Written by Sussex alumna, Jamila Travis, (BA International Development 2024)

Food as a means to mobilise against the ‘environmental Nakba’

“What we can do is a small stone in the large mosaic, you add another stone, and we add another one, then we can hopefully complete the whole picture”
(Damir, cited in Simaan, 2017, p. 519)

My most vivid memories of Haifa come in the form of food. Sitting outside one of many Arabic restaurants adorning the road that runs down the slope below the beautiful Bahá’í Temple, lit up at night and shimmering in its full glory. In front of me, a feast for the eyes in the form of labneh, hummus, foul, mujaddara, fattoush, bamieh, warak b’zeit, to name a few. Sitting at a table filled with people drinking, laughing, chatting, and eating, dipping into the huge spread in front of us with fresh, warm flatbread while the sun slowly dips beneath the horizon. The space around us ringing with the echoes of music, and of laughter from other tables – other small communities coming together to share food, to break bread, to talk, and to reconnect. That is what I miss the most.

I myself am not Palestinian. My dad is from Israel; a statement more politically charged than ever since the devastating events on and following October 7th of last year. I often feel the need to follow it up with explanations of his origins and my political standing. His family is not from Israel or Palestine, nor is he Jewish or Arab, but he grew up in Nazareth. When I was 13 he moved back to Israel, after which I would travel twice a year to visit him until the COVID epidemic hit. I have family friends from across Israel, and from a variety of different backgrounds, Palestinian, Jewish, and other. I feel deeply lucky to have grown up with my eyes open to a land filled with so much culture and history. Nevertheless, it is heartbreaking to see how a people whose history, culture, and livelihoods are so wrapped up in the food and land that surrounds them, have been continually removed from both. And yet, I have also seen the many small ways food continues to be a focal point around which seemingly insignificant, yet radical resistance is enacted everyday.

As with so many cultures, food has always been a big part of Palestinian life. Historic Palestine encompassed the land between the Mediterranean Sea and the Jordan River, comprising part of the ‘Fertile Crescent’ where agriculture is supported by the mild climate and productive soil close to water, and where historians think the first farming societies emerged (Albert, 1998). The significance of food is not just its importance in sustaining life. Local food and eating habits are tightly linked to the culture, traditions, and identity of Palestinians. An example is the traditions surrounding marriage in Palestinian culture. Weddings are customarily carried out in the summer after harvest, with harvest fields a common venue for the ceremony. The whole community participates, sharing in the expenses and preparation of food and drinks (Shomali, 2002). Similarly, food and agricultural practices are significant in building community and wellness.

Another example is the communal nature of society, often presenting itself through the sharing of food. For example, Abu-A’ttallah and Um-Yasin describe the ancient practice of leaving some fruit on the trees to be picked by local families who are without land (Simaan, 2017). This generosity is clear to all who visit a Palestinian community, as I myself have experienced, having been heartily welcomed by so many families who want to share their homes and food. In this way, the degradation of Palestinian land is not just an act of war, but also a question of cultural and social environmental justice.

Food and Justice

A fundamental aspect of local Palestinian food is the olive, and the cultivation of olive trees that live for hundreds of years, thus being passed down through the generations. Abu-Nedal poignantly reminisces on the nostalgia linked to the olive: “When the first rain came people knew it was olive harvest season. A beautiful season with memories of everyone helping and sharing food” (ibid., p. 517). Few examples thus show the devastating environmental and cultural impacts of occupation as clearly as the olive tree. As of 2020, almost 1 million olive trees in historic Palestine had been damaged or destroyed (Asi, 2020, p. 212), a campaign which has only grown more intense in light of the recent war. This is not only a threat to traditional cuisine and culture, for which the olive tree has become an important symbol, but also hits local livelihoods, as many are dependent upon the income that olive yields bring. However, the impact for communities is far greater than this.

In 2019, a 60-year-old Palestinian woman, Doha, woke up to her olive groves in the West Bank going up in flames. She told The Pulitzer Center, “I could only sit, watch and cry as all my trees burned… My olive trees are older than anyone who is alive today.” As Doha’s comments show, olive trees are an important cultural symbol for many. More broadly, our connection to food, land and environment thus runs far deeper than solely their utility for money and consumption.

Dispossession Through Conservation

The burning of olive groves is only one aspect of a much wider campaign to repossess and destroy Palestinian land in the territories of historic Palestine. In areas designated as nature reserves, Israeli settlers are permitted to destroy native trees and shrubs, and to cultivate the land themselves. Official designations of which areas constitute nature reserves are thus often exaggerated. In 2011, only 3% of the West Bank was labelled part of a nature reserve (Friends of the Earth, 2013), while 12% of it had been declared so by the Israeli state (Isaac and Hilal, 2011). Braverman (2009) highlights how the planting of pine and cypress trees is a strategy often used to create these ‘reserves’. These trees have become a popular symbol of Jewish rootedness in the land. However, they have devastating impacts upon Palestinian agriculture and the environment, since cypresses and pines produce acidic needles that cover the soil and prevent other plants from growing (Weizman, 2007, cited in Panosetti & Roudart, 2023, p. 9).

The Israeli state continues to dispossess rural Palestinian communities under laws that claim all uncultivated and unregistered land as state property. This is done through a land mapping which purports to be ‘neutral’ but can easily be manipulated by selecting aerial photos that display landscapes when seasonal crops and livestock are not present (Braverman, 2008). Thus, in Israel and the occupied territories, the landscapes have been irreparably altered by the settlements built upon such repossessed land. Driving from Jerusalem to Jericho, you can see the striking contrast between the imposing Israeli settlements seated like fortresses on the tops of hills in the mountainous desert, and on the other hand the scattered Palestinian and Bedouin settlements below.

