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Climate Activists Are Turning Their Attention to Hollywood

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Thursday, March 16, 2023

On a warm, windy fall night in Los Angeles, I stood in a conference room at the Warner Bros. Discovery television-production offices, straightened my spine, and stared down my showrunner, preparing to defend my idea for a minor character in our near-future science-fiction series.“This character needs a backstory, and switching jobs because she wants to work in renewable energy and not for an oil company fits perfectly,” I told the unsmiling head honcho.His face twisted, as if his assistant had delivered the wrong lunch. “Too complicated. That just feels like a lot of information to cram into a backstory. What if her story is that she wants this job because it’s near where her brother was killed in a terrorist attack? We’d just need to invent a terrorist attack.”As I tried to come up with a response, I looked at the writers, lawyers, agents, and camera operators surrounding us. I was taking part in a workshop organized by the Climate Ambassadors Network (CAN), a group of young climate activists working in Hollywood. Along with three other workshop participants, I had received a yellow index card with a mission: to convince this pretend showrunner—a documentary filmmaker in real life—that a character in the series needed a climate-related backstory.Ali Weinstein, a 28-year-old wearing a flowered jumpsuit and a dimpled grin, leaned in to hear my answer. She was all too familiar with this situation: When working as a showrunner’s assistant, she had often suggested climate story lines to her bosses, only to be rebuffed. Now, Weinstein is using that experience to help others make a stronger case for climate stories. The goal of CAN is to “infiltrate every part of the industry with climate knowledge,” Weinstein, who is now a television writer, told the group. “Hollywood is a huge cultural influence, and so if we are starting change within Hollywood, we can change a lot of other industries as well.”While Weinstein’s “infiltration” is hardly sinister, her mission is still a provocative one. The world urgently needs to slow the destructive march of climate change, but using entertainment to send social messages can be a fraught endeavor (as well as the source of a lot of cringe television). And the industry has little experience with climate stories: A collaboration between USC’s Media Impact Project and a nonprofit story consultancy called Good Energy found that 2.8 percent of the 37,453 film and television scripts that aired in the United States and were written between 2016 and 2020 used any climate change key words. Ten percent of stories that depicted “extreme weather events” such as hurricanes and wildfires tied them to any form of climate change.Weinstein and her allies argue that it’s time for the industry to tell more—and more varied—climate stories, not only to nudge societal attitudes but to create better, more believable entertainment. Television, with its ability to tell stories on a human scale, might have an especially important role to play: Recent research by the Yale Program on Climate Change Communication found that while 65 percent of American adults said they were worried about the climate crisis, only 35 percent reported discussing the topic even occasionally. Could the stories we see on-screen, in the intimacy of our homes, get us talking about the realities of life in an altered climate?Anna Jane Joyner, who founded the Good Energy story agency, says climate stories are infinitely more varied than writers and audiences might assume. When researchers from her agency and USC asked 2,000 people for examples of climate-themed movies or television shows, the most frequent answers were The Day After Tomorrow, which is almost 20 years old, and 2012, which is about the end of the world, not climate change.In an effort to expand Hollywood’s definition of a climate story, Joyner’s group created the Good Energy Playbook, a guide for writers who want to integrate climate change into their scripts. The playbook encourages writers to think beyond apocalypse, and instead approach climate change, in all its awful manifestations, as an opportunity for more inventive scriptwriting. What would a climate story look like as a Hallmark holiday movie? Could a rom-com be set at a ski resort that can no longer depend on snow and has to pivot to another business model? How might a hotter summer impact the Mafia’s waste-disposal work—and would Tony Soprano talk about it in his therapy sessions?In October 2021, the medical drama Grey’s Anatomy aired an episode called “Hotter than Hell” that depicted a heat wave in Seattle. It was a story proverbially ripped from the headlines: The previous summer, a record-shattering heat dome had enveloped the Pacific Northwest, causing ecological turmoil and human misery. Zoanne Clack, a former ER physician who is an executive producer of Grey’s Anatomy and Station Eleven, wanted to feature a disease caused by climate change, but none of the possibilities were acute enough to work within the show. She opted for a failing HVAC system that created dangerously high temperatures in the hospital’s operating rooms.Clack says climate change is now so familiar to viewers that it can serve as a convenient cheat code for scriptwriters. While Grey’s Anatomy strained viewers’ credulity in its fifth season, in 2008, with an episode about a freak ice storm—an unusual occurrence in Seattle, where the show is set—Clack says now she can attribute all kinds of wild, injury-inducing weather to climate change. “You don’t have to explain anything or go into big discussions about it, how weird it is. If you say those two words, people get it.”Dorothy Fortenberry, a writer and producer on The Handmaid’s Tale and the upcoming climate-themed anthology Extrapolations, says writers are only beginning to explore the creative possibilities. “If all the climate stories are the same, and the same type of view, it will be boring and bad,” she says. “My hope is every creative person takes this in the direction that is fruitful for the narrative and we end up with a real panoply of narratives.”Faced with the realities of climate change, some people switch abruptly from complacency to doomerism—perhaps because certainty of any kind feels safer than the muddle of a looming crisis. Joyner says climate-themed stories can help audiences navigate between these extremes, by either offering examples of courage and creativity or providing opportunities to process grief. There’s nothing wrong with apocalypse narratives, she says, but other approaches offer more hope: “Stories help create a world that isn’t the apocalypse, but shows us something more positive or somewhere in between—a vision for something we’re working towards.”Screenwriters have reason to believe that even passing mentions of climate change can transform public attitudes. Americans watch an average of three hours of television every day, meaning that they spend almost a fifth of their waking lives in the worlds it creates. History shows that issues raised on television can lead to real-world change—for better, and for worse.Producers of the show Cheers, which aired from 1982 to 1993, helped to popularize the concept of a “designated driver” by showing the patrons of the show’s eponymous bar calling cabs or getting a ride home after drinking. The term, which Harvard’s Center for Health Communication began promoting in 1988 in an effort to prevent alcohol-related deaths, became so common after appearing in the show’s dialogue that in 1991, it was listed in the Random House Webster’s College Dictionary. Seven years later, a poll showed that a majority of adults who drank had either been a designated driver or been driven home by one—and the uptake of the practice was strongest among the youngest drinkers. Between 1988 and 1992, alcohol-related traffic fatalities dropped by 25 percent, a decrease researchers attributed in part to the messages of shows like Cheers.Will & Grace, which first appeared on NBC in 1998, was the first popular sitcom with two gay lead characters. At the height of the show’s popularity, 17.3 million people tuned in each week to watch two successful men living openly as a couple. In 2006, the final year of the show’s original run, a study analyzed attitudes around homosexuality. “For those viewers with the fewest direct gay contacts, exposure to Will & Grace appears to have the strongest potential influence on reducing sexual prejudice,” the authors wrote, “while for those with many gay friends, there is no significant relationship between levels of prejudice and their exposure to the show.” In 2012, then Vice President Joe Biden cited the show as one reason for Americans’ support of marriage equality—cementing the show’s legacy as a landmark influence.The power of television isn’t always harnessed for health and equity. A recent study that compared tobacco use in cities that had access to TV in the 1940s, when it first appeared, with those that didn’t concluded that television increased the share of smokers in the population by 5 to 15 percent, creating 11 million additional smokers in the U.S. In 2023, the industry-funded Propane Education and Research Council plans to spend $13 million on its anti-electrification campaign, including $600,000 in fees to “influencers” such as cable-TV home-makeover stars who extol the virtues of propane as they remodel houses. Meanwhile, shows ranging from Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous to The Kardashians glamorize private planes, huge homes, and ways of living that are far from sustainable.When I asked Weinstein about the frequent characterization of climate content as a form of propaganda, she shrugged. Every detail in a TV show is a choice, and in her view, show creators can use those details, and the stories that surround them, to address climate change and its potential solutions—or they can choose not to. Those who choose not to, Weinstein and her allies argue, risk being left behind by their audiences. Most viewers surveyed by the USC and Good Energy researchers believed that they care more about climate change than the characters they see on television and in film. Half of the respondents wanted to see more climate-related stories in scripted entertainment, and another quarter were open to them.Joyner acknowledges that major studios are still wary of being perceived as environmental activists, and that writers, and their bosses, have long avoided touchy political and cultural issues out of fear of alienating audiences: “Historically, there were two things you couldn’t talk about in a writer’s room: abortion and climate.” But resistance from the top might be softening. At COP 26, the international climate meeting held in Glasgow, Scotland, in late 2021, 12 of the U.K. and Ireland’s biggest entertainment CEOs signed a Climate Content Pledge, and representatives of major U.S. studios now meet regularly to discuss how to better represent sustainability on-screen.  This winter, as rain flooded the streets of Los Angeles and hillsides started to liquefy in Northern California, I logged on to a restricted website to watch a few episodes of a new experiment in climate storytelling: the drama series Extrapolations, which begins streaming tomorrow on Apple+. The show begins in the near future, in 2037, and follows a mix of characters into the 2040s and beyond.In the world of the show, the science is familiar: Oceans are so acidified that biodiversity has dropped precipitously, wildfires rage everywhere, and companies race to bank species’ genomes before they go extinct for a future zoo. Yet the dramatic tension in Extrapolations is less about whether the characters will die from climate change than about how they can live through it, and with it: A rabbi in Miami tries to convince the city that his temple is worth saving from rising seas; a mother struggles to help her young son, who suffers from a genetic heat-related health condition, imagine his future in a warming world.Scott Z. Burns, a writer and director of Extrapolations, also produced Al Gore’s 2006 documentary An Inconvenient Truth. When the film opened, he was confident that its evidence would persuade people to drastically change their ways. “It was like, well, that’ll solve the problem—certainly the world can’t be the same again after this,” Burns told me over Zoom, with a dry laugh. “But I think what we learned is that the problem is so large and so systemic, that obviously a documentary wasn’t going to change the way people saw life on Earth or their own behavior.”Burns started to think about storytelling that, instead of threatening disaster, simply brought the event horizon closer, transforming climate change from an unimaginable eventuality into an immediate and pervasive problem. “I wanted to tell human stories set against a world that had a very different climate,” he said. He found inspiration in World War II–era novels, movies, and shows, and points out that the war, while obviously a historic tragedy, was also a source of great creative energy for people in the middle of the last century. “Climate is sort of our World War II,” he said. “This is the existential moment that this generation faces—and where are the great works of art that help us come to terms with this? I think we’re beginning to see them.”As he finished pitching the show in 2020, the coronavirus pandemic began to lock down the world. Burns had also written Contagion, a movie that turned out to be an eerily accurate portrayal of a pandemic’s spread. He wanted the scientific underpinnings of Extrapolations to be just as solid. But while past pandemics informed his work on Contagion, the human-caused climate change we’re experiencing today has no precedent. “It’s a very reckless gamble,” he told me. “But as a screenwriter, a reckless gamble is also a suspense movie. And that’s what I tried to do, was look at the science and what it suggests may happen, and then look at human beings and think about how they behave.”Burns found the serialized nature of a television show more compelling than a two-hour movie—it allowed for the narrative to unfold as chapters, with overlapping characters and story lines that extended over decades. It allowed a viewer to follow the slow-moving climate crisis as it intensified.When Apple+ bought Burns’s show, he called up Adam McKay, who at the time was working on Don’t Look Up, a satire about climate-change denial that was released in 2021. McKay’s generous response was instructive, Burns said. “It was like, great—there’s more than one cop show. There’s more than one hospital show. There needs to be more than one show about this.”Some people will see climate change as a social-justice story, he said, while others will see it as a parenting story. “Everybody has a different way in which this constellation of issues is going to encroach on your life,” Burns told me. “My first hope is that we maybe crack open the door a little bit to get executives at streamers and platforms to think, Oh, there’s cool work to be done in this area, and artists to think, What stories can we tell in this space that might make a difference?”Burns has heard the old adage that audiences don’t want to watch something that’s not hopeful, but he disagrees. He likes to replace the word hope with courage: “What sort of courageous act can my characters do?” he asked. “What I’m interested in telling is the story that says, right up until the moment we’re going to die, we get to live. What do we do with that life?”This story is part of the Atlantic Planet series supported by the HHMI Department of Science Education.

