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A Bay Area startup sold a plastic recycling dream. Neighbors call it just another incinerator

News Feed
Tuesday, October 7, 2025

In summary The Sonoma County company Resynergi says it will depart the state, just as Gov. Newsom sends CalRecycle back to the drawing board on potentially nation-leading rules governing plastic waste and plastic products. The plan sounded like a magic bullet from the future to solve one of the world’s most vexing environmental waste problems.  In Rohnert Park, just north of San Francisco, a startup company called Resynergi planned to use a form of “advanced recycling” to reuse plastic. Its process would chemically transform old plastic, blasting bits of it with microwaves until they turned into an oil that could then be used to make new plastic.  But the process – known as pyrolysis – was a hard sell to Sonoma County neighbors, who protested so much that the company withdrew its application and now plans to move out of state.  The fight that boiled over in Rohnert Park in recent months is a window into the tensions ahead for California as the state overhauls nation-leading regulations governing plastic pollution and packaging. (CalRecycle, formally known as the Department of Resources Recovery and Recycling, will hold a public hearing about those rules Oct. 7.)  While California is establishing some of the most forward-thinking plastic responsibility and recycling rules in the country, a dirty secret is that most plastic recycling methods are ineffective at best and illusory at worst.  Millions of tons of plastic go to the state’s landfills each year, and millions more are shipped to Southeast Asia, where plastic is rarely recycled. Instead it is illegally dumped, and often burned. Last year, Attorney General Rob Bonta brought suit against ExxonMobil for “perpetuating the myth … that you can recycle plastics, including single use plastics, and that it’s sustainable and good for the environment … It’s not true. It’s a lie.” ExxonMobil has since countersued Bonta for defamation. California’s regulators, meanwhile, are working to implement a 2022 state law that moves the state toward a circular economy for plastic – by making companies that produce packaging and single-use plastic items responsible for what happens to them after people throw them away. Those companies, along with environmental groups, have been weighing in as CalRecycle has been writing regulations, now years in the making.   Recent comments by Gov. Gavin Newsom suggest the state is aiming to strike a balance, finding a way to encourage recycling companies while hitting the state’s goals – all while avoiding more air pollution or other environmental impacts.  As for Resynergi, local and environmental advocates say that the way local, county, and regional regulators handled the company points up the challenges the state will face as it regulates plastic and defines whether and how it can be recycled.  “It does make me nervous, since it took seven years to get any enforcement on a facility that’s a two hour drive from the Capitol,” said Nick Lapis, advocacy director for Californians Against Waste.  A credible solution to plastic waste? Resynergi’s departure came as Sonoma County officials began to ask more serious questions about its operations, almost a decade after the company first arrived.  In 2017, company founder Brian Bauer chose Rohnert Park, a small, middle-class community surrounded by farmland, to develop and test his process. He set up shop in a development called SOMO Village – a 200-acre neighborhood with homes, a high school, and commercial space. Developers market it as a climate-conscious place, built to be carbon-neutral, which Bauer said was a draw for Resynergi.   In early conversations, according to Bauer, Sonoma County officials “suggested” his business could follow simpler recycling guidelines. Sheri Cardo, a spokesperson for Sonoma County’s Department of Health Services, confirmed the department had talked with Bauer about its operations as a recycling research and development site, and that his characterization was accurate.   In 2023, when Bauer sought to expand operations, he approached the city of Rohnert Park’s planning division for permits.  Officials told Bauer his facility was considered a heavy manufacturing site, and that Resynergi’s location – 600 feet from a school – demanded an environmental review, according to documents obtained by residents through a public records request. In a response late last year,  Resynergi argued that such a review could take too long, and moving quickly “could make or break substantial investment from a large strategic investor.” Within a month, planning officials had flipped and were now siding with Resynergi, granting it a more flexible, less burdensome administrative use permit. The decision avoided additional public review.  But to operate legally, Resynergi had to secure approval from county officials and the regional air district. In California, pyrolysis is classified as a type of incineration, associated with toxic and hazardous waste. Businesses must obtain a solid waste permit from local authorities, who enforce the state’s public resources code. In the past, three facilities have received permits to use pyrolysis, two for the purpose of destroying medical waste. All are now closed, according to CalRecycle. California counties issue waste permits on behalf of CalRecycle. The Bay Area Regional Air Quality Management District permits and controls pollution that microwaving plastic could produce. Resynergi’s microwave incinerator at 1200 Valley House Drive, in Rohnert Park, on Aug. 26, 2025. Photo by Chad Surmick for CalMatters County officials started looking into the company when they realized Resynergi’s plans would make the company a fully operational and “fixed component in the county’s waste system,” said Cardo, the county spokesperson.  “Although your facility might be considered a recycling facility in vernacular language, it is not under state law,” wrote Christine Sosko, Sonoma County’s director of environmental health. CalRecycle spokesman Lance Klug said in an email that Sonoma County’s response followed state standards. But environmental advocates say the way city and county officials handled Resynergi reflects regulators’ confusion about the processes for advanced recycling  – confusion fueled by the plastic industry.   Jane Williams, director of California Communities Against Toxics, argues that federal and state law make it clear that pyrolysis facilities have to follow rules as incinerators. “It’s really interesting for me to see, having worked on these incinerators for so long, how these guys pulled strings,” Williams said. “They pulled whatever out of their pockets so they could convince people this is a recycling facility.”  The American Chemistry Council, a trade group supporting the plastic industry, disagrees. And Resynergi’s Bauer said he doesn’t think his company’s process counts as incineration.  “Communities across California and the country are searching for credible solutions to plastic waste,” Bauer wrote in an open letter to the community. “This city has the chance to lead by example.”  Community fears toxic air pollution  People living in and near SOMO Village found out that Resynergi planned to burn plastic on a larger scale when the Bay Area Air Quality Management District notified the public of the company’s permit application. The community protested, filling city council rooms at each meeting and waving signs depicting polluting smoke stacks. Some parents spoke through tears to their city leaders. “Our air is not your experiment,” one poster read.  Among the local opponents of Resynergi was Stephanie Lennox. She lives about 20 minutes from Rohnert Park in rural Forestville, but her two daughters go to Credo High School right next to the facility. She wondered about emissions and the risk of an explosion.  “My Lord, don’t we need a solution to our global plastic pollution,” Lennox said. “But my daughters’ lungs are not part of your beta testing phase for your ‘world’s global plastic solution.’” Kirsten Van Nuys is hugged after addressing the city council at Rohnert Park City Hall to protest the recent operation of Resynergi’s microwave incinerator at 1200 Valley House Drive, on Aug. 26, 2025. Photo by Chad Surmick for CalMatters First: Resynergi’s microwave incinerator at 1200 Valley House Drive, in Rohnert Park. Last: Annabelle Royes, 9, stands in front of Rohnert Park City Hall to protest the operation of Resynergi’s microwave incinerator on Aug. 26, 2025. Photos by Chad Surmick for CalMatters Local organizers said they wanted city and county leaders to follow state law and the federal Clean Air Act.   When plastic is burned, additives like flame retardants or other chemicals that don’t break down can create toxic emissions, said Veena Singla, a researcher at the University of California San Francisco. Resynergi applied to the regional air district to obtain a permit for pollution control equipment in April, after the company had already begun operating their technology. In August, the air district issued three notices of violation to Resynergi for constructing and operating without a permit.  Bauer admitted to operating the equipment without a permit. The company never burned plastic in Rohnert Park he said; it did burn plastic at “prototype levels” in Santa Rosa. But, Bauer added, Resynergi was trying to follow the rules as he understood them. As a startup, he said, “you don’t even know if you will get a prototype to work. You’re also trying to figure out how the permitting process works.”  Millions spent to sway regulations Resynergi’s departure wasn’t because of a community outcry, Bauer said. The turning point, he said, was “the pull from other states; how they treated climate technologies such as ours …combined with the overall culture of accepting what we’re doing.” Plastics manufacturers and industry advocates like the American Chemistry Council have campaigned to redefine terms and loosen environmental regulations for the process Resynergi is developing. After the lobbying, 27 states have reclassified pyrolysis as manufacturing instead of solid waste operations, said Davis Allen, a researcher for the Center for Climate Integrity. That classification helps operators get around federal air requirements, he added.  Resynergi’s Bauer told CalMatters that “one of those (states) is a candidate,” and that the company will move out by the end of the year.    An analysis by the climate accountability newsletter HEATED found the chemistry council and groups aligned with it have spent as much as $30 million to promote the concept of advanced recycling as a mainstream and established one. That language aims to sway not just state laws, but federal clean air policy as well.   Between 2021 and 2022, when lawmakers were discussing plastic producer legislation, the American Chemistry Council spent more than $1.6 million on lobbying state legislators, according to publicly available data published by the Secretary of State. The American Chemistry Council’s Ross Eisenberg says that pyrolysis and other chemical recycling processes do work. These processes turn “hard-to-recycle plastics into the raw materials for high-quality products while reducing greenhouse-gas emissions and fossil energy use during production compared with virgin production,” he said.  “America’s plastic makers are investing billions of dollars to modernize and expand recycling capacity and improve efficiency,” Eisenberg said, adding that the companies are “advocating for smart policies that enhance collection and sorting so more plastics can be remade into new products.” This year, the Environmental Protection Agency said it isn’t taking further action on the matter, but industry representatives said they’ll continue to lobby at the federal level. Ambitious rules and tough realities for plastic California’s goals to reduce plastic pollution and make producers responsible for plastic waste are ambitious in size, scope, and speed. Within seven years, state law seeks to reduce plastic packaging by 25%, make single-use plastic packaging 100% recyclable or compostable, and divert most of that packaging into recycling.  Allen, from the Center for Climate Integrity, says laws like this can be a good idea – as long as regulators focus more on reducing plastics and less on recycling them.  “Almost any solution that is based on the idea that plastics can widely be recycled just isn’t really going to work,” Allen said. “There just aren’t easily available solutions to a lot of the problems that limit the effectiveness of recycling.” Single-use plastic bottles on a conveyor belt at greenwaste recycling facility in San Jose on July 29, 2019. Photo by Anne Wernikoff for CalMatters. But in March, regulations aimed at achieving the state’s goals were dealt a setback after two years of hearings. The day they were due, Gov. Newsom directed CalRecycle to start the regulatory process over.  The governor asked for changes “to minimize costs for small businesses and families – while ensuring California’s bold recycling law can achieve the critical goal of cutting plastic pollution,” said Daniel Villaseñor, a spokesperson for the governor, in an email to CalMatters. The Plastics Industry Association and the American Chemistry Council hailed the governor’s announcement as an opportunity. “We believe California’s regulations should be clear, technology-neutral, and performance-based,” said the council’s Ross Eisenberg. According to Klug, the CalRecycle spokesman, the state “remains committed to fostering business innovation that promotes a safe and clean future for all Californians.”  But environmental organizations like the Monterey Bay Aquarium and Surfrider called the decision disappointing.  Williams, the California Communities Against Toxics activist, said she’s concerned that more recent draft language may encourage pyrolysis facilities like Resynergi, which, she says, don’t belong in the state.    If California “rolls out the red carpet,” she said, “The only thing that will stop a whole new fleet of incinerators being built in California now is open, persistent community opposition.”  Resynergi also took part in CalRecycle workshops for the regulations. The company’s departure announcement praised the “innovative spirit of California … instrumental in the company’s growth.”  Brian Bauer said he’s hopeful the state plastic regulations will ease regulations for companies like his, but he plans to return to California either way.  “So it might be a couple years,” Bauer said. “We’ll be back to California in due time.”

