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Friday, August 01, 2014         

NEW YORK TIMES


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Borrowed time on disappearing land

By New York Times

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DAKOPE, Bangladesh » When a powerful storm destroyed her riverside home in 2009, Jahanara Khatun lost more than the modest roof over her head. In the aftermath, her husband died and she became so destitute that she sold her son and daughter into bonded servitude. And she may lose yet more.

Khatun now lives in a bamboo shack that sits below sea level about 50 yards from a sagging berm. She spends her days collecting cow dung for fuel and struggling to grow vegetables in soil poisoned by salt water. Climate scientists predict that this area will be inundated as sea levels rise and storm surges increase, and a cyclone or another disaster could easily wipe away her rebuilt life. But Khatun is trying to hold out at least for a while — one of millions living on borrowed time in this vast landscape of river islands, bamboo huts, heartbreaking choices and impossible hopes.

As the world's top scientists meet in Yokohama, Japan, this week, at the top of the agenda is the prediction that global sea levels could rise as much as 3 feet by 2100. Higher seas and warmer weather will cause profound changes.

Climate scientists have concluded that widespread burning of fossil fuels is releasing heat-trapping gases that are warming the planet. While this will produce a host of effects, the most worrisome may be the melting of much of the Earth's ice, which is likely to raise sea levels and flood coastal regions.

Such a rise will be uneven because of gravitational effects and human intervention, so predicting its outcome in any one place is difficult. But island nations like the Maldives, Kiribati and Fiji may lose much of their land area, and millions of Bangladeshis will be displaced.

"There are a lot of places in the world at risk from rising sea levels, but Bangladesh is at the top of everybody's list," said Rafael Reuveny, a professor in the School of Public and Environmental Affairs at Indiana University, Bloomington. "And the world is not ready to cope with the problems."

The effects of climate change have led to a growing sense of outrage in developing nations, many of which have contributed little to the pollution that is linked to rising temperatures and sea levels but will suffer the most from the consequences.

At a climate conference in Warsaw, Poland, in November, there was an emotional outpouring from countries that face existential threats, among them Bangladesh, which produces just 0.3 percent of the emissions driving climate change. Some leaders have demanded that rich countries compensate poor countries for polluting the atmosphere. A few have even said that developed countries should open their borders to climate migrants.

"It's a matter of global justice," said Atiq Rahman, executive director of the Bangladesh Center for Advanced Studies and the nation's leading climate scientist. "These migrants should have the right to move to the countries from which all these greenhouse gases are coming. Millions should be able to go to the United States."

River deltas around the globe are particularly vulnerable to the effects of rising seas, and wealthier cities like London, Venice and New Orleans also face uncertain futures. But it is the poorest countries with the biggest populations that will be hit hardest, and none more so than Bangladesh, one of the most densely populated nations in the world. In this delta, made up of 230 major rivers and streams, 160 million people live in a place one-fifth the size of France and as flat as chapati, the bread served at almost every meal.

A PERILOUS POSITION

Though Bangladesh has contributed little to industrial air pollution, other kinds of environmental degradation have left it especially vulnerable.

Bangladesh relies almost entirely on groundwater for drinking supplies because the rivers are so polluted. The resultant pumping causes the land to settle. So as sea levels are rising, Bangladesh's cities are sinking, increasing the risks of flooding. Poorly constructed sea walls compound the problem.

The country's climate scientists and politicians have come to agree that by 2050, rising sea levels will inundate some 17 percent of the land and displace about 18 million people, Rahman said.

Bangladeshis have already started to move away from the lowest-lying villages in the river deltas of the Bay of Bengal, scientists in Bangladesh say. People move for many reasons, and urbanization is increasing across South Asia, but rising tides are a big factor. Rahman's research group has made a rough estimate from small surveys that as many as 1.5 million of the 5 million slum inhabitants in Dhaka, the capital, moved from villages near the Bay of Bengal.

The slums that greet them in Dhaka are also built on low-lying land, making them almost as vulnerable to being inundated as the land villagers left behind.

Khatun and her neighbors have lived through deadly cyclones — a synonym here for hurricane — and have seen the salty rivers chew through villages and poison fields. Rising seas are increasingly intruding into rivers, turning fresh water brackish. Even routine flooding then leaves behind salt deposits that can render land barren.

Making matters worse, much of what the Bangladeshi government is doing to stave off the coming deluge — raising levees, dredging canals, pumping water — deepens the threat of inundation in the long term, said John Pethick, a former professor of coastal science at Newcastle University in England who has spent much of his retirement studying Bangladesh's predicament. Rich nations are not the only ones to blame, he said.

In an analysis of decades of tidal records published in October, Pethick found that high tides in Bangladesh were rising 10 times faster than the global average. He predicted that seas in Bangladesh could rise as much as 13 feet by 2100, four times the global average. In an area where land is often a thin brown line between sky and river — nearly a quarter of Bangladesh is less than 7 feet above sea level — such an increase would have dire consequences, Pethick said.

"The reaction among Bangladeshi government officials has been to tell me that I must be wrong," he said. "That's completely understandable, but it also means they have no hope of preparing themselves."