If TV can change Americans’ views on gay marriage, why not the environment?

On a warm, windy fall night in Los Angeles, I stood in a conference room at the Warner Bros. Discovery television-production offices, straightened my spine, and stared down my showrunner, preparing to defend my idea for a minor character in our near-future science-fiction series.

“This character needs a backstory, and switching jobs because she wants to work in renewable energy and not for an oil company fits perfectly,” I told the unsmiling head honcho.

His face twisted, as if his assistant had delivered the wrong lunch. “Too complicated. That just feels like a lot of information to cram into a backstory. What if her story is that she wants this job because it’s near where her brother was killed in a terrorist attack? We’d just need to invent a terrorist attack.”

As I tried to come up with a response, I looked at the writers, lawyers, agents, and camera operators surrounding us. I was taking part in a workshop organized by the Climate Ambassadors Network (CAN), a group of young climate activists working in Hollywood. Along with three other workshop participants, I had received a yellow index card with a mission: to convince this pretend showrunner—a documentary filmmaker in real life—that a character in the series needed a climate-related backstory.

Ali Weinstein, a 28-year-old wearing a flowered jumpsuit and a dimpled grin, leaned in to hear my answer. She was all too familiar with this situation: When working as a showrunner’s assistant, she had often suggested climate story lines to her bosses, only to be rebuffed. Now, Weinstein is using that experience to help others make a stronger case for climate stories. The goal of CAN is to “infiltrate every part of the industry with climate knowledge,” Weinstein, who is now a television writer, told the group. “Hollywood is a huge cultural influence, and so if we are starting change within Hollywood, we can change a lot of other industries as well.”

While Weinstein’s “infiltration” is hardly sinister, her mission is still a provocative one. The world urgently needs to slow the destructive march of climate change, but using entertainment to send social messages can be a fraught endeavor (as well as the source of a lot of cringe television). And the industry has little experience with climate stories: A collaboration between USC’s Media Impact Project and a nonprofit story consultancy called Good Energy found that 2.8 percent of the 37,453 film and television scripts that aired in the United States and were written between 2016 and 2020 used any climate change key words. Ten percent of stories that depicted “extreme weather events” such as hurricanes and wildfires tied them to any form of climate change.

Weinstein and her allies argue that it’s time for the industry to tell more—and more varied—climate stories, not only to nudge societal attitudes but to create better, more believable entertainment. Television, with its ability to tell stories on a human scale, might have an especially important role to play: Recent research by the Yale Program on Climate Change Communication found that while 65 percent of American adults said they were worried about the climate crisis, only 35 percent reported discussing the topic even occasionally. Could the stories we see on-screen, in the intimacy of our homes, get us talking about the realities of life in an altered climate?

Anna Jane Joyner, who founded the Good Energy story agency, says climate stories are infinitely more varied than writers and audiences might assume. When researchers from her agency and USC asked 2,000 people for examples of climate-themed movies or television shows, the most frequent answers were The Day After Tomorrow, which is almost 20 years old, and 2012, which is about the end of the world, not climate change.

In an effort to expand Hollywood’s definition of a climate story, Joyner’s group created the Good Energy Playbook, a guide for writers who want to integrate climate change into their scripts. The playbook encourages writers to think beyond apocalypse, and instead approach climate change, in all its awful manifestations, as an opportunity for more inventive scriptwriting. What would a climate story look like as a Hallmark holiday movie? Could a rom-com be set at a ski resort that can no longer depend on snow and has to pivot to another business model? How might a hotter summer impact the Mafia’s waste-disposal work—and would Tony Soprano talk about it in his therapy sessions?

In October 2021, the medical drama Grey’s Anatomy aired an episode called “Hotter than Hell” that depicted a heat wave in Seattle. It was a story proverbially ripped from the headlines: The previous summer, a record-shattering heat dome had enveloped the Pacific Northwest, causing ecological turmoil and human misery. Zoanne Clack, a former ER physician who is an executive producer of Grey’s Anatomy and Station Eleven, wanted to feature a disease caused by climate change, but none of the possibilities were acute enough to work within the show. She opted for a failing HVAC system that created dangerously high temperatures in the hospital’s operating rooms.

Clack says climate change is now so familiar to viewers that it can serve as a convenient cheat code for scriptwriters. While Grey’s Anatomy strained viewers’ credulity in its fifth season, in 2008, with an episode about a freak ice storm—an unusual occurrence in Seattle, where the show is set—Clack says now she can attribute all kinds of wild, injury-inducing weather to climate change. “You don’t have to explain anything or go into big discussions about it, how weird it is. If you say those two words, people get it.”

Dorothy Fortenberry, a writer and producer on The Handmaid’s Tale and the upcoming climate-themed anthology Extrapolations, says writers are only beginning to explore the creative possibilities. “If all the climate stories are the same, and the same type of view, it will be boring and bad,” she says. “My hope is every creative person takes this in the direction that is fruitful for the narrative and we end up with a real panoply of narratives.”

Faced with the realities of climate change, some people switch abruptly from complacency to doomerism—perhaps because certainty of any kind feels safer than the muddle of a looming crisis. Joyner says climate-themed stories can help audiences navigate between these extremes, by either offering examples of courage and creativity or providing opportunities to process grief. There’s nothing wrong with apocalypse narratives, she says, but other approaches offer more hope: “Stories help create a world that isn’t the apocalypse, but shows us something more positive or somewhere in between—a vision for something we’re working towards.”

Screenwriters have reason to believe that even passing mentions of climate change can transform public attitudes. Americans watch an average of three hours of television every day, meaning that they spend almost a fifth of their waking lives in the worlds it creates. History shows that issues raised on television can lead to real-world change—for better, and for worse.

Producers of the show Cheers, which aired from 1982 to 1993, helped to popularize the concept of a “designated driver” by showing the patrons of the show’s eponymous bar calling cabs or getting a ride home after drinking. The term, which Harvard’s Center for Health Communication began promoting in 1988 in an effort to prevent alcohol-related deaths, became so common after appearing in the show’s dialogue that in 1991, it was listed in the Random House Webster’s College Dictionary. Seven years later, a poll showed that a majority of adults who drank had either been a designated driver or been driven home by one—and the uptake of the practice was strongest among the youngest drinkers. Between 1988 and 1992, alcohol-related traffic fatalities dropped by 25 percent, a decrease researchers attributed in part to the messages of shows like Cheers.

