Rights

'In the name of nature: Making the League of Nations, the International Rights of Nature Tribunal and international law' by Tim Lindgren in Leiden Journal of International Law comments 

In 1919, the League of Nations and the Mandate System were established through the Treaty of Versailles. Shy of 100 years later, the International Rights of Nature Tribunal gathered in the same city to establish itself as an international peoples’ tribunal, taking form outside the international legal order. For all their differences, these institutions shared some commonalities. Both institutions claimed to be concerned with the ‘wellbeing’ of ‘peoples’ through international law. Both also claimed to represent some kind of international legal community. For the League, this was a community of states. For the Tribunal, it was a community of peoples. 

This article reads these institutional moments together and considers what they tell us about the discipline of international law. It traces how both institutions constituted and authorized themselves as if speaking for an already given international legal community – and how they did so precisely by mobilizing competing ideas of ‘nature’, ‘peoples’, and ‘statehood’. The article argues that the institutions deployed similar legal techniques and narratives that limited what the international legal domain might, and might not, look like. Namely, they presented their ideas of ‘nature’ and ‘peoples’ as part of a natural order of things, authorizing themselves as vanguards for whatever form of international legal order they saw as ‘natural’. Ultimately, the piece complicates our understanding of the international legal domain and peoples’ tribunal in it, inviting a reflexivity over what it means to speak law in the name of an international community – be it as ‘states’, ‘peoples’ or ‘nature’ itself.

Mountain

The Explanatory Note for the Te Pire Whakatupua mō Te Kāhui Tupua/Taranaki Maunga Collective Redress Bill in New Zealand - likely to be much misreported - states 

 Te Pire Whakatupua mō Te Kāhui Tupua/Taranaki Maunga Collective Redress Bill (the Bill) gives effect to certain matters contained in Te Ruruku Pūtakerongo/the Taranaki Maunga collective redress deed signed on 1 September 2023 by the Crown and Ngā Iwi o Taranaki, the collective of the 8 iwi of the Taranaki region. The Bill contains provisions relating to redress that require legislation for their implementation. Other aspects of the arrangements are provided for only in the collective redress deed because they do not require legislative authority. The Bill comprises 9 Parts and 5 schedules. The Bill and the deed speak of the iwi of Taranaki and the origins of Taranaki Maunga: Ko Taranaki, ko Pouākai, ko Kaitake, koia te puna i heke mai ai te tangata. Koia ko hō mātou nei okiokinga, ko mātou nei tō rātou okiokitanga. (Taranaki, Pouākai and Kaitake are a reflection, and the source, of our existence, in life and in death.) 

Legal personality 

The concept of legal personality for Te Kāhui Tupua is primarily concerned with giving legal status to the tūpuna maunga of Ngā Iwi o Taranaki within the national park. The land in the national park owned by the Crown is to be vested in the legal personality. The land will also be inalienable (not able to be sold or otherwise disposed of), except in a very narrow set of circumstances. A similar legal personality has been delivered in Treaty settlements in respect of Ngāi Tūhoe (Te Urewera) and the Whanganui River (Te Awa Tupua). In each case, the legal personality requires an entity to act on its behalf. In the case of Te Kāhui Tupua, that is Te Tōpuni Kōkōrangi. The land to be vested in the legal personality will continue to be a national park administered under the National Parks Act 1980 as amended by this Bill. The general principles of the National Parks Act, including free public access, will be protected alongside Ngā Pou Whakatupua (the Maunga values). The collective redress legislation will also repeal the Mount Egmont Vesting Act 1978. The recognition of Te Kāhui Tupua as a legal person aligns closely with Ngā Iwi o Taranaki understanding of the maunga being tūpuna, requiring care and protection now and into the future. 

Te Kāhui Tupua status 

The arrangements provide for a status statement for the legal personality. The status statement expresses the meaning of the legal personality and explains what the legal personality is intended to represent. Similar statutory recognition statements have been included in the Te Awa Tupua (Whanganui River) and Ngāti Rangi (Te Waiū-o-te-Ika arrangements over the Whangaehu River) Treaty settlements. The status statement, alongside Ngā Pou Whakatupua, will have the same effect as a general purpose under section 4(1) of the National Parks Act 1980 and will form the foundation for the ongoing administration and management of the national park. 

The recognition statement provides that the concept of the legal personality extends beyond the national park boundary into the surrounding lands, although with no direct legal effect. This extension aligns with the Ngā Iwi o Taranaki understanding of their tūpuna, which does not stop at the national park boundary. The Bill includes protection of all land within the national park from all commercial mining activities. ... 

Clause by clause analysis 

Clause 1 sets out a dual-language Title for this Bill, providing also that the Act may also be cited either by the te reo Māori Title or by the English Title. Clause 2 provides that the Bill, except for clause 125, comes into force on the day after the date on which it receives Royal assent. Clause 125 comes into force on the latest of the 5 events specified in clause 120(1). 

Part 1 He kupu wāwahi—Historical matters and preliminary provisions 

Clause 3 provides a statement by Ngā Iwi o Taranaki, Te Iho Tāngaengae, as acknowledged by the Crown, of the connection and relationship of Ngā Iwi o Taranaki with their Tūpuna Maunga and Te Kāhui Tupua. Te Pūeatanga ki te Ao Clauses 4 to 6 record in te reo Māori and English the summary of the historical account, the acknowledgements by the Crown, and the apology given by the Crown to Ngā Iwi o Taranaki in Te Ruruku Pūtakerongo, the collective redress deed. Purpose provision Clause 7 states the purpose of the Bill. 

Interpretation provisions 

Clause 8 provides that the Bill is to be interpreted in a manner that best furthers the agreements set out in Te Ruruku Pūtakerongo. Clause 9 defines certain terms used in the Bill and clause 10 defines Ngā Iwi o Taranaki, the group of iwi with whom the agreements have been made that are set out in Te Ruruku Pūtakerongo and this Bill. 

Other matters 

Clauses 11 to 14 provide for the following matters relevant to the interpretation and implementation of the Bill: the Bill when enacted will bind the Crown (clause 11): the provisions of the Bill take effect on the effective date, unless a provision of the Bill states otherwise (clause 12): the Bill overrides the rule under trust law that limits the life of a trust and of any documents that give effect to an agreement (clause 13): the Bill requires the chief executive of the Office for Māori Crown Relations—Te Arawhiti to make copies of Te Ruruku Pūtakerongo available for inspection free of charge, and for purchase at a reasonable price, at the head office of the Office for Māori Crown Relations—Te Arawhiti in Wellington on any working day. Te Ruruku Pūtakerongo must also be made available free of charge on an Internet site maintained by or on behalf of the Office for Māori Crown Relations—Te Arawhiti (clause 14). In clause 15, the Bill sets out the limits to the effect of the Bill and Te Ruruku Pūtakerongo, including that neither the Bill nor Te Ruruku Pūtakerongo, unless expressly provided otherwise,— limits the relationship of Ngā Iwi o Taranaki in respect of Te Kāhui Tupua, including in relation to any extant customary rights; or displaces or diminishes the role of an iwi or a hapū of Ngā Iwi o Taranaki in relation to Te Kāhui Tupua; or applies to the coastal marine area, except as provided in clauses 3, 17, 19, and 52; or limits any existing private property rights, or affects rights or interests in water, wildlife, fish, aquatic life, or plants, or affects the application of any legislation. Clause 16 excludes the jurisdiction of the courts, tribunals and other judicial bodies to inquire or further inquire into, or make finding or recommendations in relation to Te Ruruku Pūtakerongo, the Bill, or the recress provided under either. this does not exclude the jurisdiction in relation to interpreting or implementing the redress provided under those instruments. 

Part 2 Te Kāhui Tupua 

Subpart 1—Te Kāhui Tupua and Ngā Pou Whakatupua Subpart 1 (clauses 17 to 21), recognises the status of Te Kāhui Tupua as a legal person, its rights, powers, and duties being exercised and performed on its behalf and in its name by Te Tōpuni Kōkōrangi. Clause 19 sets out Ngā Pou Whakatupua, the intrinsic values associated with Te Kāhui Tupua. Clauses 20 and 21 provide for the relationship of the Bill and Te Ruruku Pūtakerongo with the National Parks Act 1980, Conservation Act 1987, and Resource Management Act 1991, and for the status of these when persons are acting under conservation of other legislation in rleation to land in Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki or the surrounding land (as defined in clause 17). Subpart 2—Official geographic names Clauses 22 to 26 provide for the official geographic name of the national park in which ngā maunga are situated to change to Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki and the names Mount Egmont and Mount Taranaki to change to Taranaki Maunga. 