Such means of dispossessing Palestinians from their land simultaneously separate them from methods of food production. This is not just characterised by dispossession but also restrictions on movement and exchange. Under the Oslo Accords the West Bank was divided up into different areas of control, of which the Israeli state was given the majority as well as the entirety of the border, leading to the severe limiting of movement for Palestinians (Friends of the Earth, 2013, p. 7). This has prevented many from crossing borders for work or to sell their produce (Asi, 2020, p. 208). Thus, the Palestinian population has suffered a complete loss of food sovereignty – the right of local peoples to control their own systems of food production and consumption (Wittman, 2011, p. 87).

The ‘Environmental Nakba’

Controls on movement, access and use also applies to water resources. In occupied Palestine, water is redirected to Israeli settlements and Palestinians have little access to local sources, further impacting their ability to cultivate food, as well as their health. This presents immense environmental concerns in terms of the fast depletion of water from local water sources as well as the high amounts of pollution, having devastating impacts on the seas, rivers, and springs of this holy and historically biodiverse land. The crisis is clearly visible in the depletion of water in the Sea of Galilee and the Jordan River, both being integral parts of the landscape. My most vivid memory from my first visit to the area at the age of 5 is the beautiful streams at the Tel Dan Nature Reserve in Upper Galilee that led into the Jordan River. When I returned as a teenager, however, there was little water left, and the dried-up land left the impression of something once beautiful that had now been lost.

These issues are compounded by ongoing pollution. ‘Friends of the Earth’ find that Israel routinely dumps waste and raw sewage into the Occupied Territories, poisoning water supplies, whilst also enforcing restrictions that prevent Palestinian communities from developing adequate wastewater treatment systems. According to Al Jazeera, Israeli settlements are usually built on hills, meaning their wastewater can – and often does – leak into Palestinian villages below, contaminating water supplies, but also polluting cultivated land. Palestinian farmers near settlements have reported poor yield and crop quality, as well as the loss of livestock that have drunk the wastewater.

In this sense, some areas of historic Palestine have become sacrifice zones, areas from which continuous extraction occurs in order to provide resources to another. Water is one example of this, being funnelled away from Palestinian lands and villages that are left thirsty, in order to provide for the new settlements and cities. Thus, certain land, bodies, and cultures are sacrificed to the benefit of others. This extraction has manifested in many ways, and has over the years culminated in the ongoing slow violence that ‘Friends of the Earth’ (2013) refer to as an ‘environmental Nakba’.

Growing Resistance

International aid tends to prioritise short-term needs rather than long-term sovereignty. Asi (2020) highlights that most international funds go towards tangible food goods rather than investment in mechanisms for food production, keeping local communities reliant on aid and trapping them in a system of economic dependency. Furthermore, while this might provide much needed ‘food security’ (ensuring people have access to sufficient and nutritious food (Wittman, 2011, p. 91), it doesn’t replace the role of food production in cultural life. While the building of food sovereignty in Palestine may appear an unthinkable task in the context of continued occupation and brutality, the many examples of ‘agro-resistance’ that have been enacted over the years provide lessons for movements across the world.

Al Jazeera talks about ‘guerilla gardening’ as a popular means of enacting non-violent resistance in Palestine, planting trees to combat illegal land-grabs and reclaim pockets of neglected terrain. Olive tree planting has become a vital component of everyday agricultural resistance, and indeed a broader cultural symbol of Palestinian resistance. They are considered the most effective way of preventing state possession of land through the land-mapping described above, appearing on photos where seasonal field crops and animals may not (Panosetti & Roudart, 2023). They also grow with little labour, while olive oil can be sold on domestic markets, avoiding export restrictions.

This type of resistance is referred to by Simaan (2017) as an example of ‘Sumud’ (ﺻﻣود), meaning ‘steadfastness’, describing actions and values through which people persevere and hold on to their land, communities and culture. Simaan gives the example of when she helped a family plant 500 olive saplings that were uprooted a few days later. However, the next year they planted more trees, determined to continue until their opponents gave up. The trees were still there when Simaan revisited later that year (ibid.). A wide range of agricultural activities have been carried out across Palestine in the name of resistance and food sovereignty. Organisations like the Union of Agricultural Work Committees help Gazans capture rooftop rainwater to counteract water shortages and teach residents to cultivate gardens in their homes to reduce food-spending (Salah, 2018 cited in Asi, 2020). Meanwhile, food cooperatives like the Ma’an (‘together’) Permaculture Center grow food for local populations (ibid.). This variety of everyday forms of resistance provide many an important sense of hope, showing that even seemingly small actions can have big impacts.

However, this spark of hope has diminished for many in light of the conditions in the current conflict. According to the UN, by January 2024 Gazans already made up 80% of all people facing famine or catastrophic hunger worldwide. Additionally, while all Gazans have faced some level of food insecurity, the UN now also estimates that 16% of the entire population will face Phase 5, or catastrophic, food insecurity, with 70% of crop fields having been destroyed. Thus, not only has the level of food sovereignty violently decreased with the destruction of land, but short-term food security has itself become incredibly scarce. This is because Israeli forces have been blocking aid from entering the occupied territories, to the extent that Joyce Msuya, the acting Under-Secretary General for Humanitarian Affairs and Emergency Relief Coordinator for the UN, reported that absolutely no food was able to enter Gaza from the 2nd to the 15th October, and she warned there is now barely any food left to distribute.

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In these conditions, it is unrealistic to look to agro-resistance as the way out of the current situation, but without an understanding of the importance of food we miss a critical aspect of cultural erasure in warfare. This is central to the Palestinian experience, both within historic Palestine and among the diaspora, as is the importance of cultural resurgence and resistance against this form of erasure. In addition to the land, food culture is itself a target of settler repossession. Arabic food sign-posted as ‘Israeli’ tabbouleh, ‘Israeli’ falafel, or ‘Israeli’ arak may seem odd to someone who has grown up eating these delicious dishes, but food and cultural appropriation has played an important role in the ‘return’ of Jewish populations from different backgrounds and cultures to biblical Israel. In this context, retaining, sharing, and discussing food culture is not just nostalgic but also deeply political.