Will & Grace, which first appeared on NBC in 1998, was the first popular sitcom with two gay lead characters. At the height of the show’s popularity, 17.3 million people tuned in each week to watch two successful men living openly as a couple. In 2006, the final year of the show’s original run, a study analyzed attitudes around homosexuality. “For those viewers with the fewest direct gay contacts, exposure to Will & Grace appears to have the strongest potential influence on reducing sexual prejudice,” the authors wrote, “while for those with many gay friends, there is no significant relationship between levels of prejudice and their exposure to the show.” In 2012, then Vice President Joe Biden cited the show as one reason for Americans’ support of marriage equality—cementing the show’s legacy as a landmark influence.

The power of television isn’t always harnessed for health and equity. A recent study that compared tobacco use in cities that had access to TV in the 1940s, when it first appeared, with those that didn’t concluded that television increased the share of smokers in the population by 5 to 15 percent, creating 11 million additional smokers in the U.S. In 2023, the industry-funded Propane Education and Research Council plans to spend $13 million on its anti-electrification campaign, including $600,000 in fees to “influencers” such as cable-TV home-makeover stars who extol the virtues of propane as they remodel houses. Meanwhile, shows ranging from Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous to The Kardashians glamorize private planes, huge homes, and ways of living that are far from sustainable.

When I asked Weinstein about the frequent characterization of climate content as a form of propaganda, she shrugged. Every detail in a TV show is a choice, and in her view, show creators can use those details, and the stories that surround them, to address climate change and its potential solutions—or they can choose not to. Those who choose not to, Weinstein and her allies argue, risk being left behind by their audiences. Most viewers surveyed by the USC and Good Energy researchers believed that they care more about climate change than the characters they see on television and in film. Half of the respondents wanted to see more climate-related stories in scripted entertainment, and another quarter were open to them.

Joyner acknowledges that major studios are still wary of being perceived as environmental activists, and that writers, and their bosses, have long avoided touchy political and cultural issues out of fear of alienating audiences: “Historically, there were two things you couldn’t talk about in a writer’s room: abortion and climate.” But resistance from the top might be softening. At COP 26, the international climate meeting held in Glasgow, Scotland, in late 2021, 12 of the U.K. and Ireland’s biggest entertainment CEOs signed a Climate Content Pledge, and representatives of major U.S. studios now meet regularly to discuss how to better represent sustainability on-screen.  

This winter, as rain flooded the streets of Los Angeles and hillsides started to liquefy in Northern California, I logged on to a restricted website to watch a few episodes of a new experiment in climate storytelling: the drama series Extrapolations, which begins streaming tomorrow on Apple+. The show begins in the near future, in 2037, and follows a mix of characters into the 2040s and beyond.

In the world of the show, the science is familiar: Oceans are so acidified that biodiversity has dropped precipitously, wildfires rage everywhere, and companies race to bank species’ genomes before they go extinct for a future zoo. Yet the dramatic tension in Extrapolations is less about whether the characters will die from climate change than about how they can live through it, and with it: A rabbi in Miami tries to convince the city that his temple is worth saving from rising seas; a mother struggles to help her young son, who suffers from a genetic heat-related health condition, imagine his future in a warming world.

Scott Z. Burns, a writer and director of Extrapolations, also produced Al Gore’s 2006 documentary An Inconvenient Truth. When the film opened, he was confident that its evidence would persuade people to drastically change their ways. “It was like, well, that’ll solve the problem—certainly the world can’t be the same again after this,” Burns told me over Zoom, with a dry laugh. “But I think what we learned is that the problem is so large and so systemic, that obviously a documentary wasn’t going to change the way people saw life on Earth or their own behavior.”

Burns started to think about storytelling that, instead of threatening disaster, simply brought the event horizon closer, transforming climate change from an unimaginable eventuality into an immediate and pervasive problem. “I wanted to tell human stories set against a world that had a very different climate,” he said. He found inspiration in World War II–era novels, movies, and shows, and points out that the war, while obviously a historic tragedy, was also a source of great creative energy for people in the middle of the last century. “Climate is sort of our World War II,” he said. “This is the existential moment that this generation faces—and where are the great works of art that help us come to terms with this? I think we’re beginning to see them.”

As he finished pitching the show in 2020, the coronavirus pandemic began to lock down the world. Burns had also written Contagion, a movie that turned out to be an eerily accurate portrayal of a pandemic’s spread. He wanted the scientific underpinnings of Extrapolations to be just as solid. But while past pandemics informed his work on Contagion, the human-caused climate change we’re experiencing today has no precedent. “It’s a very reckless gamble,” he told me. “But as a screenwriter, a reckless gamble is also a suspense movie. And that’s what I tried to do, was look at the science and what it suggests may happen, and then look at human beings and think about how they behave.”

Burns found the serialized nature of a television show more compelling than a two-hour movie—it allowed for the narrative to unfold as chapters, with overlapping characters and story lines that extended over decades. It allowed a viewer to follow the slow-moving climate crisis as it intensified.

When Apple+ bought Burns’s show, he called up Adam McKay, who at the time was working on Don’t Look Up, a satire about climate-change denial that was released in 2021. McKay’s generous response was instructive, Burns said. “It was like, great—there’s more than one cop show. There’s more than one hospital show. There needs to be more than one show about this.”

Some people will see climate change as a social-justice story, he said, while others will see it as a parenting story. “Everybody has a different way in which this constellation of issues is going to encroach on your life,” Burns told me. “My first hope is that we maybe crack open the door a little bit to get executives at streamers and platforms to think, Oh, there’s cool work to be done in this area, and artists to think, What stories can we tell in this space that might make a difference?”

Burns has heard the old adage that audiences don’t want to watch something that’s not hopeful, but he disagrees. He likes to replace the word hope with courage: “What sort of courageous act can my characters do?” he asked. “What I’m interested in telling is the story that says, right up until the moment we’re going to die, we get to live. What do we do with that life?”

This story is part of the Atlantic Planet series supported by the HHMI Department of Science Education.

Read the full story here.
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A group of Wangan and Jagalingou First Nations people have lodged a racial discrimination complaint against coalminer Adani, alleging the company engaged in a decade-long “pattern of conduct” that included making offensive statements and social media posts.The complaint to the Australian Human Rights Commission alleges Adani breached the federal Racial Discrimination Act by attempting to block them in 2023 from accessing Doongmabulla Springs, a sacred site near the Carmichael coalmine in outback Queensland.The claim also alleges Adani breached section 18C of the act, which prohibits offensive, insulting, humiliating or intimidatory comments, in press releases and social media posts that implied members of the group were not “legitimate” or “genuine” Aboriginal people with a connection to the site.Statements by Adani, cited in the complaint, allegedly imply that members of the group were “activists” rather than First Nations people attempting to practise culture.On Thursday, Bravus Mining and Resources, the trading name of Adani’s Australian mining arm, made statements accusing the Wangan and Jagalingou opponents of the mine of acting “at the behest of anti-fossil fuel groups”.Wangan and Jagalingou traditional owner Adrian Burragubba, a longstanding opponent of the Carmichael mine, released a statement on Thursday on behalf of the group lodging a federal anti-discrimination case. The statement accused Adani of engaging in a “smear campaign” against them.Burragubba said: “We have endured years of discrimination and vilification from Adani, and we’re not putting up with this any more.“Adani has been on notice about their conduct since our lawyers sent a concerns notice last year, and they refused to take action. Legal recourse is the only answer.”The federal anti-discrimination case lodged by Burragubba, his son Gurridyula, and nine other family members alleges Adani breached section 9 of the act by seeking to “verbally and physically obstruct and prevent” Burragubba and others from accessing the Doongmabulla Springs “in order to perform cultural rites and share cultural knowledge”.Guardian Australia published video of a brief standoff at the site in September last year.The complaint alleges that social media posts on the Bravus Facebook page attracted offensive comments – which the company failed to remove – which describe members of the group as “filth” and “deserving of being killed”.“This company thinks it can impair our human rights, destroy our lands and waters and smash our culture, and then denigrate us in the eyes of the world,” Burragubba said.“And they are barracked on by people on their social media channels without any moderation. Well, we intend to change the racism and resentment directed at Aboriginal people who stand up for their rights,” he said.skip past newsletter promotionSign up to Breaking News AustraliaGet the most important news as it breaksPrivacy Notice: Newsletters may contain info about charities, online ads, and content funded by outside parties. For more information see our Privacy Policy. We use Google reCaptcha to protect our website and the Google Privacy Policy and Terms of Service apply.after newsletter promotionSeven of 12 members of a Wangan and Jagalingou native title applicant group agreed to a land-use agreement with Adani in 2016, as required under complex native title laws. Others, including Burragubba, were opposed to the mine and have campaigned against it. One of their key concerns is about the potential for water to be affected at Doongmabulla Springs.Adani has repeatedly claimed scientists and others with concerns about environmental impact of the mine are anti-coal campaigners.The company said on Thursday it had not been notified about a complaint.“We wholly reject the allegations made by Mr Burragubba in this latest attempt to stop Bravus from telling our side of the story and sharing facts with the public about our interactions with him and members of his ‘family council’,” a spokesperson for Bravus said.The statement said Gurridyula had been prosecuted for assaulting two mine workers and made public threats to workers via social media.“Mr Burragubba and his allies in the anti-fossil fuel movement have tried for many years to discredit our company and stop our Carmichael mine which has been operating safely and responsibly in line with Queensland and Australian law and in partnership with the majority traditional owner group.“Mr Burragubba has acted at the behest of anti-fossil fuel groups such as the Sunrise Project.“We have a right to defend our business and shine a light on the behaviour of Mr Burragubba, [Gurridyula], and any others who act for their cause, and we will continue to do so.”