Part 3 Te Tōpuni Kōkōrangi 

Subpart 1—Te Tōpuni Kōkōrangi: establishment, purpose, functions, and powers Clauses 27 to 30 establish Te Tōpuni Kōkōrangi as a statutory body, with the purpose of being the human face and voice of Te Kāhui Tupua. These clauses set out the capacity and powers of Te Tōpuni Kōkōrangi for the purpose of achieving its purpose. The essence of its functions (clause 29) is to act and speak for Te Kāhui Tupua, upholding the status, values, and interests of Te Kāhui Tupua. Clauses 31 to 34 set out the requirements for the membership of Te Tōpuni Kōkōrangi and for the decision-making powers of its members. Clauses 35 and 36 deal with where responsibility lies for certain liabilities arising in respect of Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki, and clause 37 establishes, in Schedule 2, further provisions relevant to the establishment and administration of Te Tōpuni Kōkōrangi. Subpart 2—Name of Te Kāhui Tupua protected Clause 38 makes provision for the protection of the name Te Kāhui Tupua, and any intellectual property in the name. Subpart 3—Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki place section in conservation management strategy Clauses 39 and 40 make provision for the conservation management strategy relating to Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki to acknowledge and uphold the status of Te Kāhui Tupua and Ngā Pou Whakatupua (values). 

Part 4 Asset management 

The scheme for asset management (clauses 41 to 51) supports the right of Te Kāhui Tupua to own assets. The Bill requires assets owned by Te Kāhui Tupua to be managed on behalf of Te Kāhui Tupua by an asset management company, which Te Tōpuni Kōkōrangi is empowered to set up under the Companies Act 1993. In the operation of the company, Te Tōpuni Kōkōrangi must act as the representative of the sole shareholder, Te Kāhui Tupua. The constitution will have to meet the requirements of the Companies Act 1993 and the matters itemised in clause 44. Clause 45 provides that Te Tōpuni Kōkōrangi does not need to comply with certain requirements of the Companies Act 1993. Other matters covered include how assets are to be administered, how funding is to be applied, and the reporting and accountability requirements (clauses 46 to 50). Clause 51 sets out the process to be adopted if the asset management company is dissolved under the Companies Act 1993. 

Part 5 Standing, status, and taxation matters applying to certain entities under this Act 

Part 5 covers the standing of Te Tōpuni Kōkōrangi and the trustees of Te Tōpuni Ngārahu as having an interest in Te Kāhui Tupua in relation to matters arising under the Local Government Act 2002 or the Resource Management Act 1991 for purposes such as making submissions or the right to be heard, or in relation to matters arising under Te Ture Whenua Maori Act 1993 or the Charities Act 2005 (clauses 52 to 54). Clause 55 provides for the taxation status of Te Tōpuni Kōkōrangi and any asset management company set up and operating in accordance with this Bill. Clause 56 amends the Income Tax Act 2007 by inserting 4 new sections into that Act. New section CH 11B states that a tax liability arises if Te Tōpuni Kōkōrangi incurs expenditure on behalf of Te Kāhui Tupua for purposes outside the scope and effect of Part 3 of the Bill (unauthorised expenditure). A tax liability arises under new section CH 11C for the asset management company in respect of expenditure outside the purpose of the company (unauthorised expenditure), as provided for in clause 42. New sections CW 40D and CW 40E of the Income Tax Act 2007 provide an income tax exemption for each of the 2 entities, Te Tōpuni Kōkōrangi and the asset management company. The exemption applies to income, except to the extent that the income is applied (referred to as “expenditure” in new sections CH 11B and CH 11C) for, or to, a purpose that is outside the scope of Part 4 (in the case of Te Tōpuni Kōkōrangi) or clause 42 in the case of the asset management company. Expenditure applied for purposes outside those set in Part 4 or clause 42 is to be treated as income in the hands of Te Tōpuni Kōkōrangi or the asset management company respectively. 

Part 6 Land and minerals 

Clause 57outlines the contents of Part 6. Subpart 1—Vesting of land and minerals Vesting of Te Whenua Taketake Clause 58 vests the Crown-owned land in the existing national park (as described in Schedule 1) in Te Kāhui Tupua and declares that land, when vested, to be a national park with the official geographic name Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki. The land is to be held as Te Whenua Taurikura (that is, land held in the name of Te Kāhui Tupua as part of the national park). Clause 59 provides that Te Whenua Taurikura is inalienable, unless provided otherwise in the Bill. 

Vesting of certain minerals 

Clause 60 overrides section 11 of the Crown Minerals Act 1991 to provide that the vesting of Te Whenua Taketake by clause 58 includes Crown-owned taonga tūānuku and industrial rocks and building stones (“certain minerals”) within that land. Clause 61 provides for the registration in the name of Te Kāhui Tupua of the land vested by clause 58, subject to the completion of any necessary survey. The record of title must be created within 24 months of the effective date (40 working days after the Bill comes into force). Subpart 2—Acquiring land for, and adding land to, Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki Land or interests in land acquired for Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki Clauses 62 and 63 set out the process to apply if the Director-General of Conservation is considering adding Crown-owned land to, or acquiring private land or an interest in private land for, Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki. Clause 64 provides for the vesting of Crown-owned land in Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki by Order in Council. Clause 65 provides for the discontinuance of the official geographic names of Crown protected areas whose fee simple estate is vested in Te Kāhui Tupua. Clause 66 enables Te Whenua Tupu (land held in the name of Te Kāhui Tupua but not part of Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki) to be added to Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki by Order in Council and held under the Bill as Te Whenua Taurikura (land held in the name of Te Kāhui Tupua as part of Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki). 

Minerals 

Clause 67 provides for certain Crown-owned minerals that form part of the land vested under clause 64 or added to Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki under clause 66 to be included in that vesting or addition. 

Registration 

Clause 68 provides for the registration of any land to be added to Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki, as described in an Order in Council under clause 64 or 66. Subpart 3—Te Whenua Tupu Clauses 69 to 73 provide for the asset management company to exercise the role of the registered owner of Te Whenua Tupu including, in clauses 71 and 72(2), the company’s role in acquiring or alienating any land within the meaning of Te Whenua Tupu or transferring such land to the Crown or a third party. Subpart 4—Land excluded from Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki Clauses 74 to 77 provide for the exclusion of land from Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki, vesting of that land in the Crown or a third party, and for its registration, including requiring a new record of title. Subpart 5—Provisions applying to certain land and improvements Land or interests in land not added to Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki Clause 78 covers how land or interests in land are acquired for, but not added to, Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki. Clauses 79 to 82 set out the effect on existing interests in, and improvements on or attached to, land that becomes part of Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki under the Bill. Clause 83 preserves the effect of existing bylaws and other statutory requirements applying to Te Whenua Taketake. Those matters apply subject to this Bill and the National Parks Act 1980 on and after the effective date. Clause 84 provides for the instruments documenting interests in land to be registered. Subpart 6—Protections under Crown Minerals Act 1991 Clauses 85 to 89 set up certain protections applying to Te Whenua Taurikura under the Crown Minerals Act 1991. Clause 89 requires joint decision making by Te Tōpuni Kōkōrangi and the Minister of Conservation (the Minister) for decisions on interests in Te Whenua Taurikura that would otherwise be made by the Minister under Part 3B of the Conservation Act 1987 or under the National Parks Act 1980. Subpart 7—Miscellaneous Clauses 90 and 91 deal with the application of certain enactments to Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki and to Te Whenua Taketake. Clause 92 provides that certain statutory memorials are not to be entered on the record of title for Te Whenua Taurikura. 

Part 7 Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki 

Subpart 1—He Kawa Ora mō Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki Clauses 93 to 95declare Te Tōpuni Kōkōrangi responsible for overseeing the preparation and approval of a national park management plan, He Kawa Ora, for Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki. The plan must be consistent with the National Parks Act 1980. Subpart 2—Operational management of Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki This subpart (clauses 96 to 107) sets out the matters relevant to the management of the park, including how the operational management of the park must meet the aspirations of Ngā Iwi o Taranaki for enhancement of the iwi capability to meet their responsibilities as uri of Te Kāhui Tupua. The subpart sets out the responsibility of the Director-General of Conservation to undertake management activities consistently with this Bill, Te Ruruku Pūtakerongo, the National Parks Act 1980, He Kawa Ora, and other relevant legislation or planning documents. The aspirations of Ngā Iwi o Taranaki to participate in the operational management of Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki are also acknowledged, including in relation to the tendering of contracts and the granting of concessions within Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki. Particular requirements are set out in relation to new roads, biological control organisms, the introduction of live aquatic life, and specially protected areas within Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki. Clauses 108 and 109 provide for certain decisions made under the Conservation Act 1987 that, despite provisions in the Bill requiring joint decision making by the Minister and Te Tōpuni Kōkōrangi, are the sole responsibility of the Minister. 

