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For much of Sydney’s history, the city supported its population with crops, orchards, dairies, abattoirs, oyster beds, wineries and market gardens scattered across the basin.

In 1951, New South Wales’ soon-to-be premier Joseph Cahill saw the development pressures building on the city’s food bowl. In parliament, he promised Sydney’s rural areas would be preserved “for vital food production […] soil conservation, irrigation, afforestation”.

Cahill’s promise was in vain. Farms continued to be paved over or turned into housing as the suburban expansion gathered pace. Smaller urban farms disappeared in the face of pressures from developers and larger rural producers. Urban development has now severely weakened Sydney’s local food economy.

Sydney still has room to grow food, which would boost resilience in the face of climate threats and extreme weather. But the city has long been geared towards converting farmland into houses, shops or industries. Today, the city’s five million residents rely almost entirely on food transported into the city’s topographic basin.

We have unearthed the diversity of what was lost in our new book, Sydney’s Food Landscapes and in our Google Maps database of the city’s former wealth of food production sites.

Botany: Sydney’s backyard vegetable garden

In 1770, the naturalist Joseph Banks recorded the botanical abundance of Kamay (Botany Bay). He later convinced the British House of Commons this would quickly lead to a self-sustaining colony. Following reconnaissance, Governor Arthur Phillip moved the settlement north to Port Jackson, but European crops didn’t grow well in the sandstone soils.

The colony almost collapsed in the “hungry years” of 1788–92. Soil fertility is usually blamed for this, but we argue poor agricultural planning and social factors were also central causes.

In the mid-19th century, Botany became a prolific food district. Chinese market gardeners transformed sandy wetlands through highly productive cooperatives, ingenuity, irrigation and liberal application of night soil as fertiliser. At their peak, market gardeners supplied up to half the city’s vegetables, hawking vegetables such as cabbages and turnips door to door.

Prejudice and industrialisation intervened. In 1901, the Immigration Restriction Act came into effect – laws aimed at limiting Chinese migration. Market garden leases were withdrawn amid persistent racism.

By the 1970s, most had been displaced by factories, ports and airports, with a few gardens remaining today at Matraville, La Perouse, Arncliffe and Kyeemagh – fragile traces of an industry once vital to Sydney’s food security.

Hawkesbury: Sydney’s engine room

From Botany, the story moved inland. Wheat and maize fields in Parramatta proved the colony’s first real agricultural success, but slash-and-burn practices soon exhausted soils. Farmers switched to citrus orchards, planting as widely as Pittwater.

Dyarubbin (the Hawkesbury River) was the true catalyst making the colony viable. In the 1790s, these rich floodplains became the “granary of the colony”. The Darug had cultivated the yam daisy, murnong, on these flats for millennia. The bloody dispossession known as the Sydney Wars lasted decades.

Convicts, ex-convict emancipists and opportunistic officials planted wheat, maize, fruit and vegetables. By 1810, Governor Lachlan Macquarie had proclaimed five farming towns to secure food supply.

Sadly, even Sydney’s most fertile soils for agriculture would succumb to suburbanisation after World War II. Large land parcels continue to be lost. Turf-growing, ornamental plants and cut flowers further typically prove more lucrative than food.

Lost landscapes

Botany and the Hawkesbury are only part of a kaleidoscopic legacy.

Histories range from the troubling use of child labour to produce 40,000 cabbages a year on Cockatoo Island, to local triumphs such as the Granny Smith apple and Narrabeen Plum varieties.

Six cows brought by the First Fleet escaped and made their way to rich grasslands. When rediscovered in what is now Camden, their numbers had multiplied. The rich “Cowpastures” catalysed a pastoral industry which would eventually dominate half the continent.

Dairies proliferated, with 517 registered in 1932. The gaols at Parramatta and Long Bay produced convict-grown crops. Liverpool became home to Australia’s first irrigation district in 1856, before giving way to industrial-scale poultry farming and billion-dollar empires.

Oyster leases producing what were praised as “the world’s finest oysters” dotted the Georges River. Warriewood’s “glass city” of greenhouses foreshadowed Spain’s plastic megafarms.

Vineyards expanded before the Phylloxera mite devastated much of the industry in 1888. One of the oldest wineries was paved over in 2015 for the construction of the Western Sydney International Airport. In the early 20th century, the St George region became Sydney’s “salad bowl”.

Could it have been different?

England gives its farmland greater protection through green belts, while Oregon in the United States relies on urban growth boundaries. Japan uses “productive green zones” to protect millions of farms ringing large cities and the European Union has policy settings to help small and medium producers near cities.

By contrast, Sydney has historically treated farming as a mere transition stage before urban development. Mid 20th century plans for a green belt collapsed under developer pressure, as agriculture was written out of official metropolitan plans.

Eating the future

As development squeezed out local food production, more and more food had to be brought in. Sydney now relies on trucks, ships and planes importing food from farms hundreds or thousands of kilometres away. The energy required for transport is greater than the calorific energy in the food. The city’s food system is exposed to natural disasters, global supply shocks and climate volatility.

Over the last 70 years, Sydney has engulfed most of its local food producers. It wasn’t due to poor soils, floods or disappointing harvests. It was a deliberate choice to privilege capital gains above all else.

It’s a slow process to re-centre a city around local food production. But it can be done, if planners and decision makers protect farms and food producers the same way they protect heritage buildings, parks and water catchments. Like clean water, food production has to be treated as vital civic infrastructure – not expendable land. Not all has been lost. Western Sydney still has available farmland.

Sydney may have eaten itself. But it need not starve. Its spectral metropolitan food landscapes offer both warning and inspiration for more resilient, equitable and sustainable futures.

Joshua Zeunert, Scientia Associate Professor in Environmental Design, UNSW Sydney and Alys Daroy, Lecturer in English and Theatre, Murdoch University

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

Buying a house is one of the most high-stakes decisions many people will make in their lives. Yet many households are investing millions without an adequate understanding of a property’s exposure to growing climate risks.

In Australia, perhaps the starkest climate hazard is flood. Flooding ranks as one of the most financially damaging weather-related disasters, with costs rising sharply over the past five years.

So, how do you find out a given property’s flood risk? This information certainly exists. It is embedded in the insurance premiums we are charged.

But in Australia, unlike many comparable countries, this information is not readily available to all households. Changing that would help them make smarter, more informed decisions – and could benefit us all.

The growing threat of floods

Flooding is a growing problem for households across the nation, and forecast to grow as the climate changes. Yet, flood risk is not always easy to identify. It reflects the complex interplay of two key elements.

