t have that ... [and] what happens is it leaves this soul wound so deep that it affects us every day. [Johnella LaRose, 1 March 2014]

    Sogorea Te’ Land Trust’s formation as a new kind of land trust brings entwined struggles for justice, recognition of Indigenous identity, and sustainability into conversation with reinvigorating traditions of women’s leadership. This new organization directly counters neocolonial urbanization and genocidal policies that attempt to ignore Indigenous human rights (as outlined in the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples; United Nations 2007) and traditional knowledge and practices. As LaRose explains,

    As a woman and as a grandmother, I have a great stake in this. I’m leaving this to my grandchildren, and their grandchildren. So, I really feel like I have to do something, we have to leave something for these children. I think women, as mothers, as grandmothers, we have this connection that’s undeniable ... [and] we have to use what the creator gave us ... to take good care of the land. But I also feel like it’s a struggle, it’s definitely a struggle with this land trust for women, I think we just really have to stay strong and know that we can do this job and do this project. [Johnella LaRose, 1 March 2014]

    As such, the work to protect Sogorea Te’ and other sites recognizes that “spiritual places still exist” in urban areas and works to connect people back to these places and to one another (NoiseCat 2021). Part of IPOC’s vision for a land trust, now realized in Sogorea Te’ Land Trust, was to be able to preserve land in an urban context where people can have that spiritual base. For California Indians in particular, according to Corrina, there is no roundhouse accessible for urban Indians in the Bay Area, “those things are missing in the city. A pocket of land where people could do that.... I would love to have my kids and grandkids in a roundhouse” (Corrina Gould, 2 September 2014). This is important for non-California Indians as well because many Native people came to the area on the Indian Relocation Program, and they don’t have access to their places of prayer and power. Preserving Ohlone homelands and creating restored and ceremonial spaces offers a “way of going back to the land and feeding our spirituality, going back, and reconnecting ourselves as human beings, and figuring out how to live in a different kind of community” (Corrina Gould, 2 September 2014).

    The work of Sogorea Te’ Land Trust counters a current legal structure that protects extraction economies and is indifferent at best, if not outright hostile to, Native land histories, values, and responsibilities to ancestors, lands, and community. The STLT, as a women-led, Native, urban land trust, is creating a space for community revitalization, the protection of traditional places, and the recognition of California Indian survival in an urban context.

    CONCLUSION: A THRIVING URBAN, INDIAN, WOMEN-LED LAND TRUST

    Sogorea Te’ Land Trust’s growth and influence has been exponential since the idea for a land trust emerged in 2012. In 2015, IPOC received foundation funding to develop organizational infrastructure for the land trust and supplemented this with screenings of Beyond Recognition and presentations on their vision for an urban, Native, women-led land trust. IPOC convened the two advisory groups (including the community-based group of women leaders and the academic/legal group of women advisors) to assist with the articulation of the land trust’s vision and mission in 2015–2017. With the support of an interim fiscal sponsor, the Sogorea Te’ Land Trust received its first piece of land in 2018, the Lisjan site, from Planting Justice. In the following two years, the Sogorea Te’ Land Trust filed articles of incorporation with the State of California and applied for tax exempt status from the Internal Revenue Service. In 2019, the Sogorea Te’ Land Trust was incorporated as a nonprofit conservation organization (a land trust) with tax exempt status. In addition to obtaining diverse grants, the organization and partners developed a successful fundraising strategy with the Shuumi Land Tax, which allows community members to pay a voluntary tax to First Peoples of the East Bay Area. With these funds, Sogorea Te’ Land Trust leadership and staff are investing in food security projects and community-led restoration, all grounded in a spiritual center of Indigenous, place-based values.

    As of 2022, STLT stewards and tends many different land sites in the East Bay, where they grow, harvest, and process traditional medicines, vegetables, and other Native foods and hold teaching circles to promote health and justice. Sogorea Te’ Land Trust also has multiple partnerships with local jurisdictions, including the cities of Richmond, Oakland, and Alameda. One outcome of these partnerships is the renaming of parks with culturally affirming names, some in the Chochenyo Ohlone language. Sogorea Te’ Land Trust has become a national and global leader asserting and modeling the importance of land rematriation (Urbanski 2020), urban justice, and food sovereignty (Wires and LaRose 2019).

    Corrina, Johnella, and partners believe that the development of this innovative, community-based, urban, women-led, Native land trust can also be an inspiration to other Native peoples in urban areas to build community through land stewardship. As outlined in the Land Trust’s founding documents, its purpose is “to protect and restore California Indian Peoples’ cultural traditions, ancestral territories, means of subsistence and environmental health” (Articles 2018). Sogorea Te’ Land Trust’s work remains deeply integrated with broader movements for site protection, recognition of Indigenous epistemologies and histories, and community-based resilience. Although acclaimed as the first urban Indigenous women’s land trust, the Sogorea Te’ Land Trust’s structure and activities are really an echo and reclamation of Indigenous’ women’s historic role of keeping the land and tending to our relations in ways that are just, compassionate, and inclusive. Sogorea Te’ Land Trust centers care for human and non-human community in an urban space, re-recognizing it as Indigenous homeland. As Gould remembers, this work is rooted in place-based responsibility, identity, and commitment.

    I really feel like, as an Ohlone woman, growing up, being born on our original land, that I have an obligation, that I was put here for a reason, and that those ancestors direct me to do this kind of work. [Corrina Gould, 12 July 2013]

    Sogorea Te’ Land Trust expands the vision of what a land trust can be. Far beyond an organization focused only on habitat protection, conservation, or recreation, the Sogorea Te’ Land Trust embodies and enacts ethics of relationality and reciprocity between people and land and between and among diverse peoples beginning to recognize their responsibilities within Indigenous homelands (L. J. Popken, C. Griffen, C. Coté, and E. Angel, 2022, unpublished manuscript). The Sogorea Te’ Land Trust shows us what is possible for a 21st century resilient and inclusive land trust to achieve, with, by, and for Indigenous peoples.

    RESPONSES TO THIS ARTICLE

    Responses to this article are invited. If accepted for publication, your response will be hyperlinked to the article. To submit a response, follow this link. To read responses already accepted, follow this link.

    ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

    We are grateful to all who have inspired and supported the work of Indian People Organizing for Change and Sogorea Te’’ Land Trust.

    DATA AVAILABILITY

    n/a

    LITERATURE CITED

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    Goldberg, C., and D. Champagne. 1996. A second century of dishonor: federal inequities and California tribes. UCLA American Indian Studies Center, Los Angeles, California, USA. https://www.aisc.ucla.edu/ca/Tribes.htm

    Gray, R. R. R. 2022. Rematriation: Ts’msyen law, rights of relationality, and protocols of return. Native American and Indigenous Studies 9(1):1-27. https://doi.org/10.1353/nai.2022.0010

    Hedgecoke, S. 2006. 3rd annual shellmound walk in San Francisco Bay Area. Workers World, New York, New York, USA. https://www.workers.org/2006/us/shellmound-1109/

    Heizer, R. F. (editor). 1993. The destruction of California Indians: a collection of documents from the period 1847 to 1865 in which are described some of the things that happened to some of the Indians of California. University of Nebraska Press, Lincoln, Nebraska, USA.

    Heizer, R. F., and A. J. Almquist. 1977. The other Californians: prejudice and discrimination under Spain, Mexico, and the United States to 1920. University of California Press, Berkeley, California, USA.

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    Juris, J. 2012. Reflections on #Occupy Everywhere: social media, public space, and emerging logics of aggregation. American Ethnologist 39(2):259-279. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1548-1425.2012.01362.x

    King, C. 1994 Central Ohlone Ethnohistory. In L. Bean, editor. The Ohlone past and present. Ballena Press Anthropological Papers No. 42, London, UK.

    Leventhal, A., L. Field, H. Alvarez, and R. Cambra. 1994. The Ohlone: back from extinction. Pages 293-336 in L. J. Bean, editor. The Ohlone past and present: Native Americans of the San Francisco Bay region. Ballena Press, Menlo Park, California, USA. http://www.muwekma.org/assets/pdf/The_Ohlone_Back_From_Extinction_Nov_1994.pdf

    Lindsay, B. 2012. Murder state: California’s Native American genocide, 1846–1873. University of Nebraska Press, Lincoln, Nebraska, USA.

    Lobo, S. 2002. Urban voices: the Bay Area American Indian community. University of Arizona Press, Tucson, Arizona, USA.

    Middleton, B. R. 2011. Trust in the land: new directions in tribal conservation. University of Arizona Press, Tucson, Arizona, USA.

    Milliken, R. T. 1991. An ethnohistory of the Indian people of the San Francisco Bay Area from 1770-1810. Dissertation, University of California, Berkeley, California, USA.

    Nelson, M. K. (editor). 2008. Original instructions: Indigenous teachings for a sustainable future. Bear & Company, Rochester, Vermont, USA.

    Nelson, M. K., and D. Shilling (editors). 2018. Traditional ecological knowledge: learning from Indigenous practices for environmental sustainability. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, UK. https://doi.org/10.1017/9781108552998

    NoiseCat, J. B. 2021. ‘This land was stolen’: behind the fight to recover sacred Indigenous lands in the Bay Area. Grist Magazine Inc., Seattle, Washington, USA. https://grist.org/fix/sogorea-te-land-trust-ohlone-shellmounds-world-we-need-book/

    Ramirez, R. K. 2007. Native hubs: culture, community, and belonging in Silicon Valley and beyond. Duke University Press, Durham, North Carolina, USA.

    Sheynin, J. 2015. IPOC’s shellmound peace walks. Found, San Francisco, California, USA. https://www.foundsf.org/index.php?title=IPOC%E2%80%99s_Shellmound_Peace_Walks

    Steinberg, M. G. 2014. Beyond recognition (film). http://www.beyondrecognitionfilm.com

    Steinberg, M. G. 2012. Buried voices (film). https://www.imdb.com/title/tt2555836/y

    SS&PRT (n.d.) Protect Glen Cove. https://protectsogoreate.org/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/glen_cove_leaflet_april-black-imposed2.pdf

    Trafzer, C., and J. Hyer. 1999. Exterminate them: written accounts of the murder, rape, and slavery of Native Americans during the California gold rush, 1848–1868. Michigan State University Press, East Lansing, Michigan, USA.

    United Nations. 2007. United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. Resolution 61/295. United Nations General Assembly, New York, New York, USA. https://www.un.org/development/desa/indigenouspeoples/declaration-on-the-rights-of-indigenous-peoples.html

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    Urbanski, C. 2020. Rematriate the land: how the Indigenous women of the Sogorea Te’ Land Trust help solve climate change. Ms. Magazine 30(2).

    Wires, K. N., and J. LaRose. 2019. Sogorea Te’ Land Trust empowers Indigenous food sovereignty in the San Francisco Bay Area. Journal of Agriculture, Food Systems, and Community Development 9(B):31-34. https://doi.org/10.5304/jafscd.2019.09B.003

    Corresponding author:
    Beth Middleton Manning
    brmiddleton@ucdavis.edu
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    Home > VOLUME 28 > ISSUE 1 > Article 7 Synthesis

    What comes after crises? Key elements and insights into feedback amplifying community self-organization

    Moraes, A. Ramos de, J. Sampaio Farinaci, D. Santos Prado, L. Gomes de Araujo, A. Esteves Dias, R. Eichemberger Ummus, and C. Simão Seixas. 2023. What comes after crises? Key elements and insights into feedback amplifying community self-organization. Ecology and Society 28(1):7. https://doi.org/10.5751/ES-13773-280107
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    • Alice Ramos de Moraes, Alice Ramos de Moraes
      Institute of Biology, University of Campinas (UNICAMP), Campinas, SP, Brazil
    • Juliana Sampaio Farinaci, Juliana Sampaio Farinaci
      Earth System Science Center, National Institute for Space Research (INPE), São José dos Campos, SP, Brazil
    • Deborah Santos Prado, Deborah Santos Prado
      Environmental Studies and Research Center (NEPAM), University of Campinas (UNICAMP), Campinas, SP, Brazil
    • Luciana Gomes de Araujo, Luciana Gomes de Araujo
      Environmental Studies and Research Center (NEPAM), University of Campinas (UNICAMP), Campinas, SP, Brazil
    • Ana Carolina Esteves Dias, Ana Carolina Esteves Dias
      Institute of Biology, University of Campinas (UNICAMP), Campinas, SP, Brazil
    • Rafael E. Ummus, Rafael E. Ummus
      Environmental Studies and Research Center (NEPAM), University of Campinas (UNICAMP), Campinas, SP, Brazil
    • Cristiana Simão SeixasCristiana Simão Seixas
      Environmental Studies and Research Center (NEPAM), University of Campinas (UNICAMP), Campinas, SP, Brazil

    The following is the established format for referencing this article:

    Moraes, A. Ramos de, J. Sampaio Farinaci, D. Santos Prado, L. Gomes de Araujo, A. Esteves Dias, R. Eichemberger Ummus, and C. Simão Seixas. 2023. What comes after crises? Key elements and insights into feedback amplifying community self-organization. Ecology and Society 28(1):7.

    https://doi.org/10.5751/ES-13773-280107

  • Abstract
  • Introduction
  • Methods and Case Studies
  • Main Findings
  • Discussion
  • Speculation
  • Concluding Remarks
  • Responses to This Article
  • Acknowledgments
  • Data Availability
  • Literature Cited
  • agency; Brazil; collective action; communities; community resilience; social-ecological resilience; social-ecological systems
    What comes after crises? Key elements and insights into feedback amplifying community self-organization
    Copyright © 2021 by the author(s). Published here under license by The Resilience Alliance. This article is under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License. You may share and adapt the work provided the original author and source are credited, you indicate whether any changes were made, and you include a link to the license. ES-2022-13773.pdf
    Synthesis

    ABSTRACT

    In face of complex socio-environmental issues experienced in different social-ecological systems, we ask if comprehensive lessons could be learned from cases of community self-organization that were successful in solving collective problems at the local level. Considering that the trajectory of each community is unique and self-organization develops in distinctive settings, we sought to identify the common elements shared by six case studies in Brazil and investigate how they interact (i.e., if they generate feedback that amplifies self-organization), synthesizing the lessons drawn from each case so they may be applied to other contexts. In all cases, community self-organization provided good conditions to overcome crisis and led to desirable changes regarding the problem in question. We explored the underlying mechanisms of successful community self-organization from a social-ecological and community resilience standpoint and identified six elements in common: ability and/or willingness to find opportunities in crisis; partnerships with external actors; human and social capital within the community; generation of income opportunities and/or guarantee of rights; existence of spaces that favor social interaction; and agency oriented to collective mobilization and problem solving. Elements were interconnected and often reinforced one another, generating amplifying feedback, which is seen in the repetition and improvement of practices and attitudes over time and space. Agency was a prominent catalyst for self-organization by generating amplifying feedback that positively affected other elements; it was an element of the feedback chain reinforced by the benefits reaped at the individual level. When collective interests prevailed over individual ones, it was less likely to generate feedback that inhibited self-organization. We argued that ordinary relationships related to different cultural practices and livelihoods were important exercises of collective action that provided communities with a repertoire of responses that could be activated in times of crisis, thus enhancing their capacity to self-organize.

    INTRODUCTION

    Imagine the following situations: (1) A flood hits a small town, which like many others in the same region has limited capacity and resources to deal with major disasters. Later it is realized that the history of land use and management in the region was decisive for the flood, because soil degradation caused erosion, silting, and fast runoff; (2) The livelihoods and rights to land and marine areas of a fishing community are threatened by the top-down creation of protected areas (PA); (3) Similarly, the food and economic security of a riverine community is at risk because of decreasing fishing stocks and competition by larger-scale fishing operations. All these situations portray aspects of current complex social-environmental problems. Because of the complexity involved, one might imagine that effective solutions at the local level are difficult to achieve or even impossible. For example, how to coordinate actions and responses to the particularities of each location? How to act under limitations resulting from different types of pressures? And where should change start?

    These are real crisis situations experienced in different social-ecological systems (Berkes and Folke 1998) in which the respective communities succeeded, through self-organization, in finding ways to face the problems in question. Knowing how communities invest their efforts to self-organize helps to understand which aspects are important to generate resilience, so that such communities may preserve their culture and livelihoods (Berkes and Ross 2013). The results of self-organization processes depend on the resources available and the skills of the people involved (Seixas and Davy 2008, Anderson et al. 2019). Therefore, understanding what favors community self-organization is essential to support initiatives that seek solutions in the face of crises, change, and uncertainties from a local to a global level.

    Self-organization is a common property of living systems that allows communities to organize themselves and to behave in an intricate manner based on a set of ground rules, thus learning, diversifying, and achieving complexity (Waldrop 1993, Meadows and Wright 2008). Self-organization can produce robust solutions to complex problems because trajectories of complex systems are unpredictable and subject to great effects caused by small changes (Waldrop 1993, Scheffer 2009). It is an emergent property of social-ecological systems, related to a system’s ability to structure itself, reorganize, and diversify granting resilience (Folke et al. 2002, Folke 2006, 2016, Moore et al. 2014, Olsson et al. 2014) and adaptive capacity (Chapin et al. 2009). Given that social-ecological systems are complex systems with multiple stable states, these states do not necessarily reflect desirable configurations from an environmental or social viewpoint, and numerous environmental, political, economic, and social factors added to uncertainties cause disturbances to these systems (Walker and Salt 2006, Chapin et al. 2010). It is essential that when in a desirable configuration, social-ecological systems can maintain their structure and function in the face of disturbances, i.e., that they are resilient.