Food as Memory

Stam and Shohat (1994) find that the counter-act to appropriation is for writers, poets, and filmmakers to create texts of their own history. One way this can be done in the realm of food is through cookbooks and food writing. In ‘Palestine Writes’, Anderson gives the example of Assil, who owns a Palestinian restaurant and bakery in San Francisco. “For me, being Palestinian, my food is a political identity. I’m very intentional about calling my food Palestinian because we’re at a point in history in which there’s an intentional erasure, a severing of people from their food ways…” There are now a number of Palestinian cookbooks, certainly more than existed in the past. My own well-worn copy of ‘Zaitoun’ (زﯾﺗون) – ‘olive’ – contains the recipes for all of my favourite Arabic meals, wrapped in a beautiful illustrative cover with flowers, citrus fruits, and pomegranates.

Food provides a unique vehicle for remembering. Transporting displaced people back to their homes and families. This provides more than just nostalgia – it provides hope. By preserving the heritage of Palestine, the dream of returning to one’s land, food, and family is kept alive, and this in turn keeps people determined to fight, sparking other forms of radical activism. The first time my family cooked Palestinian food was with some friends we met at a local community garden, who are refugees from Palestine. Together, we cooked flatbreads, mujaddara, fattoush, and foul. While I’m sure our attempts at these traditional meals were far below the standard they would have been used to growing up, even the semblance of their childhood meals was emotional for them. They had not eaten those dishes in years, nor had they seen their families or mothers who used to cook it for them, who are all still in Gaza today.

Food is also a powerful agent in bringing people together in discussion and in community. It can help people connect, tear down walls, and sometimes it is the start of uncomfortable conversations. While food cannot replace other forms of activism, it can help engender awareness, recognition, and healing. Contrary to how it may seem, this is more important than ever in the context of the current war. Palestinians across the world are facing the draining psychological impacts of the occupation. In The Guardian, Bauck cites Laila El-Haddad, co-author of the 2013 cookbook The Gaza Kitchen, who says the more she wrote about guns the more jaded she became. She argues the importance of food in showing the beauty of Palestinian culture, telling the story in a different way. In the same article, Wafa Shami, the food photographer and recipe developer behind ‘Palestine in a Dish’, similarly says:

I just want to show off the beauty of Palestine, the humanity, the culture, away from the politics. Images in the mainstream media here basically show Palestinians as evil, angry, throwing stones or burning tires. But Palestinians are so much more – our art, our music, our food.

Shami discusses the hesitancy she has had sharing food imagery at a time when many face starvation, but how she has been ‘moved to happy tears’ by how many people have tagged her in pictures of the Palestinian food her recipes have taught them to cook. “When you share a meal with somebody, you are connected on a deeper level. We have a saying back home that goes something like, ‘I’m connected to that person because we broke bread together’” (ibid.).

Cooking is a vital way to connect culture and community, and for me it is an opportunity to reflect on what I have left behind in Haifa. Even more so, it has opened up a new world of activism that I did not know before. I spent a beautiful day in April putting my newly acquired cooking skills to the test in the shed of a local community garden, where I and a few other women spent the day cooking mujaddara, labneh, hummus, falafel, tabbouleh, and tahini from scratch, using organic produce they had grown. All funds were donated directly to the Union of Agricultural Work Committee in Palestine. This would support their seed-sharing programme, helping to give people in Palestine access to food now, whilst offering hope for planting projects in the long-term. I was moved that day by the sight of so many people gathering outside to eat together, talk, and open their minds in support of such an important cause. Breaking bread, sharing stories, and remembering may not offer solutions to our global crises – but there are certainly worse places to start.

This blog was written as part of the third-year International Development module ‘Political Ecology and Environmental Justice’

Bibliography:

Albert, J, et al. (1998) ‘Biodiversity and Sustainable Agriculture in the Fertile Crescent’, Yale School of Forestry & Environmental Studies Bulletin Series, 103(98), pp. 31-57. https://elischolar.library.yale.edu/yale_fes_bulletin/98

Asi, Y. (2020) ‘Achieving Food Security Through Localisation, Not Aid: “De-development” and Food Sovereignty in the Palestinian Territories’, Journal of Peacebuilding & Development, 15(2), pp. 205-218. Doi: 10.1177/1542316620918555.

Braverman, I. (2008) ‘‘The Tree Is the Enemy Soldier’: A Sociolegal Making of War Landscapes in the Occupied West Bank.’ Law & Society Review, 42(3), pp. 449–482. https://www.jstor.org/stable/29734134

Braverman, I. (2009) Planted Flags: Trees, Land and Law in Israel/Palestine. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Friends of the Earth International. (2013) Environmental Nakba: Environmental injustice and violations of the Israeli occupation of Palestine: A report of the Friends of the Earth International observer mission to the West Bank. https://www.foei.org/publication/environmental-nakba-environmental-injustice-and-vio lations-of-the-israeli-occupation-of-palestine/

Forensic Architecture. (2024) ‘No Traces of Life’: Israel’s Ecocide in Gaza 2023-2024. https://forensic-architecture.org/investigation/ecocide-in-gaza

Isaac, J & Hilal, J. (2011). ‘Palestinian landscape and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict’, International Journal of Environmental Studies, 68(4), pp. 413-429. Doi: 10.1080/00207233.2011.582700.

Massad, S & Hmidat, M. (2016) ‘Farming, Water, Food Sovereignty, and Nutrition in Occupied Palestinian Territories’, International Journal of Food and Nutritional Science, 3(5), pp. 1-13. https://doi.org/10.15436/2377-0619.16.932

Panosetti, F & Roudart, L. (2023) ‘Land Struggle and Palestinian farmers’ livelihoods in the West Bank: between de-agrarianization and anti-colonial resistance’, The Journal of Peasant Studies, (November 10), pp. 1-23. Doi: 10.1080/03066150.2023.2277748.