The first is topography, the layout of natural and built features on the land, such as hills, rivers, roads, and buildings. The second is hydrology, the way water sources including rainfall, rivers and groundwater are distributed and interact with the environment and human systems.

Efforts to create a unified flood risk map have been limited by fragmented data ownership, proprietary licensing and poor coordination.

Some detailed resources do exist. Queensland, for example, has developed a Property Level Flood Information Portal, currently available to 39 eligible local governments. It’s part of an opt-in program requiring councils to voluntarily participate.

Scaling this kind of initiative to a national level would require collaboration across hundreds of councils, each with varying priorities, resources and technical capacities.

Other public resources, such as the Australian Flood Risk Information Portal (AFRIP), provide metadata that can help identify where flood studies have been done, but do not offer consistent, property-level flood risk data.

Helpful insights, hidden

Australia does, however, have a National Flood Information Database (NFID). This estimates flood risk for approximately 14 million Australian homes and is used by insurers to assess and price flood risk.

It was constructed by the Insurance Council of Australia over many years, by integrating and harmonising much of the flood mapping undertaken by local and state governments in Australia.

Currently, this data is proprietary – meaning insurers who pay can access it to set premiums, but Australian households can’t due to commercial licensing and data ownership restrictions.

This sits awkwardly with the fact that much of National Flood Information Database is based on mapping and studies commissioned by local and state governments.

Lagging the world

Australia is an outlier among comparable countries in not having reliable public data on property-level flood risk. On this front, the Netherlands is widely considered to be the gold standard.

National flood maps are made accessible to households through a government website that allows households to view flood risk information tailored to individual addresses.

This includes information about possible flood depth, what to expect in a flood event and how to stay safe. Information is presented in plain language and with simple infographics.

Elsewhere around the world, the United States has long provided national flood maps in relation to its National Flood Insurance Program. There are also laws in many US states requiring flood risk disclosures when a property is sold.

One of the US’ largest real estate listing websites, Zillow, includes detailed information on an individual property’s exposure to the full range of climate hazards.

And in the United Kingdom, the government produces national maps of flood risk and makes them publicly available.

How we could benefit

In fighting climate change, we need to understand the flood risk to reduce exposure and vulnerability as much as possible.

One key federal government initiative is the Disaster Ready Fund. This supports a variety of programs, from investments in physical and social infrastructure to nature-based solutions and research.

While this holistic approach is important, a much more structured one is needed, especially around flood risk mitigation.

Providing Australians with greater transparency around a home’s flood risk would enable households to make more informed decisions about the properties they purchase or rent.

It would also limit insurance bill shock and better align households’ expectations with the reality of the climate risks they face.

Most importantly, it would provide a much-needed climate signal to property owners and may encourage many to undertake measures to reduce damage in the event of a flood.

More informed discussions

Having reliable and consistent publicly shared flood data information will also support community discussions on what is an acceptable level of risk and guide decisions on where and how to mitigate or relocate.

Making the data we already have on property-level flood risk available for general consumption is a no-brainer. But it is the thin end of the wedge. We also need better data to begin with.

In many areas, the current flood maps are outdated. This introduces additional uncertainty, which is priced into insurance premiums.

This problem calls on Australia to raise the bar, improving the quality and updating the frequency of flood mapping to better inform decisions and debate.

The taxpayer spending required to do this is hard to justify if this data remains locked up within the insurance industry – but it makes more sense if there are wider public benefits, such as for households.

Daniel Melser, Senior Research Fellow, Monash University; Antonia Settle, Lecturer, Monash University, and Francesca Perugia, Senior Lecturer, School of Design and the Built Environment, Curtin University

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

Scientists have long used sound to study wildlife. Bird calls, bat echolocation and whale songs, for example, have provided valuable insights for decades. But listening to entire ecosystems is a much newer frontier.

Listening to rivers is especially tricky. Beneath the water is a soundscape of clicks, pops and hums that most of us never hear. Many of these sounds are a mystery. What produces them – an insect? A fish? The water itself?

A new tool developed by my colleagues and I aims to help scientists decode what underwater river sounds really mean. We hope it will help monitor river health and tell the untold stories of these fascinating underwater places.

Sonic sleuthing

Rivers around the world face growing threats, including pollution, water extraction and climate change. So scientists are always looking for better ways to keep an eye on river health.

Sometimes river animals make sounds to attract a mate or ward off rivals. Other times the noise may simply be incidental, made when the animal moves or feeds.

These sounds can reveal a lot. Changes in the pattern or abundance of a sound can be a sign that a species is in decline or the ecosystem is under stress. They might reveal that a species we thought was silent actually makes sounds. Or we might discover a whole new species!

That’s why scientists use sound to monitor ecosystems. It essentially involves lowering waterproof microphones into the water and recording what’s picked up.

Recorders can run continuously, day and night, without disturbing wildlife. Unlike cameras, the recorders work in murky waters. And scientists can leave a recorder running and leave, allowing them to capture far more information with far less effort than traditional surveys.

Every recording is a time capsule. And as new technology develops, these sound files can be re-analysed, offering fresh insights into the state of our rivers.

But there’s a catch. Analysing the hours of recordings can be very time-consuming. Unlike for land-based recordings, no automatic tools have existed to help scientists identify or document what they’ve recorded underwater.

The best method available has been painfully old-fashioned: listening to recordings in real time. But a single recorder can capture tens of thousands of sounds each day. Manually analysing them can take a trained professional up to four times longer than the recording itself.

Our new, publicly available tool sought to address that problem.

A smarter way to listen to rivers

Our tool uses R, a free program for analysing data. The author of this article wrote a code instructing the program to analyse sound from underwater recordings.

We then uploaded sound recordings from Warrill Creek in Southeast Queensland. The program scanned the recordings and pulled out each individual sound.

Using the frequency, loudness and duration of every sound, it compared them all — a mammoth task if done by hand. Finally, it grouped similar sounds together — for example, clicks with clicks or hums with hums — turning them into simple clusters of data.

This process allows researchers to study the sounds more easily. Instead of spending hours listening to a recording and trying to distinguish the clicks of waterbugs from the grunts of a fish, the tool sorts the sounds into groups so researchers can jump straight to analysing patterns in the data.

For example, they might analyse which sounds are present in which rivers, or how the sounds change over time or between regions.

In yet-to-be published research, we tested the tool on a further 22 streams and found it successfully processed the sound data into groupings.

Our study found the tool is accurate. It correctly identified almost 90% of distinct sounds – faster and with far less effort than manual listening.