    Developed from a resilience standpoint (more specifically, social-ecological resilience, e.g., Folke 2006, and community resilience, e.g., Berkes and Ross 2013), this work aims to identify and analyze common elements present in community self-organization processes that were successful in solving collective problems, as well as exploring how they interact, i.e., we investigate whether these elements generate feedback and what effects they have on self-organization. We are ultimately interested in understanding what makes some communities resilient, and for that, we explore the elements and mechanisms that contribute to the capacity of these communities to self-organize. Therefore, we pose the following questions: What are the elements of successful community self-organization? How do they contribute to the process? What feedback is generated, and which ones enhance self-organization?

    Bearing in mind that the trajectory of each community is unique, and that self-organization develops in distinctive settings, we sought to synthesize the lessons of six case studies in Brazil so they may apply to other contexts. We expect that such lessons can guide actions or create conditions for self-organization to flourish (and ultimately, for resilience to build up) in other situations at the local level and beyond. We refer to communities as groups of people who share a set of beliefs and/or sense of place, who interact directly and frequently, and who are likely to continue interacting in the future (Singleton and Taylor 1992, Seixas and Davy 2008, Cross et al. 2011).

    Community resilience “is often understood as the capacity of its social system to come together to work toward a communal objective” (Berkes and Ross 2013:6). Magis (2010) highlighted the capacity of a community to thrive in the face of unpredictability and change because of community resources that existed and that are elaborated and brought together by community members. The concept of community resilience is derived from two research fields: (1) mental health and developmental psychology and (2) social-ecological systems and resilience (Berkes and Ross 2013). Many contributions to the literature of community resilience relate to recovering from disasters (Norris et al. 2008, Wilson 2014, Almutairi et al. 2020) and more recently to climate change (Fazey et al. 2018, Ntontis et al. 2020, Birchall et al. 2022, Carmen et al. 2022). Such literature was initially developed to focus on social aspects of the resilience of individuals (Maclean et al. 2016) or individual organizations (Koliou et al. 2018). Over time, focus shifted to the long-term impact on communities after events (Koliou et al. 2018); from the 2010s, studies began to target social groups and to dialogue with the social-ecological and resilience framework (Maclean et al. 2016).

    The psychology-mental health framework emphasizes the community level and highlights how community strengths (e.g., community networks, infrastructure, and diversified economic sources) contribute to social resilience, i.e., the individual or community capacity to cope with change (Maclean et al. 2016). The social-ecological resilience approach is based on a complex adaptive systems perspective and focuses on processes unfolding at regional and larger levels and multiple scales (Walker et al. 2004, 2006, Berkes and Ross 2013). Additionally, it focuses on systems’ properties (e.g., feedback) that shape collaborative governance and management (Maclean et al. 2016, Moraes et al. 2021). Our study is situated at the confluence of these approaches and is supported by the idea of community resilience as a process rather than an outcome (Maclean et al. 2016); an emergent property of human-environment relationships (Walker and Salt 2012, Faulkner et al. 2018), which is critical because communities are constantly coping with pressures and changes that affect the characteristics and dynamics of communities themselves (Faulkner et al. 2018).

    From a social-ecological perspective, feedback defines the internal dynamics of the system and is responsible for keeping it in a given stable state or operating regime (Chapin et al. 2009). Amplifying feedback can lead the system to desirable growth and change or to a completely opposite path of unrestrained destruction, depending on the actions or patterns that are amplified. Such feedback occurs when a stimulus produces an effect that reinforces or enhances the initial stimulus, amplifying its own effects and the changes it generates (Walker and Salt 2006, Hull et al. 2015). Stabilizing feedback, in turn, opposes any change imposed on the system, locking it in a given state (Walker and Salt 2006, Meadows and Wright 2008), which is not necessarily bad or good. Applying these same concepts to community self-organization processes, amplifying feedback can lead to positive results in relation to the problem faced (virtuous or successful self-organization) if they reinforce actions or factors that somehow contribute to self-organization. Conversely, they can lead to negative results (faulty or unsuccessful self-organization) if they reinforce practices that dampen or prevent self-organization to flourish.

    METHODS AND CASE STUDIES

    This work was part of a collaborative synthesis project (SinteSIS, https://media.fapesp.br/bv/uploads/pdfs/Brazilian_biodiversity...future_ljSOAGn_17_18.pdf) that aimed to synthesize the findings from research undertaken by our group regarding institutional arrangements to integrate natural resources conservation and development at the local level. Phases of individual and collective work alternated throughout the development of this work.

    Step 1 aimed to select cases from community self-organization that solved collective problems in Brazil. The six cases selected were based on previous research developed by the authors between 2010 and 2018: one in the Amazon and five in southeast Brazil, two inland and three on the coast (Fig. 1). All cases were researched under the social-ecological systems lens (Berkes and Folke 1998), using multiple methods (Appendix 1). None had been originally researched under a community self-organization approach, however, authors identified elements of self-organization worthy of a deeper analysis. Case studies selected are identified as follows:

    • Case I - Capivara fishing accord (based on Ummus 2017) refers to the process of 120 small-scale fishers in the Amazon to self-regulate fisheries in 2015.
    • Case II - Reconstruction of São Luiz do Paraitinga (based on Farinaci 2012) depicts the afterwards of a major flood in 2010 displacing half of the city inhabitants.
    • Case III - REDESUAPA stakeholder network (based on Moraes 2019) describes the effort made by a group of professionals to prevent disasters such as the 2010 flood in São Luiz do Paraitinga.
    • Case IV - Reaction to protected areas in Trindade (based on Araujo 2014) refers to the community claim for customary rights to their territory and resource access.
    • Case V - Artisanal fishing monitoring program in Tarituba (based on Dias 2015) illustrates a process of building and implementing an agreement to allow fishing in a no-take protected area.
    • Case VI - Reorganization of community-based tourism at Aventureiro (based on Prado 2013) refers to efforts to navigate and overcome an eight-month ban on tourism in the community in 2006.

    Step 2 aimed to describe and frame the cases according to the theoretical approach guiding this work. This step comprised a sequence of three stages (1, 2 and 3), which eventually provided us with a standardized description of the cases as well as a standardized framing of the self-organization process. (1) We developed an open-ended survey template to facilitate the compilation of data (Appendix 2). Core themes in the template included elements that contributed to self-organization, conceptual frameworks, methods used for data collection, and timelines for the study. We identified both descriptive (i.e., duration and type of disturbance; observation period; relevant historical/cultural and environmental characteristics; socioeconomic data; formal and informal institutional arrangements; and network of actors) and analytical variables (i.e., event/disturbance and strengths and characteristics that contributed to self-organization). The latter were based on the attributes highlighted by Berkes and Ross (2013) as important for community resilience and worked as a starting point for us to identify elements contributing to self-organization in the cases analyzed. Each author completed the template based on their original data set. (2) To foster consistency in our results and to enable an exchange of ideas across the authors, we conducted a workshop to revise, discuss, and validate the selected variables and the data added to each variable on the template. At the end of the workshop the team developed a common understanding of the data from all case studies. (3) In a second workshop, we used the information from the template to write down the cases using the self-organization framework proposed by Heylighen (2013) that defines a system’s self-organization as “characterized by global, coordinated activity arising spontaneously from local interactions between the system’s components or ‘agents’” (Heylighen 2013:121). Such coordination happens when the agents work together toward common goals. Coordination means structuring activity in time and space, with minimal friction and maximum synergy among the system’s components and can be subdivided into four elementary processes: alignment (everyone working toward a common goal), division of labor, workflow (besides knowing what to do, each person must know when to act), and aggregation (the outcome of self-organization; Heylighen 2013). This framework provided “methodological support” to this work by enabling us to format our data into a comparable self-organization frame (Table 1) and to standardize the narratives concerning how self-organization unfolded in each case (Appendix 3).

    Step 3 involved qualitative data analysis seeking common elements contributing to self-organization among cases, which were developed during another workshop. Analysis followed codification and triangulation of information from the standardized cases. We identified elements present in at least four out of the six cases for further analysis.

    Finally, step 4 aimed at the identification of feedback operating in the cases, in a last workshop. First, each author elaborated a narrated description of how each element contributed to self-organization in their respective case study based on field observations, interviews, and other sources of data from their research. Descriptions were shared among authors. Key insights emerging from this description were collectively synthesized, grouping insights from all six cases per element of successful community self-organization. We searched for patterns regarding the dynamics of each element, which, in turn, enabled us to identify amplifying feedback based on a common understanding from authors. Then, each author provided written examples of the feedback loops that related to each of the self-organization elements in their case for collective validation.

    MAIN FINDINGS

    We identified six elements of successful community self-organization: (1) ability and/or willingness to find opportunity in crisis; (2) partnerships with external actors; (3) human capital and social capital in the community; (4) generation of income opportunities and/or guarantee of rights; (5) existence of spaces that favor social interaction; and (6) agency oriented to collective mobilization and problem solving. Except for elements (1) and (5), the others were present in all cases (Table 2).

    We considered that human capital refers to skills, knowledge, work capacity, and good health (characteristics related to the individual capacities of community members), whereas social capital relates to the idea of social organization, which encompasses common rules and social relationships as an essential part of sustainable livelihoods (Ashley and Carney 1999). Relationships of trust, reciprocity, exchange, connectivity, collective action, and social networks were constituent aspects of social capital comprising a set of resources that helped individuals and groups achieve their individual or collective purposes. Social capital does not exist in a political and institutional vacuum but is influenced by power relations between individuals, groups, or institutions (Pretty and Ward 2001, Adger 2003). In the cases studied, human and social capital are connected, therefore, we kept them under the same element, although they are distinct concepts. We used the definition from Berkes and Ross (2013:15) of agency: “the capacity of an individual to act independently and to make one’s own free choices.” This concept highlights the active role of individuals debunking the view of victims of disasters or environmental threats (Brown and Westaway 2011) and can also be extended to collective action (McLaughlin and Dietz 2008).

    In many of the cases studied, we observed that the elements generated amplifying feedback loops, that is, their effects increasingly fed back into essential social phenomena for community self-organization. Such positive feedback was seen in the repetition and improvement of practices and attitudes that strengthened over time, expand in space, and produce elements that further strengthened self-organization, such as autonomy, identity, and knowledge. We discuss how each element contributed to self-organization and present a compilation of the amplifying feedback generated (Table 3).

    Ability and/or willingness to find opportunity in crisis

    All cases involved at least one crisis that triggered self-organization. Except for the Capivara fishing accord, the existence of community members with ability or willingness to find opportunity in crisis was a striking aspect in the mobilization for collective solutions to face the difficulty. In the reaction to protected areas in Trindade, pressure from the PA mobilized the local community associations to join efforts and negotiate their demands. The same happened in the reorganization of community-based tourism at Aventureiro in which the community sought help and organized itself internally after the crisis triggered a ban on tourism. In the artisanal fishing monitoring program in Tarituba, a ban on artisanal fishing triggered collective action aimed to resolve or mitigate its effects.

    In some cases, it became clear that the attitude of some individuals was contagious, positively impacting other people involved, thus reinforcing/amplifying self-organization. In the reconstruction of São Luiz do Paraitinga, many viewed the crisis caused by the flood as a source of new opportunities for both individuals and the community. This “keep the ball rolling” attitude prompted community members to take advantage of opportunities that emerged as the town was rebuilt. An example is the investment in infrastructure that was made after technical and financial assistance was provided, which normally would not have been possible with the town’s tight budget. Every small victory in terms of rebuilding the town kept up the spirits, prevented citizens from giving in to hopelessness, and reinforced self-organization. Regarding REDESUAPA stakeholder network, the various difficulties experienced (e.g., discord among members, financial restrictions, and a severe drought in 2013/2014 affecting pilot projects) were faced by jointly seeking strategies for concrete action. This amplified self-organization because it strengthened the bond among members and, consequently, enabled the continuity of the work.

    Partnerships with external actors

    All cases included partnerships with external actors, which contributed to the achievement of the desired goals and/or provided greater alignment in the community, which, in turn, fed back and amplified self-organization. In the reorganization of community-based tourism at Aventureiro, the support of NGOs, researchers, and tourists was key to ensuring legal advice, compiling scientific research findings, producing documents and opinions, and providing media coverage of the ban on community tourism. In the artisanal fishing monitoring program in Tarituba, mediation by a university research group made it possible to reconcile different interests of stakeholders involved in drawing up the artisanal fishing monitoring program. This process enabled the inclusion in the program of ecological indicators for environmental conservation as well as indicators of the socioeconomic relevance of fishing for the community. In the Capivara fishing accord, external informal partners of the community (professionals, friends, and supporters) contributed key skills to the process at essential stages, such as providing technical and scientific validation of “pirarucu” and monitoring and fostering previously inexistent interaction among local actors.

    Since its very inception, REDESUAPA stakeholder network has been a partnership between local community members and external individuals working at different institutional levels, favoring alignment between local demands and the projects implemented by the group. In the reconstruction of São Luiz do Paraitinga, partnerships with universities and research centers provided diagnoses of geotechnical risk, urban planning projects, and legal assistance among other services. These resources, in turn, were efficiently used by the local community, thus contributing to speed up reconstruction. In the reaction to protected areas in Trindade, the permanent partnership with the Indigenous and traditional communities’ forum enabled the social mapping of the community, a tool that empowered it in negotiations on the use and access to its lands inside the PA. Also in Trindade, partnership with a research group provided training courses on security, tourism, environmental legislation, and management of protected areas, a demand from both the community and the PA management.

    Human capital and social capital in the community

    Human and especially social capital were important elements for self-organization. It seems that such capacities were latent in the community and activated at appropriate times, for instance, by organizing a festivity or reacting to a major flood. Concomitantly, the outcomes of self-organization contributed to enhance these capitals in an amplifying feedback loop.

    In the reaction to protected areas in Trindade, both capitals were particularly important to nurture self-organization. Most of the current community association leaders were around 30 to 40 years old with secondary-level education (at least), having connections with other groups and social movements that also struggled to guarantee their land rights. This has allowed the associations to strengthen their representation in PA committees in the region, make progress in negotiations on tourism activities in a PA’s marine area, and develop independent initiatives for cultural and territorial affirmation. Such initiatives, in turn, worked as opportunities to enhance the community’s human capital (e.g., increasing members’ personal experience and skills) and social capital (e.g., strengthening connections with other groups), feeding back to self-organization. Similarly, REDESUAPA stakeholder network had high human capital, i.e., members with technical and local knowledge, as well as a willingness to undertake change and high social capital. Both local leaders and external members participated in other personal and/or professional networks, which enabled the group to successfully cope with the crises experienced, which amplified self-organization because it strengthened the group itself and its subsequent actions.

    A striking example in reconstruction of São Luiz do Paraitinga was the work of more than 40 people trained in rafting techniques (thanks to local ecotourism enterprises), who rescued hundreds of people stranded in houses and buildings during the flood (Correa 2010). This includes individual (human capital) and collective (social capital) skills because rafting requires cooperation. Another example is the residents’ great experience in organizing religious festivities, which enhances social capital by requiring everyone to interact and cooperate with the skills they already have and to learn and improve new ones. In the artisanal fishing monitoring program in Tarituba, social capital facilitated the mobilization of fishers and encouraged them to take part in workshops to develop the monitoring program. Many of the fishers participated because they were invited by local leaders. Human capital was also important in building monitoring goals and reaching a collective understanding that such monitoring had to investigate the ecological impacts of fishing as well as demonstrate how fishing was relevant to the community. In the Capivara fishing accord, skills related to forming associations, dialoguing with external actors, and organizing meetings developed over a few decades of social movement and partnership with social organizations were decisive for the performance of leaders and mobilizing the community to design the fishing accord.

    In the reorganization of community-based tourism at Aventureiro, social capital favored mobilization and division of tasks related to legal issues and the search for an agreement with the environmental agency responsible for the PA in addition to finding livelihoods to compensate for the loss of income from tourism. The reaction to the ban on tourism favored the development of human capital; e.g., some of the young leaders developed various skills in community-based organization issues, which turned out to be important for self-organization (feedback).

    Generation of income opportunities and/or guarantee of rights

    In all cases, we observed that the self-organization process would generate income opportunities for those involved, or that the process itself would lead to the guarantee of rights. Such achievements provided material support for self-organization to develop and boosted the actual process and generated amplifying feedback in some of the cases. The management of fishing resources in the Capivara fishing accord generated income that was invested in upholding the agreement in new monitoring cycles (amplifying feedback) that allowed for an increase in fish stocks and greater control of the lakes by the community after a few years. The flow of people involved in the reconstruction of São Luiz do Paraitinga fed back into the reconstruction process itself because it stimulated the reopening of businesses to provide food, lodging, and building supplies, etc. This generated economic incentive for more people to recover their lost assets and invest in new ventures. In the reaction to protected areas in Trindade, thanks to the economic security provided by tourism, local associations gained autonomy to continue investing in social participation and community mobilization, thus strengthening and reinforcing self-organization. According to community leaders, this is a strategy to counter the pressures faced by the community. REDESUAPA stakeholder network fostered income opportunities for smallholders, which ended up benefiting the network itself because they became partners reporting their good results to other producers, helping local projects scale up, and creating conditions for their continuity (amplifying feedback).

    The guaranteed rights of communities to their land, ways of life, natural resources, and cultural heritage clearly strengthened local self-organization in four cases. In the reorganization of community-based tourism at Aventureiro, besides the right to remain on the land and develop tourism activities, it led to further demands such as provision of school transport and regular garbage collection by the local administration. In the artisanal fishing monitoring program in Tarituba, the development of the program was important to ensure the right to traditional fishing areas including the guarantee of income generation through the sale of fish. In the Capivara fishing accord, guarantee of control over the land and other resources (fishing and hunting) promoted greater engagement in the actual fishing accord. In the reconstruction of São Luiz do Paraitinga, the guarantee of social participation in decisions on the undertaking of important restoration work encouraged the involvement of the population and ensured alignment with cultural identity values with positive repercussion also in the REDESUAPA stakeholder network.

    Existence of spaces that favor social interaction

    In five of the six cases analyzed, the existence of suitable spaces for social interaction provided greater social participation, which contributed to self-organization, and in two of the cases, we identified amplifying feedback.