The Sonoma County company Resynergi says it will depart the state, just as Gov. Newsom sends CalRecycle back to the drawing board on potentially nation-leading rules governing plastic waste and plastic products.

In summary

The Sonoma County company Resynergi says it will depart the state, just as Gov. Newsom sends CalRecycle back to the drawing board on potentially nation-leading rules governing plastic waste and plastic products.

The plan sounded like a magic bullet from the future to solve one of the world’s most vexing environmental waste problems. 

In Rohnert Park, just north of San Francisco, a startup company called Resynergi planned to use a form of “advanced recycling” to reuse plastic. Its process would chemically transform old plastic, blasting bits of it with microwaves until they turned into an oil that could then be used to make new plastic. 

But the process – known as pyrolysis – was a hard sell to Sonoma County neighbors, who protested so much that the company withdrew its application and now plans to move out of state. 

The fight that boiled over in Rohnert Park in recent months is a window into the tensions ahead for California as the state overhauls nation-leading regulations governing plastic pollution and packaging. (CalRecycle, formally known as the Department of Resources Recovery and Recycling, will hold a public hearing about those rules Oct. 7.) 

While California is establishing some of the most forward-thinking plastic responsibility and recycling rules in the country, a dirty secret is that most plastic recycling methods are ineffective at best and illusory at worst. 