Listen to life beneath the surface

Listen to this recording of waterbugs from the order Hempitera. You’ll hear a chorus of sharp clicks, like marbles rattling in a glass. The recording is filled with hundreds of near-identical calls — a task that would take hours to label by hand.

After we uploaded the sound file, the tool grouped these repetitive calls automatically, saving huge amounts of listening time.

Below is an underwater recording of aquatic macroinvertebrates. The calls of these tiny river creatures, from the orders Hemiptera and Coleoptera, hum like cicadas. The sound is interspersed with the grunts of a fish (order Terapontidae), all set against the quiet backdrop of flowing water.

The tool can handle these layers, grouping sounds to show the community beneath the surface.

In this next clip, the sound of flowing water is prominent. This is one of the biggest challenges in listening to rivers. But our tool can separate out sounds masked by the constant background noise, so scientists can analyse them.

Below, a chorus of clicking macroinvertebrates fills the recording, until a vehicle sound cuts across from above the water’s surface. It shows how easily human noise crosses the boundary between air and water.

Helping protect our rivers

The tool allows underwater recordings to be processed at scale. It moves beyond hours of manual listening towards truly exploring what rivers are telling us.

It’s also flexible, able to handle data sets of any size, and adaptable to different ecosystems.

We hope the tool will help protect rivers and other water resources, such as oceans. It opens up new ways to monitor these environments and find strategies to protect them.

Scientists have only just begun exploring freshwater sound. By making this tool free, easy to use and publicly available, we hope more people can join in, ask questions and make discoveries of their own.

Katie Turlington, PhD Candidate, Australian Rivers Institute, Griffith University

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

Conservative leader Kemi Badenoch has described her plan to “maximise extraction” of the UK’s oil and gas from the North Sea as a “common sense” energy policy.

Politicians are using language like this increasingly often – calling themselves “pragmatic” on climate change and invoking “common sense”. It sounds reasonable, reassuring, and grownup – the opposite of “hysterical” campaigners or “unrealistic” targets.

But new research my colleagues and I conducted, calling on a decade of interviews with UK MPs, shows that political “pragmatism” is fast becoming a dangerous form of climate delay. By framing urgent action as “extreme” and steady-as-she-goes policies as “pragmatic”, leaders across the political spectrum are protecting the fossil-fuel status quo at the very moment scientists warn we need rapid, transformative change.

Badenoch’s latest intervention is a perfect example. She said “common sense” dictates that every drop of oil must be extracted from the North Sea, and that net zero by 2050 was a policy pushed by “bullies”. This came just a day after the UK Met Office declared summer 2025 as the hottest on record.

We found that members of parliament deploy the same language of pragmatism to defend fossil fuel companies and to insist to their constituents that nothing needs to change too fast. The paradox, of course, is that more urgent social and economic change is precisely what the world’s climate scientists say is necessary to avert climate breakdown.

In our recent interviews with politicians, MPs from across the political spectrum tended towards gradual change in order to maintain political and public support. One said:

First and foremost be pragmatic. Accept incremental change, because incremental change often accelerates, but you take people with you. If you didn’t take people with you, you’ll start getting resistance.

Another MP contrasted a pragmatic approach with the calls from some campaign groups for more rapid action:

There are campaigns that say we’ve got to be net zero by 2025, or 2030. [laughing incredulously] … do you realise what the consequences of that will be … you’d have a revolution in Britain if you tried to do that, in terms of destroying people’s quality of life.

Interestingly, despite rejecting more ambitious targets, later in the interview the same MP acknowledged that faster change was needed:

We need to do more, we could do more, we are, you know, I’m sure the government will do more. I’m certainly pushing it to do more. But fundamentally we’ve halved our emissions since 1990.

Here we see the nuance, and the danger, of the language of pragmatism. It allows politicians to hold two positions at once. They can acknowledge the need for rapid change, while promoting a “pragmatic” position against it.

The calls for pragmatism appeared to stem from MPs’ desire to present a reasoned and rational case for climate action that does not impinge on constituents’ lives. They also used pragmatism to distance themselves from arguments they portrayed as “extreme” or “shrill”.

The flawed assumption underlying these calls to pragmatism is that the public will not support ambitious, transformative climate policies. We concluded that whereas a few years ago MPs promoted climate policies “by stealth”, meaning they did it on the quiet, now they turn to ideas of pragmatism in an attempt to maintain a fragile political consensus in favour of net zero – a consensus that is already fracturing.

Top-down pragmatism

This turn to pragmatism can now be seen at the very top of British politics, threatening the UK’s steady ratcheting up of climate ambition to date.

Former Labour prime minister Tony Blair recently wrote in the Blair Institute’s report on climate change: “People know that the current state of debate over climate change is riven with irrationality.”

Blair then asserted: “Any strategy based on either ‘phasing out’ fossil fuels in the short term or limiting consumption is a strategy doomed to fail.” This is despite the widespread consensus among scientists that both phasing out fossil fuels and reducing consumption of at least some products are essential.

The report goes on to say: “A realistic voice in the climate debate is required, neither ideological nor alarmist but pragmatic.” This language is intended to sound rational, reasonable and even scientific. The problem is that it can be used to justify actions that appear to ignore what the science is telling us.

Former Conservative prime minister Rishi Sunak warned against treating climate change as an “ideology” . Notably, Sunak referred to “pragmatic, proportionate, and realistic” climate action shortly after his government announced hundreds of new licences for oil and gas fields in the North Sea.

His message coincided with ongoing road-building programmes, plans for airport expansion, and insufficient action to insulate the UK’s housing stock, all of which could jeopardise the UK’s climate targets. Again we see the language of pragmatism working against the rapid societal changes that are necessary.

The pragmatic road ahead

In general, the MPs we spoke to were not using pragmatism in bad faith. Rather it was a way of navigating the complexities of climate politics where the huge changes demanded by climate mitigation are deemed too challenging to sell to constituents. But this political strategy is a very risky one and underestimates the public’s appetite for “strong and clear” climate leadership from government.

The current government is already struggling to reconcile net zero commitments with its economic growth agenda, which includes a new runway at Heathrow airport. Not only is prime minister Keir Starmer facing divisions within the ruling Labour party over net zero ambitions, he is also dealing with increasingly prominent net zero scepticism from the leaders of the Conservative and Reform parties.

The political language of “pragmatism” therefore risks spreading from Badenoch to Starmer, becoming a discourse of delay that promotes non-transformative solutions.

Want more politics coverage from academic experts? Every week, we bring you informed analysis of developments in government and fact check the claims being made.