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Cape Town faces no limit on sewage discharge into the ocean

The environmental minister has removed the limits on the amount of sewage Cape Town can release into the ocean. The post Cape Town faces no limit on sewage discharge into the ocean appeared first on SA People.

Following a decision by Minister of Fisheries, Forestry, and the Environment Dion George, the City of Cape Town is now allowed to discharge an unlimited amount of untreated sewage into the ocean. This exemption temporarily lifts volume restrictions on sewage discharged through the city’s three marine outfalls in Green Point, Camps Bay, and Hout Bay, pending appeals against the permits issued for these operations, writes GroundUp. The permits, which allow for 25 million, 11.3 million, and 5 million litres of sewage discharge per day at the respective outfalls, have been contested by environmental groups and residents. These parties argue that the practice violates constitutional rights to a healthy environment and has not undergone adequate risk assessments or public consultation. Raw effluent is discharged from these outfalls daily. The only treatment the sewage receives before being released into the ocean is that it is ‘sieved’ to remove solids. Minister George revealed that as of August 2024, the limits on daily sewage discharge had been suspended due to ongoing appeals. This means the City is no longer restricted by the initial permit conditions. According to GroundUp, the City had already been exceeding those limits before the suspension. In October for example, daily discharges at Green Point exceeded permit limits by 700 000 litres per day. Environmental concerns Environmental activists and organisations like the National Sea Rescue Institute (NSRI) have raised serious concerns. They argue that releasing untreated sewage into the Table Mountain National Park Marine Protected Area could harm marine ecosystems. It also poses public health risks. A 2017 CSIR report highlighted that while the ocean’s high-energy environment has a better capacity to dilute pollutants than say, an estuary, “of importance is the volume of effluent discharged.” Persistent sewage discharge could overwhelm the system, leading to chronic toxicity and long-term damage to marine life. Thus the current and increasing quantities of untreated effluent have raised alarm bells. Environmental activist Caroline Marx, who sits on the City’s mayoral advisory committee for water quality, criticised the minister’s decision to allow unrestricted sewage discharge, citing the risks to a Marine Protected Area. She also pointed out that compliance issues with the Hout Bay outfall permit went ignored for years until ActionSA filed a criminal case. Legal and operational issues The City has faced compliance challenges for years. Documents revealed by ActionSA show that the Hout Bay outfall exceeded permit limits on 104 out of 181 days in early 2023. The City also failed to establish a Permit Advisory Forum as required. These violations have led to compliance notices and a criminal case against the City, which is now under investigation by the National Prosecuting Authority. ‘No other option’ for sewage Water and sanitation mayco member Zahid Badroodien said that Cape Town is growing and so are volumes of sewage—and that there was no other option at the moment but to utilise the outfalls. However, City officials say they are exploring long-term solutions, such as new wastewater treatment facilities or diverting sewage to existing plants. The post Cape Town faces no limit on sewage discharge into the ocean appeared first on SA People.

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Has nuclear power entered a new era of acceptance amid global warming?

Public support for nuclear power is the highest its been in more than a decade as the nation struggles to reduce its reliance on planet-warming fossil fuels.

When Heather Hoff took a job at Diablo Canyon nuclear power plant, she was skeptical of nuclear energy — so much so that she resolved to report anything questionable to the anti-nuclear group Mothers for Peace.Instead, after working at the plant for over a decade and asking every question she could think of about operations and safety, she co-founded her own group, Mothers for Nuclear, in 2016 to keep the plant alive.“I was pretty nervous,” said Hoff, 45. “It felt very lonely — no one else was doing that. We looked around for allies — other pro-nuclear groups. … There just weren’t very many.”Today, however, public support for nuclear power is the highest its been in more than a decade as government and private industry struggle to reduce reliance on planet-warming fossil fuels. Aggressive and impactful reporting on climate change, the environment, health and science. Although a string of nuclear disasters decades ago had caused the majority of older Americans to distrust the technology, this hasn’t been the case for younger generations. Old-school environmentalists “grew up in the generation of Three Mile Island and Chernobyl. ... The Gen Zers today did not,” said David Weisman, 63, who has been involved in the movement to get Diablo Canyon shut down since the ’90s and works as the legislative director of the Alliance for Nuclear Responsibility. “They don’t remember how paralyzed with fright the nation was the week after Three Mile Island. ... They don’t recall the shock of Chernobyl less than seven years later.” Public support for nuclear power is the highest its been in more than a decade. Here, the domed reactors of the Diablo Canyon Power Plant rise along the California coast. (Brian van der Brug/Los Angeles Times) Many of these younger nuclear advocates — outwardly vocal on social media sites such as X and Instagram — hope the renewed interest will fuel a second renaissance in nuclear power, one that helps California, the U.S. and the globe meet ambitious climate goals.“I think we are the generation that’s ready to make this change, and accept facts over feelings, and ready to transition to a cleaner, more reliable and safer energy source,” said Veronica Annala, 23, a college student at Texas A&M and president of the school’s new Nuclear Advocacy Resource Organization. In the past few months alone, Microsoft announced plans to fund the reopening of Three Mile Island’s shuttered unit to power a data center. Amazon and Google have also invested in new, cutting-edge nuclear technology to meet clean energy goals.While some advocates wish nuclear revitalization wasn’t being driven by energy-hungry AI technology, the excitement around nuclear power is more palpable than it has been in a generation, they say.“There’s so many things happening at the same time. ... This is the actual nuclear renaissance,” said Gabriel Ivory, 22, a student at Texas A&M and vice president of NARO. “When you look at Three Mile Island restarting — that was something nobody would have ever even thought of.”This enthusiasm has also been accompanied by a surprising political shift. During the Cold War nuclear energy frenzy of the 1970s and ’80s, nuclear supporters — often Republicans — touted the jobs the plants would create, and argued that the United States needed to remain a commanding leader of nuclear technology and weaponry on the global stage.Meanwhile, environmental groups, often aligned with the Democratic Party, opposed nuclear power based on the potential negative impact on surrounding ecosystems, the thorny problem of storing spent fuel and the small but real risk of a nuclear meltdown.“In America … it has been highly politicized,” said Jenifer Avellaneda Diaz, 29, who works in the industry and runs the advocacy account Nuclear Hazelnut. “That is a little bit shameful, because we have great experts here — a lot of doctors, a lot of scientists, a lot of engineers, mathematicians, physicists.”Today, younger Republicans are 11% less likely to support new nuclear plants in the U.S. than their older counterparts. Meanwhile the opposite is true for the left: Younger Democrats are 9% more likely to support new nuclear than older Democrats, according to a poll by the Pew Research Center. As a result, while Republicans older than 65 are 27% more likely to support nuclear energy than their Democratic peers, Republicans age 18 to 29 are only 7% more likely to support it than their Democratic counterparts.“Young Democrats and young Republicans may be looking at numbers — but two separate sets of numbers,” said Weisman. “The young Republicans may be looking at the cost per megawatt hour, and the young Democrats are looking at a different number: parts per million of CO2 in the atmosphere.”Brendan Pittman, 33 — who founded the Berkeley Amend movement, aiming to get his city to drop its “nuclear-free zone” status — said he’s noticed that younger people have become more open to learning about nuclear energy.“Now, as we’re getting into energy crises, and we’re talking more about, ‘How do we solve this?’ Younger people are taking a more rational and nuanced review of all energy, and they’re coming to the same conclusion: Yeah, nuclear checks all the boxes,” Pittman said.“I remember getting signatures on the streets of Berkeley, and I would say most young people — when I said we’re looking to support nuclear energy — they would just stop me and say, ‘Oh you’re supporting nuclear energy? Where do I sign?’” he said. “I didn’t even have to sell it.”This newfound enthusiasm has also affected the nuclear industry, where two dominant age groups have emerged: baby boomers who mostly took nuclear jobs for consistent work, and millennials and Gen Zers who made a motivated choice to enter a stigmatized field, advocates in the industry say.“You get all sorts of different backgrounds, and that really just blooms into all sorts of fresh new ideas, and I think that’s part of what’s making the industry exciting right now,” said Matt Wargon, 33, past chair of the Young Members Group of the American Nuclear Society.Like the workers themselves, the industry has formed two bubbles: the traditional plants that have been operating for decades and a slew of new technologies — from small reactors that could power or heat single factories to a potentially safer class of large-scale reactors that use molten salt in their cores instead of pressurized water.At existing plants, younger folks have injected innovation into longstanding operation norms, improving safety and efficiency. At the startups, those who’ve worked in the industry for decades provide “invaluable” knowledge that simply isn’t in textbooks, industry workers say. Steam rises from the cooling towers of the Alvin W. Vogtle Electric Generating Plant, in Waynesboro, Ga. (Mike Stewart / Associated Press) The infusion of new talent and ideas is a significant change from when Pennsylvania’s Three Mile Island disaster in 1979 and the Chernobyl meltdown in 1986 devastated the industry. Regulations became stricter, and development on new reactors and new technology slowed to a halt.False narratives around the technology ricocheted through society. Both Hoff and Avellaneda Diaz recall their parents worrying about radiation affecting their ability to have children. (The average worker at Diablo receives significantly less radiation in a week than a passenger does on a single East Coast to West Coast airplane flight.)“Radiation is invisible — you can’t see it. You can’t smell it. You can’t hear it,” said Wargon. “And people tend to fear the unknown. … So if you tell them, ‘Oh this power plant has a lot of radiation coming out of it,’ it’s hard to dispel [the misinformation and fear].”Only as the memories faded and new generations entered the workforce did the reputation of nuclear power slowly recover.Advocates also say that college campuses have become a leading space for nuclear advocacy, with Nuclear is Clean Energy (NiCE) clubs popping up at multiple California schools in the past few years.In August, Ivory held up a big “I [heart] nuclear energy,” sign behind an ESPN college football broadcast. It quickly spread on social media and even caught the attention of the U.S. Department of Energy.Nuclear advocates say the internet and easy access to accurate information has also helped their cause.“That was certainly a revolution because right now, it’s super easy to Google it,” Avellaneda Diaz said. “Back then you needed to go to the library, get the book — it was not that easy to get the information or be informed.”A poll conducted by Ann Bisconti, a scientist and nuclear public opinion expert, found that 74% of people who said they felt very well informed strongly favored the use of nuclear energy in the U.S., whereas only 6% who felt not at all informed supported it.As such, public outreach and education has become a core tenant of the new nuclear advocacy movement.“Let’s be real,” Annala said, “our generation has the whole internet at our fingertips ... so, just starting the conversations is really the big thing.”Advocates speculate that the ability to rapidly disseminate information on nuclear energy to combat misconceptions might have helped prevent nuclear energy from becoming politically and culturally toxic after the Fukushima accident, unlike with Chernobyl and Three Mile Island.While the Texas A&M students were quite young when the disaster unfolded, both Wargon and Pittman were in college in 2011 when an earthquake and tsunami in Japan crippled the power systems at the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant, triggering a meltdown. Avellaneda Diaz was in high school.Hoff was working at Diablo Canyon when Fukushima happened. The public scare, in part pushed by the media, almost led her to quit her job.Instead, after taking the time to analyze the causes of the meltdown and the errors made, she decided to embrace nuclear.For her, Fukushima was a reminder that nuclear power comes with risk — however small — but that even in a worst-case scenario, operators are skilled at preventing a disaster. (PG&E says a Fukushima flooding episode would be impossible at Diablo Canyon.) Environmental activists in Seoul march during a rally marking the 12th anniversary of the Fukushima nuclear disaster. (Ahn Young-joon / Associated Press) Today, Hoff writes the emergency protocols for Diablo Canyon and hopes the industry will learn again how to engage with the public.She said that’s what happened with her when she first — somewhat reluctantly — took a job at Diablo.“I was a little obnoxious for the first few years,” Hoff said of her constant questioning and search for a critical flaw.Instead of pushing back against her, the plant welcomed it. Newsletter Toward a more sustainable California Get Boiling Point, our newsletter exploring climate change, energy and the environment, and become part of the conversation — and the solution. You may occasionally receive promotional content from the Los Angeles Times.