Millions of tons of plastic go to the state’s landfills each year, and millions more are shipped to Southeast Asia, where plastic is rarely recycled. Instead it is illegally dumped, and often burned.

Last year, Attorney General Rob Bonta brought suit against ExxonMobil for “perpetuating the myth … that you can recycle plastics, including single use plastics, and that it’s sustainable and good for the environment … It’s not true. It’s a lie.” ExxonMobil has since countersued Bonta for defamation.

California’s regulators, meanwhile, are working to implement a 2022 state law that moves the state toward a circular economy for plastic – by making companies that produce packaging and single-use plastic items responsible for what happens to them after people throw them away. Those companies, along with environmental groups, have been weighing in as CalRecycle has been writing regulations, now years in the making.  

Recent comments by Gov. Gavin Newsom suggest the state is aiming to strike a balance, finding a way to encourage recycling companies while hitting the state’s goals – all while avoiding more air pollution or other environmental impacts. 

As for Resynergi, local and environmental advocates say that the way local, county, and regional regulators handled the company points up the challenges the state will face as it regulates plastic and defines whether and how it can be recycled. 

“It does make me nervous, since it took seven years to get any enforcement on a facility that’s a two hour drive from the Capitol,” said Nick Lapis, advocacy director for Californians Against Waste. 

A credible solution to plastic waste?

Resynergi’s departure came as Sonoma County officials began to ask more serious questions about its operations, almost a decade after the company first arrived. 

In 2017, company founder Brian Bauer chose Rohnert Park, a small, middle-class community surrounded by farmland, to develop and test his process.

He set up shop in a development called SOMO Village – a 200-acre neighborhood with homes, a high school, and commercial space. Developers market it as a climate-conscious place, built to be carbon-neutral, which Bauer said was a draw for Resynergi.  

In early conversations, according to Bauer, Sonoma County officials “suggested” his business could follow simpler recycling guidelines. Sheri Cardo, a spokesperson for Sonoma County’s Department of Health Services, confirmed the department had talked with Bauer about its operations as a recycling research and development site, and that his characterization was accurate.  

In 2023, when Bauer sought to expand operations, he approached the city of Rohnert Park’s planning division for permits. 

Officials told Bauer his facility was considered a heavy manufacturing site, and that Resynergi’s location – 600 feet from a school – demanded an environmental review, according to documents obtained by residents through a public records request. In a response late last year,  Resynergi argued that such a review could take too long, and moving quickly “could make or break substantial investment from a large strategic investor.”

Within a month, planning officials had flipped and were now siding with Resynergi, granting it a more flexible, less burdensome administrative use permit. The decision avoided additional public review. 

But to operate legally, Resynergi had to secure approval from county officials and the regional air district.

In California, pyrolysis is classified as a type of incineration, associated with toxic and hazardous waste. Businesses must obtain a solid waste permit from local authorities, who enforce the state’s public resources code. In the past, three facilities have received permits to use pyrolysis, two for the purpose of destroying medical waste. All are now closed, according to CalRecycle.

California counties issue waste permits on behalf of CalRecycle. The Bay Area Regional Air Quality Management District permits and controls pollution that microwaving plastic could produce.

Resynergi’s microwave incinerator at 1200 Valley House Drive, in Rohnert Park, on Aug. 26, 2025. Photo by Chad Surmick for CalMatters

County officials started looking into the company when they realized Resynergi’s plans would make the company a fully operational and “fixed component in the county’s waste system,” said Cardo, the county spokesperson. 

“Although your facility might be considered a recycling facility in vernacular language, it is not under state law,” wrote Christine Sosko, Sonoma County’s director of environmental health.

CalRecycle spokesman Lance Klug said in an email that Sonoma County’s response followed state standards.

But environmental advocates say the way city and county officials handled Resynergi reflects regulators’ confusion about the processes for advanced recycling  – confusion fueled by the plastic industry.  

Jane Williams, director of California Communities Against Toxics, argues that federal and state law make it clear that pyrolysis facilities have to follow rules as incinerators. “It’s really interesting for me to see, having worked on these incinerators for so long, how these guys pulled strings,” Williams said. “They pulled whatever out of their pockets so they could convince people this is a recycling facility.” 

The American Chemistry Council, a trade group supporting the plastic industry, disagrees. And Resynergi’s Bauer said he doesn’t think his company’s process counts as incineration. 

“Communities across California and the country are searching for credible solutions to plastic waste,” Bauer wrote in an open letter to the community. “This city has the chance to lead by example.” 

Community fears toxic air pollution 

People living in and near SOMO Village found out that Resynergi planned to burn plastic on a larger scale when the Bay Area Air Quality Management District notified the public of the company’s permit application.

The community protested, filling city council rooms at each meeting and waving signs depicting polluting smoke stacks. Some parents spoke through tears to their city leaders. “Our air is not your experiment,” one poster read. 

Among the local opponents of Resynergi was Stephanie Lennox. She lives about 20 minutes from Rohnert Park in rural Forestville, but her two daughters go to Credo High School right next to the facility. She wondered about emissions and the risk of an explosion. 

“My Lord, don’t we need a solution to our global plastic pollution,” Lennox said. “But my daughters’ lungs are not part of your beta testing phase for your ‘world’s global plastic solution.’”

Kirsten Van Nuys is hugged after addressing the city council at Rohnert Park City Hall to protest the recent operation of Resynergi’s microwave incinerator at 1200 Valley House Drive, on Aug. 26, 2025. Photo by Chad Surmick for CalMatters

Local organizers said they wanted city and county leaders to follow state law and the federal Clean Air Act.  

When plastic is burned, additives like flame retardants or other chemicals that don’t break down can create toxic emissions, said Veena Singla, a researcher at the University of California San Francisco.

Resynergi applied to the regional air district to obtain a permit for pollution control equipment in April, after the company had already begun operating their technology.

In August, the air district issued three notices of violation to Resynergi for constructing and operating without a permit. 

Bauer admitted to operating the equipment without a permit. The company never burned plastic in Rohnert Park he said; it did burn plastic at “prototype levels” in Santa Rosa.

But, Bauer added, Resynergi was trying to follow the rules as he understood them. As a startup, he said, “you don’t even know if you will get a prototype to work. You’re also trying to figure out how the permitting process works.” 

Millions spent to sway regulations

Resynergi’s departure wasn’t because of a community outcry, Bauer said. The turning point, he said, was “the pull from other states; how they treated climate technologies such as ours …combined with the overall culture of accepting what we’re doing.”