Rahman said he did not disagree with Pethick's findings, but no estimate was definitive. Other scientists have predicted more modest rises. For example, Robert E. Kopp, an associate director of the Rutgers Energy Institute at Rutgers University, said that data from nearby Calcutta, India, suggested that seas in the region could rise 5 to 6 feet by 2100.

"There is no doubt that preparations within Bangladesh have been utterly inadequate, but any such preparations are bound to fail because the problem is far too big for any single government," said Tariq A. Karim, Bangladesh's ambassador to India. "We need a regional and, better yet, a global solution. And if we don't get one soon, the Bangladeshi people will soon become the world's problem, because we will not be able to keep them."

Karim estimated that as many as 50 million Bangladeshis would flee the country by 2050 if sea levels rose as expected.

LOSING EVERYTHING

Already, signs of erosion are everywhere in the Ganges Delta — the world's largest delta, which empties much of the water coming from the Himalayas. There are brick foundations torn in half, palm trees growing out of rivers and rangy cattle grazing on island pastures the size of putting greens. Fields are dusted white with salt.

Even without climate change, Bangladesh is among the most vulnerable places in the world to bad weather: The V-shaped Bay of Bengal funnels cyclones straight into the country's fan-shaped coastline.

Some scientists believe that rising temperatures will lead to more extreme weather worldwide, including stronger and more frequent cyclones in the Bay of Bengal. And rising seas will make any storm more dangerous because flooding will become more likely.

Bangladesh has done much to protect its population by creating an early warning system and building at least 2,500 concrete storm shelters. The result has been a vast reduction in storm-related deaths. While Cyclone Bhola in 1970 killed as many as 550,000 people, Cyclone Aila in 2009 killed 300. The deadliest part of the storm was the nearly 10-foot wall of water that roared through villages in the middle of the afternoon.

The poverty of people like Khatun makes them particularly vulnerable to storms. When Cyclone Aila hit, Khatun was home with her husband, parents and four children. A nearby berm collapsed, and their mud and bamboo hut washed away in minutes. Unable to save her belongings, Khatun put her youngest child on her back and, with her husband, fought through surging waters to a high road. Her parents were swept away.

"After about a kilometer, I managed to grab a tree," said Abddus Satter, Khatun's father. "And I was able to help my wife grab on as well. We stayed on that tree for hours."

The couple eventually shifted to the roof of a nearby hut. The family reunited on the road the next day after the children spent a harrowing night avoiding snakes that had sought higher ground, too. They drank rainwater until rescuers arrived a day or two later with bottled water, food and other supplies.

The ordeal took a severe toll on Khatun's husband, whose health soon deteriorated. To pay for his treatment and the cost of rebuilding their hut, the family borrowed money from a loan shark. In return, Khatun and her three older children, then 10, 12 and 15, promised to work for seven months in a nearby brickmaking factory. She later sold her 11- and 13-year-old children to the owner of another brick factory, this one in Dhaka, for $450 to pay more debts. Her husband died four years after the storm.

In an interview, one of her sons, Mamun Sardar, now 14, said he worked from dawn to dusk carrying newly made bricks to the factory oven.

He said he missed his mother, "but she lives far away."

IMPOSSIBLE HOPES

Discussions about the effects of climate change in the Ganges Delta often become community events. In the village of Choto Jaliakhali, where Khatun lives, dozens of people said they could see that the river was rising. Several said they had been impoverished by erosion, which has cost many villagers their land.

Muhammad Moktar Ali said he could not think about the next storm because all he had in the world was his hut and village. "We don't know how to support ourselves if we lost this," he said, gesturing to his gathered neighbors. "It is God who will help us survive."

Surveys show that residents of the delta do not want to migrate, Rahman said. Moving to slums in crowded cities is their least preferred option.

But cities have become the center of Bangladesh's textile industry, which is now the source of 80 percent of the country's exports, 45 percent of its industrial employment and 15 percent of its gross domestic product.

In the weeks after the storm, the women of Dakope found firewood by wading into the raging river and pushing their toes into the muddy bottom. They walked hours to buy drinking water. After rebuilding the village's berm and their own hut, Shirin Aktar and her husband, Bablu Gazi, managed to get just enough of a harvest to survive from their land, which has become increasingly infertile from salt water. Some plots that once sustained three harvests can now support just one; others are entirely barren.

After two hungry years, the couple gave up on farming and moved to the Chittagong, Bangladesh's second-largest city, leaving their two children behind with Gazi's mother.

Gazi found work immediately as a day laborer, mostly digging foundations. Aktar searched for a job as a seamstress, but headaches and other slum-induced health problems have so incapacitated her that the couple is desperate to return to Dakope.

"I don't want to stay here for too long," Gazi said. "If we can save some money, then we'll go back. I'll work on a piece of land and try to make it fertile again."

But the chances of finding fertile land in his home village, where the salty rivers have eaten away acre upon acre, are almost zero.

Dozens of people gathered in the narrow mud alley outside Gazi's room as he spoke. Some told similar stories of storms, loss and hope, and many nodded as Gazi spoke of his dreams of returning to his doomed village.

"All of us came here because of erosions and cyclones," said Noakhali, a hollow-eyed 30-year-old with a single name who was wearing the traditional skirt of the delta. "Not one of us actually wants to live here."

Gardiner Harris, New York Times






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