    In the reconstruction of São Luiz do Paraitinga, these interaction spaces were (1) the main town square and the boulevard where the inhabitants usually gathered to chat and (2) the Center for Sustainable Reconstruction of São Luiz do Paraitinga (CERESTA), a venue created to bring together people interested in planning reconstruction after the flood. CERESTA originally housed the group that would later become the REDESUAPA stakeholder network. When this space ceased to exist, the members of REDESUAPA were able to find other suitable spaces to continue their activities. In the artisanal fishing monitoring program in Tarituba, the school housed the entire process of preparing the monitoring program because it was an easily accessible place where community members felt comfortable, which favored greater participation of fishers. In the reaction to protected areas in Trindade, the community used three spaces to gather and address collective issues: (1) the public school, (2) the beach where fishers and boaters dock their boats and fishing nets, and (3) the headquarters for the local association. Their existence contributed to community self-organization by providing better structure for the community to plan and discuss their actions. In the Capivara fishing accord, the space in question resulted from the self-organization process; the fishers built a multi-purpose floating shed for meetings and lodging, which consequently favored the group’s interaction and fed back into their self-organization by reinforcing it.

    Agency oriented to collective mobilization and problem solving

    In all cases, the agency of certain individuals was placed at the service of community interests to mobilize people and collectively solve problems, thus amplifying the capacity for self-organization directly or through feedback. This was observed with respect to some of the leaders of the residents’ association in the reorganization of tourism at Aventureiro, who conducted the legal negotiations for the authorization of tourism activities. In the Capivara fishing accord, some individuals played a vital role in collective problem solving, motivating and offering a vision of the future, mobilizing and organizing, and dialoguing with external actors, which resulted in the fishing accord. In the reconstruction of São Luiz do Paraitinga, people did not wait for someone to tell them what to do to face the crisis; they simply identified the needs and started to act with several individuals playing key roles in coordinating the initiatives.

    At the REDESUAPA stakeholder network, key individuals identified moments of crisis and mobilized the group for appropriate action. When poor alignment within the group was identified, the issue was discussed openly and led to a collective decision to seek guidance from an external facilitator. This resulted in the definition of the group’s goals, vision, and values, and gave the network an identity, which in turn reinforced its plans and actions. In the artisanal fishing monitoring program in Tarituba, the participation of community leaders in the workshops legitimized the process and encouraged the engagement of other community members, i.e., feeding back to self-organization and amplifying it. In the reaction to protected areas in Trindade, local leaders were aware of their role in continuously mobilizing the community (for example, through traditional festivities) because this strengthened the community, generated social capital, and helped deal with common problems, i.e., feeding back and reinforcing self-organization.

    One of the expressions of such agency is the role of these individuals in, for example, coordinating partnerships, mobilizing resources, and generating benefits for the community or themselves. In this sense, the agency is an element of the feedback chain that is reinforced by the benefits reaped at the individual level. This aspect can generate stabilizing feedback of self-organization, as discussed below.

    DISCUSSION

    Our framing of self-organization combining community resilience, social-ecological resilience, and system dynamics distinguishes this work. There are a few publications under a social-ecological perspective that combine community self-organization and resilience (e.g., Saxena 2020, Gabriel-Campos et al. 2021, Almudi and Sinclair 2022), however, community resilience and operating feedback loops are not addressed. Likewise, although previous work investigated the resources, capitals, strengths, and capacities of communities regarding their resilience and ability to self-organize (e.g., Magis 2010, Berkes and Ross 2013, Atkinson et al. 2017, Faulkner et al. 2018, Saxena 2020, Almudi and Sinclair 2022), our work takes a further step. Besides analyzing and synthesizing what enables communities to overcome crises through self-organization, we unpacked the dynamics of such processes and were able to identify feedback mechanisms that strengthened self-organization. Our results show that the elements identified in successful cases of community self-organization were interconnected, that is, they affected and often reinforced one another, consequently amplifying self-organization. It is not feasible to establish linear cause-and-effect relationships because these are complex systems, and it is difficult to determine what is more important or what comes first. Therefore, the individual presence of these elements was probably not a determinant factor for the success of self-organized initiatives. Perhaps more important were the properties that emerged from the group of elements, how the elements interacted among themselves, and how they were activated by community members (Seixas and Davy 2008, Berkes and Ross 2013, Anderson et al. 2019). The six elements identified in our work dialogue with (and therefore confirm) different strengths and characteristics that assisted with the development of community resilience (Berkes and Ross 2013). Some differences exist, though, especially with respect to how agency connected with other elements of self-organization.

    The literature on social-ecological resilience has many examples of system crises that make room for innovation or reorganization (Seixas and Berkes 2003, Marschke and Berkes 2006, Prado et al. 2015, Faulkner et al. 2018, Leite et al. 2019, Araujo et al. 2020). In the cases studied, crises served as triggers for self-organization. The willingness or ability to find opportunities in crises is precisely what validates them as favorable times for reorganization (cases III, IV, VI), renewal (case II), or innovation (cases I and V). In our view, such ability can be individual or collective and dialogues with a positive outlook, a trait related to community resilience (Berkes and Ross 2013, Maclean et al. 2016). However, some community members must grasp this beforehand, otherwise the system may reorganize itself by repeating the logic that generated the crisis, through memory or path dependence (Nykvist and von Heland 2014, Choudhury et al. 2021), or even through rigidity and poverty traps, among others (Cumming 2018, Haider et al. 2018).

    We also observed that self-organization in response to a crisis may follow a pulse-like behavior over time; when the crisis is no longer a concrete threat, or when the window of opportunity closes, there may be a tendency to demobilize. In other words, when the pressure eases, the tendency is to relax. Nevertheless, previous experiences of crises are important to confer community resilience (Faulkner et al. 2018). In this sense, our results suggest it is essential to keep latent in the community the set of factors that favor self-organization, such as available resources to meet new demands to solve problems or disturbances that are less intense in the short term. A promising mechanism that feeds back into self-organizing capacity is the ongoing exercise of community activities that enhance community resilience (Berkes and Ross 2013), for instance, through the preservation of traditional celebrations, which are based on collaboration, i.e., organized, financed, and executed with widespread community participation (Derrett 2009, Santos 2016, Araujo et al. 2020, Saxena et al. 2020). This has proved especially effective in the reconstruction of São Luiz do Paraitinga and in the reaction to protected areas in Trindade.

    Long-term and continuous resilience building benefit from interconnections between slow-changing elements, such as human and social capital, and related collective values and social norms (Carmen et al. 2022). Carmen et al. (2022) argued that the role of social capital in community resilience is less discussed than its subjective socio-cultural dimensions such as sense of place and social norms. These dimensions are connected to community networks influencing the emergence of resilience and making them relevant to strengthen social capital. Social capital can be fostered by the practice of cultural activities that preserve group identity and collective memories of collaborative practices (cases II, IV, V, and VI), or built through the continued practice of social organization in the struggle to affirm rights (cases I and IV). The traditional celebrations and livelihood activities (e.g., fisheries and tourism) have played relevant roles as permanent exercises of interconnecting skills, knowledge, and abilities as well as perpetuating subjective aspects of belonging and community rules, such as sharing fish.

    Social capital has a synergistic character that contributes to minimizing potential friction among individuals. In this sense, when social capital is established prior to the crisis, it enhances self-organizing responses, i.e., it predisposes the community to collective action and creates conditions for self-organization to flourish. Seixas and Davy (2008) stressed the importance of social capital in self-organized community conservation and development initiatives. Aldrich (2012), in his research on the recovery of different neighborhoods in Tokyo after the 1923 earthquake, highlighted the greater importance of social capital compared to other factors such as disaster intensity, population density, human capital, and economic capital.

    Partnerships with external actors and the performance of bridging organizations can increase both social and human capital (Prado 2020, Saxena 2020) expanding self-organization through training and courses (cases III and IV) and cultural mobilization (cases II and IV). This element relates to social networks from Berkes and Ross (2013). Bridging organizations play important roles, especially by encouraging initiatives that favor cooperation and confidence building, knowledge sharing, learning situations, identification of common interests, and flexibility in interactions and conflict mediation (Hahn et al. 2006, Kowalski and Jenkins 2015, Berdej and Armitage 2016, Saxena 2020). Networks that benefit from the action of bridging organizations can access resources or human and social capital that do not exist in the community (Seixas and Davy 2008, Chapin et al. 2016). In our cases, the external partners played different roles, preventing the self-organized process from being interrupted or becoming sluggish. In the specific case of the reconstruction of São Luiz do Paraitinga, the external agents found excellent human and social capital in the community, which used the resources at hand efficiently and autonomously in institutional designs that tended more to partnership and cooperation than assistance or charity. Like partnerships with external actors, economic incentives are essential for self-organization (Seixas and Davy 2008, Berkes and Ross 2013, Anderson et al. 2019) and may frequently lead to enduring behavioral change (Muradian 2013). In our study, we linked the generation of income opportunities and the guarantee of rights because both relate to the ability to preserve a community’s way of life and cultural reproduction. In addition, both provide material conditions for the process to keep “the wheel of self-organization spinning,” i.e., they build momentum by generating amplifying feedback of self-organization. Indeed, in all cases, the self-organization processes were triggered by crises that directly impacted the livelihoods of communities.

    Many of the elements that emerged from our cases are crucial for community self-organizing processes in other contexts of the global south, especially the role of external partnerships when the state is often absent or there are no established public policies to deal with common crises in natural resource governance (Prado et al. 2022). Partnerships that go beyond an occasional philanthropic support but are ongoing and have the potential to change the status quo have been important in other cases as well (Angeles and Gurstein 2000, Bockstael 2017, Anderson et al. 2019, Prado 2020). Such partnerships can also generate knowledge and security to face future situations; in the case of the artisanal fishing monitoring program in Tarituba, we hypothesized that access to information generated from the monitoring activities may favor fishers’ autonomy and emancipation, thus strengthening the group’s self-organization in the future.

    The existence of spaces that favor social interaction may relate to what Berkes and Ross (2013) pointed out as community infrastructure. They emphasize the nonmaterial importance of such spaces, which serve as sites for free conversation, thus increasing participation and building momentum for self-organization. Such spaces allow information to circulate among a greater number of stakeholders compared to one-on-one interaction, which contributes to collective decision-making (Zank et al. 2019, Saxena 2020). Similarly, in self-organized initiatives of community conservation and development, information flow was also favored through workshops and meetings among stakeholders, which made it possible to plan and implement projects (Seixas and Davy 2008). We stress that being politically neutral (e.g., a school or public square), such spaces allow explanations and different opinions, favoring the construction of understanding about the situation through debate at a site that is legitimate for everyone involved. In turn, it prevents polarization that potentially occurs in spaces frequented only by members of a certain group or opinion. Additionally, it is possible that such spaces may favor the development of deeper social relations among stakeholders, strengthening collaboration among them, and affecting collaborative outcomes (Bodin 2017); however, this remains to be explored by future research.

    Agency is a determining factor in how individuals or communities respond to different environmental stressors and is clearly linked to the concept of adaptive capacity from the social-ecological viewpoint (Brown and Westaway 2011). In the cases analyzed, agency plays a prominent role in community dynamics, acting as a catalyst for self-organization by generating amplifying feedback that positively affects other elements. Different from Berkes and Ross (2013), in which community strengths and characteristics lead to agency and self-organization, we observed that agency stimulated the construction or strengthening of human capital (cases III and IV) and social capital (cases I, IV, V, VI); favored partnership with external actors (cases I and VI); contributed to the generation of income opportunities (cases I and III) and the establishment of spaces favorable to social interaction (cases I and IV); and encouraged action (cases II and III). It is also noteworthy that agency is not in itself a prerogative of successful self-organization, not least because self-organization occurs in living systems at all levels, from cell to biosphere (Meadows and Wright 2008), and does not presuppose intention, will, or intelligence. However, we note the importance of agency being oriented toward collective rather than individual interests. When collective interests prevail over individual ones, it is less likely to generate feedback that will inhibit the self-organization process, which occurs when individuals have polarizing ideas and establish power-conflict dynamics.

    Finally, this study is aligned with the current trends of commons’ studies based on the social-ecological systems (SES) framework (Ostrom 2009), which has broadened SES research through the development of multiple conceptual approaches based on different literatures and with emphasis at the community level (Partelow 2018). Our study is a synthesis with results based on primary data drawn from multiple empirical studies of different sectors that may potentially add to the literature directly engaged with the SES Framework (Partelow 2018). Ostrom’s framework presents a list of social and ecological variables influencing cooperation in solving social dilemmas, including “self-organizing activities” as a second-tier “interactions” variable. Around 15 out of 92 articles reviewed by Partelow (2018) included this variable in the analysis, despite its relevant link to institutional change and collective action theories. Although not based on Ostrom’s framework, our results support/confirm the hypothesis that community agents are capable of cooperating and self-organizing under different social and ecological conditions to solve collective problems. This work contributes to the debate on collective action because it discusses how different elements interact and produce amplifying feedback when communities act collectively in face of crises. Our approach allowed us to (1) standardize and compare different empirical cases of self-organization from primary data; (2) identify common elements of community self-organization; (3) explore how these elements influence the dynamics of self-organization beyond mere “ingredients” of a formula. We moved forward to understand which interactions (feedback) have arisen and contributed to self-organization.

    SPECULATION

    We also observed the existence of some potentially stabilizing feedback of self-organization. Examples were internal conflicts in the communities, which may generate feedback that inhibits self-organization by increasing discord and disputes (and even polarization) among community members. Despite pervading ongoing social processes in our cases, conflicting interactions did not prevent alignment around common interests. Cases in point are the development of the artisanal fishing monitoring program in Tarituba, in which some fishers did not take part because of the presence of other fishers with whom they had some type of conflict, and in the reaction to protected areas in Trindade and in the reorganization of community-based tourism at Aventureiro, where, power clashes occurred between community leaders.

    It is important for a community to have a diverse range of ideas and opinions to draw on for the resolution of common problems. These ideas may be divergent, and whether such divergence favors the search for creative solutions or generates friction to the point of undermining self-organized action is a hard point to determine. Conflicts may be transformed or temporarily minimized according to the intensity of the disturbance, for instance in the reconstruction of São Luiz do Paraitinga in which lives were at risk, or in the reorganization of community-based tourism at Aventureiro and the Capivara fishing accord, reaction to protected areas in Trindade and the artisanal fishing monitoring program in Tarituba in which the families’ livelihoods were threatened. Thus, having mechanisms that allow the alignment of local agents around common goals is key for community self-organization processes.

    The discussions raised led us to reflect on the role of the state in community self-organization in the face of disturbances in local social-ecological systems. States and other dominant agents may weaken/undermine self-organization at the local level by deviating such processes from their course of action toward rigid political forms of organization and action (Atkinson et al. 2017). Nonetheless, the state’s recognition of the right of local users to create their own institutions (i.e., to self-organize) is one of the guiding principles for the successful management of commons (understood as social-ecological systems) according to Ostrom (1990). The lack of such recognition regarding the legitimacy of locally established initiatives generates stabilizing feedback, which discourages community self-organization. This is illustrated by what happened in the artisanal fishing monitoring program in Tarituba, whereby the initiative to develop a statement of commitment for artisanal fishing in the PA emerged locally among PA management and local fishers in 2012. When it was submitted to the headquarters of the PA Federal Agency in 2013, approval was delayed for four years because of ideological disputes within the agency (Seixas et al. 2017, Dias and Seixas 2019). This event discouraged the participation of fishers in other initiatives and undermined the PA managers’ credibility with them. Even if government actions do not intentionally favor interactions that may develop into self-organized processes to address disturbances in local social-ecological systems, it is vital that they should not produce the opposite effect, undermining such initiatives through a technocratic and centralized work logic.

    CONCLUDING REMARKS

    Our approach to synthesizing the findings of six cases of successful community self-organization allowed us to shed some light on how such processes are structured and developed. We explored how common elements of successful community self-organization combine and interact, favoring self-organization directly or indirectly by generating amplifying feedback of these very processes. We observed the ability to transform crisis into an opportunity to invest resources (material and human) with the potential to generate income. In these processes, bridging organizations played an extremely important role, but a minimum of human and social capital must be established and structured in the communities to enable opportunities to be taken. It is also important to have physical spaces for interaction (both among members of the community and between them and external partners) where people feel at ease to express their opinions. Such spaces enable the flow of information and collective decision-making around common goals. Another factor that proved to be important was agency oriented to collective goals, mediated by a community’s common identity or sense of place.

    Different cultural practices and livelihoods are exercises in collective action, which provide communities with a wide range of responses that can be activated in times of crisis, affording them the capacity to self-organize. This indicates, therefore, that the incentive to preserve cultural practices is an issue that goes beyond the actual cultural dimension. Thus, public initiatives and policies that foster cultural practices of a community have the potential to reverberate in other apparently unrelated fields, such as the ability to respond to a disaster, to evaluate the impacts of fishing activities, and to plan land-use strategies. Additionally, they can reverberate in work methodologies based on collective action practiced over generations, analogous to what we know today as crowdsourcing and crowdfunding, such as mutual-aid farming, house building, fundraising, and traditional festivals.

    Lastly, as food for thought, we propose considering to what extent individualism, which has increased in contemporary Western society, can affect relationships usually based on common identity, cultural practices, trust, and reciprocity, and its potential implications for the capacity for community self-organization. Is there a disturbance threshold in which acting collectively becomes an imperative for individual survival and not just an option for coping with crises?

    RESPONSES TO THIS ARTICLE

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    ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

    We thank the Fundação de Amparo à Pesquisa do Estado de São Paulo for the financial aid for regular research (process no. 2015/19439-8); Coordenação de Aperfeiçoamento de Pessoal de Nível Superior (Funding Code 001); Conselho Nacional de Desenvolvimento Científico e Tecnológico; Fundo de Apoio ao Ensino, à Pesquisa e Extensão (FAEPEX/Unicamp); the Community Conservation Research Network (CCRN) and the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council (SSHRC) of Canada; and Coordenadoria dos Centros e Núcleos da Unicamp. We also thank the members of the CGCommons research group and members of the communities and social organizations who kindly shared their time and knowledge to enable this research.