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Steve Westlake, Lecturer, Environmental Psychology, University of Bath

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

Climate models are complex, just like the world they mirror. They simultaneously simulate the interacting, chaotic flow of Earth’s atmosphere and oceans, and they run on the world’s largest supercomputers.

Critiques of climate science, such as the report written for the Department of Energy by a panel in 2025, often point to this complexity to argue that these models are too uncertain to help us understand present-day warming or tell us anything useful about the future.

But the history of climate science tells a different story.

The earliest climate models made specific forecasts about global warming decades before those forecasts could be proved or disproved. And when the observations came in, the models were right. The forecasts weren’t just predictions of global average warming – they also predicted geographical patterns of warming that we see today.

These early predictions starting in the 1960s emanated largely out of a single, somewhat obscure government laboratory outside Princeton, New Jersey: the Geophysical Fluid Dynamics Laboratory. And many of the discoveries bear the fingerprints of one particularly prescient and persistent climate modeler, Syukuro Manabe, who was awarded the 2021 Nobel Prize in physics for his work.

Manabe’s models, based in the physics of the atmosphere and ocean, forecast the world we now see while also drawing a blueprint for today’s climate models and their ability to simulate our large-scale climate. While models have limitations, it is this track record of success that gives us confidence in interpreting the changes we’re seeing now, as well as predicting changes to come.

Forecast No. 1: Global warming from CO2

Manabe’s first assignment in the 1960s at the U.S. Weather Bureau, in a lab that would become the Geophysical Fluid Dynamics Laboratory, was to accurately model the greenhouse effect – to show how greenhouse gases trap radiant heat in Earth’s atmosphere. Since the oceans would freeze over without the greenhouse effect, this was a key first step in building any kind of credible climate model.

To test his calculations, Manabe created a very simple climate model. It represented the global atmosphere as a single column of air and included key components of climate, such as incoming sunlight, convection from thunderstorms, and his greenhouse effect model.

Despite its simplicity, the model reproduced Earth’s overall climate quite well. Moreover, it showed that doubling carbon dioxide concentrations in the atmosphere would cause the planet to warm by about 5.4 degrees Fahrenheit (3 degrees Celsius).

This estimate of Earth’s climate sensitivity, published in 1967, has remained essentially unchanged in the many decades since and captures the overall magnitude of observed global warming. Right now the world is about halfway to doubling atmospheric carbon dioxide, and the global temperature has warmed by about 2.2 F (1.2 C) – right in the ballpark of what Manabe predicted.

Other greenhouses gases such as methane, as well as the ocean’s delayed response to global warming, also affect temperature rise, but the overall conclusion is unchanged: Manabe got Earth’s climate sensitivity about right.

Forecast No. 2: Stratospheric cooling

The surface and lower atmosphere in Manabe’s single-column model warmed as carbon dioxide concentrations rose, but in what was a surprise at the time, the model’s stratosphere actually cooled.

Temperatures in this upper region of the atmosphere, between roughly 7.5 and 31 miles (12 and 50 km) in altitude, are governed by a delicate balance between the absorption of ultraviolet sunlight by ozone and release of radiant heat by carbon dioxide. Increase the carbon dioxide, and the atmosphere traps more radiant heat near the surface but actually releases more radiant heat from the stratosphere, causing it to cool.

This cooling of the stratosphere has been detected over decades of satellite measurements and is a distinctive fingerprint of carbon dioxide-driven warming, as warming from other causes such as changes in sunlight or El Niño cycles do not yield stratospheric cooling.

Forecast No. 3: Arctic amplification

Manabe used his single-column model as the basis for a prototype quasi-global model, which simulated only a fraction of the globe. It also simulated only the upper 100 meters or so of the ocean and neglected the effects of ocean currents.

In 1975, Manabe published global warming simulations with this quasi-global model and again found stratospheric cooling. But he also made a new discovery – that the Arctic warms significantly more than the rest of the globe, by a factor of two to three times.

This “Arctic amplification” turns out to be a robust feature of global warming, occurring in present-day observations and subsequent simulations. A warming Arctic furthermore means a decline in Arctic sea ice, which has become one of the most visible and dramatic indicators of a changing climate.

Forecast No. 4: Land-ocean contrast

In the early 1970s, Manabe was also working to couple his atmospheric model to a first-of-its-kind dynamical model of the full world ocean built by oceanographer Kirk Bryan.

Around 1990, Manabe and Bryan used this coupled atmosphere-ocean model to simulate global warming over realistic continental geography, including the effects of the full ocean circulation. This led to a slew of insights, including the observation that land generally warms more than ocean, by a factor of about 1.5.

As with Arctic amplification, this land-ocean contrast can be seen in observed warming. It can also be explained from basic scientific principles and is roughly analogous to the way a dry surface, such as pavement, warms more than a moist surface, such as soil, on a hot, sunny day.

The contrast has consequences for land-dwellers like ourselves, as every degree of global warming will be amplified over land.

Forecast No. 5: Delayed Southern Ocean warming

Perhaps the biggest surprise from Manabe’s models came from a region most of us rarely think about: the Southern Ocean.

This vast, remote body of water encircles Antarctica and has strong eastward winds whipping across it unimpeded, due to the absence of land masses in the southern midlatitudes. These winds continually draw up deep ocean waters to the surface.

Manabe and colleagues found that the Southern Ocean warmed very slowly when atmospheric carbon dioxide concentrations increased because the surface waters were continually being replenished by these upwelling abyssal waters, which hadn’t yet warmed.

This delayed Southern Ocean warming is also visible in the temperature observations.

What does all this add up to?

Looking back on Manabe’s work more than half a century later, it’s clear that even early climate models captured the broad strokes of global warming.

Manabe’s models simulated these patterns decades before they were observed: Arctic Amplification was simulated in 1975 but only observed with confidence in 2009, while stratospheric cooling was simulated in 1967 but definitively observed only recently.

Climate models have their limitations, of course. For instance, they cannot predict regional climate change as well as people would like. But the fact that climate science, like any field, has significant unknowns should not blind us to what we do know.

Nadir Jeevanjee, Research Physical Scientist, National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration

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

The collapse of a major system of ocean currents, the meltdown of major ice sheets or the dieback of the Amazon rainforest are all examples of negative climate tipping points. These are the big risks associated with a changing climate, where harmful change becomes self-propelling. Each could cause environmental disasters affecting hundreds of millions of people.

The prospect of such irreversible and massively damaging outcomes is looming ever closer, as we are set to exceed 1.5°C global warming. Every year and every 0.1°C above this threshold increases the risk of crossing negative climate tipping points. To avert them, climate action must accelerate spectacularly. We need to decarbonise the global economy five times faster than the current rate to have reasonable odds of limiting warming well below 2°C.