Plastics manufacturers and industry advocates like the American Chemistry Council have campaigned to redefine terms and loosen environmental regulations for the process Resynergi is developing. After the lobbying, 27 states have reclassified pyrolysis as manufacturing instead of solid waste operations, said Davis Allen, a researcher for the Center for Climate Integrity. That classification helps operators get around federal air requirements, he added. 

Resynergi’s Bauer told CalMatters that “one of those (states) is a candidate,” and that the company will move out by the end of the year.   

An analysis by the climate accountability newsletter HEATED found the chemistry council and groups aligned with it have spent as much as $30 million to promote the concept of advanced recycling as a mainstream and established one. That language aims to sway not just state laws, but federal clean air policy as well.  

Between 2021 and 2022, when lawmakers were discussing plastic producer legislation, the American Chemistry Council spent more than $1.6 million on lobbying state legislators, according to publicly available data published by the Secretary of State.

The American Chemistry Council’s Ross Eisenberg says that pyrolysis and other chemical recycling processes do work. These processes turn “hard-to-recycle plastics into the raw materials for high-quality products while reducing greenhouse-gas emissions and fossil energy use during production compared with virgin production,” he said. 

“America’s plastic makers are investing billions of dollars to modernize and expand recycling capacity and improve efficiency,” Eisenberg said, adding that the companies are “advocating for smart policies that enhance collection and sorting so more plastics can be remade into new products.”

This year, the Environmental Protection Agency said it isn’t taking further action on the matter, but industry representatives said they’ll continue to lobby at the federal level.

Ambitious rules and tough realities for plastic

California’s goals to reduce plastic pollution and make producers responsible for plastic waste are ambitious in size, scope, and speed. Within seven years, state law seeks to reduce plastic packaging by 25%, make single-use plastic packaging 100% recyclable or compostable, and divert most of that packaging into recycling. 

Allen, from the Center for Climate Integrity, says laws like this can be a good idea – as long as regulators focus more on reducing plastics and less on recycling them. 

“Almost any solution that is based on the idea that plastics can widely be recycled just isn’t really going to work,” Allen said. “There just aren’t easily available solutions to a lot of the problems that limit the effectiveness of recycling.”

Single-use plastic bottles on a conveyor belt at greenwaste recycling facility in San Jose on July 29, 2019. Photo by Anne Wernikoff for CalMatters.

But in March, regulations aimed at achieving the state’s goals were dealt a setback after two years of hearings. The day they were due, Gov. Newsom directed CalRecycle to start the regulatory process over. 

The governor asked for changes “to minimize costs for small businesses and families – while ensuring California’s bold recycling law can achieve the critical goal of cutting plastic pollution,” said Daniel Villaseñor, a spokesperson for the governor, in an email to CalMatters.

The Plastics Industry Association and the American Chemistry Council hailed the governor’s announcement as an opportunity. “We believe California’s regulations should be clear, technology-neutral, and performance-based,” said the council’s Ross Eisenberg.

According to Klug, the CalRecycle spokesman, the state “remains committed to fostering business innovation that promotes a safe and clean future for all Californians.” 

But environmental organizations like the Monterey Bay Aquarium and Surfrider called the decision disappointing. 

Williams, the California Communities Against Toxics activist, said she’s concerned that more recent draft language may encourage pyrolysis facilities like Resynergi, which, she says, don’t belong in the state.   

If California “rolls out the red carpet,” she said, “The only thing that will stop a whole new fleet of incinerators being built in California now is open, persistent community opposition.” 

Resynergi also took part in CalRecycle workshops for the regulations. The company’s departure announcement praised the “innovative spirit of California … instrumental in the company’s growth.” 

Brian Bauer said he’s hopeful the state plastic regulations will ease regulations for companies like his, but he plans to return to California either way. 

“So it might be a couple years,” Bauer said. “We’ll be back to California in due time.”

Read the full story here.
Photos courtesy of

Nazi bombs, torpedo heads and mines: how marine life thrives on dumped weapons

Scientists discover thousands of sea creatures have made their homes amid the detritus of abandoned second world war munitions off the coast of GermanyIn the brackish waters off the German coast lies a wasteland of Nazi bombs, torpedo heads and mines. Thrown off barges at the end of the second world war and forgotten about, thousands of munitions have become matted together over the years. They form a rusting carpet on the shallow, muddy seafloor of the Bay of Lübeck in the western tip of the Baltic Sea.Over the decades, the Nazi arsenal was ignored and forgotten about. A growing number of tourists flocked to the sandy beaches and calm waters for jetskiing, kite surfing and amusement parks. Beneath the surface, the weapons decayed. Continue reading...