Part 8 Redress to assist Ngā Iwi o Taranaki to reconnect with Tūpuna Maunga 

Subpart 1—Taonga tūturu Clauses 110 to 112 provide for how newly found taonga are to be dealt with for the purposes of the Protected Objects Act 1975. Subpart 2—Cultural materials This subpart (clauses 113 to 119) provides for members of Ngā Iwi o Taranaki to be authorised to take or possess certain cultural materials. It requires the trustees of Te Tōpuni Ngārahu and the Director-General of Conservation to work together to prepare and review a cultural materials plan that regulates the taking and possessing of cultural materials. However, the Crown’s powers, functions, and duties under the Crown Minerals Act 1991 are not restricted by the provisions of the subpart. 

Part 9 Governance and other matters 

Subpart 1—Dissolution of Taranaki Māori Trust Board Clauses 120 to 123 provide for— the Taranaki Māori Trust Board (the Trust Board) to be dissolved on the latest of 5 specified events; and the Taranaki Māori Educational Trust to be dissolved on the same day as the Trust Board is dissolved; and the reporting requirements for the Trust Board; and the matters not affected by the provisions of this subpart. Subpart 2—Repeals and consequential amendments Clause 124 repeals the Mount Egmont Vesting Act 1978 on the day on which the Bill comes into force under clause 2. Clause 125 amends the Maori Trust Boards Act 1955 by providing for the removal of a reference to the Taranaki Māori Trust Board from that Act. Clause 126 provides for the consequential amendment of certain legislation in the manner set out in Schedule 5. 

Schedules 

There are 5 schedules as follows: Schedule 1 records the legal description of Te Whenua Takatake: Schedule 2 sets out provisions relating to the establishment and administration of Te Tōpuni Kōkōrangi: Schedule 3 sets out further requirements for preparing and approving He Kawa Ora for Te Papa-Kura-o-Taranaki: Schedule 4 deals with how decisions are to be made on applications for concessions and other authorisations relevant to interests in Te Whenua Taurikura: Schedule 5 provides for how certain legislation is to be consequentially amended.

AI Externalities

'The Unpaid Toll: Quantifying the Public Health Impact of AI' byYuelin Han, Zhifeng Wu, Pengfei Li, Adam Wierman and Shaolei Ren comments 

The rise of artificial intelligence (AI) has numerous potentials to play a transformative role in addressing grand societal challenges, including air quality and public health [1, 2]. For example, by integrating multimodal data from various sources, AI can provide effective tools and actionable insights for pandemic preparedness, disease prevention, healthcare optimization, and air quality management [1, 3]. However, the surging demand for AI — particularly generative AI, as exemplified by the recent popularity of large language models (LLMs) — has driven a rapid increase in computational needs, fueling the unprecedented expansion of energy-intensive AI data centers. According to McKinsey projections, under a medium-growth scenario [4], the U.S. data centers are anticipated to account for 11.7% of national electricity consumption in 2030, a substantial increase from their current share of less than 4% in 2023. 

The growing electricity demand of AI data centers has not only created significant stress on power grid stability [5,6], but also increasingly impacts the environment through escalating carbon emissions [7,8] and water consumption [9]. These environmental impacts are driven primarily by the “expansion of AI products and services,” as recently acknowledged by Google in its latest sustainability report [10]. To mitigate the challenges posed to both power grids and the environment, a range of strategies have been explored, including grid-integrated data centers [6, 11], energy-efficient hardware and software [12–14], and the adoption of carbon-aware and water-efficient computing practices [9,15–17], among others. 

The hidden toll of AI. While the environmental footprint of AI has garnered attention, the public health burden, a hidden toll of AI, has been largely overlooked. Across its entire lifecycle — from chip manufacturing to data center operation — AI contributes substantially to air quality degradation and public health costs through the emission of various criteria air pollutants. These include fine particulate matter (PM2.5, particles measuring 2.5 micrometers or smaller in diameter that can penetrate deep into lungs and cause serious health effects), sulfur dioxide (SO2), and nitrogen dioxide (NO2). Concretely, the AI hardware manufacturing process [18], electricity generation from fossil fuels to power AI data centers, and the maintenance and usage of diesel backup generators to ensure continuous AI data center operation all produce significant amounts of criteria air pollutants. Moreover, the distinct spatial-temporal heterogeneities of emission sources suggest that focusing solely on reducing AI’s carbon footprints may not minimize its emissions of criteria air pollutants or the resulting public health impacts (Section 5). 

Exposure to criteria air pollutants is directly and causally linked to various adverse health outcomes, including premature mortality, lung cancer, asthma, heart attacks, cardiovascular diseases, strokes, and even cognitive decline, especially for the elderly and vulnerable individuals with pre-existing conditions [20–23]. Moreover, even short-term (hours to days) PM2.5 exposure is harmful and deadly, accounting for approximately 1 million premature deaths per year from 2000 to 2019 and representing 2% of total global deaths [24]. 

Globally, 4.2 million deaths were attributed to ambient (i.e., outdoor) air pollution in 2019 [25]. Air pollution has become the second highest risk factor for noncommunicable diseases [26]. Notably, according to the latest Global Burden of Disease report [27], along with high blood pressure and high blood sugar, ambient particulate matter is placed among the leading risk factors for disease burden globally in every socio-demographic group. 

While the U.S. has generally better air quality than many other countries, 4 in 10 people in the U.S. still live with unhealthy levels of air pollution, according to the “State of the Air 2024” report published by the American Lung Association [28]. In 2019 (the latest year of data provided by the World Health Organization, or WHO, as of November 2024), an estimate of 93,886 deaths in the U.S. were attributed to ambient air pollution [29]. In fact, even compliance with the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) air quality standards does not necessarily guarantee healthy air that meets the WHO guidelines. Concretely, the EPA’s recently tightened primary standard for PM2.5 sets an annual average limit of 9 µg/m3, considerably higher than the WHO’s recommended level of 5 µg/m3 [30,31]. In addition, the EPA projects that 53 U.S. counties, including 23 in the most populous state of California, would fail to meet the revised national annual PM2.5 standard in 2032 [32]. 

Further, criteria air pollutants are not confined to the immediate vicinity of their emission sources; they can travel hundreds of miles through a dispersion process (i.e., cross-state air pollution) [33,34], impacting public health across vast regions — pollutants from the 2024 Canadian wildfires significantly degraded air quality across much of the U.S. and reached as far as Mexico and Europe [35]. 

Importantly, along with transportation and industrial activities, electricity generation is a major contributor to ambient air pollution with substantial public health impacts [26, 36, 37]. For example, a recent study [38] shows that, between 1999 and 2020, a total of 460,000 excess deaths were attributed to PM2.5 generated by coal-fired power plants alone in the U.S. As highlighted by the U.S. EPA [36], despite years of progress, “fossil fuel-based power plants remain a leading source of air, water, and land pollution that affects communities nationwide.” Moreover, according to the U.S. Energy Information Administration (EIA) projection [39], the coal consumption by the electricity sector in 2050 will still be about 30% of the 2024 level in the baseline reference case, and the number will exceed 50% in the high zero-carbon technology cost case. Indeed, the growing energy demands of AI are already delaying the decommissioning of coal-fired power plants and increasing fossil-fuel plants in the U.S. as well as around the world [6,40,41]. 

The public health outcomes of AI due to its emission of criteria air pollutants lead to various losses, such as hospitalizations, medication usage, emergency room visits, school loss days, and lost workdays. Moreover, these losses can be further quantified in economic costs based on epidemiology and economics research for the corresponding health endpoints [22,42]. In contrast, the environmental impacts of AI, e.g., carbon emission from fossil fuels and water consumption for data center cooling, often do not cause the same immediate health impacts. For instance, while anthropogenic carbon emissions could also pose risks to public health, such impacts are often second- or third-order effects through long-term climate change which can then threaten the human well-being by affecting the food people eat and facilitating the spreading of pests, among others [43]. Nonetheless, despite their immediate and tangible impacts on public health, the criteria air pollutants of AI have remained under the radar, entirely omitted from today’s AI risk assessments and sustainability reports [10,44,45]. 

Quantifying the public health costs of AI. In this paper, we uncover and quantify the hidden public health impacts of AI. We introduce a general methodology to model the emission of criteria air pollutants  associated with AI tasks across three distinct scopes: emissions from the maintenance and operation of backup generators (Scope 1), emissions from fossil fuel combustion for electricity generation (Scope 2), and emissions resulting from the manufacturing of server hardware (Scope 3). Then, we analyze the dispersion of criteria air pollutants and the resulting public health impacts across different regions.