This sounds both frightening and daunting. We are facing existential risks and to avoid them requires extraordinary rates and scales of social and technological change. It is understandable to feel climate despair or doomism – particularly with the current spate of backsliding on climate commitments.

But there are credible grounds for conditional optimism. They lie in the evidence of positive tipping points – where changes to zero-emission behaviour and technologies become self-propelling. This is now the only plausible way we can accelerate out of trouble, because we have left it way too late for incremental change to rescue us.

Tipping points happen when amplifying feedback within a system gets strong enough to support self-propelling change. Like putting the proverbial microphone too close to the speaker. They can happen in a range of systems, and history shows us they have happened repeatedly in social systems. Think of political revolutions, abrupt shifts in social norms – like the abandonment of smoking in public, or the rapid transition from horse-drawn carriages to cars.

Happily, almost everything that contributes to human-induced greenhouse gas emissions could be positively tipped towards zero emissions. It can take a lot of work to bring a system to a tipping point, but some key sectors have already positively tipped, at least in some countries.

Norway has tipped from buying petrol and diesel cars to EVs in the space of a decade. The UK abruptly shut down coal burning. While gas temporarily replaced some of coal’s role in electricity generation, rapidly growing renewable power has now replaced coal burning and is starting to displace gas. Neither transition happened by chance. Tipping our societies to zero emissions requires deliberate, intentional action from us all.

In Norway, change was started by social activists in the late 1980s, including members of the pop band A-ha, pushing the government to adopt a package of policies to incentivise EVs. In the UK, tipping was triggered by a rising floor price on carbon in the power sector, a policy that can be traced to the Climate Change Act, which started life as a private member’s bill, in turn born out of decades of environmental activism.

The beauty of tipping points

In my new book, Positive tipping points: How to fix the climate crisis, I highlight how just a small change can make a big difference. A minority can ultimately tip the majority. That minority activates amplifying feedback loops that get stronger with the more people who join in the change. This means we can all play a part in triggering positive tipping points.

We all make decisions about what we consume. Just by adopting a lower emission technology or behaviour (like eating less meat) we encourage others to join us. This is because people imitate one another, and the more people who adopt something the more people they can influence to adopt it too – a phenomenon known as “social contagion”.

With technologies, there are extra amplifiers of “increasing returns”: the more of us who adopt a new technology, the better it will get (through learning by doing), the cheaper it will get (due to economies of scale), and the more other technologies will emerge that make it more useful. This is how solar PV panels, wind turbines and batteries that power EVs have got ever cheaper, better and more accessible.

Policy usually also plays a crucial role in stimulating positive tipping points. Mandates to phase in clean technologies and phase out fossil fuelled ones are particularly effective. But despite polling evidence that roughly 80% of people worldwide support more decisive action on the climate crisis, governments can dither or be captured by vested interests. Sometimes they need to see what we support.

This may inspire us to get involved with social activism, which has its own tipping points. Each person joining a protest movement makes it incrementally easier for the next person to join. This can reach a critical mass – as it did for Fridays for Future and Extinction Rebellion in 2019. Or if, like me, you are not so comfortable on the march, there are other forms of social activism, like divesting from fossil fuels, or bringing civil cases against companies causing the climate crisis and governments failing to adequately respond to it.

Together a fraction of us can trigger positive tipping points to avoid otherwise devastating negative climate tipping points.

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Tim Lenton, Director, Global Systems Institute, University of Exeter

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

Environment groups have called for federal intervention following revelations an LNG export hub in Darwin has emitted large volumes of methane from an LNG storage tank since 2006.

The ABC on Monday revealed years of failures to address the leak. State and federal authorities reportedly approved Santos’ controversial 25-year Barossa offshore gas project without requiring the leak to be repaired or replaced.

The incident adds to serious doubts about whether Australia can meet its commitment to reduce emissions of methane, a highly potent greenhouse gas.

The vital pledge will only be met if governments and industry prioritise climate action and human health over profits.

What happened in Darwin?

The Darwin case demonstrates dangers of relying on industry to assess and manage risks to the climate and human health.

The leak involved an enormous above-ground tank which contained highly processed methane derived from LNG (liquified natural gas).

According to the ABC, the leak was caused by a design flaw. The reports said the tank’s original owner, ConocoPhillips, discovered the leak in 2006 and reported it to the Northern Territory’s Environmental Protection Authority (EPA), describing the emissions as “minute”. The tank held gas for the next 18 years.

Two measurements using drone technology, in 2019 and 2020, reportedly indicated the leak was bigger than initially thought – up to 184 kilograms of methane was leaking per hour. This was not reported to the EPA until months later, according to the ABC.

Gas giant Santos now operates the tank, which is now reportedly empty. But it’s set to be filled again, as part of Santos’ Barossa gas project.

The ABC says state and federal regulators have not forced Santos to repair or replace the tank, adding:

They and the company say the leak is stable, and poses a moderate climate risk but no immediate threat to the public or the environment.

Santos told the ABC regulatory approvals and an ongoing monitoring program were in place, and the company reports its greenhouse gas emissions annually.

Methane: a major climate culprit

Methane is a dangerous greenhouse gas which drives about 30% of global warming. While it does not last in the atmosphere as long as carbon dioxide, its ability to trap heat is potent. In fact, methane is about 86 times more harmful than carbon dioxide (CO₂) in global warming terms, when measured over two decades.

Aside from the harms caused by escaped methane, the leak also represents an enormous waste of a substance produced at a very high cost to the climate. Natural gas extracted from the ground is transported to processing plants and liquified for export, by cooling it to about -160°C. This is an extremely energy-intensive process which itself is powered by natural gas and creates substantial greenhouse gas emissions.

Methane reduction is considered a crucial step towards averting a climate disaster. The International Energy Agency says methane abatement from oil and gas operations offers some of the world’s best opportunities to cut emissions – was also likely to give companies a commercial advantage.

In 2022, Australia signed the Global Methane Pledge, a non-binding commitment to reduce methane emissions by 30% by 2030. Australia’s energy producers also claim they are committed to reducing methane emissions in Australia.

The Darwin methane leak reveals a host of problems with gas regulation in Australia – including a lack of public transparency issues with the methods used to quantify leaks. These problems undermine industry and government pledges to reduce emissions.

A health time bomb

Bushfires and backburning already pollute the air around Darwin.

What’s more, the neighbouring Inpex LNG plant in Darwin has also consistently released huge amounts of highly toxic substances including hydrogen sulphide, nitrogen oxides and volatile organic compounds.