Red Nation. (2021) The Red Deal: Indigenous action to save our Earth – Part III: Heal Our Planet. The Red Nation[Online]. http://therednation.org/environmental-justice/

Shomali, M. (2002) ‘Land, Heritage and Identity of the Palestinian People’, Palestine-Israel Journal of Politics, Economics, and Culture, 8(4). https://www.pij.org/articles/804/land-heritage-and-identity-of-the-palestinian-people

Simaan, J. (2017) ‘Olive growing in Palestine: A decolonial ethnographic study of collective daily-forms-of-resistance’, Journal of Occupational Science, 24(4), pp. 510-523. Doi: 10.1080/14427591.2017.1378119.

Stam, R and Shohat, E. (1994) ‘Contested Histories: Eurocentrism, Multiculturalism, and the Media’. In Goldberg, D (Ed.), Multiculturalism: A Critical Reader. Oxford: Blackwell.

Wittman, H. (2011) ‘Food Sovereignty: A New Rights Framework for Food and Nature?’,

Environment and Society, (December 2011). Doi: 10.3167/ares.2011.020106.

Written by Finlay Etherington

kyun banaate ho mujhe mazhab ka nishaana
main ne to kabhi khud ko musalmaan nahi maanaa
apne hi watan mein hoon magar aaj akeli
urdu hai mera naam main hoon ‘khusrav’ ki paheli

Why do you make me a target of religion?
I have never considered myself solely a Muslim.
I am in my own homeland, yet today I stand alone.
My name is Urdu; I am the enigma of Khusro

2 years ago, sat in the foyer of a hotel in New Delhi during the peak of the monsoon season, I was chatting to the reception staff in Hindi over a glass of chai. Half-way through the conversation, the owner of the hotel remarked “You are sounding like a Muslim, and we don’t like Muslims”. I decided to refrain from using too many words which would, in their eyes, be considered alien to Hindi, but are nonetheless popular in Bollywood songs and daily-speech. This language to which they referred was Urdu, a language which is mutually intelligible with Hindi, born in the very area which the hotel was situated, the heart of Old Delhi. Shaped by the confluence of local Indian languages interacting with Persian, Arabic and Turkish, Urdu’s origins are undoubtedly Indian. This interaction has since sparked a desire to understand the Hindi-Urdu nexus, and what effect this kind of rhetoric is having on those who claim it as a native language (Ahl-e-zabaan).

Last spring I was fortunate enough to be awarded the Nicola Anderson Award, which funded the fieldwork, for my thesis I carried out across the Hindi-belt during the summer of ‘24. The purpose of my research was to explore the current and future status of Urdu in Northern India, which I will link to my wider thesis concerning changes to Muslim identity in Northern India. So began a 3 week period of fieldwork stretching from the capital Delhi, across the Punjab, and into Jammu and Kashmir.

 Whilst I knew Northern India well and can speak Hindi / Urdu, this was my first time conducting research, and I felt slightly out of my depth to begin with, wondering how I was going to pull together all of the links. One of the major hurdles was trying to organise semi-structured interviews requiring formal, written consent – it turned out to be quite a nightmare. Through a contact at the University of Sussex, I had been kindly offered a chance to be hosted in Jammu, where I was assured I would have access to participants – however, I was really hoping for at least one interview before leaving the capital.

Whilst acclimatising to the weather in Delhi, I set aside a few days to organise the admin-side of the fieldwork and to get my bearings. To pay my respect, I visited the shrine of one of the greatest Urdu poets, Mirza Ghalib. In the vicinity of his tomb in the Nizamuddin area of Delhi can be found the Ghalib Academy, set up in honour of the 19^th century poet and also the Sufi shrine of Nizamuddin Auliya and his spiritual disciple, Amir Khusrow. Amir Khusrow is known as the ‘father of Qawwali’, a Sufi devotional style of music found in the sub-continent. During this time I ended up meeting countless people with whom I discussed my project and I attempted to invite some of these people for an interview, however, the vast majority of the time people were far happier to simply say ‘yes that’s fine, go ahead’ but weren’t keen on signing formal documents. This would set the tone for much of the trip and I’d often lose the chance of an interesting interview.

However, having left Delhi, I managed to interview 7 people in one day due to a contact I had, which provided me with the momentum I needed to reach my target. The interviewees ranged from esteemed professors and scholars of Urdu, to faculty staff and students, Hindus and Muslims, native and non-native Urdu speakers. The initial shock and confusion of me turning up at a university department for Urdu slowly turned into genuine interest and joy as I explained my reason for coming and the topic of my research. Immediately someone was sent for chai. Soon around 8-9 of us were sat in the professor’s office, quite informally, chatting away. Having spent the whole afternoon in the offices and corridors of that department under a slowly revolving ceiling-fan, it’s fair to say my brain was pretty overloaded. At the time, and even now, I struggle to believe I was sat reciting famous poems (she’rs) with some of India’s leading academics in Urdu. This provided me with the momentum I needed and more interviews followed with a varied selection of participants, ranging from quite pure-Hindi (shudh) speaking Hindu secondary school teachers, friends I have met during my time in India, friends of friends, a Sikh bookstore owner, to teachers at a madrasa in Uttar Pradesh. This variety of perspectives has been extremely insightful. Undoubtedly, the rise of English in the sub-continent and it being synonymous with being well-educated and a language of the elite was a key reference point. Many also pointed to a neglect of Urdu, particularly in the education system.

My methodology could have certainly been improved by specifying for more informal means of obtaining consent, for example verbal consent which would have been more appropriate for several scenarios I found myself in. Despite this, the pre-arranged, semi-structured interviews that I did carry out went well. Only 2 out of 15 of these interviews were in English however, which often left me unable to fully express myself when wanting to respond in my target language to a sometimes 2 minute monologue about a very complex socio-political topic. I realise now that working with a trusted interpreter would have been beneficial to build on my participants responses.