Rights of Nature

'Ocean management and rights of Nature: The case of the Galapagos in Ecuador and beyond' by Dorine Eva van Norren and Chris de Blok in (2025) 173 Marine Policy comments 

The expanded protection zone of Galapagos encircling sea territories of Ecuador, Colombia, Costa Rica and Panama (CMAR) could incorporate a rights of Nature approach, whereby prosecution of trespassers becomes more likely to be successful as cross boundary ecology is recognized in the rights of Nature approach and extra territorial application facilitated with positive effects for ocean governance. In the rights of Nature doctrine, anyone can stand up for Nature regardless of personal interest. The Galapagos sharkfin cases of 2015 and 2019 based on constitutional rights of Nature legislation in Ecuador demonstrate the preventative effect. This can be a first step towards recognizing ocean rights (as a substrand of rights of Nature). There are several options for implementation in CMAR. This fits into a wider buen vivir (good living in harmony with Nature) and development approach. Closing of areas for biodiversity protection has wider ecosystem effects (as Palau demonstrated) causing multiplication of species such as sharks outside the protection zones as well. Current levels of (CMAR and general) ocean protection are highly insufficient. The national Marine Protected Areas (MPAs) are too small in number. Moreover, the areas covered by MPAs do not always have high protection levels. The majority of areas beyond national jurisdiction are thus not protected. Which countries will ratify the new ocean protection regime (BBNJ) remains to be seen. 

On June 7 2022, Ecuador, Colombia, Costa Rica, and Panama concluded an agreement for the expansion of the special protection zone of the Galapagos [32], [46]. This article argues that if the entire extended Galapagos protected zone, stretching over Ecuador, Colombia, Costa Rica and Panama, is also given a rights of Nature status, as has been done in Ecuador, better protection can be ensured. This could also give opportunities for species to recover their populations within this extremely important highway in the oceans, the Humboldt Current. The specific case of the Galapagos can be an example of how oceans can be better preserved and managed, and how rights of Nature can strengthen the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs), specifically SDG14 on oceans. 

Since 2008 Ecuador has had a constitution based on the philosophy of Buen Vivir, Good Living - derived from the indigenous Sumak Kawsay - which is understood as living in harmony with Nature. Under the leadership of Bolivia - which also adopted a Vivir Bien constitution in 2009 - harmony with Nature also became a formal UN institution. Buen Vivir is based on the indigenous biocentric ways of living and includes participatory democracy, economic solidarity mechanisms and rights of Nature [2]. 

The constitution contains a special protection provision for the Galapagos Islands. As part of the concept of harmony with Nature, rights of Nature are also enshrined in the constitution. On this basis, numerous law cases were conducted, one of which concerns the Galapagos Islands. Due to this regime, illegal shark fishers could be convicted by the court of fishing in or around the territorial waters. Despite the special protection regime for the Galapagos, this had not been possible earlier. Territorial waters delineation was an impediment to criminal conviction. Within the rights of Nature logics, the court found that the ecosystem, and its right to exist and be restored, extends beyond this limitation. This way sharks could be protected. 

Sharks are, as a predator, a keystone species and therefore crucial to the marine ecosystem as a whole [33]. ‘Closing of areas’ for biodiversity conservation, as has been done in the Galapagos, allows local ecosystems to flourish and provide for themselves. This also positively affects the biodiversity of the surrounding areas. This is known as a spillover effect and has been documented in an experiment in Palau that protecting restricted areas has a significant impact on the adjacent regions' fishing, flora, and fauna [37]. This article will first describe Ecuador’s constitution and rights of Nature. It will then explore the sharkfin court case, then it will briefly go into the Galapagos protection schemes, and efforts to give oceans rights. It will then apply this to the extended protection zone. The second half of the article details why Galapagos and the South Pacific matters, what protection zones are in place and how effective these current approaches are. It will then conclude with why new legal and policy approaches are desirable. This article is written from the point of view of postcolonial law and combined with the social science approach of marine ecology management. Postcolonial law emerged as a response to modernist claims of truth based in reason and empirical knowledge, and shaped around neoliberal economic views of society [3], [38], [4]. In this modernist view man is above nature instead of part of it. This anthropocentric view of life is counter to the biocentric indigenous view of life. Indigenous views of life were considered backward, unscientific and stuck in metaphysics. This resulted in epistemological injustice whereby indigenous knowledge systems were dismissed and basic philosophical differences were circumvented. The modernist legal view resulted in positivist approaches (rules-based justice) moving away from (metaphysical) natural law. Postcolonial law (such as Third World Lawyers for International Law) criticized this by deconstructing western views of international law, rooted in (neo)colonial practices. The movement for Good Living, Buen Vivir and rights of Nature, amongst others, attempts to reconstruct the law based on indigenous philosophies. This is rooted in a critical realist view of the world which accepts reality as a social construction and thus accepts possibilities of revised legal and economy theory and hence revised ocean governance. It considers law and economy as a social science (hence not factual hard science), uses interdisciplinary multilayered approaches. It looks at power as interwoven with knowledge systems and considers the epistemic injustice of subordinating indigenous knowledge systems to science. Thus it uses indigenous knowledge in its own right. Knowlton and Di Lorenzo [27] also emphasize why social sciences are increasingly important in ocean conservation, including the role of indigenous and local communities.

Data Centres and Energy

The IEA Electricity 2024: Global trends Analysis and forecast to 2026 report states 

Global electricity demand from data centres could double towards 2026 

We estimate that data centres, cryptocurrencies, and artificial intelligence (AI) consumed about 460 TWh of electricity worldwide in 2022, almost 2% of total global electricity demand. Data centres are a critical part of the infrastructure that supports digitalisation along with the electricity infrastructure that powers them. The ever-growing quantity of digital data requires an expansion and evolution of data centres to process and store it. Electricity demand in data centres is mainly from two processes, with computing accounting for 40% of electricity demand of a data centre. Cooling requirements to achieve stable processing efficiency similarly makes up about another 40%. The remaining 20% comes from other associated IT equipment. 

Future trends of the data centre sector are complex to navigate, as technological advancements and digital services evolve rapidly. Depending on the pace of deployment, range of efficiency improvements as well as artificial intelligence and cryptocurrency trends, we expect global electricity consumption of data centres, cryptocurrencies and artificial intelligence to range between 620-1 050 TWh in 2026, with our base case for demand at just over 800 TWh – up from 460 TWh in 2022. This corresponds to an additional 160 TWh up to 590 TWh of electricity demand in 2026 compared to 2022, roughly equivalent to adding at least one Sweden or at most one Germany. ... 

Data centres are significant drivers of electricity demand growth in many regions

There are currently more than 8 000 data centres globally, with about 33% of these located in the United States, 16% in Europe and close to 10% in China. US data centre electricity consumption is expected to grow at a rapid pace in the coming years, increasing from around 200 TWh in 2022 (~4% of US electricity demand), to almost 260 TWh in 2026 to account for 6% of total electricity demand. Growth will be driven by increased adoption of 5G networks and cloud-based services, as well as competitive state tax incentives. 

China's State Grid Energy Research Institute expects electricity demand in the country’s data centre sector to double to 400 TWh by 2030, compared to 2020. We forecast electricity consumption from data centres in China to reach around 300 TWh by 2026. Regulations are being updated to promote sustainable practices in current and future data centres to align them with decarbonisation strategies. A major source of data centre growth is expected to come from the rapid expansion of 5G networks and the Internet of Things (IoT). 

In the European Union, data centre electricity consumption is estimated at slightly below 100 TWh in 2022, almost 4% of total EU electricity demand. Around 1 240 data centres were operating within Europe in 2022, with the majority concentrated in the financial centres of Frankfurt, London, Amsterdam, Paris, and Dublin. With a significant number of additional data centres planned, as well as new deployments that can be expected to be realised over the coming years, we forecast that electricity consumption in the data centre sector in the European Union will reach almost 150 TWh by 2026. 

Almost one-third of electricity demand in Ireland could come from data centres by 2026 

In Europe, the data centre market in Ireland is developing rapidly as their electricity consumption grows along with new policies and initiatives. Electricity demand from data centres in Ireland was 5.3 TWh in 2022, representing 17% of the country's total electricity consumed. That is equivalent to the amount of electricity consumed by urban residential buildings. At this pace, in a high case scenario, Ireland’s data centres might double their electricity consumption by 2026, and with AI applications penetrating the market at a fast rate, the sector could reach a share of 32% of the country’s total electricity demand in 2026 if most of the approved projects are able to be connected to the system. This assumes that at the same time efficiency gains in other sectors continue to take place. 

Ireland’s stock of data centres, currently at 82, is expected to grow by 65% in the coming years, with 14 data centres under construction and 40 approved to start the building phase. Ireland has one of the lowest corporate tax rates in the European Union (12.5%), which is an advantage for the sector’s expansion in the country. By contrast, European OECD countries’ average corporate tax rate is 21.5%. 