Methane adds to the problem. It reacts with other chemicals in the atmosphere to form a dangerous air pollutant known as “ground-level ozone”.

Research has found each year, ground-level ozone contributes to up to 1.4 million deaths globally, from respiratory and cardiovascular disease.

Tropical areas immediately adjacent to cities, such as Darwin’s outer suburbs, are most at risk from such pollution.

Environment Centre NT has also expressed fears the leaking methane presents an explosion risk.

A challenge exposed

The problem of methane emissions is not confined to gas projects. For example, research earlier this year showed methane emissions from an open-cut coal mine in Queensland were up to eight times higher than reported annually by the operator.

And the problem is not confined to Darwin. Methane-emitting fossil fuel projects are proliferating across Australia. Recent approvals include expansion of Woodside’s Northwest Shelf gas project and numerous coal mines.

What’s more, Australia does a poor job of measuring and reporting methane emissions.

Australian governments and their agencies must get serious about acting on climate change. This includes efforts to rapidly curb methane emissions – while also dramatically cutting CO₂ emissions.

No industry in the world carries more power to secure the planet’s future than the fossil fuel operators. Together, industry and governments must stop fuelling our demise.

Melissa Haswell, Professor of Health, Safety and Environment, School of Public Health and Social Work, Queensland University of Technology

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

At the end of the 1960s, there was every expectation the Great Barrier Reef would be drilled for oil.

The first gas well had been drilled in Victoria’s Bass Strait in 1965 and oil was discovered soon afterwards. Queensland wanted to follow suit. In 1967, the state’s entire coastline was opened to oil exploration.

In August that year, conservationists began fighting to save the reef. Public opinion strongly backed their campaign. Even so, victory was by no means certain.

But in 1975, a national marine park was declared over the Great Barrier Reef, banning oil, gas and mining.

The reef had been saved – for a time. Fifty years later, the Barrier Reef, like coral reefs across the globe, faces the far larger threat of climate change.

It can be easy to look back at history and think what happened was inevitable. But events could very easily have gone down a different path.

How could an immense reef system be vulnerable?

In 1908, the author Edmund Banfield imagined a future where his tropical home, Dunk Island, and neighbouring islands would form part of a “great insular national park”. Ornithologists and nature writers such as Banfield successfully lobbied to protect many of the reef’s islands to save birds from hunters.

Early in the 20th century, turtles were routinely butchered and their meat canned and sent abroad. By the 1950s, public outcry over their treatment and falling numbers prompted governments to severely limit their exploitation.

In 1956, park rangers a national park across the Whitsunday Islands or an even larger area to protect reefs from tourists. Reef-walking and coral-collecting were popular, but rangers and conservationists feared the reef might be loved to death. Authorities restricted shell and coral collecting, but the national park idea went nowhere.

Naturalists and scientists had long known the Great Barrier Reef faced natural threats. In 1925, the naturalist E. H. Rainford observed a “scene of the utmost desolation” after floodwaters covered Whitsunday reefs with silt:

the corals dead, broken to pieces and blackened by decay; the clam shells gaping wide and empty […] a scene with hardly any life in it.

For many, a corals capacity to survive in such conditions was part of their beauty. But in 1960, a new threat emerged – the first recorded crown-of-thorns outbreak. These large coral-eating starfish devastated popular tourist reefs near Cairns.

It shocked people into seeing the entire reef as vulnerable. The future director of the National Museum of Australia, Don McMichael, called for “serious thinking” about the reef’s future.

A reef in need of saving

In 1967, cane growers in Cairns applied to mine lime from Ellison Reef off Mission Beach.

Outraged, the local artist John Busst began organising to stop it. His determination would earn him the sobriquet of the “Bingil Bay Bastard”. Poet-turned-environmentalist Judith Wright, forester Len Webb, and the Queensland Littoral Society soon joined.

Their Save the Reef campaign succeeded in stopping the lime mining – only to find oil and gas drilling posed a new threat.

Their expanded campaign caught the Queensland government flat-footed.

A 1968 noted the government was “not well informed” over how much damage the reef could tolerate and had failed to “silence or satisfy the vociferous objections of absolute conservationists”.

Later in 1968, Joh Bjelke-Petersen became the new Queensland premier – a title he would hold for nearly 20 years. Neither he or his deputy, mining minister Ron Camm, had any sympathy for those campaigning to Save the Reef. In fact, Bjelke-Petersen had shares in mining companies with leases over the reef.

What’s more, some reef scientists from the Great Barrier Reef Committee, an influential research group, endorsed the idea of “controlled exploitation” of the reef – including mineral and petroleum resources. This position ruptured relationships between conservationists and scientists.

Meanwhile, the federal government was under increasing pressure from conservationists and the public to stop oil and gas drilling.

It wasn’t clear, though, which tier of government had sovereignty over the reef and its resources. Conservationists believed the federal government had exclusive rights under a United Nations convention on territorial waters. But the Liberal Prime Minister, John Gorton, was unwilling to test the notion.

As the first major reef drilling operations loomed in January 1970, Queensland’s trade union council announced a “black ban” on any ships or rigs used for reef oil exploration. The two companies affected, Ampol and Japex, stopped preparations and called for an inquiry.

Buoyed by public support and positive media coverage, the Gorton government persuaded Queensland to stop all reef drilling pending a joint royal commission.

A state park – or national?

In May 1970, the royal commission began its marathon hearings into petroleum drilling on the reef. Prominent figures such as the first Reserve Bank governor H. C. “Nugget” Coombs gave statements, alongside scientists, mining experts and conservationists.

Coombs told commission members they were “making a judgement […] on behalf of the community as a whole”, while marine biologist Patricia Mather, the secretary of the Great Barrier Reef Committee (now the Australian Coral Reef Society), drafted and tabled legislation for a possible Barrier Reef Act.

It would take four years for the Royal Commission to deliver its report.

During this time, Australia elected its first Labor government in 23 years. The new Prime Minister, Gough Whitlam, had big changes planned.

In 1973, the Whitlam government introduced laws asserting Commonwealth control over Australia’s “submerged lands”. It would mean Canberra controlled the Great Barrier Reef’s oil reserves. Queensland and the other five state governments promptly took the matter to the High Court.

In the meantime, the federal government began drafting reef protection laws – based on the submission by marine biologist Patricia Mather.

The Royal Commission handed down its report on oil drilling on 1 November 1974. Of the three members, two accepted some drilling could occur. But the chair, Gordon Wallace, recommended against any oil drilling at all.