As institutional support for the development of Urdu in India continues to decline, its speakers are left grappling with a cultural landscape which is rapidly changing. My research results are yet to be properly analysed and solid conclusions drawn, and there are certainly worrying trends which I observed. What I can say now for certain, however, is that this trip has highlighted the resilience of the individuals I’ve met who are actively engaged in keeping this language and its linguistic heritage alive, even in the face of rapid technological changes to how language and literature is read and consumed.

I look forward to beginning my thesis and piecing together the interviews I carried out as I come to the end of my time at the University of Sussex.

Written by Gabriel Cavalcante (MA Environment, Development and Policy)

The expansion of livestock farming in the Brazilian Amazon has transformed one of the world’s most crucial ecosystems into a global beef supplier. This economic growth has come with significant environmental and social costs, as livestock farming remains a principal driver of deforestation, biodiversity loss, and greenhouse gas emissions in the region. This article examines the political economy of livestock expansion in the Amazon through the lens of Degrowth theory.

Global demand and government incentives have driven the expansion of this sector, making Brazil one of the largest greenhouse gas emitters due to deforestation in the region. This growth model has far-reaching consequences: it not only accelerates environmental degradation but also threatens Indigenous land rights and displaces rural communities. By examining these dynamics, we can explore how Degrowth theory challenges the prioritisation of economic expansion at all costs, offering alternative models that centre on ecological conservation and social equity.

The Amazonian livestock industry is significantly shaped by the global neoliberal model, which promotes GDP growth as an ultimate benchmark of progress. Global demand for beef—primarily from Global North nations—drives large-scale cattle production in the Amazon, incentivizing extensive deforestation to create pastures for livestock. In 2023, Brazil exported a record 2.29 million tons of beef to 157 countries across all continents, reinforcing its position as a major global supplier (ABIEC, 2024). This demand is underpinned by a complex web of international trade agreements and corporate interests that prioritise low-cost production. The ongoing trend of resource extraction from developing regions, historically rooted in colonial exploitation, persists under globalisation. This dynamic enables wealth accumulation and consumption in developed nations while imposing ecological burdens on regions like the Amazon, which serves to supply commodities such as beef to the global market.

The resulting dynamic pressures Brazil to cater to these markets by scaling up livestock output, often at the expense of its environmental commitments. These policies and practices reflect a broader failure to recognize the ecological cost of this model, where the value of ecosystems is reduced to their immediate economic outputs rather than their role in sustaining life and climate stability. This paradigm supports the intensive exploitation of natural resources, often with little regard for the ecological degradation and social inequities it incurs. As Sullivan (2009) critiques, this capitalist approach treats environmental crises as opportunities for profit, where ecosystems are commodified for market gains, despite the long-term harm inflicted on both biodiversity and the communities that depend on these lands.

The expansion of livestock in the Amazon is evident, with states like Pará and Rondônia showing significant increases in herd size—Pará saw an 8.1% growth between 2013 and 2023, while Rondônia reached approximately 13.8 million heads in 2023  (ABIEC, 2024). This expansion shows that more areas are being converted into pastures, a process often associated with deforestation in the Amazon. According to Amazônia 2030, over 65% of deforested land in the Amazon is now dedicated to low-efficiency pastures, supporting fewer than one head of cattle per hectare. Moreover, in major livestock-producing states such as Mato Grosso, Pará, and Rondônia, around 30% of Brazil’s national cattle herd is concentrated within the Amazon biome (A Concertation for Amazon, 2020). The environmental impacts of this expansion are profound. Deforestation linked to livestock farming has positioned the Amazon as the largest emitter of greenhouse gases in Brazil. In 2022, deforestation accounted for 97% of Brazil’s total gross emissions, reaching 1.081 billion tons of CO2e. of these emissions from deforestation, 75% (837 million tons) originated from the Amazon (SEEG, 2023).

Figure 1: Annual Total Deforestation in the Amazon (1987–2023)

Figure 2: Accumulated Deforestation in the Amazon (1986–2023)

The government of Brazil, historically incentives for agribusiness, with subsidies, tax breaks, and favourable land-use policies for large agricultural corporations create a growth-friendly environment that overlooks forest. While the concept of “green growth” is often promoted as a middle ground—suggesting that economic growth and environmental preservation can coexist—these policies reveal a fundamental contradiction. As Jacobs (2013) argues, the green growth model, while claiming to align economic expansion with environmental care, often serves as a rhetorical device to justify continued exploitation under the guise of “sustainability”​. Policies like REDD (Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and Forest Degradation), promoted by the Brazilian government under the guise of sustainable development, aim to create financial incentives for forest conservation by monetizing carbon sequestration. However, these approaches often reduce forests merely to their carbon storage potential, overlooking broader ecological and social values while failing to address the root causes of deforestation (Humphreys, 2013). Humphreys argues that although REDD recognizes the public good nature of forests, it still prioritises economic metrics over the preservation of complex ecosystems. This lack of enforcement allows agribusinesses to operate with near impunity, thereby advancing growth in a way that prioritises economic gains over ecological limits.

This political economy is also marked by a disregard for the local and Indigenous populations affected by livestock expansion. Indigenous territories and protected lands are increasingly threatened by encroachment, as the push for cattle production reshapes land use across the Amazon. As Sullivan (2009) underscores, this “crisis capitalism” exploits not only the land but also the labour and livelihoods of local communities, leading to displacement and the disruption of cultural ties to the land​. The prioritisation of export-driven livestock production manifests in an inequitable distribution of benefits, where profits are funnelled to large agribusinesses while the environmental and social costs are borne by local communities. Moreover, this approach disregards the ecological value of the Amazon as a carbon sink, which is crucial for mitigating climate change globally.