The rapid expansion of the data centre sector and the elevated electricity demand can pose challenges for the electricity system. To safeguard the system’s stability and reliability, Ireland’s Commission for Regulation of Utilities published in late 2021 its decision on the new requirements applicable to new and ongoing data centre grid connection applications with three assessment criteria to determine if the connection offer can be made. First, the location of the data centre with respect to whether they are within a constrained region of the electricity system. Second, the ability of the data centre to bring onsite dispatchable generation and/or storage equivalent, at least, to their demand. Third, the ability of the data centre to provide flexibility in their demand by reducing it when requested by a system operator. For the third clause, data centre operators that offer their servers for hire will have to update their contracts to reflect the new regulations. These requirements showcase the local government’s inclination to grant connections to those operators that can make efficient use of the grid and incorporate renewable energy sources with a view of decarbonisation targets. ... 

Denmark currently hosts 34 data centres, half of them located in Copenhagen. As in Ireland, Denmark’s total electricity demand is forecast to grow mainly due to the data centre sector’s expansion, which is expected to consume 6 TWh by 2026, reaching just under 20% of the country’s electricity demand. Denmark is the hub for a new pan-European initiative, Net Zero Innovation Hub for Data Centers. The hub offers a space for collaboration between suppliers, operators and governments to enable progress towards the sector’s innovation and decarbonisation while meeting increasing regulatory demands. 

Data centres in Nordic countries – such as Sweden, Norway, and Finland – benefit from lower electricity costs. This is attributed to lower cooling demand due to their colder weather, and to lower electricity prices in comparison to other major data centre hubs, such as Germany, France and the Netherlands. The largest actor amongst Nordic countries is Sweden, with 60 data centres, and half of them in Stockholm. In August 2023, plans for a nuclear-powered data centre were announced utilising small modular reactors (SMR) technology on the east coast of Sweden, with a commissioning date envisaged for 2030. Given decarbonisation targets, Sweden and Norway may further increase their participation in the data centre market since almost all of their electricity is generated from low-carbon sources. 

In the United States, the largest data centre hubs are located in California, Texas and Virginia. In the case of Virginia, their economy was dominated in 2021 by the data centre sector expansion, attracting 62% of all of the state’s new investments and providing more than 5 000 new jobs. Northern Virginia is the largest data centre market in the country, collecting USD 1 billion in local tax revenues per year, with growth trending higher as companies, such as Amazon’s planned USD 35 billion expansion by 2040, continue to increase their investment in the state. New legislation is aimed at tightening regulations on data centre developments, including zoning rules, mandatory environment and resource impact assessments, as well as guidelines on water usage. In US northeastern states, the regional transmission organisation PJM expects data centres to increasingly drive electricity demand, forecasting a rise in summer peak load from 151 GW in 2024 to 178 GW by 2034. 

Artificial intelligence and cryptocurrencies are additional sources of electricity demand growth 

Market trends, including the fast incorporation of AI into software programming across a variety of sectors, increase the overall electricity demand of data centres. Search tools like Google could see a tenfold increase of their electricity demand in the case of fully implementing AI in it. When comparing the average electricity demand of a typical Google search (0.3 Wh of electricity) to OpenAI’s ChatGPT (2.9 Wh per request), and considering 9 billion searches daily, this would require almost 10 TWh of additional electricity in a year. 

AI electricity demand can be forecast more comprehensively based on the amount of AI servers that are estimated to be sold in the future and their rated power. The AI server market is currently dominated by tech firm NVIDIA, with an estimated 95% market share. In 2023, NVIDIA shipped 100 000 units that consume an average of 7.3 TWh of electricity annually. By 2026, the AI industry is expected to have grown exponentially to consume at least ten times its demand in 2023. ... 

In 2022, cryptocurrencies consumed about 110 TWh of electricity, accounting for 0.4% of the global annual electricity demand, as much as the Netherland’s total electricity consumption. In our base case, we anticipate that the electricity consumption of cryptocurrencies will increase by more than 40%, to around 160 TWh by 2026. Nevertheless, uncertainties remain for the pace of acceleration in cryptocurrency adoption and technology efficiency improvements. Ethereum, the second largest cryptocurrency by market cap, reduced its electricity demand by an amazing 99% in 2022 by changing its mining mechanism. By contrast, Bitcoin is estimated to have consumed 120 TWh by 2023, contributing to a total cryptocurrency electricity demand of 130 TWh. Challenges in reducing electricity consumption remain, as energy savings can be offset by increases in other energy consuming operations, such as other cryptocurrencies, even as some become more efficient. 

Efficiency improvements and regulations will be crucial in restraining data centre energy consumption 

The revised Energy Efficiency Directive from the European Commission includes regulations applicable to the European data centre sector, promoting more transparency and accountability to enhance electricity demand management. Starting from 2024, operators have mandatory reporting obligations for the energy use and emissions from their data centres, and large-scale data centres are required to have waste heat recovery applications, when technically and economically feasible, while meeting climate neutrality by 2030. An earlier EU regulation, applicable since 2020, sets efficiency standards for data centres enabling better control over their environmental impact. A self-regulatory European initiative created in 2021, called the Climate Neutral Data Centre Pact, sets targets to achieve climate neutrality in the sector by 2030. More than 60 data centre operators have signed on to the pact, including large operators like Equinix, Digital Realty and Cyrus One. 

In the United States, the Energy Act of 2020 requires the federal government to conduct studies on the energy and water use of data centres, to create applicable energy efficiency metrics and good practices that promote efficiency, along with public reporting of historical data centre energy and water usage. The Department of Energy (DOE) is supporting the local production of semiconductors and is funding the development of more efficient semiconductors over the next two decades. More efficient semiconductors reduce cooling requirements, thus supporting the decarbonisation of the sector. At a state level, regulators in Virginia and Oregon have already imposed requirements for better sustainability practices and carbon emissions reductions. 

Chinese regulators will require all data centres acquired by public organisations to improve their energy efficiency and be entirely powered by renewable energy by 2032, starting with a 5% share mandate for renewables in 2023. 

New fields of research can help increase efficiency and reduce energy consumption in data centres 

The primary drivers of data centre electricity demand are the cooling systems and the servers themselves, with each typically accounting for 40% of the total consumption. The remaining 20% is consumed by the power supply system, storage devices and communication equipment. The adoption of high-efficiency cooling systems has the potential to reduce electricity demand in data centres by 10%. Other cooling research shows that a 20% reduction in consumption can be achieved when operating with direct-to-chip water cooling and specific low viscous fluids to cool all other components. Machine learning can help reduce the electricity demand of servers by optimizing their adaptability to different operating scenarios. Google reported using its DeepMind AI to reduce the electricity demand of their data centre cooling systems by 40%. 

In the long term, replacing supercomputers with quantum computers could reduce electricity demand of the sector if the transition is supported by efficient cooling systems. Quantum computers deliver more and faster processing power than supercomputers while consuming less energy, but they need to be cooled to temperatures near absolute zero (-273°C) while supercomputers can operate at 21°C. 

Data centres are evolving towards more sustainable and efficient operations, including transitioning to Hyperscale Data Centres, which can run large-scale operations without a significant increase in electricity consumption. This transition is also financially attractive, with the global market for Hyperscale Data Centres projected to double in size by 2026 compared to 2023, reaching a value of USD 212 billion. 

Another promising field of research for decarbonising data centre operations involves time and location shifting of electricity demand. Software developments can allow operators to temporarily shift power loads with carbon-aware models that relocate data centre workloads to regions with lower carbon intensity at selected times. Simultaneously, such methodology has shown the probability of increasing the operational affordability by reducing costs of consuming low- emissions energy around the clock by up to 34%. Results of this methodology combined with other energy efficiency measures in place and on-site low-emission energy production have demonstrated that data centres can achieve a 64% share of carbon-free energy in their total electricity consumption, according to Google’s 2023 Environmental Report.

Cold

'Realising Rights of Nature across and beneath the Southern Ocean' by AD Hemmings in The Polar Journal comments

 If the philosophical, ecological, moral and ethical imperatives for Rights of Nature (RON) in the Antarctic can be argued to be clear, given the limitations and failures of contemporary instrumental environmental management, the modalities of operationalising and applying these to the Antarctic marine environment, commonly understood as the Southern Ocean, are not. Securing progressive environmental policies is very much harder in the marine environment than ashore, everywhere. Structural complications of the existing Antarctic regime structure and the historic and contemporary regional geopolitics add to the challenges in the Southern Ocean, beyond those posed by RON. Classical Antarctic framings cast the Southern Ocean as either the area south of the Antarctic Convergence or as merely the area south of 60° South Latitude. Neither suffices for the purposes of RON. Antarctic biota cross even the Antarctic Convergence. In doing so, they enter spaces subject to extra-Antarctic Treaty System (ATS) international legal regimes including Regional Fisheries Management Organisations abutting the ATS area and/or coastal state jurisdictions in the sub-Antarctic. They also penetrate deep below the levels of the ocean hitherto operationally managed by the ATS. Even ‘within’ the ATS geographical area, the deep seabed and particular taxa (cetaceans) are formally subject to other regimes. The area of relevance for RON is thus neither coterminous with the geographical area nor the jurisdictional competence of the ATS. The relevant geographical area is a ‘Greater Southern Ocean’. The politico-legal context across multiple regimes meaningful to RON is extraordinarily complex and multi-tiered. Advancing a RON discourse across this huge and complex field likely entails a fragmented engagement with discrete jurisdictional and institutional entities, albeit an engagement informed by a unitary and coherent understanding and purpose. Necessary as this is, it will be neither simple nor quick.