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How British College Students Convinced Authorities That Flying Saucers Were Invading the U.K.

To raise awareness for a charity event, aspiring engineers planted six UFOs across southern England on a single day in 1967

This story was originally published on Narratively, an award-winning storytelling platform that celebrates humanity through the most authentic, unexpected and extraordinary true narratives. To read more from Narratively and support the kind of ad-free, independent media its team is creating, you can subscribe to Narratively here at a 30 percent discount. Neil Batey, a shaggy-haired, 15-year-old paperboy, was on his way to deliver newspapers when he spotted a strange object. It was early on a warm and still Monday morning, September 4, 1967. He had walked across a cricket field from his family’s home in Clevedon, a seaside town in Somerset, in southwest England, on his way to the newsstand to pick up his deliveries. He saw it as he came over Dial Hill, the town’s highest point. “Just off the footpath, in the long grass,” Batey says, “was a large silver flying saucer.” It was a shiny disk, a little over four feet in diameter, with a dome shape on top, and it was emitting a strange mechanical beep. “If I’m perfectly honest, I didn’t know what it was,” Batey says. “But it was definitely flying saucer-shaped.” He hurried down to the newsstand and told the intrigued owner, Robert Seeley, what he had found. The pair sped in Seeley’s Humber convertible up to the hill, where Batey showed him the object. “He said, ‘Oh, my god!’” Batey recalls. “And we both drove back to the paper shop, and he phoned the police.” That same morning, some 30 miles east, at Elm Tree Farm near the country market town of Chippenham, Wiltshire, Mary Puntis (then Mary Jennings) was woken by shouting. A 23-year-old teacher, Puntis was staying with her parents at their farm on the last day of her school’s summer break. “I worked on the farm during the holidays to help out,” Puntis says. “Dad had told me I could have a day off to get ready for school the next day. So I was in bed having a bit of a lie-in. And then Dad came shouting up the stairs: ‘Mary, get up! Get up, quick! Bring your camera! There’s a flying saucer in the field!’” Puntis went downstairs and found her father, Dick Jennings, speaking on the phone with the police. “I think you better get up here,” he was saying. “There’s something in the field. I don’t know what it is. It looks like a flying saucer.” “Oh yes, Mr. Jennings?” Puntis recalls the police dispatcher replying sarcastically. “Are there any little green men?” “Well, I haven’t seen any, but you better get up here,” Dick said. Then he drove back to the field in his tractor. “And I thought, ‘I better go, I suppose,’” Puntis says. So she and her younger brother, Martin, got in her Mini car and followed the tractor up a hedgerow lane to the field. “Halfway up the field, fairly close to the hedge, I could see this silver disk,” Puntis says. She told Martin to wait in the car and trudged in rubber boots through the furrowed field to the object. Unbeknownst to Puntis, it was identical to the one Batey had just found. It was about the same width as Puntis’ Mini and had a perfectly smooth metallic sheen with no visible joins or openings. “The only way you could describe it was that it looked like a flying saucer,” she says. “We were just befuddled.” Chippenham is about 20 miles away from Warminster, the site of Great Britain’s biggest mass UFO sighting. Over a prolonged period in 1965, around 200 witnesses saw unusual objects in the sky and heard strange sounds. Fiery and glowing lights and booming and droning noises were accompanied by mysterious occurrences, including power failures and birds falling from the sky. The phenomenon became known as the “Warminster Thing.” Experts and officials were unable to provide a satisfactory explanation, and the area became regarded as Britain’s epicenter for UFO sightings. Had the “Thing” returned? Two police officers arrived and ordered Puntis and her father to move away from the object. Puntis describes the officers as nervous and cautious. “They wouldn’t go in the field to begin with,” she says. “They peered at it over the hedge.” Then a reporter from the Wiltshire Gazette & Herald arrived, followed by a uniformed flight officer from the nearby Royal Air Force (RAF) Colerne base. Puntis handed the Gazette reporter her camera to take photographs. She says the RAF officer, David Pepper, “got quite brave” and approached the object. With the reluctant police officers, he lifted the heavy disk onto its side and was startled when it began to beep. Pepper told a reporter that he had never seen anything like it. “Eventually,” Puntis says, “the RAF decided they were going to take it away and blow it up.” By this time, the police and the Gazette had received reports suggesting that more of these “flying saucers” had been found across southern England. “I was talking to the Gazette man on the edge of the field,” Puntis says, “and it wasn’t too long before we realized that something big was happening.” The objects found in Clevedon and Chippenham were two of six identical silver disks found on the same morning at equidistant locations along a plumb-straight line that bisected southern England. A map of the locations where the six disks were found Illustration by Julie Benbassat Thirty miles east of Chippenham, in the village of Welford, Berkshire, postal worker Eva Rood found one of the saucers while on her delivery round. Baffled police took it to their station, where officials from the United Kingdom’s Ministry of Defense were called in to investigate, and United States Air Force military police from the local air base arrived to take photos. (The U.S. Air Force has maintained a presence in the U.K. since World War II.) A fourth saucer was found another 30 miles east, at Winkfield, also in Berkshire, near NASA’s only U.K.-based satellite tracking station. One of the station’s engineers, Roger Kenyon, threw pennies at the silver disk to check that it wouldn’t explode. Then he turned it over to the police, who decided that the most appropriate response was to place it in their “lost and found” office. “Well, where else do you put something that comes under the heading of ‘Found’?” a police officer at the scene told the Daily Mirror. Thirty miles east of Winkfield, at Sundridge Park Golf Club in the London borough of Bromley, caddy Harry Huxley found saucer number five. Police bundled the saucer into a van and transported it to their station, where the officers became so annoyed by the constant beeping that they dumped it outside while they waited for Ministry of Defense officials to arrive. The sixth saucer wasn’t found until around lunchtime. This one was another 30 miles away, on vacant land in Rushenden, a village on the Isle of Sheppey, off Kent on England’s east coast—about 150 miles away from the first site at Clevedon. Police cordoned off the area, and the fire brigade scanned the object with a radiation survey meter. Stretched across England’s green fields and rolling hills, the six silver saucers appeared alien and otherworldly—but what were they? Were they from outer space? Were they from the Soviet Union? Were they aircraft or pieces of aircraft? Fallen satellites or unexploded bombs? At Rushenden, a large crowd was gathering, and children were delighted by the arrival of an RAF helicopter that the Ministry of Defense had scrambled from the nearby base at Manston. Creating something of a slapstick spectacle, the RAF crew attempted to lift the unidentified object into the helicopter, but it was too heavy, so they dropped it. When it hit the ground, the saucer split open, spraying the crew with a putrid, gloopy liquid. Back in Clevedon, the police had taken the first saucer, the one Batey had found, away on a roof rack. Batey had changed into his smartest shirt and tie and gone to the police station, where he was photographed with the saucer for newspapers and filmed with it for Pathé News. Two engineers arrived from local precision-tool manufacturer Willcocks to assist the police in identifying the object and figuring out what was inside. Adopting the kind of bumbling carelessness that characterized the overall response to the supposed invasion, they set upon the disk with a hacksaw and then attacked it with a chisel. Eventually, they managed to make a small hole—and also unleashed a foul stench. Unidentified Flying Objects (1967) “A smell as bad as bad eggs came out,” engineer Reg Willard told the Birmingham Post. Inside was the same off-white substance that had sprayed the RAF crew. “I know this sounds silly,” Willard added, “[but] I have read these science fiction stories and wondered if this was an alien attempt to establish life on this planet.” Despite concerns, Willard’s colleague was photographed dipping his fingers into the saucer to taste the substance. A sample was sent to scientists for more detailed analysis. In Chippenham, officials took the saucer found by the Jennings family to a garbage dump. There, experts from a British Army bomb disposal unit attached specially prepared explosives and blew it apart—with little regard for the well-being of any potential alien occupants. Out poured the foul-smelling gloop, described by the Western Daily Press as a “pig-swill-like mixture.” When police and Army personnel inspected the guts of the wreckage, they found a secret compartment. The engineers back at Clevedon, with their hacksaws and chisels, had also discovered the compartment, which contained a wired-together contraption consisting of a loudspeaker, a transistor with a mercury switch and an Exide brand battery. It now seemed unlikely that these UFOs were of extraterrestrial origin. As Willard told the Nottingham Guardian Journal, “They are made in Britain—not Mars.” The flying saucer invasion that