Armed with the chair’s recommendation, Whitlam reached out to Bjelke-Petersen to seek Queensland’s cooperation to protect the reef. But the premier was focused on creating a series of state marine parks which would couple oil, gas and mineral mining with stronger protections.

In a , Bjelke-Petersen described the prime minister’s actions as “impulsive” and asked him to wait for the High Court decision. He stated his government did not wish to be associated with unconstitutional matters and expected Whitlam would “take a similar responsible attitude”.

Whitlam pressed on. In November 1974, he told The Australian Queensland was being run by “environmental vandals”. The laws were to:

protect an irreplaceable part of Australia’s natural heritage.

In May 1975, the Whitlam government introduced the Great Barrier Reef Marine Park Bill to parliament, where it became law. No mining or oil and gas drilling would be permitted.

On November 11, 1975, the Whitlam government was dismissed. The next month, Malcolm Fraser’s Liberal Party was elected. Not long after that, the High Court ruled in favour of federal control of submerged lands.

In the “spirit of cooperation”, Bjelke-Petersen reached out to the new prime minister to gauge his thinking on the reef.

Fraser told him the federal government would push on with its marine park laws – and that there would be no oil and gas extraction or mining in the marine park.

Hard-won protection – for a time

It’s hard not to be impressed by the scale of the Great Barrier Reef Marine Park: 344,000 square kilometres – larger than Victoria – 3,000 coral reefs and more than 1,000 islands. But it is the scale of life which enraptures. Above and below the churning ocean and in the blistering sun, it hums with absolute splendour and wonder.

Unfortunately, “saving” the reef doesn’t just have to be done once. All coral reefs face human threats: fishing, coastal development and declining water quality. But these pale compared to the big one – climate change. As intense marine heatwaves multiply, coral bleaches over large areas and can die.

In the 1960s, conservationists fought hard to stop oil and gas on the reef. Their campaign eventually succeeded. But the reef couldn’t escape the damage done by the oil and gas extracted and burned everywhere else. Saving the reef is going to be even harder this time round.

This account draws on the author’s book, Saving the Reef – The human story behind one of Australia’s greatest environmental treasures.

Rohan Lloyd, Lecturer in Science and Society, James Cook University

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

On September 2, 1945, the second world war ended when Japan officially surrendered. Today, on the 80th anniversary, the physical legacy of the conflict remains etched into land and sea.

Nowhere is this more evident than in the Pacific. There, fierce battles left behind sunken warships, aircraft and unexploded bombs. These remnants are not only historical artefacts but toxic time capsules.

They leak fuel, heavy metals and other hazardous substances into fragile ecosystems, threatening biodiversity and, potentially, human health.

This problem is a reminder of the enduring environmental harms of conflict. Toxic remnants of war can damage ecosystems and communities long after the fighting stops.

The Pacific as a dumping ground

World War II in the Pacific involved four years of conflict between Japan and Allied forces. The war began in the region in December 1941 when Japan attacked a United States naval base at Pearl Harbour, Hawaii.

The Pacific conflict included the Battle of the Coral Sea, the Battle of Midway and the Guadalcanal campaign in the Solomon Islands.

Pacific islands became staging grounds for battles. Weapons were stockpiled and hazardous material discarded. Ships and aircraft were sunk. When the war ended, much of this material was simply left behind.

Among the remains are an estimated 3,800 wrecks still lying on the Pacific Ocean floor.

An environmental hazard

As remnants of war degrade, they often leach toxic pollutants into nearby waters and soils. These can build up in marine life, enter the food chain and pose serious risks to both biodiversity.

At Palau, a WWII Japanese ship sank in Koror Harbour and became known as the Helmet Wreck. It contains Japanese depth charges leaking acid into surrounding waters.

Researchers have shown the long-term environmental impacts in the Baltic Sea of unexploded WWII ordnance – bombs, shells and grenades that failed to detonate. An estimated 3000kg of dissolved ammunition chemicals have been found.

Coral reefs and mangroves, which are vital for coastal protection, are especially vulnerable to both chemical exposure and physical damage.

For example, researchers examined the effects off Puerto Rico of unexploded ordnance. They found nearby sea animals contained potentially toxic compounds leaking from the ordnance, which meant the substances had entered the food web.

Human communities on high alert

Unexploded ordnance continues to endanger communities. Just last year, for example, more than 200 bombs were found buried beneath a school in the Solomon Islands.

In places such as Palau, Papua New Guinea and the Solomon Islands, these dangers are unearthed regularly. They can be found by farmers working their land, children playing or fisherman working.

Buried bombs, sunken ships and downed aircraft often contain fuel and heavy metals. This includes lead and cadmium which can interfere with the body’s hormone system and cause serious health issues.

Research into the human health impacts of war remains is limited – especially in the Pacific. But existing studies suggest exposure is linked to serious consequences.

For example, parental exposure to wartime contaminants has been linked to birth defects in Gaza and Vietnam.

And a study of Britsh Army ammunition technicians released earlier this year found significantly higher rates of bladder cancer than the general population. This suggests occupational exposure to explosive compounds may pose long-term health risks.

Climate change is increasing the risk

As Earth’s climate warms, extreme weather events are worsening and seas are rising. This is exacerbating the dangers posed by wartime remnants.

For example Cyclone Pam, in March 2015, exposed unexploded WWII ordnance in Kiribati and Tuvalu. Further investigations revealed remnants including high explosive projectiles, mortars and 5,300 rounds of ammunition.

In 2020, a visiting fisherman found an unexploded bomb near Lord Howe Island. Then-Environment Minister Sussan Ley suggested the device may have been shifted by a cyclone or ocean currents.

Similarly, floods and landslides can move these hazards over significant distances, increasing uncertainty around their locations and complicating clearance efforts.

Rising sea levels are threatening to breach one of the Pacific’s most toxic legacies – the Runit Dome in the Marshall Islands. This concrete structure was built in the late 1970s to contain radioactive waste from US nuclear testing decades earlier.

Research shows extreme storms could increase radioactive sediments in the area to up to 84 times higher than normal. There are also concerns cracks in the dome’s surface could lead to contamination of surrounding waters.

Reflecting on war’s toxic legacy

Despite the risks to people and health in the Pacific, remediation has been slow. The 80th anniversary of WWII offers an opportunity to reflect on the toxic legacy of war – and to act.

The scale of the problem demands coordinated, well-funded action. The work should not just remove dangerous materials, but restore damaged ecosystems and monitor long-term health impacts.

Some support has been offered. It includes Operation Render Safe, a program to remove war remnants led by the Australian Defence Force. But more is needed.