Hickel and Kallis (2020) argue that the Degrowth framework underscores the incompatibility of continuous economic expansion with the ecological limits of our planet, advocating for a shift from growth-centred policies to ones prioritising ecological and social well-being. From this perspective, the Amazon’s role should transition from a production zone to a preserved ecosystem, where the forest’s value is derived not from its capacity for cattle grazing but from its ecological functions and cultural significance. Degrowth proponents call for reducing dependency on global markets that exploit natural resources, advocating instead for local economies that respect ecological boundaries and prioritise community well-being.

An analysis of livestock farming in the Amazon reveals that, although its expansion is promoted as an economic strategy, it has not yielded significant development gains for the region. Productivity remains low, characterised by suboptimal land use and limited employment and income generation. Data shows that less than one-third of the potential production capacity is utilised, making the current model unsustainable both environmentally and economically (Barreto, 2021).

Degraded pastures present a further challenge, the study notes that 59% of pastures in Brazil are degraded, affecting profitability. Restoring these areas requires investments that many rural landowners either cannot or choose not to make, given the abundance of land and economic incentives for deforestation. Rather than reinvesting in the land, owners often opt to clear new areas, perpetuating a cycle of degradation and expansion that fails to foster economic progress for local populations. This is reflected in low formalisation rates and lower-than-average earnings for sector workers—34% below regional averages, according to the Amazonia 2030 report.

Livestock expansion also does not significantly improve socioeconomic indicators, such as education, health, and sanitation, which remain precarious in the Amazon. The lack of investment in rural infrastructure, technical assistance, and education limits innovation and productivity improvements, leaving most Amazonian municipalities among the lowest-ranked in these indicators (Barreto, 2021). This reality reinforces that a development model based on pasture expansion fails to deliver the anticipated economic benefits.

The Amazonia 2030 report further highlights that deforestation is unnecessary for economic growth. From 2004 to 2012, as policies reduced deforestation by more than 80%, the Amazon’s agricultural GDP still increased by 45%. This shows that enhancing productivity in already deforested areas could support production without further expansion—a core Degrowth principle, which critiques growth pursued at the environment’s expense. Efforts should focus on improving efficiency and intensifying production within deforested areas, avoiding additional forest destruction.

To reduce deforestation in the Amazon, a multifaceted approach must prioritise sustainable land use, robust monitoring, and local community involvement, aligned with Degrowth principles that advocate for ecological and social prioritisation over relentless economic expansion. According to Barreto (2021), it is crucial to implement public policies that encourage the intensification of livestock practices, ensuring that current agricultural lands are used more efficiently to curb the need for further land clearing. Enforcing the Brazilian Forest Code (Law 12,651/2012), alongside securing land tenure, could help curb illegal expansion and deforestation— an issue due to unclear property rights across 30% of the Amazon. This law establishes protections for native vegetation through Permanent Preservation Areas (APPs) and Legal Reserves on rural lands, aiming to balance sustainable land use with environmental conservation while promoting land tenure regularisation and economic incentives for preservation.

It’s necessary developing comprehensive regional planning that involves traditional and Indigenous populations along with local governments is critical for sustainable management. This recommendation supports Degrowth’s call for decentralising economies and empowering local governance to uphold environmental protection. The promotion of sustainable land use, such as restoring degraded pastures and forest lands, provides a pathway to maintain ecological functions without expansion into untouched areas. Payments for Environmental Services (PES) to Indigenous communities and legal recognition of these territories can strengthen forest conservation, ensuring that these lands contribute to climate regulation and biodiversity conservation​. But, without immediate action, the continued exploitation of the Amazon Rainforest for short-term gains risks pushing this critical ecosystem beyond the point of recovery.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

A Concertation for Amazon. (2020). Sectorial Overview of Livestock Farming in the Amazon. Available at: here (Accessed: 31st October, 2024).

Amazonia 2030. (2023). Zero Deforestation and Territorial Planning: Foundations for Sustainable Development in the Amazon. Available at: here Accessed: (Accessed: 30th October, 2024).

Barreto, P. (2021). Policies to develop livestock in the Amazon without deforestation. [e-book] Available at: here (Accessed: 30th October, 2024).

Barreto, P., et al. (2023). The Meat Production Chain Continues to Contribute to Deforestation in the Amazon [e-book]. Belém, PA: Amazon Institute of People and the Environment. Available at: here (Accessed: 30th October, 2024).

Brazil. Law No. 12,651, of May 25, 2012. Provides for the protection of native vegetation, Official Gazette of the Union, Brasília, DF, May 28, 2012. Available at: here (Accessed: 31th October, 2024).

Brazilian Beef Exporters Association (ABIEC). Beef Report 2024. Available at: here (Accessed: 31th October, 2024).

Clapp, J., & Dauvergne, P. (2005). Paths to a Green World: The Political Economy of the Global Environment. The MIT Press.

Hickel, J., & Kallis, G. (2020). Is Green Growth Possible? New Political Economy, 25(4), 469-486. doi: 10.1080/13563467.2019.1598964.

Humphreys, D. (2013). Forest Politics and the Global Climate Regime: Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and Forest Degradation (REDD+). In The Handbook of Global Climate and Environment Policy.

Observatório do Clima. Analysis of Greenhouse Gas Emissions and Their Implications for Brazil’s Climate Goals. SEEG, 2023. Available at: here (Accessed: 31th October, 2024).

Sullivan, S. (2009). The Natural Capital Myth, and Other Tales of Conservation, Capital Accumulation, and Scarcity. Radical Anthropology.

Written by Dr. Suda Perera

At the risk of sounding old, going to university isn’t what it used to be. When I applied to university I, like many of my peers, wasn’t fully sure what I would do with my degree. Going to university in the early 2000s was still regarded as a sort of “rite of passage” – the chance to meet new people, broaden your horizons, learn to think critically and work independently and generally grow into an adult away from home. I knew that university would give me plenty of employable skills, which could translate into a career, but there was no real need to articulate exactly what those skills were or what precise steps my career would follow. I (and my parents) trusted that over the three years of my undergraduate degree I would work it out. That is exactly what happened, and in the summer after I graduated, I started a job at Unicef.