had flustered and baffled police, military and government officials across Britain was a remarkable hoax. Earlier that morning, around 2 a.m., a group of young men operating in six teams of two or three had fanned out across the breadth of southern England. Each team had a vehicle filled with camping gear. If anyone asked, they planned to say they were setting out to spend the night under the stars. But hidden beneath their gear, each of the six teams had a large silver disk. Under the cover of darkness, they separately placed these disks in six very specific locations. Then, they retreated from the scene and waited for their respective flying saucers to be discovered. The young men were student engineers at the Royal Aircraft Establishment, a Ministry of Defense college and research base in Farnborough, Hampshire, right in the heart of southern England. And they were planning to pull off an extraordinary prank—the greatest UFO hoax the world had ever seen. The hoax’s mastermind was Chris Southall, a 22-year-old with a chinstrap beard and half-frame glasses who was just coming to the end of his five-year apprenticeship. “We had to do quite a lot of work in advance to find good sites,” Southall recalls nearly 60 years later. “We looked on maps and went out looking for sites where we wouldn’t be spotted at night, but where people would find them in the morning.” A glance at the chosen locations on a map reveals they were selected with remarkable precision. The idea was that the saucers would be planted at equidistant sites approximately 30 miles apart across southern England, in a straight line just above the 51st parallel, at a latitude of 51.3 degrees north of the equator. This specific formula represented a ley line, a mystical pathway that supposedly connects ancient sites across the earth with an invisible energy trail. Some UFO researchers have posited that ley lines could be navigational markers created by prehistoric civilizations to guide visiting alien spacecraft. Southall was the only member of the group who believed in UFOs, and he reckoned that if aliens did invade, they would carve up the earth with landing spots based on these lines. He saw this as a fun way to test the authorities’ response to an actual invasion. The fact that several of the locations happened to be near secretive Air Force bases, a NASA tracking station and recent UFO “hot spots” only enhanced the caper. “On the night of ‘laying the eggs,’ as we called it, we drove across the country and put them in the spots we’d figured out,” Southall says. The plan worked (almost) perfectly. The saucers were all quickly found and reported to the authorities—except for the sixth saucer, the one Southall had planted himself at Rushenden. Because no one found that disk organically, Southall decided to take matters into his own hands. He phoned the police, telling them he was a schoolboy who’d been out walking his dog when he came across something he thought might be a bomb. Pretty soon, the scene was crawling with police and encircled by a helicopter, and an RAF crew was sprayed with the putrid goopy liquid. Illustration by Julie Benbassat Southall and the others returned to their dorm at the Royal Aircraft Establishment. “And then we just had to wait with bated breath to see what kind of publicity it got,” he recalls. The aim was to promote the students’ Rag Week, an annual British tradition in which university students carry out stunts and pranks to “raise and give” (hence “Rag”) money for charity. At the time, costumed parades, sponsored challenges and eye-catching antics (such as attempting to build the world’s biggest sandcastle) were common, with participants shaking collection tins and buckets for donations around their towns. However, Southall and his friends had previous experience with creating much more ambitious and far-reaching stunts. Two years earlier, in 1965, the young men had dropped a replica of NASA’s Gemini space capsule, complete with parachute, into the River Thames in central London, generating national headlines and official consternation. (“Mystery Capsule Found on Thames Bank,” read one headline. “It could be a hoax,” a police spokesperson told the Daily Mirror, “but we can’t take any chances.”) And in 1966, Southall had designed and built a 7.5-foot-tall mechanical robot named Rodnee, which had embarked on a 30-mile charity walk from Farnborough to the capital. (“Rodnee the Robot Marches on London,” splashed the Daily Mirror, although a later headline revealed a setback: “Rodnee’s Engine Fails at Crucial Moment.”) The UFO stunt was even more audacious. Work began eight months before its execution, in January 1967, in a workshop at the back of the students’ dorm. Southall made a plaster model of a flying saucer and used that to create a mold. Then he used the mold to make 12 fiberglass halves and stuck those together to make six saucers. These were coated with a specially formulated aluminum gel to give them an unearthly polished shine. The saucers cost around £30 to make (equivalent to around £465 or $600 in 2024), paid for out of the college’s Rag Week budget. The disks’ innards were filled with almost 60 pounds of goopy gunk—actually a simple flour and water paste. “When you let it go off, it turns into this rancid jelly,” Southall says. (This is also where the putrid smell arises, either from the mixture being left out for too long or because the flour itself has gone bad.) “The idea was that if they cracked it open, they might think it was a dead alien or something.” Southall and his friends also built the electronics that made the beeping sound designed to help people find the saucers. “It was powered by just a tiny little battery,” he says. “That’s all you needed.” Farmer Dick Jennings looks at the object he found in a field near Chippenham on September 4, 1967. Photo by Tibbles / Daily Mirror / Mirrorpix via Getty Images It didn’t take long for the saucers to land in the media. Evening newspapers and local television bulletins reported the emerging story. Speaking about the saucer that Batey had found in Clevedon, police sergeant John Durston told the Bristol Evening Post, “The object does look just as one imagines a spaceship should look. I have contacted my headquarters, and they are getting in touch with all sorts of people.” He added, “It looks just like a flying saucer,” but cautioned, “There’s always the possibility that someone silly might have put something on Dial Hill to cause a panic.” On Monday evening, around 12 hours after the first saucer was found, a reporter linked the flying saucers to previous Rag Week stunts and called the Royal Aircraft Establishment to ask if those same students were behind the UFO hoax. “We owned up,” Southall says. They had hoped the mystery would last a little longer. But the hoax became the story. “So we got a second day of publicity. And lots of international publicity.” The headline in the local Western Daily Press was “The Big Flying Saucer Hoax.” The Daily Mirror ran a front-page story and center spread featuring photos of Batey and Southall under the headline “How the Saucers Hoax Got off The Ground.” “The Great Invasion From Outer Space was unmasked last night for what it was,” the national newspaper reported, “an amazing hoax by a group of bright young men … a leg pull that started a search for little green men.” Across the Atlantic, the New York Times’ headline was “Aviation Students Hoax Britain With Flotilla of ‘Flying Saucers.’” Half the world away from southern England, Australia’s Canberra Times simply said, “Student Hoax Fools Britain.” Southall and his colleagues were jubilant. They fielded phone calls from reporters, met with photographers and traveled to television stations. “We did it to publicize our Rag Week,” Southall told reporters at the time. “We aim to raise £2,000 for local charities, and this was the best way of drawing attention to it. We also thought we would give the police an exercise in dealing with alien spacecraft, because it could happen one day. We didn’t mean to cause chaos—in fact, we were rather surprised that it caused all this fuss.” The fuss had involved—and embarrassed—the police, the military, the Ministry of Defense and the Royal Aircraft Establishment, as well as numerous officials, engineers and experts. While the students’ previous stunts had generated a lot of local interest, this one had spread around the globe and entwined the highest levels of authority. As Southall’s colleague David Harrison told the Reading Evening Post, “We haven’t received a reprimand from any officialdom yet, but we are half expecting that we will get a bit of a telling off.” There was one response the group hadn’t anticipated. During the press calls, several reporters asked the same surprising question: What did the hoaxers know about a seventh flying saucer that had been found on the same day on a major thoroughfare in central London, less than a mile from both the Houses of Parliament and Buckingham Palace? This mysterious “seventh saucer” looked a little bit like the other six, and police were investigating where it had come from. Southall did not know anything about it and answered honestly: “It was nothing to do with us.” “It was every bit as intriguing as the old TV science fiction thriller ‘The Quatermass Experiment,’ which told of weird, egg-shaped objects full of gas whining down to earth as the spearhead of an invasion from outer space,” wrote the Newcastle Journal following the UFO hoax. “Judging by the coverage in national newspapers,” the Runcorn Weekly News reported, “it was the most successful space stunt of recent times.” UFO researchers were impressed, too. Richard Beet, secretary of the Surrey Investigation Group on Aerial Phenomena, told the Farnborough Chronicle that it was “a very clever hoax,” adding that he wanted to acquire one of the saucers for an exhibition. The newspaper reported that “an American