    DATA AVAILABILITY

    Data/code sharing is not applicable.

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    Corresponding author:
    Alice Moraes
    moraes.alice@gmail.com
    Appendix 1
    Appendix 2
    Appendix 3
    Fig. 1
    Fig. 1. Communities with successful self-organization to solve specific socio-environmental issues and their location in Brazil: I - Capivara Sector, Middle Solimões River, Amazonas; II - São Luiz do Paraitinga, São Paulo; III - REDESUAPA, Upper Paraíba do Sul River, São Paulo; IV - Trindade, Paraty, Rio de Janeiro; V - Tarituba, Paraty, Rio de Janeiro; VI - Aventureiro, Ilha Grande, Rio de Janeiro.

    Fig. 1. Communities with successful self-organization to solve specific socio-environmental issues and their location in Brazil: I - Capivara Sector, Middle Solimões River, Amazonas; II - São Luiz do Paraitinga, São Paulo; III - REDESUAPA, Upper Paraíba do Sul River, São Paulo; IV - Trindade, Paraty, Rio de Janeiro; V - Tarituba, Paraty, Rio de Janeiro; VI - Aventureiro, Ilha Grande, Rio de Janeiro.

    Fig. 1
    Table 1
    Table 1. Key words and expressions from each case of successful community self-organization in Brazil related to the basic mechanisms of coordinated self-organization proposed by Heylighen (2013).

    Table 1. Key words and expressions from each case of successful community self-organization in Brazil related to the basic mechanisms of coordinated self-organization proposed by Heylighen (2013).

    Cases Alignment Division of labor Workflow Aggregation
    I- Capivara fishing accord Common goal: to establish the accord in response to declining fish stocks, conflicts with large-scale fishing operations. Lake surveillance and monitoring by fishers. Cycles of lake surveillance and monitoring followed by fish harvesting. Increase of fish stocks and income; greater control of lakes by the community.
    II- Reconstruction of São Luiz do Paraitinga, SP Common goal: to rescue all citizens (special attention to elders and disabled), provide basic conditions (food, shelter), restore infrastructure. Mobilization of civil society, public and private sectors in activities such as cleaning the town and ensuring the provision of utilities. Decision-making regarding emergency situations as well as initiatives to rebuild the town. Reconstruction of destroyed historical buildings (including the main church), resuming normal life.
    III- REDESUAPA stakeholder network Common goal (2010): to avoid future natural disasters such as the 2010 flood.
    Common goal (2015): to re-align values and common goals.
    2010: development of projects focusing on conservation strategies (soil, water) in the rural area.
    2015: development of one workshop with an external facilitator.
    2010: seeking funding, contact with smallholders, implementation of actions.
    2015: meetings, discussions and reflections; new members joined the group.
    2010: income generation for smallholders; implementation of alternative production systems.
    2015: creation of REDESUAPA network.
    IV- Reaction to protected areas in Trindade, RJ Common goal: to mitigate/solve conflicts between the community and the protected area. Members of two local associations planned several initiatives. Implementation of the initiatives (e.g., representation in PA steering committees; negotiation with PA; hiring of qualified advisory services; strengthening of partnerships in local/regional networks). Building of a headquarters for local associations; building of the School of the Sea.
    V- Artisanal fishing monitoring program in Tarituba, RJ Common goal: to mitigate conflicts between fishers and the marine protected area by establishing an agreement to allow artisanal fishing under specific conditions. Different stakeholders involved contributed to the construction of a monitoring program from their individual viewpoints. Decision-making by the protected area steering committee regarding the monitoring program set the pace of the actions involved in its construction. Establishment of a directive with defined goals and indicators.
    VI- Reorganization of community-based tourism at Aventureiro, RJ Common goal: to reestablish local tourism (campgrounds) and other activities related to local livelihoods. Local leaderships and residents and external partners looking for alternative livelihoods. Rounds of legal negotiations involving stakeholders. Admission and regulation of local tourism by a formal agreement.
    Table 2
    Table 2. Elements present in the case studies of successful community self-organization in Brazil.

    Table 2. Elements present in the case studies of successful community self-organization in Brazil.

    Elements Case studies
    Capivara fishing accord Reconstruction of São Luiz do Paraitinga REDESUAPA stakeholder network Reaction to protected areas in Trindade Artisanal fishing monitoring program in Tarituba Reorganization of community-based tourism at Aventureiro
    Ability and/or willingness to find opportunity in crisis x x x x x
    Partnerships with external actors x x x x x x
    Human capital and social capital in the community x x x x x x
    Generation of income opportunities and/or guarantee of rights x x x x x x
    Existence of spaces that favor social interaction x x x x x No data available
    Agency oriented to collective mobilization and problem solving x x x x x x
    Table 3
    Table 3. Elements and examples of feedback amplifying community self-organization in the analyzed cases.

    Table 3. Elements and examples of feedback amplifying community self-organization in the analyzed cases.

    Elements that contribute to self-organization Cases presenting feedback amplifying self-organization Examples of amplifying feedback related to each element contributing to self-organization
    Ability to find opportunity in crisis Except “Capivara fishing accord” Reconstruction of São Luiz do Paraitinga: investment in infrastructure undamaged by the flood made possible by technical and financial assistance received because of the disaster.
    REDESUAPA stakeholder network: the 2013/2014 drought destroyed several areas of pilot projects (crisis); the group then intensified its technical assistance to smallholders to avoid greater loss and abandonment.
    Partnerships with external actors All Capivara fishing accord: informal partnerships enabled validation of pirarucu monitoring, strengthening the fishing accord.
    Reaction to protected areas in Trindade: partnership with the Indigenous and traditional communities’ forum enabled social mapping.
    Artisanal fishing monitoring program in Tarituba: inclusion of indicators of the socioeconomic relevance of fishing for the local population favored the autonomy of fishers and strengthened self-organization.
    Human and social capital in the community All Reconstruction of São Luiz do Paraitinga: individuals trained in rafting techniques (human capital) provided organization and collective action (social capital) for rescuing people stranded by the flood.
    Reaction to protected areas in Trindade: constant development of initiatives by the associations to affirm culture and land rights enriched human and social capital.
    Reorganization of community-based tourism at Aventureiro: social capital favored the search for alternative livelihoods to tourism, which also favored the development of human capital.
    Generation of income opportunities and/or guarantee of rights All
    Capivara fishing accord: income obtained from managed fishing was invested in new monitoring cycles of the fishing accord.
    REDESUAPA stakeholder network: income generated for smallholders strengthened and amplified the network’s performance.
    Reaction to protected areas in Trindade: economic security provided by tourism activities is vital for activities related to community causes.
    Artisanal fishing monitoring program in Tarituba: income generated by artisanal fishing and the struggle for fishing rights stimulated fishers’ interest in contributing to the collective development of the monitoring program.
    Spaces conducive to social interaction “Reconstruction of São Luiz do Paraitinga” and “Capivara fishing accord” Reconstruction of São Luiz do Paraitinga: main town square, boulevard, and center for sustainable reconstruction brought together actors interested in reconstruction, enabling information flow and favoring collective decision-making.
    Capivara fishing accord: self-organization led fishers to build a multi-purpose floating shed for meetings and lodging, which favored interaction and reinforced self-organization.
    Agency oriented to collective problem solving All
    Capivara fishing accord: leadership engagement provided personal “benefits” and helped support the fishing accord.
    REDESUAPA stakeholder network: key individuals identified moments of crisis and mobilized the group to take appropriate action.
    Reaction to protected areas in Trindade and Artisanal fishing monitoring program in Tarituba: coordination of various activities that strengthened sense of community and helped face issues arising from the implementation of no-take protected areas.
    Artisanal fishing monitoring program in Tarituba: leadership engagement favored the building of bonds of trust with external partners and mobilized the participation of other fishers in the development of the monitoring program.
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    Home > VOLUME 28 > ISSUE 1 > Article 6 Research

    Evidence of spatial competition, over resource scarcity, as a primary driver of conflicts between small-scale and industrial fishers

    Seto, K. L., K. J. Easterday, D. W. Aheto, G. A. Asiedu, U. R. Sumaila, and K. M. Gaynor. 2023. Evidence of spatial competition, over resource scarcity, as a primary driver of conflicts between small-scale and industrial fishers. Ecology and Society 28(1):6. https://doi.org/10.5751/ES-13650-280106
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    • Katherine L. SetoORCID, Katherine L. Seto
      Department of Environmental Studies, University of California, Santa Cruz, California, USA
    • Kelly J. Easterday, Kelly J. Easterday
      The Nature Conservancy, California Program, Sacramento, California, USA
    • Denis W. Aheto, Denis W. Aheto
      Centre for Coastal Management – Africa Centre of Excellence in Coastal Resilience, University of Cape Coast, Ghana ; Department of Fisheries and Aquatic Sciences, University of Cape Coast, Ghana
    • Godfred A. Asiedu, Godfred A. Asiedu
      Council for Scientific and Industrial Research-Food Research Institute, Accra, Ghana
    • U. Rashid Sumaila, U. Rashid Sumaila
      Fisheries Economics Research Unit, Institute for the Oceans and Fisheries, The University of British Columbia; School of Public Policy and Global Affairs, the University of British Columbia, Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada
    • Kaitlyn M. GaynorKaitlyn M. Gaynor
      National Center for Ecological Analysis and Synthesis, Santa Barbara, California, USA

    The following is the established format for referencing this article:

    Seto, K. L., K. J. Easterday, D. W. Aheto, G. A. Asiedu, U. R. Sumaila, and K. M. Gaynor. 2023. Evidence of spatial competition, over resource scarcity, as a primary driver of conflicts between small-scale and industrial fishers. Ecology and Society 28(1):6.

    https://doi.org/10.5751/ES-13650-280106

  • Abstract
  • Introduction
  • Methods
  • Results
  • Discussion
  • Conclusion
  • Responses to This Article
  • Acknowledgments
  • Data Availability
  • Literature Cited
  • artisanal; coastal fisheries; intersectoral fishing conflict; West Africa
    Evidence of spatial competition, over resource scarcity, as a primary driver of conflicts between small-scale and industrial fishers
    Copyright © 2022 by the author(s). Published here under license by The Resilience Alliance. This article is under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License. You may share and adapt the work provided the original author and source are credited, you indicate whether any changes were made, and you include a link to the license.
    Research

    ABSTRACT

    Accounts of fishing conflicts have been rising globally, particularly between small-scale and industrial vessels. These conflicts involve verbal or physical altercations, and may include destruction of boats, assault, kidnapping, and murder. Current scholarship around industrial/small-scale fishing conflicts theorizes them as a form of resource conflict, where fish scarcity is the dominant contributor to conflict and competition. Alternatively, conflicts may be driven by spatial competition, concentrating where there are increased encounters, unrelated to resource status. Current policies to address these conflicts focus on enforcing the separation of small-scale and industrial vessels; however, this broad spatial separation has yet to be evaluated for deterring conflicts. Here we employ a novel spatial analysis to estimate the locations of industrial/small-scale conflicts at sea in Ghana, West Africa. Using data from narrative reports over the period of 1985 to 2014, we combine qualitative information on depth and shoreline indicators to analyze conflict locations. We find virtually all expected conflict locations (98%) occurred within the zone meant to exclude industrial vessels, and conflicts concentrated primarily around major ports. Our results suggest conflicts are likely more related to spatial patterns of vessel presence than patterns of resource use. These findings suggest a critical need for evidence-based and contextual information on the drivers of fisheries conflicts, rather than continued reliance on assumptions of resource scarcity. They also suggest that nuanced policies that reduce vessel encounter and clarify exclusive spatial rights may be more important in responding to these conflicts than approaches designed to broadly separate fleets or increase fish stocks.

    INTRODUCTION

    The utilization, study, and governance of marine resources occur primarily on land (Allison and Bassett 2015, McCauley et al. 2016), yet it is the interactions that occur “at sea” that matter most for marine resource sustainability and governance. Conflicts between fishing vessels are some of the most significant outcomes of these interactions at sea, and embody the evolving landscape of marine resource exploitation, competition, trade, and governance (Bavinck et al. 2014, Urbina 2015, Spijkers et al. 2019, Mendenhall et al. 2020). These conflicts involve verbal or physical altercations between individuals on separate fishing vessels, and accounts of these conflicts have been rising globally, particularly between small-scale fishing boats and more capitalized industrial vessels (Azad and Pamment 2020, Gunasekera 2021, Hunt 2021, Onyango 2021). In addition to the increasing prevalence of conflicts, evidence also indicates these conflicts are growing more severe in many locales, involving destruction of small-scale boats, assault, abandonment at sea, and murder (Fairlie 1999, Bavinck 2005, Environmental Justice Foundation 2007, Pomeroy et al. 2007, Dahlet et al. 2021). These conflicts represent a major threat to small-scale fishing lives and livelihoods (Environmental Justice Foundation 2005, 2012, BBC News 2016), and have been implicated in piracy and a host of human rights abuses, especially where governance is already weak (Murphy 2007, Brashares et al. 2014, FishWise 2014, Sumaila and Bawumia 2014, Glaser et al. 2019).

    Many small-scale fishers report that competition and conflicts with industrial boats represent one of the greatest threats to their fishing livelihoods (Kura et al. 2004, Salayo et al. 2006, JALA 2007, Environmental Justice Foundation 2021). Even when these industrial/small-scale fishing conflicts are not violent or illegal, they can result in damage to equipment and/or loss of fishing opportunities. Conflicts thus have economic, health, and psychological costs for small-scale fishing communities, and households that rely on catches for income, employment, and food security (Kura et al. 2004, Sumaila 2018). Furthermore, considering current global trends in rising fisheries exploitation, “per capita” fish consumption, exports (FAO 2020), and climate change (Cheung et al. 2009, Pinsky et al. 2018, Sumaila et al. 2019), this inter-sectoral competition and conflict is expected to intensify (Miller et al. 2013). Previous studies of small-scale fisheries have explored the role of diverse environmental phenomena (e.g., climate change, pollution; Islam and Tanaka 2004, Lam et al. 2012, Campbell and Hanich 2014), and social phenomena (e.g., war, migration; Jorion 1988, Binet et al. 2012, Gaynor et al. 2016, Seto et al. 2017) in altering small-scale fishing dynamics. However, relatively little research has explored competition and conflict between small-scale and industrial vessels, and their environmental, social, and economic consequences. This dearth of research is understandable, considering the logistical challenges associated with conducting empirical work on conflicts that occur intermittently at sea (Bennett et al. 2001, DuBois and Zografos 2012). Diverse institutions, from fisher associations to non-governmental organizations, have designed monitoring and reporting programs to document these conflicts and better understand their characteristics; however, such programs often require substantial operating funds and mobile technologies that are not always consistently available (Environmental Justice Foundation [date unknown], Salayo et al. 2006). Despite this lack of empirical evidence, the importance of these conflicts to fishing households is critical to understand, in order to take seriously the claims of small-scale fishers and to equitably and sustainably manage fish resources (Kura et al. 2004, Menon et al. 2013).

    Scholarship around industrial/small-scale fishing conflicts often theorizes them as a form of resource conflict, in that scarcity of fish resources is the dominant contributor to conflict and competition (DuBois and Zografos 2012, Pomeroy 2016). Within this framing, one hypothesis suggests that these conflicts occur because of the spatial expansion of small-scale fishing grounds, wherein small-scale fishers respond to locally dwindling stocks by expanding effort and fishing farther afield, thus overlapping in time and space with industrial vessels further from shore (FAO 2013, Mallory 2013, Brashares et al. 2014, Park et al. 2020). Another hypothesis suggests that resource conflicts are the result of industrial vessel incursion into inshore areas reserved for small-scale fishing; here, industrial vessels respond to declining catches by targeting increasingly shallow fishing grounds and fishing illegally in nearshore areas (Platteau 1989, Bavinck 2005, Kolding et al. 2014, Doumbouya et al. 2017). Alternatively, DuBois and Zografos (2012) provide a third hypothesis, differentiating between resource competition, that implies that vessels are targeting the same stocks, and spatial competition, which occurs whether or not the vessels are pursuing the same stocks. This hypothesis suggests that conflicts may not be related to scarcity-induced resource competition at all, but instead be driven by spatial competition, and therefore concentrate where there are increased encounters between small-scale and industrial vessels, unrelated to resource status (Diallo 1995, DuBois and Zografos 2012).

    An essential first step in mitigating these conflicts is understanding conflict location. It is critical to identify and analyze the specific areas where conflicts occur to formulate fisheries policies in general, and conflict management approaches in particular, as well as to investigate the dominant factors driving conflict patterns. Current policies to address intersectoral conflicts at sea focus primarily on enforcing the spatial separation of small-scale and industrial vessels (Belhabib et al. 2019). These spatial approaches take different forms, but all delineate inshore areas as “exclusion zones” reserved for small-scale fishers, whilst deeper grounds further offshore remain available for industrial exploitation. However, this broad spatial separation has yet to be evaluated as a strategy for addressing or deterring conflicts, and the design and implementation of these approaches may vary widely. Improving our understanding of the spatial dynamics of these conflicts is imperative for designing evidence-based and appropriate policy responses.