In the brackish waters off the German coast lies a wasteland of Nazi bombs, torpedo heads and mines. Thrown off barges at the end of the second world war and forgotten about, thousands of munitions have become matted together over the years. They form a rusting carpet on the shallow, muddy seafloor of the Bay of Lübeck in the western tip of the Baltic Sea.Over the decades, the Nazi arsenal was ignored and forgotten about. A growing number of tourists flocked to the sandy beaches and calm waters for jetskiing, kite surfing and amusement parks. Beneath the surface, the weapons decayed.A shore crab in a video taken by a submersible. Photograph: DeepSea Monitoring/GeomarWhen the first scientists went looking to see what they were doing to the ecosystem, “some of us expected to see a desert, with nothing living there because it was all poisoned”, says Andrey Vedenin, from the Senckenberg Research Institute in Frankfurt am Main, who led a team of scientists to catalogue for the first time what life is able to survive on underwater weaponry.What they found astonished them. Vedenin remembers his colleagues shouting with surprise when the submersible first sent the images back. “It was a great moment,” he says.Thousands of sea creatures had made their homes amid the munitions, creating a regenerated ecosystem more populous than the sea floor around it.This underwater metropolis was testament to the tenacity of life. “It is actually astonishing how much life we find in places that are supposed to be toxic and dangerous,” he says.More than 40 starfish had piled on to one exposed chunk of TNT. They were living on metal shells, fuse pockets and transport cases just centimetres from its explosive filling. Fish, crabs, sea anemones and mussels were all found on the old munitions. “You could compare it with a coral reef in terms of the amount of fauna that was there,” says Vedenin.The munitions host a regenerated ecosystem of fish, crabs, sea anemones and mussels. ‘A lot of species that are otherwise rare or declining, such as the Baltic cod, are thriving,’ says Andrey VedeninAn average of more than 40,000 animals were living on every square metre of the munitions, scientists wrote in their paper on the discovery, published in the journal Communications Earth & Environment in September. The surrounding area was much less diverse, with only 8,000 individuals on every square metre.It is ironic that “things that are meant to kill everything are attracting so much life,” says Vedenin. “You can see how nature adapts after a catastrophic event such as the second world war and how, in some way, life finds its way back to the most dangerous places.”What the researchers found in the Bay of Lübeck reveals a surprising truth about how underwater life can repurpose human debris.Typically “urban sprawl” is considered bad for nature, but underwater, the script can be flipped. This is because every day, an average of 1m dumper trucks of rock, gravel, clay and silt are removed from the marine environment. These hard surfaces provide homes for corals, sponges, barnacles and mussels, as well as nursing grounds for fish.Before the war, this area of the Baltic Sea was full of boulders and rocky outcrops, but virtually all of them were removed for construction, to build homes and roads.Things that are meant to kill everything are attracting so much life … You can see how nature adaptsArtificial structures such as shipwrecks, offshore windfarms, oil rigs and pipelines can provide substitutes, replacing some of the lost habitat. This study shows that munitions could be similarly beneficial – the bloom of life on those in the Bay of Lübeck is likely to be repeated elsewhere.Between 1946 and 1948, 1.6m tonnes of arms were dumped off the German coast. Thousands of people loaded them in barges; some were dropped in designated sites, others just thrown overboard en route. This is the first time researchers have documented how marine life has responded.The seabed of the North and Baltic Seas off Germany are littered with munitions from the first and second world wars, such as shells once fired from German warships. Photograph: SeaTerraBut the phenomenon is not restricted to weapons. In the US, decommissioned oil and gas structures have turned into coral reefs; the Rigs-to-Reefs programme encourages authorities to leave the clean and stable structures underwater for the environmental benefits. Sunken ships from the first world war have become habitats for wildlife along the Potomac River in Maryland.These places become even more important for wildlife as the oceans are increasingly denuded by fishing, bottom trawling and anchoring. Sunken ships and weapons dump sites “essentially act as protected areas – they are not national parks, but almost any kind of human activity is prohibited”, says Vedenin. “Therefore a lot of species that are otherwise rare or declining, such as the Baltic cod, are thriving.”Anywhere where military conflict has occurred in the past 100 years, surrounding seas are usually strewn with munitions, says Vedenin. Millions of tonnes of explosive material lie in our oceans.The locations of these munitions are poorly documented, partly because of national borders, classified military information and the fact that records are buried in historic archives. They pose an explosion and security risk, as well as risk from the ongoing release of toxic chemicals.In the 1990s, academics started warning about the “danger from the deep”, and the need to remove potentially explosive material. Pressure to remove the weaponry also came from a growing demand to use the seabed for something else, such as dredging or offshore infrastructure such as windfarms, cables, and oil and gas pipelines.A black goby (Gobius niger), which feeds on the small crustaceans, fish, molluscs and worms living on the munitions in the Baltic Sea. Photograph: DeepSea Monitoring/ GeomarAs Germany and other countries embark on removing these relics, scientists hope to protect the ecosystems that have formed around them. In the Bay of Lübeck munitions are already being removed.“We should replace these metal carcasses left from munitions with some safer, some non-dangerous objects, like maybe concrete structures,” says Vedenin.He now hopes that what happens in Lübeck sets a precedent for replacing material after munitions removal elsewhere – because even the most destructive weaponry can become scaffolding for new life.Tank tracks that have become home to coral off Asan beach, Guam, came from US equipment lost during the invasion of the Pacific island in 1944. Photograph: National Park Service via GuamFind more age of extinction coverage here, and follow the biodiversity reporters Phoebe Weston and Patrick Greenfield in the Guardian app for more nature coverage

Nuclear-Waste Arks Are a Bold Experiment in Protecting Future Generations

Designing nuclear-waste repositories is part engineering, part anthropology—and part mythmaking

