Expelled by sea: Latin America’s first relocated climate refugees | Future of America

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José López stops giving instructions to be quiet for a second. He watches his neighbors put their belongings into a boat that sinks a little more each time. Three mattresses, bed bases, a freezer, water tanks full of children’s clothes, speakers… “Half life is contained in a boat,” he says. His trance is fleeting. Soon the bustle of a community returns amid the moving crowds. Carti Sugdub Island, the most populated island in the paradisiacal Panamanian archipelago of Guna Yala, is being moved and dozens of bags labeled with the owner’s name and the number of the house that opens onto dry land will be arriving at the main dock all morning. Don Braulio has already packed up his girls’ toys and Doña Loitza is waiting for them to finish breakfast to clean and pack up the grill. Young people walk up and down the island’s streets with suitcases packed the night before, while women escort them along the sidewalks with the sour smile of someone who doesn’t want to do it but has to. “Nobody leaves the island just because,” says Lopez.

The sailor’s reasons are many. He wants to live in a dry home that doesn’t flood every three or four months and that his children don’t have to be careful when coming ashore. But, most of all, he wants the girl he will be born in less than a month not to get used to a region whose days are numbered. According to a study by Panama’s Environment Ministry, none of the 365 Caribbean islands will be habitable by 2050 due to the rapid rise in sea levels caused by global warming. For this reason, the government has displaced about 300 coastal families of the Guna ethnic group in the first week of June to Isber Yala, a neighborhood of 300 identical 40-square-meter houses. The houses, made of PVC and concrete, were built on 14 hectares, which were paradoxically deforested in the hilly area for construction. With nostalgia and, without completely distancing himself from Carti, Lopez fears the dozens of neighbors who don’t want to move and the fear of adapting his children to an area that is so different from the one where he and many of his ancestors grew up. “We will do everything possible so that our customs don’t disappear. But everything is more difficult from here,” he admits in his new home.

This is the first time that a Latin American state has undertaken the resettlement of an entire community of climate refugees, as confirmed by the United Nations Population Fund (UNFPA). After more than 20 years of study, the Laurentino Cortizo government has invested $ 12.2 million in building the necessary infrastructure to house more than 1,300 people, who have started living this month on dry land an hour away by road or boat to their native island. The move also began without water or electricity in the neighborhood and most importantly with the displeasure of people who would not go, like Atilio Martínez, a historian of the Guna. “The government made Matchbox They don’t take into account our indigenous traditions,” he says from the hammock of his home. “They don’t take us into account. They drive us out of here like we’re going to drown tomorrow. It’s not like that, nor will we be alone.” Like Martinez, many neighbors fear the move will lead to the loss of their culture and roots and regret the displacement project’s “Western” approach.

The Guna Yala region has been adapting to rising sea levels for decades. Among other things, they have expanded the island by filling in coral and cement and are moving houses from the edge to the center. Although not everyone talks about climate change, they are on the front lines of its effects and even have an expression to name it: negative boniguana, Which means “Our common home is getting sick.” Although according to the Smithsonian Research Institute Tropical (STRI), sea level in the Panama Bay (Pacific) rises by 1.5 millimeters per year, in the Caribbean, data from the University of Hawaii’s tide station show a rise of six millimeters per year. This phenomenon, added to the crisis of the strong and unpredictable natural climate events of El Niño and La Niña and rapid urban expansion, has accelerated the deterioration of the coasts. In some areas of Lopez Island, the sea begins less than two meters from the houses.

For Mrs. Elvira Hadman, 76, today is a day like any other. She woke up in the sunlight to have breakfast and began sewing mola (a traditional cloth) with her friend Iguebidili Robinson, 58. Alone and without children, they spend their days on the pavement of this large house made of wood and cane. None of them have any intention of moving. “My parents and grandparents were born here. If the island sinks, let it sink. I’m not going to leave,” Hadman says after laughing. For Inikilipi Chiari Lombardo, co-founder of TV Indígena and one of the youngest leaders in the region, the fact that dozens of islanders do not plan to move is the result of government failure. “There was a lack of education about climate change. Many think it is a lie and there are some who do not leave because they wanted homes with more space to plant trees because they would have to give up fishing,” she commented. “When they arrived with the keys in their hands, they accepted it without thinking, but there was a lack of involvement of the local leadership, there was a lack of awareness…”.