Regional partners – including Australia, New Zealand, Japan and the United States – have a chance to lead. This means investing in environmental cleanup, supporting affected communities and acknowledging historical responsibility.

It also means listening to Pacific voices, who have long called for greater attention to the war’s toxic legacy. Their knowledge, resilience and lived experience must be central to any response.

The authors acknowledge Nixon Panda for his contribution to this article.

Stacey Pizzino, Lecturer, School of Public Health, The University of Queensland and Bryan G. Fry, Professor of Toxicology, School of the Environment, The University of Queensland

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

In recent years, Pacific island nations have earned global credibility as champions of climate action. Pacific leaders view sea level rise as an existential threat.

But this united front is now under strain as some Pacific nations pursue a controversial new industry – deep-sea mining. Nauru, the Cook Islands, Kiribati and Tonga have gone the furthest to make it a reality, attracted by new income streams. But nations such as Fiji, Palau and Vanuatu have called for a moratorium on deep-sea mining in international waters.

Public opinion across the Pacific is often divided, pitting possible economic gains against the potential risks of an industry whose environmental impact remain uncertain but potentially significant. As this tension intensifies, it may split the Pacific and risk the region’s moral authority on climate.

What are the concerns over deep-sea mining?

Deep-sea mining targets three types of mineral deposits – polymetallic nodules strewn across deep underwater plains, cobalt-rich crusts on seamounts, and the ore deposits around hydrothermal vents.

To extract them, mining companies can use unmanned collectors to pump ore to the surface and return the wastewater. This creates plumes of sediment which can smother marine life. Methods of minimising damage to species from mining on land are largely unworkable at depth.

Deep-sea ecosystems are poorly understood, but we know they are slow to recover. Researchers have found areas mined as a test more than 40 years ago still show physical damage and immobile corals and sponges remain scarce.

Why is there so much interest in deep-sea mining?

Deep-sea mining hasn’t begun anywhere in earnest, because the International Seabed Authority has yet to finalise rules governing extraction. This authority oversees the 54% of the world’s oceans beyond territorial waters.

But plans for deep-sea mining operations can still be submitted and considered without these rules in place.

Analysts have estimated seabed minerals could be worth a staggering A$30 trillion. Some of the richest deposits lie in the Clarion-Clipperton Zone in international waters between Hawaii and Mexico, thousands of kilometres away from Pacific nations. Under international law, companies cannot mine in international waters on their own. They need to be officially sponsored by a national government, which has to keep effective control over its operations.

One reason deep-sea mining companies see Pacific states as such useful partners is that these countries can access reserved areas of international seabed set aside for developing countries, as well as potential resources in the very large territorial waters around many island states.

Backers in Nauru, Tonga, the Cook Islands and Kiribati argue rising demand for manganese, cobalt, copper and nickel could deliver significant economic returns and diversify economies.

Nauru

Nauru’s enormous deposits of guano – compressed seabird excrement long sought as fertiliser – once made the country wealthy. But the guano is largely gone and the small nation has limited other resources.

Nauru sponsors Nauru Ocean Resources, a wholly owned subsidiary of seabed mining company The Metals Company. In 2011, the company received an International Seabed Authority contract permitting exploration of polymetallic nodules in the Clarion-Clipperton Zone, more than 8,000km from Nauru.

Nauru has since “proudly taken a leading role” in developing international legal frameworks in mining nodules in the international seabed.

In June, Nauru signalled Nauru Ocean Resources would apply for an exploitation license.

Tonga

Tonga’s government is similarly backing deep-sea mining by partnering with The Metals Company to explore mining in the Clarion-Clipperton Zone.

In August 2025, Tonga signed an updated agreement with Tonga Offshore Mining, a subsidiary of The Metals Company. The agreement was originally signed in 2021 amid large-scale criticism over the lack of public consultation.

The mining company has promised new benefits, ranging from financial benefits, scholarships and community programs. Even so, the revised deal has encountered opposition from civil society, young people and legal experts. Prominent Tongans remain unconvinced, citing environmental, legal and transparency risks.

Economic pressure is part of the picture. Tonga owes an estimated A$180 million to China’s Exim Bank – roughly a quarter of its annual GDP.

Cook Islands

The 15 Cook Islands are widely scattered, giving the government exclusive rights to almost two million square kilometres of ocean. The government has issued exploration licences inside its Exclusive Economic Zone to three companies – Cook Islands Consortium, CIIC Seabed Resources Limited, and Moana Minerals. The Cook Islands government has established a domestic regulatory framework and is building research capacity.

Kiribati

Kiribati’s atolls and island are even more dispersed. The nation’s exclusive economic zone covers about 3.4 million km². The state-owned Marawa Research and Exploration company holds a 15-year exploration contract with the seabed authority. Kiribati has opened talks with China to explore potential collaboration.

The Pacific split

While revenues could potentially be sizeable for the Pacific, costs, technologies and environmental liabilities are highly uncertain.

The experience of Papua New Guinea is a cautionary tale. In 2019, the PNG deep-sea mining venture Solwara-1 went into administration following intense community pushback. The fallout cost the government an estimated $184 million. The PNG government now opposes deep-sea mining in its territorial waters.

While deep-sea mining now has clear backers, other nations are far more wary.

In 2022, Palau launched an alliance calling for a moratorium on mining in international waters. Early signatories included Fiji, American Samoa and the Federated States of Micronesia. Since then, Tuvalu, Vanuatu and the Marshall Islands have joined, as well as dozens of other countries. PNG has not yet joined.

Opposition from these Pacific states is based on the precautionary principle, which favours caution when knowledge is limited and damage is possible.

Pacific youth are among the most prominent opponents of deep-sea mining. The regional Pacific Blue Line coalition uniting civil society, faith groups, women’s organisations and youth networks has consistently called for a complete ban in the region. Young people have spoke out publicly in nations such as Tonga, where youth advocates criticised limited consultation and rallied against the plans, as well as the Cook Islands, where young people have demanded transparency.

Reputation under a cloud?

Pacific leaders have built a worldwide reputation for their principled climate diplomacy, from championing the 1.5°C goal to the major new advisory opinion on climate change issued by the world’s top court in response to a case instigated by students from the University of the South Pacific.

If some Pacific leaders open the door fully to deep-sea mining, it risks undermining the region’s united front on environmental issues and threatens its credibility.

The way this plays out will shape how the world hears the Pacific on climate and the oceans in the years ahead.

Kolaia Raisele, PhD Candidate in Anthropology, La Trobe University and Aidan Craney, Research Fellow, Anthropology and Development Studies, La Trobe University

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