This article is part of a package in collaboration with Forbes on time capsules, preserving information and communicating with the future. Read more from the report.IGNACE, Ontario, C.E. 51,500—Feloo, a hunter, chews a strip of roasted caribou flank, washing it down with water from a nearby lake. Her boots press into thin soil that, each summer, thaws into a sodden marsh above frozen ground. Caribou herds drift across the tundra, nibbling lichen and calving on the open flats. Hooves sink into moss beds; antlers scrape dwarf shrubs. Overhead, migratory birds wheel and squawk before winging south. Two lakes remain liquid year-round, held open by hidden taliks—oases of water in a frozen land. Beneath it all lies the Canadian Shield: a billion-year-old granite craton, a basement of rock, scarred by ice, that has endured glaciation after glaciation. In 10 or 15 millennia, Feloo’s world will vanish beneath three kilometers of advancing ice.Feloo is unaware that 500 meters below her feet rests an ancestral deposit of copper, steel, clay and radioactive debris. Long ago, this land was called Canada. Here a group known as the Nuclear Waste Management Organization (NWMO) built a deep geological repository to contain spent nuclear fuel—the byproducts of reactors that once powered Ontario, Quebec and New Brunswick. The vault was engineered to isolate long-lived radionuclides such as uranium 235, which has a half-life that exceeds 700 million years—sealing them away from war, disaster, neglect, sabotage and curiosity for as long as human foresight could reach.On supporting science journalismIf you're enjoying this article, consider supporting our award-winning journalism by subscribing. By purchasing a subscription you are helping to ensure the future of impactful stories about the discoveries and ideas shaping our world today.NWMO issued reports with titles such as Postclosure Safety Assessment of a Used Fuel Repository in Crystalline Rock. These studies modeled future boreal forests and tundra ecosystems, simulating the waxing and waning of vast glacial ice sheets across successive ice ages. They envisioned the lifeways of self-sufficient hunters, fishers and farmers who might one day inhabit the region—and even the remote possibility of a far-future drill crew inadvertently breaching the buried canisters.Feloo was born into a world that has remembered none of this. Records of the repository were lost in the global drone wars of C.E. 2323. All that endured were the stories of Mishipeshu, the horned water panther said to dwell beneath the lakes—and to punish those who dig too deep. Some of Feloo’s companions dismiss the legend; others whisper that the earth below still burns with poison. Yet every step she takes is haunted by choices made tens of millennia before—when Canada undertook the Promethean task of safeguarding a future it could scarcely imagine.In 2024 NWMO announced that Canada’s deep geological repository for spent nuclear fuel would be built in the granite formations of northwestern Ontario, near the Township of Ignace and the Wabigoon Lake Ojibway Nation. The decision capped off a 14-year siting effort that solicited volunteer host communities and guaranteed them the right to withdraw at any stage of the process. NWMO is now preparing for a comprehensive regulatory review, which will include a licensing process conducted by the Canadian Nuclear Safety Commission. This means the development of impact assessments that will be specific to the Ignace site. NWMO has also pledged an Indigenous-led regulatory process alongside federal oversight, with the Wabigoon Lake Ojibway Nation conducting its own assessments to ensure the project reflects Anishinaabe principles of ecological stewardship. If approvals proceed, construction could begin in the 2030s, and the repository could go into operation in the 2040s.A deep-time repository, like a deep-space probe, must endure without maintenance or intervention, independently carrying human intent into the far future.A deep geological repository can be seen as a reverse ark: a vessel designed not to carry valuables forward in time but to seal dangerous legacies away from historical memory. Or it can be understood as a reverse mine: an effort returning hazardous remnants to the Earth rather than extracting resources from it. Either way it is more than just a feat of engineering. Repository projects weave together scientific reasoning, intergenerational ethics and community preferences in decisions that are meant to endure longer than empires. As messages to future versions of ourselves, they compel their designers to ask: What symbols, stories or institutions might bridge epochs? And what does it mean that we are trying to protect future humans who may exist only in our imaginations?I am a cultural anthropologist. From 2012 to 2014 I spent 32 months living in Finland, conducting fieldwork among the safety assessment teams for Onkalo—an underground complex that is likely to become the world’s first operational deep geological repository for spent nuclear fuel. The teams’ work involved modeling far-future glaciations, earthquakes, floods, erosion, permafrost and even hypothetical human and animal populations tens of millennia ahead. That research became the basis for Deep Time Reckoning, a book exploring how nuclear-waste experts’ long-range planning practices can be retooled as blueprints for safeguarding future worlds in other domains, from climate adaptation to biodiversity preservation.During the Biden administration, I joined the U.S. Department of Energy’s Office of Spent Fuel and High-Level Waste Disposition, where I helped advance participatory siting processes modeled on approaches that had proven successful in Finland and Canada. I served as federal manager of the DOE’s Consent-Based Siting Consortia—a nationwide coalition of 12 project teams from universities, nonprofits and the private sector that were tasked with fostering community engagement with nuclear waste management. Through it all, I came to see repository programs as civilizational experiments in long-term responsibility: collective efforts to extend the time horizons of governance and care so that shared futures may be protected far beyond the scale of any single lifetime or institution.An enduring question for all repository programs is whether—and, if so, how—to mark their sites and archive knowledge about them. There is no guarantee that the languages we speak today will remain intelligible even a few thousand years from now. Beowulf, written in an earlier form of English a millennium or so ago, already reads like a foreign tongue. The meanings of symbols drift just as unpredictably. A skull and crossbones, for instance, may denote poison, death, rebirth—or pirates—depending on culture and context. What, then, might a nuclear waste repository signify to people tens of millennia from now? How long can a warning sign, monument, or archive preserve the meanings we attach to it today? Or should we abandon the illusion of communicating with future humans like Feloo altogether—and instead build repositories that are meant to be forgotten?Nuclear organizations rely on familiar techniques to preserve institutional memory: documentation mandates, digital databases, mentoring pipelines, program redundancy, succession planning. Such mechanisms can sustain continuity for decades, even centuries—but their limits become clear when stretched across millennia. Archives can burn. Technologies can decay into obsolescence. Institutions can falter under political or economic upheaval. And today a new litany of planetary risks crowds the horizon: thermonuclear war, weaponized synthetic biology, climate-driven migrations, institutional collapse, even runaway artificial superintelligence.As NWMO prepares for construction in Ignace in the 2030s, the question of long-term communication must increasingly shift from theory to practice. Canada has participated in the Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development’s Nuclear Energy Agency’s Preservation of Records, Knowledge and Memory initiative, which has explored strategies ranging from warning markers to staged transfers of responsibility across generations. In a 2017 safety report, NWMO wisely conceded a limit: “repository records and markers (and passive societal memory) are assumed sufficient to ensure that inadvertent intrusion would not occur for at least 300 ... years.” Beyond that horizon, the premise changes. No monument, land-use restriction, monitoring system or archive can be trusted to endure indefinitely.Different countries have embraced different philosophies of how to safeguard nuclear waste repositories across