    We employ a novel spatial analysis to estimate the locations of industrial/small-scale conflicts at sea, to better understand potential conflict drivers, and related mitigation strategies. Our study was conducted in Ghana, West Africa, where small-scale fishing communities with some of the highest reliance on fish for food and income (FAO 2020) converge with extensive industrial fishing activity (Mullié 2019). Multiple publications have highlighted the importance of conflicts between small-scale and industrial fishers in Ghana (Mullié 2019, Ameyaw et al. 2021, Environmental Justice Foundation 2021), and the government utilizes a well-established inshore exclusion zone (IEZ) that is well-known by small-scale and industrial fishers. Using data from narrative reports on intersectoral conflicts at sea over the period of 1985 to 2014, we combined qualitative information on depth and shoreline indicators to conduct an analysis of conflict locations. Based on this spatial analysis, we explored support for alternative hypotheses for the drivers of conflicts at sea. If conflict is driven by resource competition via expansion of small-scale fishing grounds (H1), conflicts should primarily occur beyond the inshore exclusion zone reserved for small-scale fishers. If conflict is driven by resource competition via nearshore incursion of industrial fleets (H2), conflicts should primarily occur within the inshore exclusion zone on the continental shelf, where target species tend to aggregate. If conflict is driven by spatial competition, distinguished by Dubois and Zografos (2012) as unrelated to direct competition for resources (H3), conflicts should primarily occur near ports where there is high vessel traffic. Although we note that in some cases these drivers may collectively contribute to conflicts, we consider the three hypotheses as supported by distinct spatial trends. Finally, we recommend potential improvements to conflict management and governance, based on our insights into their spatial pattern.

    METHODS

    We drew on historical records (1985–2014) from national fisheries data systems to understand spatial patterns of small-scale/industrial conflict at sea in Ghana. We defined small-scale and industrial fishing vessels according to domestic Ghanaian criteria outlined in the Ghana Fisheries Act 625 of 2002, considering “artisanal” within the small-scale sector, and aggregating both “semi-industrial” and “industrial” vessels within the industrial sector (Government of the Republic of Ghana 2002, Nunoo et al. 2014, Ameyaw et al. 2021). Although the Ghana Fisheries Act 625 of 2002 officially codified the IEZ in its current form, some form of IEZ was formally used at least as early as 1991 (Government of the Republic of Ghana 1991, Kwadjosse 2018, Alabi-Doku et al. 2020), and was likely used informally prior to its codification. With this in mind, we consider the IEZ rule to apply to all cases, but note the possibility that the IEZ may not have officially applied to the 23 cases that occurred before 1991.

    We compiled records from the Ghana Ministry of Fisheries and Aquaculture Development (MOFAD) Offices in Tema, Takoradi, and Accra, Ghana, as well as archives in Tema and Takoradi. Records represent cases from all four coastal regions in Ghana (Western Region, Central Region, Greater Accra Region, and Volta Region), which fishers submitted to the two Arbitration Committees—quasi-governmental institutions charged with arbitrating incidents at sea—located in Tema and Takoradi; descriptions of case characteristics are included in Table A1.1. Because the data only reflect those cases that were brought to the Committees, it is likely that a larger number of conflicts at sea occurred but were never reported (GNCFC and NAFPTA 2018). It is also possible that the issue of reporting may bias data toward cases that are more proximal to Arbitration Committee locations, although there were reported conflicts from a diversity of locations along the entire coastline, regardless of proximity to committee locations (Table A1.1; Fig. A1.1). Cases were considered discrete units as they were reported to the Arbitration Committees, though in some cases, multiple petitioners or multiple accused parties were named in a single case. The full set of records included a wide range of information, from simple date and time data to comprehensive narrative information from conflict participants as well as administrative and official documentation from Ministry officials, fishing companies, and Arbitration Committee members (Table A1.2).

    Conflict reports were not explicitly georeferenced, so to determine the probable location of each conflict, we relied on reported narrative information on both the depth and village waters where a conflict occurred (Table A1.1). A total of 380 out of 1063 records contained this information; although the remaining records have potential for additional quantitative and qualitative studies, we utilized the 380 with potential for spatial analyses. We created 50 nm sea space polygons to distinguish the local waters off the coast of each village. We then used these polygons to assign the depth values from the bathymetry raster to a village location based on their spatial overlap. This resulted in a list of spatially explicit points that had both depth and village sea space designation. For each recorded conflict, we used Python v.2.7.3 to assign a point for all locations that met both depth and location criteria. We then performed a kernel density analysis to create a map of probable historical conflict locations, weighting each point by the probability it represented a true conflict location (assuming equal probability of all potential locations for a given conflict). A radius of 10 km was calculated through a standard algorithm in the ArcGIS Kernel Density tool. This algorithm uses the unweighted distance of each point to another and the calculated mean center of the population to derive a standard distance. This radius also took into account the resolution of the bathymetric data that was used to derive potential conflict locations (Esri n.d., Silverman 1986). The resulting depiction represents the relative density of conflict throughout the study region.

    To evaluate our hypotheses about the drivers of conflict, we explored predicted conflict intensity by quantifying its overlap with various spatial features of interest. First, we created 10 km and 20 km buffers from the ports in Sekondi, Takoradi, and Tema, the three locations in Ghana where industrial vessels can access shore. Second, we used the 75 m isobath as a proxy for the continental shelf. Although neither geological nor legal definitions of the continental shelf stipulate specific depths or distances from shore (Dodds 2010, Rothwell and Stephens 2010, Pinet 2011, Long 2012), continental shelves are typically at < 150 meters depth and in Ghana the continental shelf is usually at < 75 meters depth (Koranteng 2001, Pinet 2011). Finally, we also considered two measures representing the IEZ in Ghana, where industrial vessels are prohibited from fishing, and fishing rights are reserved for small-scale fishers (Government of the Republic of Ghana 2002). Despite the clear legal definition of Ghana’s IEZ as the farthest limit of either the 30-meter isobath or the 6 nm offshore limit (Government of the Republic of Ghana 2002), the government, fishers, and other parties oftentimes use the 30-meter depth contour as a proxy. We therefore calculated two IEZ polygons: the first represented the 30-meter isobath used by the Government of Ghana as proxy for the IEZ (henceforth referred to as 30-m isobath), and we created the second based on bathymetry and distance to shore, to provide a more accurate representation of the IEZ as defined in the Ghana Fisheries Act 625 of 2002 (henceforth referred to as IEZ). Information on all spatial data layers is available in Table A1.3.

    To understand how conflict intensity varied with these spatial features, we calculated isopleths of the predicted conflict locations, ranging from 50% (the core zone of conflict) to 99% (the comprehensive zone of conflict), at 5% increments. Isopleths are spatial polygons that represent the smallest area containing a given percentage of all probable conflict locations (as determined through the weighted kernel density estimation). Conflict intensity thus decreased as isopleth percentage increased. We then calculated the percentage of each of these isopleth polygons that overlapped with each of the spatial features defined above (10 km from port, 20 km from port, continental shelf, 30-m isobath, and IEZ). We used ArcGIS v.10.2 to create all original data layers and both ArcGIS and R v.4.1.1 to perform spatial analysis.

    RESULTS

    We found that there were 380 conflict reports for which location data were available, and there were between one and 30 potential locations associated with each conflict (mean = 4.89, standard deviation = 4.59; Fig. A1.2). The predicted zone of conflict extended along the entire coast of Ghana (Fig. 1), with the comprehensive conflict zone (99% isopleth) encompassing an area of 15,616 km². The core conflict zone (50% isopleth) had a much smaller area of 1330 km², suggesting a high degree of clustering, because half of the probable conflict locations fell within < 10% of the area of the comprehensive conflict zone (Fig. 2; Fig. A1.3).

    Virtually all expected conflict locations occurred within the IEZ (98%), and the vast majority (81%) occurred within the 30 m isobath (Fig. 2). The core zone of conflict (50% isopleth) falls entirely within both the IEZ and the 30-m isobath. There was also complete overlap between the conflict zone and the continental shelf (Fig. 2).

    Conflicts at sea were concentrated primarily around major fishing ports, with 51% of the comprehensive zone of conflict (99% isopleth) falling within 10 km of ports, and 61% falling within 20 km (Fig. 2; Fig. A1.3). This pattern is even stronger when considering the core conflict zone (50% isopleth), of which 78% falls within 10 km of ports, and 98% within 20 km. In general, conflict intensity increases when in proximity to ports (Fig. A1.3). Predicted conflicts show some additional clustering separate from ports, but areas representing the core zone of conflict are substantially smaller (Figs. 1 and 2).

    DISCUSSION

    Using qualitative historical records on conflicts at sea in Ghana, we mapped and examined potential conflict locations and explored the implications of these spatial patterns for conflict theory and management. Our results indicate that ports represent conflict hotspots because of spatial overlap between industrial and small-scale vessels (H3). The strong clustering of conflict near ports suggests that intersectoral conflicts are shaped less by simple notions of resource scarcity, or “too many fishers chasing too few fish” (Pauly 1990, Pomeroy et al. 2016), and shaped more by vessel encounter between the two sectors. Furthermore, it suggests that rules around navigation in the IEZ may be essential to the success of spatial management, and potentially more important in reducing these conflicts than rules controlling only for fishing.

    Although this study does not preclude the possibility of resource decline (Lazar et al. 2020), there is little indication that areas near ports are disproportionately targeted for fishing, or that scarcity would be more prevalent in the hotspots identified in this study. Because industrialized fishing vessels are restricted to berthing within these larger ports, but small-scale fishing effort is dispersed throughout the coastline, it is far more likely that these conflicts would aggregate near ports because of increased industrial vessel presence. In fact, Ghana has approximately 300 small-scale fish landing sites distributed throughout the coast, and according to the 2016 frame survey, only 10% of small-scale fishing vessels are based in one of the three towns with large port facilities (Dovlo et al. 2016). It is important to note that resource competition may be expected to occur in other areas or time periods of target species concentration (e.g., seasonal spawning areas, migration corridors). However, only areas with a clear and consistent physical association (e.g., continental shelf) were utilizable in this study, and future research is needed to understand fine-scale spatiotemporal dynamics of resource conflict in relation to fish distribution.

    We also found some evidence that resource competition via nearshore incursion of industrial fleets (H2) shapes conflict. Almost all predicted conflict locations occurred on the continental shelf and within the inshore exclusion zone that is restricted for small-scale fishers, suggesting that incursion by industrial fleets (H2) is a more likely driver of conflict than the expansion of small-scale fishing grounds (H1). Because virtually all conflicts in the analysis fell within the IEZ, this indicates strong support for the fact that conflicts predominantly occur within the area restricted for small-scale fishers, and are not related to expanded small-scale effort. This understanding can assist in the design and monitoring of marine regulations, and enforcement strategy of these spatial zones. IEZs are defined in a multitude of ways in different contexts, from simple distance metrics from shore (e.g., Liberia; Government of Liberia Ministry of Agriculture 2011), to connected GPS coordinates (e.g., Sierra Leone; Government of the Republic of Sierra Leone 2017), to composite indicators combining multiple variables (e.g., Ghana; Government of the Republic of Ghana 2002). Additionally, these spatial zones may indicate a range of prohibited activities (e.g., fishing, navigation), excluded actors, and special conditions or exemptions (Belhabib et al. 2019). The concentration of conflicts on the continental shelf suggests that shelf location should be a critical component in the design of exclusive zones. Using a simple distance from shore metric may be sufficient if it encompasses the full continental shelf area, but where continental shelves extend beyond these distances (as in the case of Senegal, Cameroon, and many others), there may be substantial conflicts that are unaddressed by the existing spatial rules (Fig. 2). Furthermore, beyond the design of these rules, the knowledge of conflict prevalence on the continental shelf may help to more effectively target prevention, monitoring, and enforcement efforts, if conflicts are more concentrated within these areas.

    Spatial governance of ocean areas (e.g., marine spatial planning, marine protected areas, etc.) is a fundamental and growing component of ocean governance for coastal states (Roberts et al. 2005, Lorenzen et al. 2010). In Ghana, the IEZ is one of the oldest and most well-known of any restricted zones, and small-scale fishers are aware of, and often adamant about, the importance of this zone in preserving their fishing rights. However, although the Ghana Fisheries Act 625 of 2002 prohibits industrial and semi-industrial vessels fishing in the IEZ, it allows for navigation, and makes exceptions in the case of (a) permitted semi-industrial vessels targeting cephalopods, and (b) fishing vessels exempted by the Director of Fisheries (Government of the Republic of Ghana 2002). Therefore, it is not possible for small-scale fishers to know the full legal status of industrial vessels in the IEZ at the time of their interaction and potential conflict. Although these exemptions are not considered common practice, cases of exemptions are also not publicly available, and adding another layer of opacity for both fishers and fisheries officers. This ambiguity creates a potential misalignment between what may be the actual legal status of an industrial vessel in the IEZ and the perception of illegal behavior by small-scale fishers, who see themselves as having exclusive rights to inshore fishing areas. Therefore, the existence of these exceptions and exemptions may in fact exacerbate intersectoral conflicts, as they create the perception of exclusive spatial access for small-scale fishers, but fail to fully separate the fleets and impair the ability of both small-scale and industrial fishers to know with certainty the legality of industrial presence in this zone. Furthermore, any spatial monitoring and enforcement of this area by government or third parties requires knowledge not only of industrial vessel presence, but also activity (i.e., fishing versus navigation), and potential special status at that time. As such, methods of monitoring and enforcement that rely heavily on remote sensing (e.g., AIS, VMS, drones) are unlikely to be able to determine legality of activity without supplemental information. It may also prove challenging for fisheries officers involved in interdictions to validate in real time whether an industrial vessel has an active exemption, creating an added layer of uncertainty to the monitoring and enforcement of the IEZ.

    It is not possible to determine whether industrial and semi-industrial vessels identified in this study were engaged in illegal activity, which is often cited as a contributor to fisheries conflict (Belhabib et al. 2019). However, the numerous case narratives describing industrial fishing in the IEZ, combined with the extremely high proportion of conflicts that occurred within the IEZ make it unlikely that all conflicts in this zone were attributable to navigation, or to vessels with exempt status (Pauly et al. 2013, Debrah et al. 2018, Ameyaw et al. 2021). This analysis is, however, able to compare conflicts at sea in the IEZ as outlined in the Fisheries Act with conflicts at sea within the 30-meter contour line most often applied by governing agencies. In our analysis, over 2.5 times as many potential conflict locations were included in the IEZ than the 30-m isobaths (Fig. 1). Therefore, how an IEZ is described within legislation, and how it is interpreted by fishers and managers, has considerable implications for monitoring and enforcement. In this case, it is likely that many of these potential conflict locations were in fact located within the IEZ, but were not perceived as such. For example, in both conflict hotspots near Tema and Takoradi, the 6 nm offshore limit extends substantially farther than the 30-m isobath (Fig. A1.3), indicating that managers applying the 30-m isobath rule would omit a large number of conflicts actually located in the IEZ from their consideration in monitoring and enforcement.

    Although this study found that existing spatial management approaches (e.g., the IEZ) are inadequate to fully separate industrial and small-scale fleets and prevent conflicts at sea, some spatial methods are useful when they are well-designed. Our analysis suggests that IEZs should be designed with a few key factors in mind. First, the IEZ should fully encompass those areas traditionally fished by small-scale fishers, and be congruent with where small-scale fishers believe their exclusive rights to exist. These should be without exceptions and exemptions that might exacerbate frustrations by small-scale fishers, create uncertainty for fisheries officers, and obscure monitoring and enforcement efforts (GNCFC and NAFPTA 2018, Belhabib et al. 2019). Second, the IEZ should establish clear and conservative rules regarding navigation. The concentration of conflicts near ports suggests industrial vessels navigating are equally or more involved in conflicts when navigating than while fishing. Therefore, it is imperative to implement clear policies and obvious on-the-water indicators for where industrial vessels are allowed to navigate within the IEZ for the purposes of berthing. These rules should also be conservative, only allowing industrial vessels in narrow and well-defined areas for navigation, rather than throughout the IEZ. This relates to the need for clear and incontrovertible rights for small-scale fishers; if industrial activity may be exempt because of navigation or special status, the exclusive right of small-scale fishers is thrown into confusion. Implementation of effective rules pertaining to navigation is a key step in ensuring clarity and confidence on the part of small-scale and industrial fishers, as well as fisheries officers and enforcement agencies. Third, the IEZ should be legible to both small-scale fishers and industrial vessels, and strongly incorporate factors relating to the continental shelf. This study demonstrates that where the IEZ uses factors that are difficult to apply at sea, especially by small-scale fishers (e.g., 6 nm from shore), those factors are likely to be sidelined or ignored in favor of more interpretable factors (e.g., 30 m depth; Mullié 2019). With this in mind, and considering the strong concentration of conflicts on the continental shelf, we suggest that the IEZ should rely more heavily on depth indicators, which are legible at sea by both small-scale and industrial fishers (GNCFC and NAFPTA 2018). Together, these factors will improve the potential of spatial management to prevent and deter intersectoral conflicts, and better equip fisheries managers and monitoring, control, and surveillance officers to interpret and enforce the rules in these zones.

    Whereas the design factors above may improve the ability of IEZs to address these conflicts, social and institutional approaches will be particularly important, as the different cultures and political economies of these two fleets are of central importance. Institutions and actors that are able to bridge the divides between industrial and small-scale “sea tenure” systems (Cordell 1989, Kolding et al. 2014) will be critical in avoiding conflictual interactions at sea. Similarly, institutions that can mediate these conflicts on land and displace the “action arena” from sea space and into appropriate onshore fora will be key (Ratner et al. 2013). These institutions will require high levels of perceived legitimacy and low enough transaction costs to be seen as a viable alternative to conflict in sea space for both industrial and small-scale actors. The particular form that these institutions may take, and their relative complexity, will depend on a number of contextual factors including whether fleets are foreign or domestic, migratory or sedentary, mixed species or specialized, and many other factors.