Nowadays this relaxed attitude towards life after university is much rarer. As the undergraduate admission tutor for International Development, the question I am asked most frequently by students and parents alike is “what kind of job will I/my child get with this degree?” It’s an understandable question in the current economic climate: Going to university has come to be seen as an investment, and people want assurances that this investment will pay out with gainful employment. It’s certainly true that many of our graduates go on to have incredible and inspiring careers, but many of those careers did not follow a linear trajectory. 

Indeed my own career did not take a straightforward path: I left a cosy UN job because I wanted more hands on field experience, and moved to a far less stable (but much more rewarding) career working as a conflict analyst in Africa and the Middle East. When I decided to start a family, I realised I needed a job that required more stability and less travel and so I transitioned into becoming a university lecturer. The skills I acquired through my degree gave me the confidence and ability to move between industries and find jobs that suited my values and my lifestyle – both of which have changed over the years.

At Global Studies our students go on to do a wide range of jobs. Lots go to work in what we might think of as the traditional “development industry” – working for the United Nations, international NGOs, governments, donor agencies, and charities. However, many others take on less obvious, but nonetheless extremely rewarding roles. Some work in the private sector helping companies with ethical investing, corporate social responsibility and sustainability. Others go into media and communications, increasing knowledge and awareness of important global challenges. Others even start their own enterprises and non-profits. Some travel across the world to build international careers, while others stay here in Brighton or return to help their own communities. Whatever they do, we have a vibrant alumni network who are out there making positive differences in the world in multiple innovative and exciting ways.

Our former students often return to speak to our current students about their careers, and it’s often quite interesting that, although they certainly value the technical tools and skills training that they receive on the course, it’s the softer skills that have allowed them to navigate change and forge their careers. Being able to think independently and critically; to communicate complex ideas simply; to evaluate the past and think creatively about the future; to work in diverse teams; and present information in different ways.

These are skills which are often undersold in degrees like the ones we offer here, but which are invaluable in their daily lives. More importantly they help us to find careers that really matter to us and don’t leave us burnt out and disillusioned. As one of our former students who now works for Freedom from Torture told me recently, her career is fulfilling because she knows what her values are and her work has meaning. Her career makes a positive difference to other people’s lives and that’s what matters to her.

Thinking in terms of non-linear career paths rather than specific jobs is particularly useful in the current climate when no industry feels particularly safe amid rapidly changing technology and volatile jobs markets. The rise of AI is worsening the job market for software engineers who were so highly-sought after just a few years ago, and even doctors and lawyers are finding their jobs are at risk from new technologies.

I would argue that we need critical and creative thinkers in this changing world now more than ever. AI might be able to write the code, but only humans can ask what that code is doing. Is it making the world a better place or causing further environmental degradation and a looming energy crisis? Are economic models of growth actually enriching our societies or just increasing inequality? And what can we do to make the world a fairer, more sustainable and more peaceful place?

While I understand the desire to ask “what kind of job will I get from my degree?” I think the more important question we should be asking is “how will my degree enable me to have a meaningful and fulfilling life and career?”

At Sussex, we want to help students graduate ready for a rapidly changing world of work and confident to be agents of positive change, however they decide they want to apply that. If you are a prospective student, a parent or a teacher looking to offer careers advice, our first event will be an online Webinar on Global Careers in Sustainable Development and Social Justice on Tuesday 14^th January 5pm-6pm GMT. To sign up for this event click here

Written by Gabriel Cavalcante
MA Environment, Development and Policy
University of Sussex

The global view of the Amazon is often limited to its vast rainforest, seen as the ‘sanctuary of biodiversity’. This narrative ignores one fact: the Amazon is also urban. Data released by the Brazilian Institute of Geography and Statistics (IBGE) at the beginning of November shed light on this reality. According to the 2022 Demographic Census, the Legal Amazon is inhabited by 27.8 million people, representing 13.7 per cent of the Brazilian population.

To put this into context, the Legal Amazon covers all the states of the Northern Region – Acre, Amapá, Amazonas, Pará, Rondônia, Roraima and Tocantins – as well as parts of Maranhão and Mato Grosso. As the map below shows:

According to the latest Census, the North Region has 19 per cent of the Brazilian population living in slums, the highest proportion in the country. And its two largest capitals (population-wise) reflect this reality: Belém, which will host COP 30 next year, leads the way with 57.2 per cent of the population living in slums, followed by Manaus, with 55.8 per cent. These are the only Brazilian capitals where more than half the population lives in urban communities. The region is also home to 8 of the country’s 20 largest favelas – 7 of them in Manaus alone.

This is the portrait of a Brazil without an urbanisation plan, without universal water collection and sewage treatment and without protection of its biomes. The data above is the latest evidence that there is an urgent need for a territorial development plan for the north of the country, whose fragility exposes the population to crime, basic sanitation and urban mobility (the latter two non-existent) and the environment to degradation. Any effort to conserve the Amazon must necessarily consider its urban fabric. Neglecting this dimension is tantamount to jeopardising any cooperation for the conservation of the Amazon, which I’ll explain below.

The urbanisation of the Legal Amazon is a direct reflection of the historical strategies of territorial occupation and economic exploitation adopted in Brazil. This process can be divided into two historical milestones: 1) the Rubber Cycle and 2) the Age of Roads and ‘Greater Brazil’. Both were marked by policies that prioritised national integration and the exploitation of natural resources.

1st Historical Landmark: The Rubber Cycle

The rubber cycle was a historical period in Brazil, between the late 19th and early 20th centuries, marked by the intense exploitation of latex extracted from the rubber tree (Hevea brasiliensis), a tree native to the Amazon rainforest. This latex was transformed into rubber, a valuable product at the time and widely exported to meet the growing global demand of the Industrial Revolution, especially in the automobile and war sectors (Weinstein, B., 1983).