centuries and millennia—and how and whether to try to send messages to those who, like Feloo, may one day live above them.The U.S. is home to the Waste Isolation Pilot Plant (WIPP), a deep geological repository carved into ancient salt beds in New Mexico. WIPP stores transuranic waste from the nation’s nuclear weapons programs. In the 1980s and 1990s, task forces convened scientists, artists, science-fiction writers and semioticians to design warning systems that were intended to deter drill crews or archaeologists living thousands of years in the future. Their proposals were dramatic: vast fields of concrete thorns bristling from the desert floor; monolithic slabs etched with multilingual warnings (“this place is not a place of honor ... nothing valued is here”); and signage depicting the anguished face of Edvard Munch’s The Scream. Some envisioned a quasi-religious “atomic priesthood” to preserve the warning through ritual. Others suggested bioengineered “ray cats” whose fur would fluoresce near radiation—accompanied by myths, songs and proverbs to ensure that unborn generations would know to flee.Finland’s Onkalo repository embodies a somewhat different a philosophy. Anticipating the future loss of institutional control and memory of the repository, Onkalo was designed to remain secure for millennia in the absence of monumental communication systems. As in Canada, the lack of exploitable resources in the granite bedrock is meant to deter future prospectors. Once its tunnels are packed with copper canisters and bentonite clay, Onkalo will be backfilled and sealed for perpetuity on a small, unassuming islet in the Baltic Sea sometime in the 2120s. The danger is to be buried so completely that there will be nothing left to remember: no attention-grabbing monoliths to tempt curiosity, no symbols to be misread. When I conducted anthropological fieldwork in Finland, some scientists likened the project to launching a probe into interstellar space: years of meticulous planning and testing culminating in a single, irrevocable release. After that, no repair or recall is possible. A deep-time repository, like a deep-space probe, must endure without maintenance or intervention, independently carrying human intent into the far future.Even the mightiest empires have cycled through collapse and renewal, through forgetting and rediscovery.France has charted a third path with its Cigéo repository, planned in the Callovo-Oxfordian clay of its northeastern departments of Meuse and Haute-Marne. A 2016 law requires Cigéo to remain reversible for at least a century after operations begin. In practice, reversibility means retrievability: the inbuilt capacity to recover waste packages from the underground deposition cells. Advocates see this as a balance between long-term containment and intergenerational agency: the idea that future citizens should retain the right to revisit, or even overturn, choices made today. This logic resonates with those who view spent nuclear fuel as a future resource more than a liability. Jenifer Schafer, an associate director for technology at the DOE’s Advanced Research Projects Agency–Energy, has argued that “nuclear treasure” may be a more fitting term than “nuclear waste,” as the fissile materials inside it could someday power future innovations in nuclear reactor design. From this perspective, burying spent nuclear fuel too conclusively risks foreclosing possibilities that future generations might prefer to keep open.Taken together, these examples reveal how differently societies imagine their obligations to the far future. The American strategy reflected a lingering cold-war-era faith—tinged with hubris—in design ingenuity to frighten descendants away. The Finnish plan entrusted geology with the work of erasure, even if humans’ memory were to lapse as the landscape quietly reclaimed the site. The French framework preserved the right of future citizens to reject the decisions of today. Canada still has regulatory milestones and First Nations approvals to meet before NWMO can break ground at Ignace. In the decades ahead, however, it, too, will have to specify how it will stage its approach to intergenerational communication.What is certain, though, is that NWMO’s deep geological disposal efforts will unfold not only as a technical project but also as a cultural statement—a statement about care across generations, the limits of understanding across difference and the moral responsibilities of present-day Canadians to those not yet born. Like all repository efforts, NWMO’s work in Ignace will serve as a mirror: a message not only to the future but also to the present, reflecting what we choose to remember, what we choose to forget and how we hope to be remembered ourselves.As NWMO refines its approach to remembering, forgetting and communicating with societies of the future, it would do well to look beyond the nuclear industry for inspiration.Japan’s Kongō Gumi construction firm, founded in C.E. 578, operated independently for more than 1,400 years before it became part of the Takamatsu Construction Group in 2006. Adapting across vast social and political transformations, the Catholic Church, France’s Hôtel-Dieu hospital (C.E. 651) and Morocco’s University of al-Qarawiyyin (C.E. 859) have each endured for more than a millennium. Bali’s subak irrigation system, established in the ninth century, continues to flourish through a network of water temples that unite ecological engineering with Hindu philosophy and ritual. In New Mexico, three-century-old acequia canals still function under community governance, with elected mayordomos overseeing water sharing through collective labor. In Australia, the Brewarrina fish traps have been maintained across countless generations of Aboriginal peoples. What principles of intergenerational adaptation, renewal or continuity might NWMO glean from such long-lived systems?The Memory of Mankind (MoM) project in Austria could also be instructive. MoM’s mission is to preserve a snapshot of human civilization for the distant future, a cultural time capsule designed to outlast war, decay and digital obsolescence. Deep inside the Hallstatt salt mine, MoM stores ceramic tablets engraved with texts and images engineered to resist heat, radiation, chemicals and water. Its archive includes everything from scholarly works to recipes and personal stories. Led by ceramist Martin Kunze, MoM represents a philosophy of strategic redundancy. To guard against loss, Kunze distributes miniature tablets worldwide, each etched with maps pointing back to the Hallstatt archive—a physical embodiment of a principle articulated by the digital-preservation project LOCKSS: “Lots of Copies Keep Stuff Safe.” What might it mean for Canada to apply that same principle to the challenge of nuclear memory?Indigenous cultures offer another paradigm of long-term message endurance: storytelling as recordkeeping. Aboriginal Australian oral histories recount volcanic eruptions in western Victoria that align with geological evidence dating back nearly 37,000 years. Narratives describing islands drowned by rising seas have likewise been corroborated by climate science. Such traditions demonstrate that oral knowledge of environmental change can persist across timescales that far exceed those of our most advanced digital media, which often decay or become unreadable within decades. What might NWMO learn from cultural systems of memory grounded in ceremony, cosmology and story transmission?If built properly, NWMO’s deep geological repository will outlast governments, economies and the very languages that name it. It will join a global lineage of reverse arks: monuments to societies that dared to think beyond themselves. If the facility is someday uncovered by a far-future archaeologist, its depth, placement and engineered barriers could reveal what our civilization judged to be dangerous, how we calculated risk and how we imagined future humans would think, live and interpret signs. Yet scientific literacy cannot be assumed across deep time. Even the mightiest empires have cycled through collapse and renewal, through forgetting and rediscovery. To posterity, a nuclear waste repository might be read as a sacred monument, an extraterrestrial stronghold, a strange geological formation, a chamber of forgotten gods—or something beyond our present-day imagination altogether.In the end, Canada’s proposed Ignace repository will be an artifact of our own self-understanding: stone and metal fashioned into a signal meant to traverse vast orders of time. Its interpretation will belong solely to the future—to whatever beings, human or otherwise, may one day unearth what we once chose to hide.