The relocation of Carti Sugdup will be a kind of test of the other 63 island displacements that the Panamanian state plans to carry out “very soon”. Ligia Castro de Doanes, director of climate change at Panama’s environment ministry, estimates that this year they will be able to relocate three other islands from the area and the rest later. “They are all poor, indigenous and Afro-descendant communities and we estimate that it will cost $1.2 billion. It’s a lot of money, but it must be done before 2050. By then there will be no islands left,” he warns. For the Guna, it is history, a death knell.

“Neighboring countries keep a close eye on Panama”

Panama’s initiative is being closely watched by other Latin American countries with similar problems. Dr. Sabrina Juran, the UN’s regional adviser on population and development, believes this type of displacement “may be inevitable.” “The situation in Guna Yala serves as a pilot scheme that could be replicated in other countries. “The lessons learned here will be crucial in guiding the adaptation strategies needed in the region and beyond.” The numbers show that. According to UN estimates, more than 41 million Latin Americans live in low-lying and coastal areas that face similar risks to the region. They make up more than 6% of the region’s inhabitants.

That’s why after handing over the first keys, the acting president sent a clear message to the rest of the leaders. “Although Panama is one of seven carbon negative countries, it is making this effort and we would like developed countries to do the same, which, after all, have caused the climate crisis that we are experiencing with their emissions of greenhouse gases,” Cortizo said. This will be his last move during his term, which ends on July 1. Despite the country’s low CO₂ emissions, Panama has a “serious” level of vulnerability to climate change by 2030. Here, practically one in 10 Panamanians lives less than 10 meters above sea level.

“The tradition is disappearing”

Despite the great efforts of the Panamanian government, this new settlement – which also has a school, a medical center, a chicha house and a soccer field – has drawn criticism from the new neighbors, who regret that the infrastructure has nothing to do with the indigenous architecture and that the relocation took place in a mountainous area more than a kilometer from the sea; the main means of life of the Guna community. Many environmentalists also demand that the government cut down 14 hectares of forest for the project.

While José López’s house is being vacated, his neighbor is building a more robust house on six sturdy stilts. Rogelio García passes by and shakes his head, somewhat displeased. He won’t leave his island either. But he suspects others will regret it. “There they will have to pay for electricity and water, they will lose their culture, the children will not want to return… Maybe instead of kicking us out they could have thought of building better houses like this neighbor’s,” he says, pointing to the construction in front of him. “Is this really the only solution to kick us out?” A suspicion that Raisa Banfield, architect and former vice mayor of Panama City, also shares. “The climate emergency requires not only protecting people from rising sea levels, but also maintaining their way of life and culture.” The environmentalist also fears that this is part of a plan by hotel chains to take over beautiful islands with white sand and coconut trees. “If we have already seen these activities on dry land, why won’t it happen in the open ocean?” he asks over the phone.

Atencio López, legal adviser to the Guna General Congress, also does not hide that fear and recalls that in 2020 he initiated a judicial process before the IACHR in which he denounced the privatization of the Guna territory. Although negotiations have been going on for almost 20 years on the islands, the government finally decided to add this community to the national social housing plan, designed for vulnerable and poor people; not for ethnic groups displaced by the climate, such as the Guna. “We have not been taken into account. “We are in danger of the Guna tradition disappearing.”

This ethnic group – native to Colombia – came to the Panama coast more than 120 years ago fleeing malaria and armed conflicts. Despite being islanders, they have always buried their dead along riverbanks on the continent. Their stories and songs revolve around a single desire: to return to dry land. “We have always maintained a pulse with the forest and the rivers,” explains Atencio López. “We are returning to where the ancestors told us we would return. They warned us it would be because of the fury of fire and water. “I knew we would return, but I never thought they would mention the climate emergency.”