Across continents, “sacrifice zones” resemble wounds carved deep into the fabric of our planet. These are regions where ecosystems and livelihoods have been ravaged by fossil fuel and other industries that promise progress but leave devastation in their wake. These are places where big business and transnational corporations are contaminating the rivers, darkening the skies, and making the soil barren; where the toll of development is paid in human suffering and ecological destruction.

What unites these “sacrifice zones” is the shared story of areas where prosperity for the few is built on the suffering of many, and where communities fight to mend the fractures inflicted upon their land, health and dignity.

Here are four case studies highlighting the experiences of communities and civil society organizations that collaborate with the program I coordinate, the Coalition for Human Rights in Development’s Community Resource Exchange.

Tula, Mexico

In the Tula-Tepeji-Apaxco region, where the Toltec plains once supported rich biodiversity and cultural heritage, the water and air are now saturated with pollution. This devastated landscape was declared both in 1975 and again in 2005 by the U.N. as one of the most polluted places on Earth, marking it as an environmental disaster zone. Since the early 20th century, the arrival of cement plants, refineries, chemical factories, a coal-fired power plant and lime kilns has transformed the region. Backed by all levels of government, these industries have destroyed the area’s ecological balance and ruined the health of its people, poisoning the water, air and soil with toxic waste.

Prominent among these polluters are cement giants like Holcim, CEMEX, Cementos Fortaleza and Clarimex, whose operations release harmful gases that exacerbate the region’s environmental and public health crises. One of the epicenters of this environmental catastrophe is the Tula River, which receives 150,000 liters (nearly 40,000 gallons) of untreated wastewater every second from Mexico City and the Valley of Mexico. These “black waters” are teeming with industrial and hospital waste plus sewage, overwhelming the river and its tributaries.

The Endhó Dam, originally built to support local agriculture, has become a toxic dumping ground, poisoning thousands of people who rely on wells for drinking water. Despite decades of warnings, local and national governments have allowed this contamination to persist. The poisoned waters have killed fish, flooded the land with toxic sludge, and led to a surge in cancer, leukemia, respiratory and gastrointestinal diseases among the 15,000 inhabitants living along its banks. In 2021, a devastating flood related to the overflowing Tula River left 17 dead and displaced thousands, a stark reminder of the ongoing risks of government inaction.

The region now faces a massive public health crisis, and the recent declaration by the Ministry of Environment and Natural Resources to designate the area as an ecological restoration zone is a necessary but overdue step. This declaration covers municipalities such as Atitalaquia, Tepeji del Río, Tepetitlán and Tlahuelilpan, where 498 businesses have been identified as generators of hazardous waste, including 14 that produce hydrocarbons. The study, based on a water, air and soil analysis, could mark the beginning of recovery if it is implemented with urgency and seriousness.

Over the years, organizations like Red de Conciencia Ambiental “Queremos Vivir” have resisted, bringing visibility to the devastation and fighting to halt deforestation and continued pollution. In the words of one of the leaders of Queremos Vivir (“We want to live”), “There needs to be a legal solution, because it’s that urgent. We believe there is still a way to reverse it, and we have time to show the newly elected president Claudia Sheinbaum the dire situation we’re in.” Their demands include a reduction in the water flow of the Tula River through holistic water management solutions, and government accountability for decades of environmental neglect, calling for reparations for both industrial pollution and the catastrophic 2021 floods.

While they welcome Sheinbaum’s promises to clean the river and launch a circular economy project, they emphasize that meaningful environmental justice must not be delayed any longer. After stating the communities’ demands through tears, the Queremos Vivir leader said, “Are we really just going to be destined to be a sacrifice zone? The damage is so severe, the degradation we are in, that if we don’t protect it, don’t defend it, then what are we going to do?”

Antofagasta, Chile

The region of Antofagasta, in northern Chile, stands as one of the most emblematic sacrifice zones, where industrial activity has devastated the environment and the health of local communities, particularly the Indigenous Chango people. Known as pescadores de la niebla for their ancient seafaring traditions in foggy conditions, the Chango have seen their coastal territories overrun by coal-fired power plants, mining, desalination projects, industrial fishing and, more recently, renewable energy megaprojects.

The region’s supposed transition to clean energy has brought wind farms, solar panels and green hydrogen initiatives, led by corporations such as French-owned Engie and Electricité de France (EDF), Colbún, and Chilean state-owned mining giant CODELCO. Companies like Cermaq Chile, through industrial fish farming, contaminate the seabed, endangering marine ecosystems that sustain Chango livelihoods.