television company has rung up the Rag committee asking to buy one of the ‘spaceships’ to build a show around it.” Still, as Harrison had feared, the Chronicle also said that “officialdom” had taken a “dim view” of the stunt, and police were considering pressing criminal charges. A Somerset Police spokesperson handling the Clevedon case refused to comment to the press about suggestions that the students could be prosecuted but said “those responsible” would likely be interviewed. Wasting police time was a criminal offense, and newspapers reported that the students might also be charged with littering in the countryside and “causing a public mischief.” The investigation of the six saucers had entangled five separate police forces across southern England, including London’s Metropolitan Police, based at Scotland Yard. Perhaps more importantly, the hoax had caused consternation and red faces in the government offices of the Ministry of Defense. “If we’d done it now, we’d have been in jail,” Southall says. He held an emergency meeting with his colleagues at their dorm to discuss the possibility of prosecution. “We were nervous about it,” he recalls, “but it was all so exciting. And, of course, we’d been up all night, and then we were trekking off to television studios and things like that. We were so zonked out that it was hard to get too worried about it, and we were just going with the flow.” In Clevedon, Batey’s saucer was held by police as evidence. “We’re not giving them back their saucer,” said Durston, “not for the moment, anyway.” But Durston said he would be very surprised if the Somerset Police pressed charges. Chief Inspector Frank Dummett of the Wiltshire Police, responsible for investigating the Chippenham saucer, seemed to take the prank with good grace. “It was obviously a very elaborate hoax,” he said, “exceedingly well organized and must have cost a good deal of money to carry out.” In Bromley, a Kent Police spokesman said, “We are taking it like gentlemen,” and there was “no question of prosecution.” But in Welford and Winkfield, the Berkshire Police force was less forgiving, saying it was still considering action against the hoaxers. As for the Royal Aircraft Establishment, the prestigious institution at the center of the caper decided that the students would not face punishment. The institution’s chief engineer, F.H. Beer, said, “I want to say publicly that I thought it was a very fine effort. In spite of the fact that there have been some people who don’t approve, I personally do.” It was the seemingly incompetent response to the hoax that caused the most embarrassment. Another UFO research group, the National Investigation Committee for Aerial Phenomena, wrote to the Ministry of Defense, criticizing a “complete lack of cooperation” among the departments involved in the official response and offering its own services in the future. “One hesitates to think of what might have happened had one or more flying objects actually landed,” the letter said. Declassified files show that the Ministry of Defense regarded the incident as an “(obviously very successful) practical joke.” But the documents also suggest that officials feared the response to the high-profile hoax might reveal secret details about investigations into actual UFOs and potential plans for dealing with a real alien invasion. A letter held at the U.K.’s National Archives shows that the Ministry of Defense wrote to an RAF intelligence officer involved in the Bromley saucer investigation, advising him not to comment to the media about any of the equipment he had used in examining the objects, nor about any of his previous or subsequent “‘UFO’ work.” According to another letter, the officer from Bromley (whose name is redacted) was “responsible for investigating all UFO sightings in U.K. airspace,” suggesting he was a 1960s British version of FBI Special Agent Fox Mulder from “The X-Files.” A restricted staff memo indicates how seriously the U.K. took the incident by stating that the officer should be reminded of his obligations under the Official Secrets Act, U.K. legislation that protects sensitive information, including information related to national security. To the U.K. authorities, this was more than just a joke. In the end, despite—or perhaps because of—the Ministry of Defense’s involvement (and the potential embarrassment of national security secrets being revealed if the case were prolonged), Southall and the other students were not prosecuted and faced no further action. They had, after all, pulled off the stunt for a good cause. Several of the hoaxers also participated in a more traditional Rag Week event—a sponsored walk in “flower power” costumes. Southall, “minus his flying saucers,” according to the Farnborough Chronicle, walked 41 miles. The UFO hoax’s publicity generated extra donations and helped the Rag committee reach its charity fundraising target of £2,000 (equivalent to around £31,000, or nearly $40,000, in 2024). A newspaper article about the hoax Farnborough Chronicle / Courtesy of Paul Brown But that wasn’t the end of the story. Although the flying saucer invasion had been exposed as a hoax, some refused to believe the explanation. In Bromley, a witness named Cynthia Tooth, described in the Newcastle Journal as the wife of an advertising executive, claimed she had seen the saucer found on the golf course fall from the sky in the middle of the night and described “a steady bright light, surmounted by a flashing light.” There were other strange sightings on the day of the hoax, too. In Lower Spanton, near where Puntis and her father found the Chippenham saucer, villagers and schoolchildren reported seeing a silver “flying bubble” in the sky. “It was very large and very high and glinted and shone in the sun,” local Michael Smith told the Western Daily Press. “I never saw anything like it before.” In Bicester, north of where the U.S. Air Force photographed the Welford saucer, a group of motorists stopped their vehicles on a country lane to watch a silver, cigar-shaped object floating in the sky in broad daylight. “I’ve never believed in this sort of thing before,” witness Raymond Richardson told the Reading Evening Post. “But this made me go cold all over.” It’s impossible to know what they saw, but each of these witnesses believed they’d seen something out of the ordinary, most of which could not be traced back to the students’ hoax. And then there was the so-called seventh saucer, found on the same day as the six fake ones, on a traffic island at Kingsway, central London, outside the Rediffusion television studios—in a building that had previously been the administrative headquarters of the RAF. The silver-gray saucer, about three feet across with two protruding antennae, was found by Jack Grant of Wandsworth, who said he didn’t dare touch it. It was taken away in a van by police and seemingly disappeared—with no record of what happened to it. “Probably another hoax,” wrote the Daily Mirror. “But then, you never can tell.” Official records show that 362 “unexplained aerial sightings” were reported to the U.K. Ministry of Defense in 1967, up from 95 in the previous year. Batey and Puntis, now ages 72 and 80 respectively, recall their UFO encounters with—mostly—good humor. Batey’s media appearances led to teasing at school. “I got the piss taken out of me mercilessly by younger kids,” he says. More positively, Batey was contacted by a long-lost cousin in Australia who spotted his photo in a newspaper. He bears no resentment toward the hoaxers. “It was just a bit of fun,” he says. “I was an avid science fiction fan, anyway. It was quite impressive. I would probably have done it if I’d been a bit older. I would have taken part gleefully.” “We thought it was absolutely brilliant,” Puntis says. “Really, really clever. Because they had plotted these six places across the country, and they had gone to an awful lot of trouble to identify sites that were exactly the same distances apart. And one happened to be our field. It was wonderful. It’s been a talking point for, well, 57 years. And people are still talking about it.” Puntis now lives in a house she built in that same field. As for the great UFO hoax’s mastermind, today Southall is an environmental activist who builds eco-friendly geodesic domes rather than flying saucers. “We grow our own food and provide our own heat from wood and solar, and all that kind of stuff,” he says. He got into self-sufficiency right after finishing his engineering apprenticeship. “I lived off-grid on the Isle of Man for 9 years, and after that, I lived in a commune for 20 years, so I’ve had all sorts of adventures through my life.” Southall is still amused when he thinks of the blundering official response to the saucers. “It’s a bit shocking, isn’t it, really?” he reflects. “Because they could have been real, they could have had strange, slimy creatures inside or whatever. They didn’t know when they cracked them open that this slimy stuff was paste. At the time, I was well into science fiction, so I would have liked to have thought they’d take it a little bit more seriously, at least initially.” As for the witness who saw one of the fake saucers fall from the sky and the mysterious seventh saucer that he had no involvement with, Southall can give no explanation other than offering a well-accepted truism: “It’s a funny old world out there, I tell you.” Paul Brown writes about history, true crime and sports. He also pens a newsletter called Singular Discoveries about unusual true stories from forgotten corners of the past. Jesse Sposato is Narratively’s executive editor. She also writes about social issues, feminism, health, friendship and culture for a variety of outlets. She is currently working on a collection of essays about coming of age in the suburbs. Julie Benbassat is an award-winning illustrator, painter and animator. Get the latest History stories in your inbox?