‘We feel we’re fighting a losing battle’: the race to remove millions of plastic beads from Camber Sands

A huge cleanup effort has seen volunteers working to remove beads by hand and machine. They can only wait and see the extent of damage to wildlife and dune habitatJust past a scrum of dog walkers, about 40 people are urgently combing through the sand on hands and knees. Their task is to try to remove millions of peppercorn-sized black plastic biobeads from where they have settled in the sand. Beyond them, a seal carcass grins menacingly, teeth protruding from its rotting skull.Last week, an environmental disaster took place on Camber Sands beach, on what could turn out to be an unprecedented scale. Eastbourne Wastewater Treatment Works, owned by Southern Water, experienced a mechanical failure and spewed out millions of biobeads on to the Sussex coastline. Southern Water has since taken responsibility for the spill. Ironically, biobeads are used to clean wastewater – bacteria attach to their rough, crinkly surface and clean the water of contaminants.Camber Sands is one of England’s most popular beaches, with rare dune habitat Continue reading...

Just past a scrum of dog walkers, about 40 people are urgently combing through the sand on hands and knees. Their task is to try to remove millions of peppercorn-sized black plastic biobeads from where they have settled in the sand. Beyond them, a seal carcass grins menacingly, teeth protruding from its rotting skull.Last week, an environmental disaster took place on Camber Sands beach, on what could turn out to be an unprecedented scale. Eastbourne Wastewater Treatment Works, owned by Southern Water, experienced a mechanical failure and spewed out millions of biobeads on to the Sussex coastline. Southern Water has since taken responsibility for the spill. Ironically, biobeads are used to clean wastewater – bacteria attach to their rough, crinkly surface and clean the water of contaminants.In the days since, volunteers have flocked to the beach. On a chilly November morning, beneath a blue sky, they painstakingly pick out the minuscule beads by hand. It is mind-numbingly tedious work.Others – much to the envy of the hand-pickers – have sieves. One volunteer has fashioned a sieve from a mesh onion sack found nearby.“We’re scooping up the sand, then pouring the sand over a bucket into a sieve, and then pouring the water on top, so that we just get the beads,” says Hastings resident Roisin O’Gorman.Andy Dinsdale, the founder of Strandliners, an environmental organisation that runs beach cleanups, says: “They’ve got to get down on their hands and knees, almost into the strandline [the line of seaweed and other debris that lines the high water mark on beaches], to look for very small 5mm black pellets. We can only do our best.”Kneeling on the sand, on your knees, just picking them out, one by one, is futileHe is noticeably exhausted from his days-long effort coordinating the cleanup. He has missed his son’s birthday celebrations, he says, to be here.Despite their valiant efforts, many volunteers feel helpless. Walking tramples the plastic further into the sand and overfilled bin bags of waste can split, putting workers back to square one. “Kneeling on the sand, on your knees, just picking them out, one by one, is futile,” says Nick, a volunteer from Tunbridge Wells, in frustration.To make more of a dent, experts have brought in a special machine. “Do you remember Teletubbies?” says Dinsdale. He points about a mile down the beach, towards what looks like a giant vacuum cleaner – remarkably reminiscent of the character Noo-Noo from the children’s television series – sucking up a carpet of black beads.This microplastic removal machine is the invention of Joshua Beech, an environmental scientist and founder of the cleanup organisation Nurdle. “It works by vacuuming up material, separating it by density, and then sieving and separating in the back [of the machine] so it comes out as nearly pure plastic in the collection trays,” he says.Beech and his colleague Roy Beal have spent five backbreaking days vacuuming the beach from sunrise to sunset. Beech hoists the heavy nozzle on to his shoulders while Beal holds it underarm. “He has a rugby player’s shoulders,” says Beal. “I have kayaker’s shoulders.”They hope that removing as many biobeads as possible can prevent more damage.Tamara Galloway, professor of ecotoxicology at the University of Exeter, says microplastics “overlap with the prey item size of many marine organisms and can enter the food web, with the potential to transfer contaminants into cells and tissues”.They can also break down and leach harmful compounds that affect animals’ hormones and cause reproductive problems. Local people are already concerned by an unusual number of stranded animals – three seals and a porpoise – that recently washed up on the beach. At this stage, the UK Cetacean Strandings Investigation Programme (CSIP), which investigates strandings, doesn’t think these deaths are linked to the spill.Rye Harbour nature reserve, adjacent to Camber Sands, is Sussex Wildlife Trust’s largest reserve. This special area is “a matrix of wetland habitat”, influenced by and linked to the sea, says site manager Paul Tinsley-Marshall. “The vegetated shingle is a globally threatened habitat.” It is home to more than 4,355 species, including common, sandwich and little terns, oystercatchers, plovers and avocets. Biobead pollution has now been confirmed at Rye Harbour, and the reserve’s team is currently assessing the damage and carefully planning their cleanup of this sensitive habitat.According to Strandliners, there have been two previous large-scale biobead incidents reported to the Environment Agency, in 2010 and 2017.“This is the worst microplastic spill we’ve seen this year,” says Beech. Worse even than the spill of nurdles (pre-production plastic pellets) in March, when two ships collided in the North Sea. The plastic beads washed up on Norfolk beaches and the surrounding coastline.The harm caused by the biobeads at Camber may depend on their composition. Beads like these used to be recycled from potentially toxic e-waste until regulatory legislation in 2006. No one knows when these beads were made, Dinsdale says.With the sun due to set at 4.20pm, time on the beach is limited. “We’re fighting against the sunlight,” says volunteer Cate Lamb who has travelled from London with her partner, Khalid Flynn, and eight-year-old Maya Flynn. “We feel like we’re fighting a losing battle, a little, because of the scale of the challenge.”At that moment, her bucket splits.Rother district council says attempts to remove all the pellets have “proven impossible” and that they “expect further large amounts to be deposited in the coming weeks and months”.Beech and the Nurdle team hope to return after the next spring tide brings in more, but this is dependent on them being able to cover the costs of a second clean.The money they make selling recycled sheeting made from the beach plastics to fund future cleanups isn’t enough. “We can’t afford to come back,” says Beech. “But the environment needs us back.”Southern Water has apologised for the spill but Helena Dollimore, the MP for Hastings and Rye, wants it to go further by funding the cleanup and any future nature restoration. She is also calling for an independent investigation. “Southern Water cannot be trusted to mark their own homework,” she says.

London judge rules BHP Group liable for Brazil’s 2015 Samarco dam collapse

About 600,000 people seeking compensation a decade on from disaster that killed 19 and devastated villagesA London judge has ruled that the global mining company BHP Group is liable in Brazil’s worst environmental disaster, when a dam collapse 10 years ago unleashed tons of toxic waste into a major river, killing 19 people and devastating villages downstream.Mrs Justice O’Farrell said at the high court that Australia-based BHP was responsible despite not owning the dam at the time. Continue reading...

A London judge has ruled that global mining company BHP Group is liable in Brazil’s worst environmental disaster, when a dam collapse 10 years ago unleashed tons of toxic waste into a major river, killing 19 people and devastating villages downstream.Mrs Justice O’Farrell said at the high court that Australia-based BHP was responsible despite not owning the dam at the time.Anglo-Australian BHP owns 50% of Samarco, the Brazilian company that operates the iron ore mine where the tailings dam ruptured on 5 November 2015, sending as much as 40m cubic metres of mining into the Doce River in south-eastern Brazil.Sludge from the burst dam destroyed the once-bustling village of Bento Rodrigues in Minas Gerais state and badly damaged other towns.The disaster also killed 14 tonnes of freshwater fish and damaged 370 miles (600 miles) of the Doce River, according to a study by the University of Ulster in the UK. The river, which the Krenak Indigenous people revere as a deity, has yet to recover.About 600,000 Brazilians are seeking £36bn ($47bn) in compensation, although the ruling only addressed liability. A second phase of the trial will determine damages.The case was filed in Britain because one of BHP’s two main legal entities was based in London at the time.The trial began in October 2024, just days before Brazil’s federal government reached a multibillion-dollar settlement with the mining companies.Under the agreement, Samarco, which is also half owned by Brazilian mining company Vale, agreed to pay 132 billion reais ($23bn) over 20 years. The payments were meant to compensate for human, environmental and infrastructure damage.BHP had said the UK legal action was unnecessary because it duplicated matters covered by legal proceedings in Brazil.

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