    CONCLUSION

    We found that industrial/small-scale conflicts at sea occur largely within the IEZ reserved for small-scale fishers, and within this zone, they are concentrated near ports. These findings support claims by Ghanaian small-scale fishers regarding the incursion of industrial boats (GNCFC and NAFPTA 2018, Mullié 2019, Ameyaw et al. 2021), and additionally bring into question the dominant framing of these conflicts as a simple resource conflict, wherein fishers instinctively compete and conflict over the limited resources of fish. If this were the case, we would expect conflicts to concentrate most in areas of high fishing pressure or low fish availability. Instead, the concentration near ports suggests that conflicts are shaped more by the disproportionate presence of industrial vessels in these areas than by disproportionate presence of small-scale vessels, or by increased fishing pressure by either fleet. We also find no evidence for the hypothesis that conflicts are driven by the expansion of small-scale fishing into industrially fished areas beyond the IEZ. Together, these findings suggest a critical need for evidence-based and contextual information regarding the drivers of conflicts between small-scale and industrial fishers, rather than a continued reliance on assumptions of resource scarcity (Scholtens and Bavinck 2018). This also suggests that nuanced policies designed to reduce vessel encounter and clarify exclusive spatial rights may be equally or more important in responding to these conflicts than approaches designed to broadly separate fleets or increase fish stocks (Fisher et al. 2018).

    These intersectoral conflicts represent a major challenge to small-scale fishing lives and livelihoods, and in many places are more of a threat than other much more cited issues of climate-induced migrations, overfishing and local depletions, and pollution. Effectively addressing them will require tapping into the core legitimacy of different fishing communities and their claims, rather than a simple line on a map.

    RESPONSES TO THIS ARTICLE

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    ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

    We thank the women and men who assisted with the archival data collection for this study, including Paul Bannerman, Alex Sabah, Scott Apawudzaa, Francis K. Nunoo, Theo Kwadjosse, Josephine Laryea, Donkor, and Mr. Tettey. We also thank members of the Brashares lab, especially Briana Abrams, Alex McInturff, and Kathryn Fiorella for their feedback on the formulation of this study and valuable comments on earlier drafts of this manuscript. We also thank Lincoln Pitcher and Daniel Robson for analytical and editorial support. This work was supported by NSF-GEO grant CNH115057, as well as by the Andrew and Mary Thompson Rocca Scholarship in Advanced African Studies, the West African Research Association, the Institute of International Studies John L. Simpson Memorial Research Fellowship, and the National Science Foundation Graduate Research Fellowship Program (to K.L.S.).

    DATA AVAILABILITY

    Data for this study are owned by the Government of Ghana Ministry of Fisheries and Aquaculture Development (MOFAD) and may be requested through official government channels.

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    Corresponding author:
    Katherine L. Seto
    klseto@ucsc.edu
    Appendix 1
    Fig. 1
    Fig. 1. Predicted spatial patterns of conflict between small-scale and industrial fishing vessels for (A) the entire study region along the coast of Ghana. This predicted conflict density was based on narrative information on conflict location as reported in historical conflict records (1985-2014). Insets show the areas around (B) the Tema port and (C) the Takoradi/Sekondi ports.

    Fig. 1. Predicted spatial patterns of conflict between small-scale and industrial fishing vessels for (A) the entire study region along the coast of Ghana. This predicted conflict density was based on narrative information on conflict location as reported in historical conflict records (1985-2014). Insets show the areas around (B) the Tema port and (C) the Takoradi/Sekondi ports.

    Fig. 1
    Fig. 2
    Fig. 2. The association of conflict between small-scale and industrial fishers with spatial features of interest (continental shelf, Inshore Exclusion Zone (IEZ), 30-m isobath, and port proximity) off the coast of Ghana. The overlap value on the y-axis corresponds to the percentage of each predicted conflict isopleth (50%, 95%, and 99%) that falls within the polygon associated with each spatial feature. Isopleths are spatial polygons that represent the smallest area containing a given percentage of all probable conflict locations, as determined through weighted kernel density estimation. The inset map illustrates the spatial distribution of the 50%, 95%, and 99% conflict isopleths along the coast of Ghana (land shown in gray).

    Fig. 2. The association of conflict between small-scale and industrial fishers with spatial features of interest (continental shelf, Inshore Exclusion Zone (IEZ), 30-m isobath, and port proximity) off the coast of Ghana. The overlap value on the y-axis corresponds to the percentage of each predicted conflict isopleth (50%, 95%, and 99%) that falls within the polygon associated with each spatial feature. Isopleths are spatial polygons that represent the smallest area containing a given percentage of all probable conflict locations, as determined through weighted kernel density estimation. The inset map illustrates the spatial distribution of the 50%, 95%, and 99% conflict isopleths along the coast of Ghana (land shown in gray).

    Fig. 2
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    Home > VOLUME 28 > ISSUE 1 > Article 5 Research

    Recovery or continued resuscitation? A clinical diagnosis of Colorado River sub-basin recovery programs

    Srinivasan, J., and M. Schoon. 2023. Recovery or continued resuscitation? A clinical diagnosis of Colorado River sub-basin recovery programs. Ecology and Society 28(1):5. https://doi.org/10.5751/ES-13749-280105
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    • Jaishri Srinivasan, Jaishri Srinivasan
      Arizona State University-Tempe; University of New Mexico
    • Michael SchoonMichael Schoon
      School of Sustainability, Arizona State University-Tempe

    The following is the established format for referencing this article:

    Srinivasan, J., and M. Schoon. 2023. Recovery or continued resuscitation? A clinical diagnosis of Colorado River sub-basin recovery programs. Ecology and Society 28(1):5.

    https://doi.org/10.5751/ES-13749-280105

  • Abstract
  • Introduction
  • Methods
  • Assessment of System State
  • Results
  • Discussion
  • Conclusion
  • Responses to this Article
  • Acknowledgments
  • Data Availability
  • Literature Cited
  • adaptive governance; Colorado River; complex system dynamics; conservation; resilience; river basin; social-ecological feedback
    Recovery or continued resuscitation? A clinical diagnosis of Colorado River sub-basin recovery programs
    Copyright © 2021 by the author(s). Published here under license by The Resilience Alliance. This article is under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License. You may share and adapt the work provided the original author and source are credited, you indicate whether any changes were made, and you include a link to the license. ES-2022-13749.pdf
    Research

    ABSTRACT

    With a particular emphasis on the Upper Colorado River Endangered Fish Recovery Program (UCR-EFRP) and Lower Colorado River Multi-Species Conservation Program (LCR-MSCP), we analyze, for each program, four system properties that contribute to resilience: system architecture, which includes (1) connectivity and distribution and (2) assemblage of system elements; and system dynamics, which includes (3) social and natural capital flows and (4) system renewal and continuation. Each of these system properties is analyzed based on specific social and corresponding biophysical indicators. The system properties were ranked on a carefully constructed scale based on gradations of each system property (derived from the literature) on both social and biophysical indicator standing. Our results indicate that the UCR-EFRP has relatively better social architecture and dynamics with relatively less impact on the ecological architecture and dynamics compared to the LCR-MSCP, though this result may be a function of the greater amount of infrastructural constriction and path dependence in the lower basin compared to the upper basin. We conclude by suggesting that a transformative pathway forward needs greater adaptability and flexibility incorporated into the social architecture and dynamics to move toward better ecological health of the river.

    INTRODUCTION

    Living within the ecological boundaries of our biosphere (Rockström et al. 2009) while ensuring the sustainable and equitable use of its natural resources is one of the biggest challenges facing humanity in the present century. Rivers serve as the chief source of renewable water supply for humans and freshwater ecosystems (Vörösmarty et al. 2010), and water scarcity is a global threat to both society and freshwater biodiversity (Ruhí et al. 2016). The effects of water scarcity accentuate the incident threat to human water security and biodiversity, especially in drylands and desert belt transition zones across continents (Vörösmarty et al. 2010).

    This scenario is particularly accentuated for the western United States, where “Manifest Destiny” and a favorable hydroclimate led to the establishment of a significant agricultural economy, especially in the southwest, despite the warnings of early naturalists such as John Wesley Powell (Sabo et al. 2010). Concern over water quality and quantity, biodiversity, and land preservation along rivers has led to a boom in restoration activity across the United States at an annual cost of roughly $1 billion USD (Bernhardt et al. 2005). River restoration in the U.S. Southwest has followed national trends to a large degree, but has also been shaped by influences unique to the region (Follstad Shah et al. 2007).

    Previous system-scale studies of river basins have used panarchy theory or Ostrom’s social-ecological systems (SES) framework to assess the resilience of river basin systems in various ways. One of the premier examples of the application of an SES framework in river basin resilience assessment was that by Cosens and Fremier (2015) in which the Columbia River basin’s resilience was traced through historical timelines divided into pre-contact, post-contact, dam-building, and civil and environmental justice eras. Cosens and Fremier (2015) presented “eyeballed” estimates of ecosystem services present in the Columbia River and then used expert elicitation to quantify resilience based on defined resilience metrics. This has been an often-used method in other case studies using panarchy theory and other resilience related assessments in adaptive governance of river basins (Cumming 2011, Nemec et al. 2014, Allen et al. 2018). Although it is a proven technique, it draws attention to the underlying problem of insufficiently incorporating widely available ecological metrics into SES analyses, which may obviate the need for estimating resilience and bring more exactitude in resilience measurements.

    The common tendencies of SES analyses to be all-encompassing and include integrated analyses of SES systems often results in an overemphasis on institutional aspects and governance regimes and very little emphasis on ecology. To the extent that biophysical attributes are described at all in commonly used frameworks such as the institutional analysis and development, SES, and robustness frameworks, among others, attribute descriptions tend to be limited to resource unit mobility, resource system productivity, clarity of system boundaries, and size of the resource system. Furthermore, these variables are considered only as they relate to the action situation, ignoring the potential contribution of biophysical processes to the system (Epstein et al. 2013, Vogt et al. 2015). While there is a call from the social sciences to incorporate more “ecology” into SES analyses, there is simultaneously a call from the ecological and biophysical sciences to incorporate more social science and human aspects into management of and decision-making for river systems (Poff et al. 2003, Martin et al. 2015).

    Here, our aim is to bridge the gaps in system-level river basin resilience assessments and offer an alternative approach that brings ecology into the forefront. We build on the principles of SES and complex adaptive systems science principles to assess adaptive governance in river restoration programs in the arid Southwest, in particular, the Colorado River basin, to answer three questions: (1) To what extent do basin-scale restoration programs contribute to system resilience of the Colorado River? (2) To what extent are the social and ecological parts aligned in these restoration programs? (3) What are the opportunities for a transformative pathway going forward? We analyze the evolution and performance of two basin-scale mitigation and restoration programs: the Upper Colorado River Endangered Fish Recovery Program (UCR-EFRP) and the Lower Colorado River Multi-Species Conservation Program (LCR-MSCP).

    Adaptive river governance

    Resilience is defined as the capacity of a system to absorb disturbance and reorganize while undergoing change so as to retain the same structure, function, identity, and feedbacks (Walker et al. 2004). In the SES context, management of ecosystem resilience requires the ability to observe and interpret essential processes and variables in ecosystem dynamics to develop the social capacity to respond to environmental feedback and change (Carpenter et al. 2001). Because the self-organizing properties of complex ecosystems and associated management systems seem to cause uncertainty to grow over time, understanding should be continuously updated and adjusted, and each management action should be viewed as an opportunity to learn further how to adapt to changing circumstances (Carpenter and Gunderson 2001).

    A leading approach to successfully meet the challenges of SES changes is adaptive governance (Koontz et al. 2015). Adaptive governance is defined as “changing rules and norms from a static, rule-based, formal and fixed organization with clear boundaries” to a view of institutions as “more dynamic, adaptive and flexible for coping with future climatic conditions” (International Institute for Sustainable Development 2006). Governing complex adaptive ecosystems requires adaptive managers that are supported by flexible and problem-oriented organization, networks of collaboration at all levels, and leadership. Institutions governing multispecies resource commons should avoid compromising the functional aspects of the ecosystem by implementation of rule systems that maintain the diversity and sustain a multitude of species (Becker and Ostrom 1995).

    In the context of river basin organizations, a diagnostic framework to analyze complex policy situations and their coevolution with ecosystem effects calls for assessing the interactions within and between the social-institutional and biophysical systems in the basin (Bouckaert et al. 2018). River basin organizations traditionally focus on holistic demand management based on integrated water resources management principles, and their institutions are clearly defined and conceptualized based on specific criteria, including the presence of international water treaties, institutionalization of cooperation, specific governance mechanisms, and a list of other factors (Schmeier et al. 2016).

    The dynamic interplay of the institutional and ecological processes and their coevolution characterize the system’s state and trajectory (Fig. 1). Bouckaert et al.’s (2018) framework is a reconstitution, within a specific river basin context, of a broader framework for assessing fit between ecosystem characteristics and regime variables in terms of stocks, flows, controls, and resilience, among other factors (Young 2002). Analyses of two separate components in a complex adaptive system such as a river basin can yield insights into the factors that independently affect institutional resilience as well as ecological resilience. However, to assess system-level social-ecological resilience, the two separate components and the feedbacks between them must be looked at as a coevolving system. Bouckaert et al.’s (2018) framework (Fig. 1) breaks down each system into irreducible, complementary, and codependent components that can influence each other in nonlinear ways.

    Bouckaert et al.’s (2018) framework makes parallels between corresponding social and biophysical elements by, for example, categorizing: collaboration as a social connector and water flows as a biophysical connector; structuring as social assemblage and species diversity as biophysical assemblage; leadership as social capital and material cycling as natural capital; and finally, learning as social renewal and species recruitment as biophysical renewal. They then use a rating system for social and biophysical elements to chart the trajectory of river basin governance over time, much like how the panarchy theory is used. We argue that the strength of the framework is not simply in scoring the system properties but in using variables (either qualitative or quantitative metrics, as appropriate; see Table 1 and Appendix 1) to measure social and biophysical characteristics and then rescaling to indicators to describe a state of the system across time with a clear indication of trade-offs (defined as the distance between social and biophysical indicators for that system property).

    METHODS

    We next describe the system architecture or system dynamics properties and start with a conceptual foundation for the specific metrics being discussed (Table 1). An assessment of each of variable is carried out by drawing from available and indicated peer-reviewed and grey literature, both historical and current, on social and ecological indicators. The system properties are broadly categorized into system architecture and system dynamics. Building on Bouckaert et al.’s (2018) study, the following system properties and constituent elements were identified:

    1. System architecture: connectivity and distribution, with collaboration as a social indicator and water flows as a biophysical indicator;
    2. System architecture: assemblage of elements, with structuring as a social indicator and species diversity as a biophysical indicator;
    3. System dynamics: social and natural capital, with leadership as a social indicator and material cycling as a biophysical indicator;
    4. System dynamics: renewal and continuation, with learning as a social indicator and species recruitment as a biophysical indicator.

    System architecture

    Changes in hydrological connectivity patterns will affect the water cycle and, consequently, the regulatory capacity of the river (Gao et al. 2018), making both social and hydrological connectivity significant metrics of assessment for system architecture. Dams have significantly altered natural flow dynamics, with changes in natural flood pulse dynamics having significantly altered assemblage structures of aquatic communities (Ngor et al. 2018), making both governance and species assemblage also important assessment metrics for system architecture.

    Social indicators

    “Connectivity” is defined as the manner by which and extent to which resources, species, or social actors disperse, migrate, or interact across ecological and social landscapes (Biggs et al. 2012). Collaboration is actualized institutionally through the degree of connectivity of all relevant stakeholders and their capacity to participate in governance processes (Bouckaert et al. 2018). Wantzen et al. (2016) proposed a notion of river culture that recognizes the intersection of hydrological, biological, and cultural uses and values of the river as a basis for preserving ecological and cultural diversity along rivers, much of which is tied to seasonal pulses in flow. The scale of the river strongly influences the river’s social role (Kondolf and Pinto 2017). In this context, the collaborative initiatives developed to balance water development with ecological concerns embody social connectivity around the use of the Colorado River.

    In terms of “assemblage”, the sustainable management of freshwater resources requires a shift from conventional hierarchical models of water governance focusing on regulatory controls to hybrid governance models in which collaborative, market-based, and regulatory elements all play a role. The structuring of stakeholders’ different value positions influences the kinds of decisions that are made on various governance issues and is important in how a wide range of decision problems can be framed in terms of choices between alternative options and the development, adaptation, and refinement of such options (Lennox et al. 2011). Stakeholder participation is essential for system design (Ackoff 1974), and there are three levels at which stakeholder analysis could be conducted: rational level (who are the stakeholders and what are their perceived stakes), process level (how the organization manages stakeholder relationships), and transactional level (the set of transactions or bargains among the organization and stakeholders; A. A. Elias and R. Y. Cavana, Stakeholder Analysis for Systems Thinking and Modeling, unpublished manuscript).

    Biophysical indicators

    Connectivity, in a biophysical sense, is the degree to which components of a watershed are joined and interact by transport mechanisms that function across multiple spatial and temporal scales; it is determined by the characteristics of both the physical landscape and the biota of the specific system (Alexander et al. 2018). This definition reflects a systems perspective of watersheds as heterogeneous mosaics of interacting ecosystems in which variations in the duration, magnitude, frequency, timing, and stability of flows form dynamic, spatiotemporal continua of connectivity (Alexander et al. 2018).

    In terms of species assemblage, ecological indicators can be used to assess the condition of the environment, to provide an early warning signal of changes in the environment, or to diagnose the cause of an environmental problem. The use of ecological indicators relies on the assumption that the presence or absence of, and fluctuations in, these indicators reflect changes taking place at various levels in an ecological hierarchy (Dale and Beyeler 2001). Among the range of hypotheses that summarize possible general responses of ecosystem processes to reductions in species richness, there is considerable variation in what minimal diversity is needed for proper ecosystem functioning, which species make significant contributions, and what the effects of changes in diversity are on ecosystem function (Lawton 1994). Indicator selection is scale dependent, and, for our purposes, assemblage indicators at the ecosystem level include species abundance, richness, evenness, diversity, and distributions as compositional elements in the ecosystem (Dale and Beyeler 2001).