Rights

'On the Phenomenon of the Rights of Nature' by Ágnes Tahyné Kovács in Hungarian Yearbook of International Law and European Law (20240 305-331 comments

 To protect natural environment effectively, humanity is constantly on the move. It is looking for solutions beyond the current anthropocentric regulatory models. A novel concept of environmental regulation, the Rights of Nature (RoN), was launched in Europe (2022). A previous EU study (2021) showed that the RoN concept alien to the European regulatory environment is not yet feasible on the continent. Our study highlights a very narrow slice of contemporary legal history. One of the slices of the current 50-year history of environmental law is the emergence and spread of the concept of rights of nature regulation around the world. The aim of this study is to draw attention to this recent phenomenon. Its method is descriptive-demonstrative. This paper is structured according to the geographical location of each phenomenon. It situates the phenomenon of the rights of nature within the regulatory concepts of environmental law and illustrates their common features with examples from around the world. The paper also highlights common features of the RoN concept with EU environmental legislation that make its introduction in Europe unnecessary. At the same time, these global examples show a number of lessons that can contribute to making European environmental law more effective.

Kovács concludes

The legal personality granted to ecosystems has so far been mainly symbolic, and it remains unclear how successful these lawsuits can be in achieving adequate long-term protection of ecosystems. Again and again, questions are raised about possible outcomes: What exactly does the plaintiff want to achieve on behalf of the injured party? Does the plaintiff seek to compel a public authority to compensate for the damage suffered? Does the party want to force another party to pay damages? Who can be held liable for these damages? Can an appointed guardian/guardian/representative be held liable if a river overflows and causes damage? Who has a say in the fate of a transboundary river (e.g. in India, where the Ganges and Yamuna rivers extend beyond the border of Uttarakhand)? If a lawsuit claims that climate change is a threat, how much responsibility does the activity of a particular industry bear in this regard? 

However, the increasing number of natural rights lawsuits could set a precedent for national and local governments to take action to protect biodiversity by opposing mining projects that could prove destructive to a particular ecosystem. The lawsuits also draw attention to the environmental justice issues faced by marginalized communities, particularly Indigenous communities that care for and manage these vital natural ecosystems and whose livelihoods and cultural and spiritual practices depend on natural formations. 

The European Parliament’s study examined the rights of nature in comparison to the legal personality and position of natural persons before the courts. In particular, it highlights the need to strengthen the requirements for independent scientific assessments in certain authorization schemes of EU law. However, there are strong doubts that the concept of the RoN can find a place in European legal culture. There are two approaches connected to RoN. The first is finding a way to facilitate the communication between science and law and how to apply this knowledge basis in court, while still upholding the procedural autonomy of each Member State as well as the effective implementation of EU law on the environment across the Union. The second is the legal philosophical discussion about the origin of ‘rights’. Closely related to this is how the courts determine the needs of the environment and future generations from scientific and technical evidence presented before them by representatives for those interests.

Voicing Rivers

'Relational representation: Speaking with and not about Nature' by Lidia Cano-Pecharroman and Erin O’Donnell in 3(10) PLOS Water states 

Recognition of the rights of Nature is blooming across the globe, with over 409 rights of Nature initiatives in 39 countries [1]. Holders of rights include Nature as a whole (e.g. the Ecuadorian Constitution, Arts 71–74), specific landscape entities [such as rivers, lakes, mountains, and forests, see 2–4], and individual species [such as manoomin (wild rice), see 5]. The recognition of Nature as a legal rights holder transitions it from an object, over which humans have dominion, and with no powers to protest its own mistreatment, to a subject, able to claim what Tănăsescu describes as a ‘moral debt’ [6] and as well as the legal standing to sue on its own behalf [7]. This ‘alchemical transfiguration [renders Nature] uniquely visible, and legible, to the law in ways that it has not been before’ [8]. 

 

In addition to the wide range of different mechanisms for recognising the rights of Nature [including proclamations, policies, local laws, state and federal legislation, and court rulings, see 1], there is also a multitude of mechanisms for the representation of Nature as a rights holder. In Ecuador, any citizen has standing to demand that public authorities uphold the constitutional rights of Nature [6]. In Aotearoa New Zealand, on the other hand, representation arrangements are tightly prescribed in the legislation (Te Awa Tupua (Whanganui River Claims Settlement) Act 2017, sections 18–20). Te Awa Tupua (the Whanganui River) has a ‘face and voice’, Te Pou Tupua, a position which is held by two people, appointed by the iwi of Te Awa Tupua and the Crown [9]. Even beyond the recognition of the rights of Nature, there is a growing acknowledgement that there are diverse ways of seeing and valuing Nature, and of culturally and socially relating to non human species and their habitats (IPBES,NA). However there is also an acknowledgement that the application of these ways of relating in practice is in "its infancy" (pg. 2) and requires further reflection on whom and how do we implement these ways of relating [10,pg.2]. 

 

The diversity of representation arrangements highlights a major issue for rights of Nature: there is no clarity on precisely who, or how, Nature can be represented in human spaces, or even what the intent of this representation is (or should be). Stone’s original conception of Nature as a legal subject was imagined with the express intent of enabling Nature’s interests to be represented directly in court, so that damage to Nature could be taken into account directly, rather than filtered through the lens of associated damage to human beings [7]. This notion had been also applied before to corporations, governments, ships or railroads, legally considered as legal persons [11, 12]. These basic extensions of traditional representation still rely on conceptions of personhood that are based on an ‘atomistic, isolated, individual making independent choices’ [13] to defend their interests in court. In doing so, this entrenches ‘Nature’ as an adversary, relying on its voice to be heard, and competing for outcomes against other self-interested persons. This can have the unintended consequence of reducing people’s willingness to protect Nature [14] and grossly misrepresents the inextricable relation of humans and human activity with Nature [15]. 

 

The Ecuadorian experience demonstrates that although it can take some time to gain genuine traction, there is real power in giving Nature a ‘voice’ in the court system [16]. Beyond the courts, legal systems have also granted Nature a voice more broadly, enabling representation of Nature in policy and decision-making spaces. For instance, in the settler colonial states of Aotearoa and Australia, the ‘voice’ of the river has a role in both policy-making and ensuring accountability and integrity, as well as enabling power transfers to Indigenous Peoples [9, 17]. 

 

The recognition of this voice in our legal and political systems has rehashed a never-ending theoretical dilemma with great implications in practice: what exactly do we mean by representation? And relatedly, how can Nature be ‘heard’ effectively within human systems for decision-making and dispute resolution? Can just anyone be Nature’s representative? What of those who have a clear conflict of interest, or without adequate power or funding to be effective? How do we know that Nature’s interests are being represented, as opposed to the interests of the person acting as representative? These are questions that have emerged for all sorts of representation arrangements (such as, who and how a legal guardian can represent the interests of its representee, how an individual can represent the interests of a group without letting their own interest permeate their exercise of representation). These questions warrant attention, and similarly understanding what representation means for the rights of Nature is important both for humans and for Nature. 

 

The definition of representation is forever evolving and elusive at times. However, the exercise of its definition is imperative for its operationalization in practice. This means first, anticipating the potential consequences of a particular conceptualization of representation as it gets implemented. As Tănăsescu argues ‘the rights of Nature have a strong anti-democratic potential, for several reasons: rights are a forceful representation, which leaves little room for deliberation… [and they can] subordinate the representation of humans to a Nature which is, definitionally, always more important’ [6]. Second, it means setting ourselves free from pre-existing assumptions of what representation is, and how it should look, and instead to embrace the possibility that this ever evolving concept will yet take another turn as Nature is enabled representation in human spaces. 

 

In this paper, we explore Tănăsescu’s relational model of representation as an alternative to the standard model of political representation. Re-evaluating what representation is and how the representation of Nature is conceptualized, Tănăsescu takes this definitional turn to argue that representation as an exercise of "claiming" makes more sense definitionally both for human and more-than-human variants of representation [6]. We consider how this definition of representation changes both our understanding of representation and our expectations of the process of representing the interests of natural entities that have been recognized as legal entities (persons, subjects, or living entities). We build on Tănăsescu’s model to identify a relational spectrum of representation of natural entities: (1) speaking about; (2) speaking for; and (3) speaking with. Both speaking about and speaking for are accounted for in the standard model of representation, but speaking with requires a relational model of representation. We further propose a definitional extension to Tănăsescu’s initial conceptualization by expanding this third category by considering representation as a dialogue of knowledges, with a clear role for the representative in enabling this dialogue. We use four case studies of waterway legal entities to document how these entities are being represented now and bring nuance to the translation of these forms of representation into practice. The cases portray how the recognition of rights for these natural entities is pushing the boundaries of what we have defined and understood as representation in practice and is eliciting new approaches to decision making. We document both the mechanisms of representation and the intent of that representation and assess where these case studies are placed along this relational spectrum of representation. Our analysis identifies common themes, as well as some of the challenges for effective and relational representation.