Activism
Cosmos
Culture

Cancel drilling of North Sea oilfield, activists urge Scottish court

Greenpeace and Uplift say Rosebank and Jackdaw licences were granted unlawfully by former Tory governmentClimate campaigners have urged a Scottish court to cancel the licence to drill the UK’s largest untapped oilfield, arguing it will cause “sizeable” and unjustified damage to the planet.Greenpeace and Uplift accuse the former Conservative government of having unlawfully given the Norwegian oil giant Equinor a licence to exploit the Rosebank oilfield, which sits 80 miles (130km) north-west of Shetland and holds nearly 500m barrels of oil and gas. Continue reading...

Climate campaigners have urged a Scottish court to cancel the licence to drill the UK’s largest untapped oilfield, arguing it will cause “sizeable” and unjustified damage to the planet.Greenpeace and Uplift accuse the former Conservative government of having unlawfully given the Norwegian oil giant Equinor a licence to exploit the Rosebank oilfield, which sits 80 miles (130km) north-west of Shetland and holds nearly 500m barrels of oil and gas.Lawyers for both groups told a judge in Edinburgh on Tuesday the government and the North Sea Transition Authority (NSTA) formerly known as the Oil and Gas Authority, had wrongly failed to take into account the tens of millions of tonnes of CO2 that would be burned when the oil was used, and the impact that would have on the climate.Ruth Crawford KC, the lawyer for Greenpeace, told Lord Ericht that Equinor and its Israeli-owned co-investor Ithaca knew it was unlawful to ignore the climate costs of the project.“There can be no doubt this project will produce substantial amounts of oil and gas [with] a substantial impact on the climate and a substantial impact on environmental and human health,” she said.Their judicial review, being heard in the court of session, Scotland’s top civil court, began as world leaders convened in Azerbaijan for a new round of climate talks, where Keir Starmer confirmed the UK had set a much tougher new target, to cut its carbon emissions by 81% compared with 1990 levels by 2035.Uplift and Greenpeace are asking the court to cancel the drilling licence for Rosebank and also a licence granted to a Shell subsidiary, BG International (BGI) to drill for gas in the Jackdaw field in the North Sea, which they also allege ministers granted unlawfully.They estimate the Rosebank oilfield will release more CO2 than the annual emissions of the world’s 28 poorest countries combined, including Uganda and Mozambique.They believe their challenges were given significant legal weight after the UK supreme court ruled in June that ministers had to take account of the climate impacts from burning the oil and gas extracted by drilling in the UK before issuing licences.Even so, this case could prove to be a significant test of the new Labour government’s pledges to dramatically reduce the UK’s reliance on oil and gas by blocking new drilling licences. After Labour’s general election victory, Ed Miliband, the net zero secretary, decided the UK government would no longer defend the case brought by Greenpeace and Uplift but he still faces a political challenge if they win.If Lord Ericht cancels their drilling licences, Equinor and BGI are likely to reapply for fresh licences to drill both fields, despite the supreme court decision, which followed a legal challenge by the climate campaigner Sarah Finch.BGI is already extracting gas from the Jackdaw field. The companies argue both fields are essential to the UK economy, support thousands of jobs and provide significant tax revenues – arguments that critics of Labour’s climate policy are likely to endorse.Crawford told the court that those political arguments were irrelevant in this case; this case was solely about whether the law was followed.skip past newsletter promotionThe planet's most important stories. Get all the week's environment news - the good, the bad and the essentialPrivacy Notice: Newsletters may contain info about charities, online ads, and content funded by outside parties. For more information see our Privacy Policy. We use Google reCaptcha to protect our website and the Google Privacy Policy and Terms of Service apply.after newsletter promotionShe said ministers and the NSTA made the same “substantial error of law” identified by the supreme court in June when they licensed the Rosebank and Jackdaw fields without assessing the climate impacts of the oil and gas they produced.She said Equinor, Ithaca and BGI had spent about £1bn on developing Rosebank and Jackdaw but had miscalculated. They knew it was unlawful to ignore the climate costs of the project, she said, adding: “They lost the bet.”On Tuesday, before the case began, about 160 climate protesters gathered outside the court calling for the licences to be cancelled, chanting “I believe we can win,” while stretching a long red scarf across the entrance to the court.Lauren MacDonald, a coordinator for the Stop Rosebank campaign, told activists on Monday night that winning this case would be crucial for the climate movement.“As truly devastating as many things are in the world right now, in this little corner of the world, we are on the precipice of a massive, massive victory for the climate, and that is precisely because people have stood in the way,” she said.“Every single fossil fuel project that we can stop, every single fraction is a degree of warming that we can stop. It’s countless lives saved, which will always, always be worth it.”

Activism
Climate
Government

Suggested Viewing

The Great Divide

Twenty minutes outside of Visalia, amidst the seemingly endless rows of citrus trees, Yolanda Cuevas packs enchiladas with shredded chicken for her husband Benjamin, their adult daughters and two teenaged grandchildren in her modest single-story home. Their house is the first one off the main drag, one of 83 lining the two crumbling roads that comprise the tiny town of Tooleville. Yolanda must wash the tomatoes for the salsa first in the sink and then again with a splash of clean water from a 5-gallon jug. The process is arduous, and though she’s resigned to do it, she’s not happy about it. Along with Tooleville’s several hundred other residents, Yolanda’s family has survived on bi-weekly delivery of water to their homes for the past 12 years. It’s an annoyance for the family, and it’s expensive for the State of California, which has been paying for the replacement water since the discovery of Chromium-6 (the same chemical featured in Erin Brokovich) in the water. The simpler solution would be to consolidate the town’s water system with that of its larger, affluent neighbor to the west, Exeter. And for this purpose, Yolanda has become a reluctant activist, attending community meetings in Tooleville and lobbying for consolidation at Exeter’s city council meetings under the expert guidance of Pedro Hernandez, an organizer with the Leadership Counsel. While Exeter has resisted the consolidation since it was first proposed, organizers like Pedro feel that this could be the year Exeter finally succumbs to the growing community pressure and brings Tooleville into the fold. The decision will echo around the Central Valley and across the state, as hundreds of similar community water systems find themselves in a nearly identical predicament.

Water
Activism
Documentary

The Z-Nail Gang

When a corporate mining giant moves into a small coastal town looking for gold and talking about trickle down wealth some folks just aren't convinced.

Activism
Resources
Fiction

Uncovering the Permian Climate Bomb

The fossil fuel industry is building a global threat in the oil fields of West Texas. Miguel Escoto, who has lived close to this region his whole life, witnesses the industry’s villainy for the first time by viewing oil and gas site emissions through optical gas imaging cameras, becoming a stand-in for a world that has yet to grasp the gravity of the Permian Climate Bomb.

Pollution
Activism
Climate

A Community, Fighting

This short film marks the 20 year campaign sparked by the news that a waste company had arrived armed with plans to build a large hazardous waste incinerator at the end of a then undeveloped cul-de-sac in Ringaskiddy, the industrial heartland of Cork. As news percolated around Cork Harbour, concern and opposition, evident from the outset, consolidated, galvanised and continued to go from strength to strength over the course of the years that saw a community stuck in a battle that they didn’t invite. The campaign, at the time of completion of this film, is still ongoing. This film is a visual representation of the time that has passed - from protests, to fundraisers, to court battles, at the heart of it a community subject to much struggle. However, they have not let that stop them and have truly shown the strength in numbers and staying power.

Activism
Pollution
Culture

The Story of a Forest

In 2004, a generation of activists arose in South Florida, carrying the passion of direct action groups like Earth First. and the deep analysis of the global justice movement that had swept the country in the preceding years. These activists sought local issues that exemplified the threats of corporate globalization. They stumbled upon a plan from biotech industry giants acting in collusion with the administration of then-Governor Jeb Bush to clear a vast swath of land in the Northeast Everglades of Florida to accommodate The Scripps Biotech Research Institute - And it was on. Over the next ten years, endless county zoning meetings were counter-balanced by dozens of civil disobedience arrests and a near-constant flow of news headlines about the battle: lawsuits, scandal, corruption, tree sits, endangered species, pranks, blockades, and a roller coaster of incremental victories followed by devastating losses for years on end. THE STORY OF A FOREST captures it all in a 1/2 hour documentary about the Palm Beach County Environmental Coalition (PBCEC) and Everglades Earth First!'s (EEF!) ten-plus year campaign to stop the Scripps Biotech development, with a focus on protecting biodiversity in the Briger forest and the Florida wetlands.

Activism
Forests
Business

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