    System dynamics

    Although it is accepted that humans are part of the environment, it is not always recognized that they perform multiple roles as coproducers of ecosystem services, as beneficiaries of those services, and through the addition of capital to realize those services (Jones et al. 2016). Ecosystem accounting approaches have tended to separate out the natural capital and human capital elements (Jones et al. 2016). Here, we look at them conjointly as key elements of system dynamics. Furthermore, actions such as constructing environmental flows that mimic pre-development river flows to conserve selected biodiversity, reserving aquatic refugia, constructing fish passages, restoring riparian vegetation to cool rivers, and so on, have been categorized as “renewal ecology” initiatives, distinct from conservation ecology or restoration ecology (Bowman et al. 2017). The coupled human-natural system that embodies aspects of renewal and transformation is, therefore, a key metric of assessment in system dynamics.

    Social indicators

    Collective action can often involve leaders, who have a larger role than other group members in goal establishment, logistics, coordination, effort monitoring, dispute resolution, and so on. “Leadership” is multidimensional and can vary from: passive influence to active motivation of group members; distributed across multiple individuals (polycentric) to concentrated in a single individual; based on persuasive reasoning to coercion; situational to institutional; and achieved due to past actions to ascribed based on kinship or social identity (Glowacki and von Rueden 2015). How power distribution occurs when leadership is concentrated based on an individual’s social value orientation, defined as a relatively stable preference for how valuable outcomes are distributed between oneself and others (Harrell and Simpson 2016). Social value orientations can range among: “individualists” seeking to maximize their own outcomes with little regard for the outcomes of others, “competitors” who seek to maximize the difference between their own and others’ outcomes, and “prosocials” who tend to maximize joint outcomes and to minimize differences between their own and others’ outcomes (Van Lange et al. 1997).

    A “learning organization” is “an organization that is continually expanding its capacity to create its future” (Senge 1990); in other words, it is an organization that is striving for excellence through continual renewal (Hitt 1995). Learning at different scales manifests differently with the examination of operational paradigms at the system level, strategic planning exercises at organizational and program levels, and changes in behavior, attitudes, relationships, and activities at the individual level (Watts et al. 2007). Lant et al. (1992) offer a more complex explanation of organizational learning by stating that “renewal hinges not so much on noticing new conditions, but on being able to link environmental change to corporate strategy and to modify that linkage over time”. Furthermore, another shortcoming is the failure to address the fundamental tension of strategic renewal: the tension between exploration and exploitation (Crossan and Berdrow 2003). Organizational learning theory does not address new competency development while concurrently exploiting existing ones (Watts et al. 2007).

    Biophysical indicators

    There are several compelling reasons to consider “material or nutrient cycling” in streams. First, to the extent that nutrients are limiting in streams, they regulate rates at which important ecological processes take place, such as primary production or decomposition. Changes in these processes alter stream community structure. Second, elemental dynamics in streams link aquatic and terrestrial or riparian ecosystems, and in-stream processes are sensitive to watershed alterations (Meyer et al. 1988). Third, within-stream processes can alter the timing, magnitude, and form of elemental fluxes to downstream ecosystems, altering downstream community structures. Fourth, dissolved organic carbon dynamics have an important role to play in stream energy budgets. Fifth, many anthropogenic assaults on streams have been nutrient additions that led to major alterations of stream communities (Meyer et al. 1988). Furthermore, the intermixing of surface water and groundwater occurs at different spatial scales connected by two possible vectors that may be either groundwater flow from uplands through riparian zones to the active channel, or surface water recharging groundwater along an upstream-downstream gradient (Dahm et al. 1998).

    “Species recruitment” occurs either through connectivity provision or, more predominantly, through stocking from hatcheries. Fisheries management and conservation biology have similar agendas because both seek the long-term viability of fish stocks, albeit for different reasons. Conservationists are interested in maintaining biodiversity, whereas fisheries managers are interested in maximizing productivity. Conservation biology has long emphasized the importance of practices such as environmental enrichment, pre-release training programs, and soft release to improve post-release survivorship of captive-bred animals. In contrast, the production of ecologically viable individuals is not part of the hatchery equation because the production of large quantities of fish, rather than natural history, behavior, and ecology, largely guides hatchery practices. The level of success and funding of hatchery programs is often determined by the number of fish released rather than by survival rates of those fish (Brown and Day 2002).

    ASSESSMENT OF SYSTEM STATE

    The assessments below are obtained from available peer-reviewed and grey literature on Colorado River management and governance structures, as well as hydrological and ecological studies to date. For each indicator, the results are described first for the UCR-EFRP and then for the LCR-MSCP. The first four subsections discuss how the social indicators, and the subsequent four subsections discuss the biophysical indicators. A map of the two cases is illustrated in Fig. 2.

    Social connectivity and distribution: collaboration

    The UCR-EFRP was established in 1987 after three years of discussion, data analysis, and negotiations by representatives of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (USFWS); the Bureau of Reclamation; the States of Colorado, Utah, and Wyoming; and environmental and water development interests (U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service 1987). Three species, the Colorado squawfish, humpback chub, and bonytail chub, had been listed as endangered by the Secretary of the Interior under the Endangered Species Act (ESA) of 1973. A fourth species, the razorback sucker, was a candidate for Federal listing under the ESA. The recovery program was developed as part of a cooperative effort involving multiple agencies and organizations that had an interest in how the upper Colorado River basin and its resource are managed. The upper basin States have a development interest in the river’s resources, while the Bureau of Reclamation operates a number of small to large Federal reservoirs. The USFWS is responsible for administering the ESA. Water resource organizations also have a development interest that balances States’ water rights systems, interstate compacts, and fish recovery goals. A number of national and statewide conservation organizations are interested in realistic and effective fish recovery and habitat preservation (U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service 1987).

    The April 2005 Record of Decision for the LCR-MSCP (U.S. Department of the Interior 2005) created an equivalent program for the lower basin, with a similar institutional structure in which the Bureau of Reclamation and USFWS are designated to act on behalf of the Secretary of the Interior to ensure compliance with the ESA, the National Environmental Policy Act of 1969, and state environmental regulations for the three lower basin States of California, Nevada, and Arizona. The program is a cooperative effort between Federal and non-Federal entities, over a 50-year period, for the purpose of conserving habitat and working toward recovery of threatened and endangered species; accommodating present water diversions and power production and optimizing opportunities for future water and power development; and providing the basis for incidental take authorizations. Other prominent Federal agencies include the Bureau of Indian Affairs, National Park Service, Bureau of Land Management, and the Western Area Power Administration. Covered actions and activities for participants occur in La Paz, Mohave, and Yuma counties in Arizona; Imperial, Riverside, and San Bernadino counties in California; and Clark County in Nevada (U.S. Department of the Interior 2005).

    Social assemblage of elements: structuring

    Both the UCR-EFRP and the LCR-MSCP fall under the broad purview of the Secretary of the Interior. The Implementation Committee of the UCR-EFRP was created in 1987 and was charged with overseeing the development and implementation of specific recommendations for each of the recovery elements. The committee comprises representatives from Federal agencies, the three upper basin States, water development interests, and conservation organizations. The Secretary’s ultimate responsibility is in administering the ESA without impeding States’ abilities to manage and administer their water and wildlife resources. The committee has more responsibility with management than recovery teams, which are generally biological and research-oriented groups. It provides an oversight forum for major participants. The Secretarial Observer is the liaison between the Secretary and the Implementation Committee, the Program Director provides staff assistance to the USFWS and Implementation Committee, and the management and technical groups provide assistance to the committee (U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service 1987).

    The Secretary is authorized to manage and implement the LCR-MSCP in agreement with the lower basin States for providing for the use of water for habitat creation and maintenance in compliance with the ESA. Given their legal entitlements to the Colorado River water and hydropower resources, the three lower basin States, Indian Tribes, and other non-Federal interests have a vested interest in the outcome of any consultations between the Bureau of Reclamation and USFWS. The LCR-MSCP is governed by a 35-seat Steering Committee, which comprises five members: the U.S. Department of the Interior (Department of the Interior, Bureau of Reclamation, USFWS, National Park Service, Bureau of Land Management, Bureau of Indian Affairs); the lower basin States Water Resources Departments; agricultural and drainage districts; urban interests; power-generation interests; and wildlife, game, and fish departments. The Steering Committee appointed a working group to oversee the technical development of the LCR-MSCP with Steering Committee oversight.

    Social capital: leadership

    The Implementation Committee of the UCR-EFRP consists of representatives of major participants, including the Regional Director for Region 6 of the USFWS, the Regional Director of the Upper Colorado Region from the Bureau of Reclamation, and representatives (one each) appointed by the Governors of Colorado, Utah, and Wyoming. The Area Manager of the Western Area Power Administration is also a member because of its relationship with the Bureau of Reclamation and program revenues. Additionally, founding documents recommended including a representative of water development interests and a representative of conservation organizations. The Implementation Committee selects its own chairperson and also includes two non-voting members: one is appointed by the Secretary as an observer to provide a direct liaison between the Implementation Committee and the Secretary; the other, a Program Director, is appointed by the USFWS Regional Director, to serve as a staff person (U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service 1987). Initial funding costs were split between Federal and State governments, with the Bureau of Reclamation bearing the lion’s share of costs, followed by the USFWS. Annual base funding to date has been provided from Colorado River Storage Project hydropower revenues (Upper Colorado River Endangered Fish Recovery Program, public laws authorizing the program: https://coloradoriverrecovery.org/uc/documents/foundational-documents/).

    A Memorandum of Understanding, signed in 1995 among the three lower basin States (including wildlife resource agencies) and the Department of the Interior, led to a Memorandum of Clarification in July 1996 for the development of the LCR-MSCP. The Bureau of Reclamation and USFWS are co-leads for ensuring compliance with the National Environment Policy Act of 1969. The LCR-MSCP permit applicants have applied to the USFWS for an incidental take permit, pursuant to section 10(a) of the ESA. The total cost of the program is estimated at $626,180,000 (in 2003 USD) over the 50-year period, with 50% of the costs borne by the permit applicants and 50% borne by the U.S. government. The Steering Committee meets at least once a year to work on program implementation, work plan, and budget. The Program Manager is under the supervision of the Regional Director for the Bureau of Reclamation’s Lower Colorado Region (U.S. Department of the Interior 2005).

    Social renewal and continuation: learning

    The Department of the Interior has clear cut procedures and documentation for the implementation of adaptive management in river restoration programs. Both the UCR-EFRP and the LCR-MSCP incorporate adaptive management in program activities and decisions. The basis for the programs rested on a “biological opinion” issued by the USFWS, and a habitat management plan was accordingly drawn. The plan has been revised annually based on available scientific research and monitoring efforts. The programs incorporate a trial-and-error approach and constantly improve and innovate based on changing conditions.

    The UCR-EFRP program considered two alternatives for in-depth evaluation, including a “no action” alternative that would involve continued Section 7 consultations with basic and applied research and monitoring, over an initial 15-year period and a “proposed action” alternative that would involve habitat management, development, and maintenance; rare fish stocking, non-native fish management, and sportfishing; and research, monitoring, and data management (U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service 1987). The program has come up for extended authorization twice since 1987 and is undergoing a reevaluation of conservation priorities following a recent decision to down-list two species that have achieved sufficient levels and aim for continued, long-term management.

    The LCR-MSCP program was conceptualized as a 50-year program in 2005 and has so far not undergone significant reframing of program policies and procedures. The Steering Committee commissioned two separate scientific reviews of interim conservation strategy documents during program development in 1999 and 2002. The first review was conducted by the American Institute of Biological Sciences, and the second Science Review Team comprised 6 members selected from a list of 18 active interdisciplinary scientists with a working knowledge of Southwest ecosystems. Of the three action alternatives considered, including a “no action” alternative, a combination of the two other plans was selected as the preferred alternative on the basis of it realizing the full range of environmental goals to conserve species effectively while allowing water use under existing entitlements. This alternative has been the basis of yearly plans and progress to date.

    Biophysical connectivity and distribution: water flows

    The upper Colorado River and its principal upper basin tributary, the Gunnison River, have their headwaters in the Rocky Mountains in central Colorado. The Yampa River and White River, major tributaries of the Green River, likewise have their sources in the Rocky Mountains. The annual hydrographs of these rivers are dominated by snowmelt runoff, which usually begins in late April, reaches a peak in May or early June, and recedes through July. Summer thunderstorms are common and can cause localized flooding on tributaries and increased turbidity on the larger rivers for days, but they do not have a significant effect on main stem discharges (Van Steeter and Pitlick 1998).

    Natural streamflows of the Colorado and Gunnison rivers are affected by many diversions and dams. Collectively, the reservoirs upstream of the Flaming Gorge and Glen Canyon dams store only approximately 10% of the total volume of water in Lake Powell. However, these reservoirs are near the source of the runoff and thus alter the annual hydrograph significantly. Composite records indicate that in the post-development period (1950–1995), annual peak discharges of the Colorado River at Glenwood Springs have averaged 286 m³/s, which represents a 43% decrease relative to the pre-development period (1900–1949) average of 504 m³/s. The effects of reservoirs and transbasin diversions in the upper Colorado River basin diminish downstream because of added flow from unregulated tributaries (Van Steeter and Pitlick 1998).

    Since the Glen Canyon dam first began to store water in 1963, creating Lake Powell, some 430 km (270 miles) of the Colorado River, including Grand Canyon National Park, have been virtually bereft of seasonal floods. Before 1963, melting snow in the upper basin produced an average peak discharge exceeding 2400 m³/s. After the dam was constructed, releases were maintained at < 500 m³/s. The dam has also trapped > 95% of the sediment moving down the Colorado River in Lake Powell (Poff et al. 1997). The resultant changes in flow regime and withholding of sediment have induced drastic changes in the downstream Colorado River.

    Flows of the lower Colorado River historically displayed tremendous annual variability. Prior to major flow regulation imposed by construction of the Hoover Dam in 1936, instantaneous peak discharges as high as 8500 m³/s and as low as 0 m³/s were recorded below Yuma, Arizona (Sykes 1937). Pre-regulation photographs of the Colorado River on its delta and historical accounts depict a highly sinuous channel with a broad flood plain harboring a diverse assemblage of lotic and lentic habitats, with fine sand and silt dominating sediments (Sykes 1937). The most notable flood events in the lower Colorado River occurred in the mid-1980s and the early and late 1990s (Tiegs and Pohl 2005). These floods rehabilitated much of the riparian vegetation in the delta that was lost as a consequence of flow regulation. The flood regime of the contemporary Colorado River at its delta is event-based, and floods are often associated with the El Niño phenomenon (Glenn et al. 1996). Observations based on these events culminated in the implementation of Minute 319 in 2014, which released 130 million m³ of water in a pulse flow from Lake Mead to rejuvenate riparian ecosystems and support species in the delta region (Flessa et al. 2013).

    Biophysical assemblage of elements: species diversity (aquatic and riparian)

    The Colorado River mainstem fish community historically comprised ten freshwater species, of which seven are currently federally listed as endangered and one is of special concern. Of these latter species, Colorado pikeminnow (Ptychocheilus lucius), bonytail (Gila elegans), and razorback sucker (Xyrauchen texanus) were widely distributed throughout the mainstem of the river and have been the subject of various management actions for more than three decades (Mueller 2005). European settlement brought dramatic biological and physical changes through the introduction of channel catfish (Ictalurus punctatus), carp (Cyprinus carpio), largemouth bass (Micropterus salmoides), bluegill (Lepomis macrochirus), and several other species (Dill 1944). Hoover Dam construction in 1935 greatly altered the physical conditions, which benefitted invasive species. The reservoirs and their tailwaters were stocked with recreational species, and after World War II, an estimated > 80 fish species, the majority of which were aggressive predators, were stocked (Mueller and Marsh 2002).

    Martinez et al. (1994) investigated the effects of the completion of Taylor Draw Dam in 1984 on the White River, the last significant free-flowing tributary in the upper Colorado River, which formed Kenney Reservoir. Fishes were sampled above and below the dam axis prior to closure of the dam and in the reservoir and river downstream following impoundment. They found that while the immediate effects of the dam to ichthyofauna included blockage of upstream migration to 80 km of documented range for the endangered Colorado pikeminnow, the reservoir also proved to have profound delayed effects on the river’s species composition (Martinez et al. 1994). Pre-impoundment investigations in 1983–1984 showed strong domination by native species above, within, and below the reservoir basin. By 1989–1990, non-native species comprised roughly 90% of fishes collected in the reservoir and 80% of fishes collected in the river below the dam. The key take-away from the study was that smaller scale mainstem impoundments that do not radically alter hydrological or thermal regimes can still have profound effects on native ichthyofauna by facilitating the establishment and proliferation of nonnative species.

    Native fish in the lower mainstem of the river had become rare by the mid-1930s due to a combination of predation and habitat destruction (Dill 1944). Numbers of razorback sucker and, to a lesser extent, bonytail rebounded when lakes Mead, Roosevelt, and Mohave formed (Minckley 1983). Colorado pikeminnow were extirpated from the lower basin by 1975, but small populations persist in the upper basin. Bonytail and razorback sucker have experienced recruitment failure for nearly four decades. Wild bonytail are believed to be gone, with the last one captured from Lake Mohave during the late 1990s. Estimates of wild razorback sucker dropped to < 1000 individuals: approximately 100 in Green River, 300 in Lake Mead, and 500 in Lake Mohave. The USFWS attempted a stocking of > 12 million razorback sucker fry from 1981–1991 in an attempt to reestablish the species in Arizona and avoid federal listing (Johnson 1981). However, survival was extremely poor, as < 200 of these fish were ever captured (Minckley et al. 1991). It was found that following initial releases, razorback suckers were lost to resident catfish within a matter of hours (Marsh and Brooks 1989). This discovery led to the growing realization that predator and invasive species control needed to be adopted as basin-wide strategies.