Nature

'Rights for nature or protecting people’s rights?: The operationalization of rights of nature in non-indigenous communities in the United States' by Ellen Kohl in (2024) 156 Geoforum comments 

 As the Rights of Nature movement gains political traction globally, researchers must examine how this transnational movement to extend rights to nature or natural entities is being operationalized in place. Proponents of the rights of nature contend transferring rights to nature constitutes a paradigm shift in human-environment interactions and will lead to solutions directed at the root causes of environmental problems. Critics contend that these rights-based governance structures have the potential to do more harm than good for environmental protection depending on the cultural and legal frameworks within which rights of nature are enacted. In this paper, I examine how rights of nature have been operationalized in non-Indigenous communities in the United States through an analysis of rights of nature ordinances passed in these communities between 2006 and 2020. Drawing on theoretical engagements with rights I demonstrate how the reliance on universalizing human rights frameworks and anti-corporation rhetoric both distinguish these ordinances from the broader rights of nature movement and center the rights of people to have access to a clean environment rather than the intrinsic rights of nature. In conclusion, I explore alternatives to how rights of nature are currently operationalized in non-Indigenous communities in the United States and call for increased research on the implications and impacts of rights of nature ordinances to assess whether they achieve their stated goals. 

Rights of Nature (RoN) is a transnational “rights-based environmental governance” structure that uses liberal legal rights to protect nature rather than relying on existing forms of environmental governance (Kohl and Walenta 2023). The movement traces its intellectual origins to Earth Jurisprudence scholarship which contends that current environmental crises are caused by cultural and legal systems in which human needs are separate and superior to those of nature (Berry, 1999, Boyd, 2017, Cullinan, 2011). The RoN movement draws on different legal channels to grant nature legal rights akin to the rights secured by human persons, such as the right to live, thrive and flourish, and the right to not be polluted (Gilbert et al., 2023, Kauffman and Martin, 2021, Kauffman and Martin, 2018; O’Donnell, 2023, O’Donnell, 2020, Putzer et al., 2022, Tănăsescu, 2022). This can be done by granting personhood status to nature, either directly or indirectly through the appointment of an administrating body, or by extending rights to nature (Kauffman and Martin, 2021, Kurki, 2022, Tănăsescu, 2020). RoN advocates contend this structure provides greater protection to natural entities and will prevent catastrophic environmental destruction (Gilbert et al., 2023, O’Donnell, 2023). For many, the extension of rights to nature represents a paradigm shift in the human-environment relationship (Cuadros, 2019, Dogaru and Dogaru, 2022a, Dogaru and Dogaru, 2022b, Ito and Montini, 2018, Villavicencio-Calzadilla and Kotzé, 2023). As more communities turn to RoN activism, and adopt RoN legal frameworks, there is an emerging theoretical debate in support of (Bradshaw, 2022, Kauffman and Martin, 2023) and those raising concerns about extending rights to nature (Bellina, 2024, Guim and Livermore, 2021, Sachs, 2023, Spitz and Penalver, 2021, Petel, 2024). 

The motivations for transferring rights to nature vary over space and time but O’Donnell, writing in Eckstein et al. (2019), contends there at least four specific reasons that rivers, the natural entity she studies, are granted rights. These include (1) a recognition of Indigenous cosmologies and values, (2) eco-centrism, or bringing rivers and humans onto equal level, (3) market environmentalism, creating mechanisms through which rivers can participate in markets, and (4) private interest regulatory theory, which allows mechanisms through which rivers can advocate for themselves (Eckstein et al. 2019). In this paper, I add a motivation of people’s desires to address a particular environmental concern for which traditional forms of environmental rule making are not providing them sufficient protection. In this way, I frame the understandings of RoN not only through legal understandings, but also in place and through political understandings because “one cannot understand what the rights of nature are doing without thinking about them in terms of power relations” (Tănăsescu 2022, 16). Given the diversity of how, why, and where RoN are adopted the operationalizations of RoN looks different in different places. While RoN is a transnational movement, the specific place-based articulations of the movement and the outcomes of RoN activism are impacted by the social, cultural, and political context within which they take place (Kinkaid, 2019, Gilbert et al., 2023, Tănăsescu et al., 2024). Through an examination of the over 60 RoN ordinances enacted within the United States (US) between 2008 and 2020 I build on current scholarship examining the operationalization of RoN in the US context (Fitz-Henry, 2018, Fitz-Henry, 2022, Fitz-Henry, 2023, Kohl and Walenta, 2023; Macpherson, 2021, Moutrie, 2022) to expand our understandings of the place-based articulations of RoN. 

In this paper, I carry out this analysis to examine how theoretical conceptions of RoN have been translated in US legal structures. Through this analysis and discussion, I demonstrate that the operationalization of RoN in non-Indigenous communities in the US shifts from granting nature the status of personhood to an extension of rights to nature by extending conceptions of human rights onto nature. I demonstrate how this universalization centers the needs of people rather than the intrinsic rights of nature. Moreover, the operationalization of RoN in these communities specifically has an anti-corporation clause. These differences contradict the claims of RoN proponents who justify the need for RoN legislation as necessary because it represents a paradigm shift by elevating nature’s rights as equal to people’s rights. I begin by reviewing conceptions of property, rights, personhood, and rights to nature, paying particular attention to the US context. From there, I explain the methods used. Then I use the theoretical frameworks to analyze the ordinances enacted in the US context. In conclusion, I call for more research on how, if at all, these ordinances are changing people’s perceptions of nature and if environmental conditions have improved in and around places where RoN legislation has been enacted.

'Civil Litigation for Environmental Damages: Are the So-Called Rights of Nature an Alternative?' by Guillermo Schumann Barragan in (2024) 14 International Journal of Procedural Law 73–98 comments 

This paper aims to analyse civil litigation for environmental damages and whether the so-called rights of nature are a viable alternative de lege ferenda. To this end, it examines (i) the participation of civil society in environmental protection through public enforcement mechanisms in the Spanish legal order; (ii) the cause of action for environmental damage claims; and (iii) whether rights of nature are a good option to enhance the protection of nature in civil justice. 

On the 3rd of October 2022, Law 19/2022 on the recognition of the legal status of the Mar Menor lagoon was published in the Spanish Official State Gazette (boe). The law attributes the lagoon legal status (Article 1 Law 19/2022) and certain rights: the right to exist, protection, conservation and restoration (Article 2 Law 19/2022). Furthermore, according to Article 6, “any natural or legal person has the right to defend the ecosystem of the Mar Menor”. Depending on the nature of the action, criminal, civil or administrative courts will have subject-matter jurisdiction (Article 4 Law 19/2022). 

The attribution of legal status to elements of nature – e.g. a river, a forest, a mountain or a coral reef – is not new on the international scene. This theory, which is unknown in European legal orders, is known as the rights of nature. As a result of public concern about climate change, environmental protection has become one of the EU’s political priorities. A good example of this is the European Commission’s package of measures known as the Green Deal. Renewable energy and environmental have become a leitmotiv on the European political agenda. 

In this context, this paper aims to analyse civil litigation for environmental damages and whether the so-called rights of nature are a viable alternative de lege ferenda. To this end, it examines (i) the participation of civil society in environmental protection through public enforcement mechanisms in the Spanish legal order; (ii) the cause of action for environmental damage claims; and (iii) whether rights of nature are a good option to enhance the protection of nature in civil justice.

Rewilding

A perspective on calls to provide legal personhood to rivers (or more broadly to 'nature') is provided in “You kill the dam, you are killing a part of me”: Dam removal and the environmental politics of river restoration' by Coleen A. Fox, Francis J. Magilligan and Christopher S. Sneddon in (2016) 70 Geoforum 93-104.