Cities like Manaus and Belém prospered economically, attracting immigrants, foreign investment and modern infrastructure. Manaus, for example, was the first Brazilian city to have public electricity and even imported materials from Europe to build the iconic Amazonas Theatre (Becker, 1990).

However, this urban expansion was elitist and deeply unequal. The wealth generated by rubber benefited the few, while the majority of the population lived in precarious conditions, without access to infrastructure or basic services. Furthermore, with the collapse of the rubber cycle at the beginning of the 20th century, these cities faced economic stagnation, creating a fragile urbanisation base dependent on external economic cycles (Chein, 2022).

2nd historical milestone: the era of motorways and ‘Brasil Grande’ (Big Brazil)

In the 1970s, during the military regime, the Amazon became the centrepiece of a national development project known as ‘Big Brazil’. This period was marked by major infrastructure projects, such as the opening of motorways (BR-364 and Transamazônica), tax incentives for agriculture and mining, and the construction of hydroelectric dams. These initiatives aimed to integrate the Amazon with the rest of the country and consolidate Brazilian sovereignty over the region (Fajardo et al., 2023).

Cities grew rapidly along these roads, often without proper planning. Small villages became improvised urban agglomerations to meet the demand of workers attracted by these projects. The occupation logic was predatory: the forest was seen as an obstacle to be overcome, and the urban settlements were conceived as support points for the exploitation of resources. As a result, cities like Altamira, Marabá and Porto Velho grew, but with insufficient infrastructure and high dependence on local economic activities, such as mining and cattle ranching (Chein, 2022).

OK, but what were the results of these actions?

Both historical moments left a legacy of inequality and precariousness in Amazonian cities. Only half of the municipalities in the Legal Amazon have a Master Plan, the basic urban planning instrument, and many of these plans are out of date. Cities face problems such as lack of basic sanitation, limited access to public services and high socioeconomic vulnerability (Fajardo et al., 2023).

Furthermore, the integration of cities into the Amazon ecosystem has historically been neglected. By treating the forest as an obstacle to progress, urbanisation projects have ignored the importance of solutions adapted to the Amazonian context, such as valuing hydrography for transport and sustainable urban planning. The result is fragmented urbanisation, marked by deep inequalities and severe environmental challenges.

What’s next?

The structural problems faced by Amazonian cities require a profound change in public policies, with a focus on sustainable urban planning, environmental integration and social inclusion. Solutions that combine innovation and sensitivity to the local context are indispensable for overcoming decades of neglect and predatory exploitation. Below, I use three studies to highlight the five main points that must be prioritised in order to guarantee fair territorial development:

1. Urban Planning

More than 50 per cent of the municipalities in the Legal Amazon still lack up-to-date Master Plans, which are essential for guiding urban growth in a balanced way (Fajardo et al., 2023). The implementation of plans that integrate housing, transport and environmental preservation is urgent to avoid the perpetuation of inequalities and environmental damage within Amazonian cities.

2. Basic sanitation

The lack of basic sanitation is one of the biggest indicators of exclusion in the region. According to Cynamon et al. (2007), intersectoral policies that align infrastructure and health are crucial to promoting quality of life and reducing health and environmental risks.

3. Amazon Hydrography as an Axis of Mobility and Planning

Chein (2022) argues that Amazonian rivers, essential for transport and local life, remain underutilised in urban planning. Incorporating them as axes of mobility and integration is a sustainable solution that respects the geographical dynamics of the region.

4. Inclusive Housing

The concepts of habitability and ambience, as highlighted by Cynamon et al. (2007), are fundamental to rethinking housing development in the Amazon and in other contexts of vulnerability. These concepts transcend the idea of housing as a mere physical space, considering it as an element integrated with human well-being, public health and environmental balance.

5. Social Participation

Fajardo et al. (2023) argue that the active inclusion of communities in urban planning is essential to ensure that the solutions implemented reflect the local and specific needs of the Amazonian population. By integrating local voices into the decision-making processes and construction of public policies for cities, it is possible to build a relationship of co-responsibility, where communities not only influence the guidelines, but also contribute to their implementation and monitoring.

Almost over…

On 24 November, COP-29 in Baku ended with results that fell short of expectations, especially with regard to financial commitments to tackle the climate emergency. This scenario imposes a huge challenge on Belém, which will host COP-30 in November next year, demanding significant efforts and Brazilian diplomacy to match the circumstances.

Holding the event in a capital city where 57.2 per cent of the population lives in slums highlights a glaring paradox. How can climate justice be debated in a city that symbolises the structural abandonment of the city, its population and the environment?

By imposing COP-30 in Belém, without a robust legacy plan for the city and its population, the Brazilian government risks turning the event into a spectacle disconnected from local reality. Without concrete actions to tackle inequalities and promote sustainable urban development, COP-30 risks being just another stage for empty promises, rather than catalysing real change.

As an Amazonian Brazilian, I’m sad to write this.

But we continue to resist. 

REFERENCES

1. Brazilian Institute of Geography and Statistics (IBGE). (2022). 2022 Demographic Census: Brazil had 16.4 million people living in favelas and urban communities. Available at: https://agenciadenoticias.ibge.gov.br/
2. Cynamon, S. C., Bodstein, R., Kligerman, D. C., & Marcondes, W. B. (2007). Healthy housing and healthy environments as a strategy for health promotion. Ciência & Saúde Coletiva, 12(1), 191-198. Available at: https://www.scielo.br/j/csc/
3. Fajardo, P. C., Santos, A. M., & Neves, M. C. (2023). Amazonian Cities: A Call to Action. Publication on urban planning and action for the Amazon Legal region.
4. Chein, J. S. (2022). Cities in the Amazon Legal Region. Study on urbanization in the Amazon.
5. Becker, B. K. (1990). Amazonia: Geopolitics at the Turn of the Third Millennium. Brazilian Journal of Geography.
6. Weinstein, B. (1983). The Amazon Rubber Boom, 1850–1920. Stanford University Press.