    Tamarisk (salt cedar) is a shrub that was introduced into the American Southwest in the late 1800s and has spread throughout the Colorado Plateau by occupying islands, sand bars, and beaches along streams. Historical photographs show that tamarisk spread from northern Arizona to the upper reaches of the Colorado and Green rivers at a rate of approximately 20 km/yr (Graf 1978). Tamarisk has a reputation for having negative effects on riparian ecosystem structure and processes, including high water use compared to native plants (Taghvaeian et al. 2014), increased soil salinization (Ohrtman et al. 2012), displacement of native vegetation (Glenn and Nagler 2005), changing erosion and sedimentation regimes (Vincent et al. 2009), increased fire frequency (Busch and Smith 1993), reduced biodiversity (Harms and Hiebert 2006), and reduced habitat quality for wildlife (Bailey et al. 2001, Hinojosa-Huerta et al. 2013). Zavaleta (2000) reported that the negative effects of tamarisk water consumption on agricultural and municipal water supplies, hydropower generation, and flood control reach an annual value of $285 million USD.

    Tamarisk control attempts have had varied success, with control strategies such as mechanical removal, fire, and herbicide treatments, although these have proved costly and had negative effects on the native plant and soil communities (Hultine et al. 2010). A biological control program led to the selection and approval of two insects in 1994 for tamarisk control: the saltcedar leaf beetle from central Asia, and a mealy bug from the Middle East. In 1999, populations of tamarisk beetles were imported into the United States (Dudley and Deloach 2004). However, in the early 1990s, it was determined that the endangered Southwestern Willow Flycatcher (Empidonax traillii extimus) was nesting in tamarisk habitat and showed a distinct preference for disturbed habitat (Hultine et al. 2010). Given its current preference for tamarisk habitat, replacement of tamarisk by native vegetation may negatively affect Southwestern Willow Flycatcher conservation efforts. Furthermore, the rate of defloration of tamarisk has far exceeded the rate at which native vegetation is regenerating (Dudley and Bean 2012), resulting in large areas showing lower total foliar cover, which has implications for vital ecosystems processes such as nutrient cycling (Hultine et al. 2010).

    Natural capital: material cycling

    Floodplain nutrient cycling is often measured by following leaf litter production and decomposition. Although floodplain nutrient cycling is relatively well understood in mesic regions, decomposition patterns on dryland floodplains are complex and not well studied. Before the construction of Hoover and Glen Canyon dams in 1935 and 1964, respectively, discharges to the delta reached an estimated 6000 m³/s, and the delta occupied 780,000 ha (Glenn et al. 1996). Post-dam construction, practically no water flowed into the Gulf of California, and sediment supply to the basin has been held in the upstream reservoirs. High precipitation-induced water releases in the early 1980s and early and late 1990s allowed sufficient water to reach the delta, but the water was polluted by agricultural and municipal water returns (Glenn et al. 2001). High concentrations of selenium and organochlorine pesticides have been observed in the biota of the estuary, exceeding the toxic threshold in 23% and 30% of biota, respectively (García-Hernández et al. 2001). Part of the estuarine basin of the Colorado River is now regarded as the agricultural “sewer” of the Wellton-Mohawk irrigational system of Imperial Valley (Carriquiry et al. 2011).

    Miller (2012) studied longitudinal patterns in dissolved organic carbon loads and chemical quality in the Colorado River from the headwaters in the Rocky Mountains to the United States–Mexico border from 1994–2011. His findings reveal that a shift from the historically snowmelt-driven Colorado River to a heavily regulated system dominated by storage levels in Lake Powell has coincided with a shift from a net increase to a net decrease in dissolved organic carbon loads (Miller 2012). This hydrological shift has also resulted in a geopolitical shift in defining the Colorado River reaches 1 through 5 as being in the upper basin and reaches 6 through 10 as being in the lower basin. The study revealed that net dissolved organic carbon input in the upper basin was greater than the net loss, whereas the reverse was true for the lower basin. The average annual discharge and dissolved organic carbon loads in the upper basin increased from reach 1 to reach 5 by 6.6 × 109 m³/yr and 2.7 × 107 kg/yr, respectively. Increased dam storage in the lower basin resulted in average basin-scale loss of 4.4 × 109 m³/yr of water, in part, to evaporation, and a corresponding decrease in average dissolved organic carbon load to 2.2 × 107 kg/yr.

    No reliable data are available for nutrient fluxes in the Colorado River across the international border prior to dam construction. However, nitrogen cycling and phosphate precipitation in U.S. reservoirs resulted in removal of nutrients (Daesslé et al. 2017). Despite this removal, the upper Gulf of California is still considered an important area for marine primary productivity, with peak chlorophyll-a concentrations of 18.2 mg/m³ (Millán-Nuñez et al. 1999). The upper Gulf of California hosts important fisheries of shrimp, shark, and sea bass (Galindo-Bect et al. 2000), and the rich coastal productivity is assumed to remain sustained by the addition of nutrients via sediment resuspension and surface–groundwater input from agricultural runoff, associated wetlands, recycling of nutrients in the water column, and input from the Gulf of California (Millán-Nuñez et al. 1999). In the Mexicali Valley, fresh surface water is limited to irrigation and drainage channels. A few wetlands are supported by drainage and wastewater flows, including the Cienega de Santa Clara. However, the main riverbed remains mostly dry in its course along the estuary (Daesslé et al. 2017).

    Biophysical renewal and continuation: species recruitment

    The sheer amount of grey infrastructure in the mainstem of the Colorado River has created insurmountable barriers for migratory fish such as Colorado pikeminnow to migrate upstream and spawn. The Hoover and Glen Canyon dams have cut off the possibility of integrated management of upper and lower basin species. The upper basin offers more opportunities for species recruitment because of the presence of unregulated tributaries that serve as refugia for endangered native fish species. The lower basin has seen the sharpest declines and near extermination of Colorado pikeminnow, as well as razorback sucker and bonytail, both of which saw some resurgence with the creation of lower basin lakes and reservoirs.

    The current restoration strategy is to limit and prevent movement of invasive game fishes out of impoundments and to curtail future stocking by enacting public education programs. Increasing harvests of carp and channel catfish are also promoted. Because of the recreational values put on sport fishing, these measures of non-native fish control have faced challenges in implementation. Non-native sport fishes continue to proliferate by reproducing in river channels and invading from off-channel habitat (Tyus and Saunders 2000). Additionally, small, nongame fishes such as the red shiner and fathead minnow, which were unintentionally introduced, have proven to be aggressive, abundant, and widely distributed, constituting > 90% of the standing crop of fishes in backwater habitat used as nursery areas by the listed fishes (McAda et al. 1994).

    Two resource philosophies evolved in the Colorado River basin in the late 1980s: (1) establishment of the Upper Colorado River Basin Recovery Implementation Plan in 1987, and (2) a conservation movement to actively manage two endangered species in the lower basin, which began in 1989 (Mueller 1995) and later became the LCR-MSCP. In the upper basin, a consortium of resource agencies and water users came together to establish a recovery regime that would occur in 15 years in conjunction with continued water development. Initial recovery centered on habitat restoration, including the restoration of historical flow regimes that had been disrupted by reservoir storage. Since 1990, emphasis has shifted toward restoring floodplain wetlands and predator removal and control (Lentsch et al. 1996, Wydoski and Wick 1998).

    Both razorback sucker and bonytail established impressive communities when several reservoirs filled in the lower basin, with the razorback population in Lake Mohave swelling to > 100,000, while bonytail were less numerous. However, these increases occurred before the introduction of non-native species. Bonytail became extremely rare by the early 1980s. Stocking of bonytail in Lake Mohave began in 1980 (Minckley and Thorson 2004), and a similar stocking effort for the razorback sucker began in 1989 (Mueller 1995). The approach involved capturing wild larvae and rearing them to a size large enough to avoid predation. The goal was to capture genetic variability that would have been lost in hatchery production (Mueller 2005). Because of the short supply of hatchery rearing space, fish were reared in municipal ponds, isolated reservoir coves, and backwaters blocked by nets (Mueller 1995). The concept expanded to other reaches of the lower river under the LCR-MSCP.

    RESULTS

    Based on the detailed analysis of various social and biophysical indicators in the previous section, we scored the indicators using ratings on a scale of 1–5. The scoring was undertaken for both the upper and lower basin restoration programs (Table 2; see also Appendix 1). The indicators are rated on a scale of 1–5, with the ratings representing a gradient or degree of variation of the indicator based on available literature reviews.

    DISCUSSION

    The discussion is organized into two subsections that discuss the UCR-EFRP and LCR-MSCP, respectively, and link back to the research questions asked pertaining to the extent to which these programs contribute to system resilience as well as how the social and ecological parts are aligned in these programs. The subsequent conclusion discusses transformative pathways forward in the context of the current scenario of a Federal water shortage declaration on the Colorado River.

    The Upper Colorado River Endangered Fish Recovery Program

    The UCR-EFRP has performed better in terms of contributing to social and institutional resilience than biophysical resilience (Fig. 3). The collaboration as well as system structuring of the program around the goals of habitat restoration and native species conservation is strong, though the biophysical system shows moderate amounts of connectivity owing to the presence of significant dams and reservoirs, including Flaming Gorge Dam, the Aspinall Unit, Navajo Reservoir, and Glen Canyon Dam. These structures have affected species diversity by resulting in the development of a two-state system: recreational values have resulted in invasive species dominating reservoir systems, whereas downstream areas are dominated by native species at risk of invasive species encroachment, thereby requiring long-term management to ensure native species preservation.

    Furthermore, a number of tributaries in the upper basin are relatively undeveloped and more free-flowing and provide crucial refugia for migratory species spawning. This situation is a principal reason why natural capital cycling and ecosystem processes flourish better further downstream of the big reservoirs. The social capital is also strong, and because of the implementation of strong adaptive management processes, the feedback between the social and biophysical elements appears to be strong. Although the initial “biological opinion” appeared to have limited options scientifically for restoration scenarios, there has been significant improvement in scientific studies over the decades since program inception and a strong public awareness campaign to recruit public support for achieving program goals through invasive species control.

    System renewal in terms of institutional learning is lower rated because the predominant paradigm of the program is mitigation rather than full-scale restoration. So, although significant financial capital has been invested in building infrastructure to facilitate migratory fish passages and stocking programs to maintain native fish populations, the overdependence on technological solutions in a highly engineered system is less conducive to incorporating actual biophysical feedbacks and responding to them. Despite the high levels of infrastructure, the system still retains some biophysical resilience because of flow control and recruitment facilitation as well as large stretches of undeveloped tributary systems.

    The Lower Colorado River Multi-Species Conservation Program

    The LCR-MSCP is less resilient overall and shows significant systemic vulnerabilities (Fig. 4), partly because of the way the program is structured and partly because of the context in which the program is situated. The lower basin mostly comprises the main stem of the river, with the tributaries also being in a greater state of development as compared to the upper basin. The upper and lower basins are divided by the insurmountable barriers of the Hoover and Glen Canyon dams, and there are large and small dams and diversions at various reaches all the way to the Mexican border. The amount of flow regulation is significant, which creates a highly disconnected system at a biophysical level. Therefore, even though the collaboration based on economic and regulatory incentives is strong (though not all-inclusive, with Indian Tribe involvement being minimal to insignificant), the prevalence of a feedback between social and ecological elements is broken.

    The way adaptive management is structured in the lower basin is geared toward establishing isolated backwaters and aquatic landscapes for native species to flourish and managing invasive species. Therefore, although species diversity may exist in these isolated pockets, it is being propped up by technological interventions such as hatchery breeding and stocking programs. Institutional structuring in the lower basin is also heavily geared toward mitigating the effects of take by senior water-rights holders at various scales from state to local. Therefore, both social and biophysical structuring elements are a lot weaker here than in the upper basin.

    The institutional structuring is also the reason for social capital being more concentrated in a hierarchical structure to allow for water allocation goals to be met. This situation creates a significant disruption in ecosystem processes because over-allocations, pollution from overuse, and impending drought have combined to create a heavily degraded system at a biophysical level. The adaptive capacity of the institutions is also more toward meeting compliance requirements. Because of the high barriers to species recruitment and the creation of a two-state system as in the upper basin, the capacity for the system to renew itself is heavily compromised.

    Transformational pathways

    The ESA has been the principal driver of actions for aquatic species protections in the upper and lower basins. The main mechanism of ESA implementation is the placement of individual species on an official list as either threatened or endangered, triggering species-specific actions. From the perspective of resilience theory, however, the ESA has several limitations, most of which point to a lack of system focus, very little emphasis on overall functionality of ecological systems, as well as being reactive rather than proactive in species protection (Benson 2012). Furthermore, Federal statues pertaining to restoration are vague and inadequate and do not provide any guidelines or practices to approach restoration from a systems perspective (Palmer and Ruhl 2015).

    A systems-based approach to transformative stewardship of the Colorado River (and other heavily developed arid rivers) would include engineering both natural and built infrastructure for optimal river and riparian ecological health (Poff et al. 2016). There are increasing calls for supplementing or even replacing gray infrastructure with green infrastructure and nature-based solutions that can not only preserve biophysical processes but also ensure water security (Palmer et al. 2015). These solutions require the extensive engagement of urban, agricultural, and industrial actors to strategically apply green infrastructure solutions that contribute to river health and sustainability.

    CONCLUSION

    We have presented the case of two sub-basin-scale river recovery programs in the Colorado River basin using a diagnostic framework for river basin organization governance and stewardship. Our findings indicate that the upper basin has performed comparatively better than the lower basin because the ecological connectivity is higher, allowing for healthier levels of ecological dynamics. Socially, the system structuring is strong in the upper basin, though the social system dynamics in both basins are relatively weak, which might be because of infrastructural lock-in that limits the actors and solutions that could be used. The transformative pathways to improve river health need a systems-based approach to legal, policy, and social action that incorporate the principles of resilience and adaptive management. Srinivasan et al. (2021) point to pathways to governance for anticipatory and adaptive resilience, and Srinivasan et al. (2022) also highlight the need for planning for altered river futures because the biophysical capacity of the system to respond meaningfully has been reached, and social system coevolution to states of uncertainty and risk spreading (Folke 2003) must occur.

    This is an intensive place-based study of river stewardship at sub-basin levels for a heavily developed arid river system. As such, it represents a first step toward developing archetypes of river systems. While the generalizability and transferability of such place-based research is limited, recurrent but nonuniversal patterns can hold well for geographically distant systems (Václavík et al. 2016, Eisenack et al. 2019, Oberlack et al. 2019). We contend that the Colorado River is archetypally similar to the Murray-Darling River in Australia, for instance, as both have been the subject of multiple comparative studies (Ladson and Argent 2002, Grafton et al. 2012, Wheeler et al. 2018), as well as to the Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers (Barnett et al. 2004, Foti et al. 2014). In a scenario in which global rivers are drying up, in the words of Richter and Postel (2004), the preservation of ecosystem health must become the explicit goal of water development and management.

    RESPONSES TO THIS ARTICLE

    Responses to this article are invited. If accepted for publication, your response will be hyperlinked to the article. To submit a response, follow this link. To read responses already accepted, follow this link.

    ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

    We sincerely thank Dr. Frederick Bouckaert of River Reach Consulting in Australia for his myriad contributions to the paper, first in the form of graciously giving us permission to use his framework, and also for his thoughtful suggestions that helped us with the revisions needed.

    DATA AVAILABILITY

    Data/code sharing are not applicable to this article because no data/code were analyzed in this study.

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    Corresponding author:
    Jaishri Srinivasan
    jaishris@asu.edu
    Appendix 1
    Fig. 1
    Fig. 1. A diagnostic framework for assessing river basin organization (RBO) capacity in sustainable river governance (Bouckaert et al. 2018). ES = ecosystem services.

    Fig. 1. A diagnostic framework for assessing river basin organization (RBO) capacity in sustainable river governance (Bouckaert et al. 2018). ES = ecosystem services.

    Fig. 1
    Fig. 2
    Fig. 2. Maps showing the geographic reach of the Upper Colorado River Endangered Fish Recovery Program (UCR-EFRP) and Lower Colorado River Multi-species Conservation Program (LCR-MSCP) service areas. (A) Geographic extent for the UCR-EFRP. Source: Upper Colorado Recovery Program, <a href="https://coloradoriverrecovery.org/seven-elements-of-recovery/instream-flow/" target="_blank">https://coloradoriverrecovery.org/seven-elements-of-recovery/instream-flow/</a>. (B) Geographic extent of the LCR-MSCP. Source: U.S. Bureau of Reclamation, <a href="https://www.usbr.gov/uc/progact/amp/twg/2014-10-28-twg-meeting/Attach_04.pdf" target="_blank">https://www.usbr.gov/uc/progact/amp/twg/2014-10-28-twg-meeting/Attach_04.pdf</a>.

    Fig. 2. Maps showing the geographic reach of the Upper Colorado River Endangered Fish Recovery Program (UCR-EFRP) and Lower Colorado River Multi-species Conservation Program (LCR-MSCP) service areas. (A) Geographic extent for the UCR-EFRP. Source: Upper Colorado Recovery Program, https://coloradoriverrecovery.org/seven-elements-of-recovery/instream-flow/. (B) Geographic extent of the LCR-MSCP. Source: U.S. Bureau of Reclamation, https://www.usbr.gov/uc/progact/amp/twg/2014-10-28-twg-meeting/Attach_04.pdf.

    Fig. 2
    Fig. 3
    Fig. 3. Social-ecological systems resilience assessment for the Upper Colorado River Endangered Fish Recovery Program.

    Fig. 3. Social-ecological systems resilience assessment for the Upper Colorado River Endangered Fish Recovery Program.

    Fig. 3
    Fig. 4
    Fig. 4. Social-ecological systems resilience assessment for the Lower Colorado River Multi-species Conservation Program.</