The authors comment

River restoration through dam removal provides an opportunity to investigate the changing nature of environmental conflicts and politics in long-humanized landscapes. In New England, where over 14,000 dams fragment the region’s rivers, dam removals are often highly contested. This is due, in part, to how the intertwined roles of history, identity, and aesthetics coalesce to create attachment to place and inspire the defense of dammed landscapes. Dam removal provides a useful lens to consider the following: How do the historical and geographical contingencies of this region shape and alter conflicts over dam removal in specific ways? In instances where conflicts emerge, what do the conflicts reveal about the politics of ecological restoration in highly altered landscapes? We use a political ecology approach to reveal how complex cultural dynamics, competing interpretations of science and the environment, micropolitics, and the role of multiple actors generate and shape conflicts over dam removal. We show that the historical geography of New England influence conflicts over removal in important ways, particularly with regard to the roles of aesthetics and identity in landscapes that are characterized largely by consumptive as opposed to productive uses. Our findings also suggest that restoration in long-humanized landscapes will embroil new constellations of human and nonhuman actors, requiring attention to the political and cultural, as well as the ecological, dimensions of restoration. This paper contributes to research on the political and social dimensions of dam removal, as well as to research at the nexus of ecological restoration and environmental politics. 

In 2008, following an eight-year study by the United States Army Corps of Engineers (USACE), the Town of Greenfield, Massachusetts (MA) agreed to remove both the Wiley and Russell and Mill Street dams as part of a broader river restoration project on the Green River. After town officials determined that removing the Mill Street Dam would be too costly due to upstream infrastructure issues, the focus of the project shifted to the Wiley and Russell Dam. The dam, which the MA State Office of Dam Safety had previously labeled as “high hazard,” blocks passage for migratory fish such as American eel, blueback herring, sea lamprey, and Atlantic salmon. It is, according to nearly all independent estimates, an economic liability that no longer serves its original purpose of providing power to 19th century industrial facilities. All told, 17 agencies and organizations, ranging from the National Ocean and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) to Trout Unlimited, partnered in the proposed removal, spending >$500,000 over five years. Yet, in August of 2014, after a campaign by community members concerned about the loss of the dam and the landscape that it created, which “have been an essential part of the ecosystem for 200 years,” the Mayor of Greenfield unilaterally decided to halt the removal. 

Similar stories are emerging across New England. In Warren, Vermont (VT) local townsfolk are fighting to preserve the village’s dilapidated crib dam (and surreptitiously repair it, if necessary) as a crucial element of the area’s industrial heritage, while the VT Agency of Natural Resources (ANR), the dam’s owner, has said that the structure is irredeemable and must go. In Durham, New Hampshire (NH), townspeople angrily protested in 2009 when state officials attempted to discuss removal of aging dams on the Oyster River ( ...). The proposal was subsequently dropped. In central Massachusetts, local residents galvanized a remarkably potent grassroots movement to protect a dam on the Swift River, with one man proclaiming that if “you kill the dam, you are killing a part of me” (Swift River Preservation Association, 2011). While many dam removals in New England have progressed with relatively little opposition, a significant number stall or fail completely, dividing communities (and even families), in the process. In contrast to the long-observed NIMBY (“not in my back yard”) phenomenon (see van der Horst, 2007), “not out of my backyard” (NOOMBY) is rapidly becoming the informal rallying cry of the individuals and groups opposing dam removal in the region. 

The cases described above and others throughout New England raise intriguing questions about the political and social dimensions of efforts to restore, repair, or rehabilitate ecological systems in areas highly altered by human activities (Helford, 2000, Hobbs et al., 2011, Seastedt et al., 2008). Specifically, we ask: how do the historical and geographical contingencies of this region shape and alter conflicts over dam removal? In the instances where conflicts emerge in dam removal, what do those conflicts reveal about the politics of ecological restoration in highly altered landscapes? Accordingly, a goal of this paper is to investigate what the political ecology of dam removal in New England reveals about the changing nature of environmental conflicts and politics in what many have theorized as the Anthropocene epoch (Crutzen and Stoermer, 2000, Steffen et al., 2007, Castree, 2014, Ogden et al., 2013). Because environmental conflicts in the twenty-first century will increasingly center on intentional interventions to improve long-humanized landscapes according to specific (and often contested) ecological criteria, they will embroil new constellations of human and nonhuman actors, competing interpretations of nature, and complex cultural dynamics. An approach grounded in political ecology directs attention to the political and cultural dimensions of restoration, both of which could be more fully explored in the literature on ecological restoration. 

Contested dam removals in New England are particularly interesting, since these conflicts are not primarily about access to and control over resources, which is often the case in other environmental conflicts across North America, where use of forests, restrictions on fishing, or access to land for grazing or mining are key issues (see Walker, 2003,Prudham, 2012). Rather, in this region conflicts over dam removal often involve a perceived loss of access to a cherished cultural and biophysical environment (the dammed landscape), as well as a sense among anti-removal voices that the dam removal process runs roughshod over community-based stewardship of “local” resources. The cases presented here contribute to a more robust understanding of environmental conflicts and environmental politics as played out in recent years in the US and further afield. Given recent calls to re-examine the epistemological and strategic foundations of US environmental politics (see Chaloupka, 2008, Buck, 2013) and, at a more global scale, to direct attention to multiple possible socioecological futures (see Braun, 2015,Mansfield et al., 2015), such an intervention seems timely. The paper proceeds with a discussion of a how a political–ecological approach facilitates a more critical examination of the political and social dimensions of ecological restoration by underscoring hitherto less visible aspects of the restoration literature. We also explicate our position on dam removal as a cogent example of a broad range of ecological interventions undertaken in the name of restoration. We then outline our methodological and epistemological framing, followed by a brief overview of the historical and current landscape of dams in New England. We follow with findings from our research, using key themes in political ecology to frame our analysis. We conclude with some thoughts on the implications of our findings for environmental politics and ecological interventions more generally.

Biodiversity

'No basis for claim that 80% of biodiversity is found in Indigenous territories' by Álvaro Fernández-Llamazares, Julia Fa, Dan Brockington, Eduardo S Brondízio,  Joji Cariño, Esteve Corbera, Maurizio Farhan Ferrari, Daniel Kobei, Pernilla Palmer, Guadalupe Yesenia H Márquez, Zsolt Molnár, Helen Tugendhat and Stephen T Garnett in (2024) Nature comments 

For the past 20 years or so, a claim has been made in all sorts of outlets, from reports and scientific publications to news articles, that 80% of the world’s biodiversity is found in the territories of Indigenous Peoples. Those using this figure invariably aim to highlight the essential roles that Indigenous Peoples have in conserving biodiversity, and seem to have quoted it in the belief that it is based on solid science. 

Numerous studies demonstrate that Indigenous Peoples and their territories are indeed key to safeguarding biodiversity for future generations. But the claim that 80% of the world’s biodiversity is found in Indigenous Peoples’ territories is wrong. 

The continued use of this number by United Nations agencies, non-governmental organizations (NGOs), journalists, conservation biologists and Indigenous activists and advocates, among others, could damage the exact cause that it is being used to support. Efforts to draw on and prioritize Indigenous Peoples’ knowledge in biodiversity conservation, and to protect their governance and rights, could be undermined if the credibility of individuals and organizations who make this claim is questioned. 

The global conservation community must abandon the 80% claim and instead comprehensively acknowledge the crucial roles of Indigenous Peoples in stewarding their lands and seas — and must do so on the basis of already available evidence. ... 

The 80% claim is based on two assumptions: that biodiversity can be divided into countable units, and that these can be mapped spatially at the global level. Neither feat is possible, despite important advances in measuring biodiversity. In fact, according to the Convention on Biological Diversity — a multilateral treaty to develop strategies for the conservation and sustainable use of biological diversity, involving nearly 200 countries — biodiversity is the “diversity within species, between species and of ecosystems”. It is not something that can be easily quantified. 

Even if researchers resorted to using the number of species present as a measure of biodiversity — a narrow yet common proxy — there are still millions of species that have not been described. Furthermore, there is debate over the proportion of described taxa that represents valid species, and knowledge about the geographical distributions of most species is lacking or incomplete. Data on species counts and distributions are especially likely to be missing for Indigenous Peoples’ lands and seas. 

The 80% claim seems to stem from misinterpretations of previously published statements. As advocates for Indigenous Peoples (three of us identify as Indigenous), we have had discussions about this figure over several years with Indigenous leaders at policy forums, on field visits and in research projects. To track its origins and assess how frequently it has been cited in the literature and in what contexts, we searched for combinations of the words ‘Indigenous’, ‘80%’ and ‘biodiversity’, as well as for combinations of their variants, such as ‘eighty’, ‘percent’ and ‘biological diversity’. We conducted our search using Google Scholar and Clarivate’s Web of Science, and included literature published up to 1 August this year. 

Our search found no reference to the 80% assertion before 2002. A report that year by the UN Commission on Sustainable Development, a body tasked with assessing progress on the commitments agreed at the 1992 UN Conference on Environment and Development in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, stated that Indigenous Peoples “nurture 80% of the world’s biodiversity on ancestral lands and territories”. Over the next six years, similar unattributed statements were made in four other reports (see Supplementary information). However, judging by how commonly the number is cited, it seems to have been a 2008 World Bank report that contributed most to its widespread adoption in the academic literature.