While these projects are promoted as sustainable, the Chango argue that they replicate the same extractive logic that has scarred the region for decades, often implemented without regard for their rights. A member of the Chango community recounts how the communities never imagined so much industry would take over their territory, never having been consulted about these plans or potential damage to the environment: “In November, we had a tradition of going to the hills to pick lilies and take them to our loved ones who have passed away as an offering. And now there is nothing since the thermal power plant dried everything up.”

The Chango have voiced concerns about the cumulative impacts of these developments on their culture, health and environment. Industrial activities continue to destroy sacred archaeological sites, ancestral burial grounds and the habitats of species such as the golondrina de mar (Markham’s storm petrel, Hydrobates markhami), whose nesting grounds are increasingly threatened by poorly planned renewable energy infrastructure. Meanwhile, contamination from mining waste and industrial pollution has led to a rise in cancer, respiratory diseases and other illnesses, exacerbated by insufficient environmental oversight — there are reportedly only a handful of inspectors for the entire region.

A recent example of resistance came with Colbún’s Central de Bombeo Paposo project, a $1.4 billion energy storage initiative billed as a key piece of Latin America’s green transition. The Chango and allied organizations successfully pushed for its suspension after it failed to meet environmental requirements, a rare victory in the face of relentless industrial expansion. Yet the community remains vigilant, knowing that such projects often reemerge with minor alterations.

The destruction of marine and coastal resources central to Chango culture and survival has placed immense stress on their community. Despite being officially recognized as Indigenous in 2020, the Chango’s seminomadic way of life clashes with the rigid frameworks of state consultations, which fail to account for their mobility along the coast. This exclusion not only undermines their rights but also perpetuates the erasure of their cultural identity and historical presence.

As custodians of their territory, the Chango insist that the industrial model in Antofagasta, whether driven by mining, energy or fishing, must change. Unless renewable energy projects are implemented with genuine respect for Indigenous rights, ecological safeguards and cultural preservation, the “green transition” risks entrenching the same injustices they have endured for generations. In reflecting on future generations, one community member said, “I want our grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren to know that we didn’t stand back and do nothing, we fought for the legacy of our ancestors.”

Odimodi, Nigeria

The Niger Delta stands as one of the most polluted regions in the world due to decades of environmental destruction caused by oil companies. Among the most prominent culprits are Shell Petroleum Development Company of Nigeria (SPDC), its U.K.-based parent company Shell plc, the Nigerian National Petroleum Corporation (NNPC), TotalEnergies of France, and the Nigerian Agip Oil Company (a subsidiary of Italy’s ENI). These corporations have devastated the livelihoods of communities like Odimodi, home to approximately 5,000 residents, by spilling crude oil, discharging toxic effluents, and gas flaring.

An oil spill in August 2022 in Odimodi exemplifies the ongoing environmental crisis which, in a decades-long pattern, led to significant habitat destruction and the loss of fishing and farming — the lifeblood of the community. The waterways remain heavily contaminated, forcing fishers to travel farther out to sea for diminishing catches, often at great personal risk. Exemplifying their powerlessness, one community member laments, “The fish we eat right now smell of crude in their intestines, smell of crude in their gills. And most times, we eat them because we have no option.”

Women bear the brunt of this ecological disaster as they face heightened poverty and are systematically excluded from decision-making processes to address the crisis. Despite these challenges, oil companies routinely deploy “divide and rule” tactics, using financial inducements to weaken community solidarity and obstruct meaningful action.

The impacts of these spills extend far beyond immediate economic losses. Odimodi residents lack access to clean water, and their farmlands have become infertile, plunging the community into deeper poverty. Health outcomes have deteriorated due to prolonged exposure to polluted environments. In one account, a community member says, “There are a lot of cases of asthma because of inhalation of the crude. There are a lot of skin diseases, a lot of miscarriages. This is documented evidence that you can find in the community health center.”

Meanwhile, Shell and its Nigerian subsidiary, which have operated in the region since the 1950s, are attempting to offload their onshore oil assets without adequately addressing the catastrophic environmental damage they caused. This is a recurring strategy to escape accountability while leaving behind rusting pipelines, leaky infrastructure and toxic landscapes.

Grassroots organizations such as the Community Development Advocacy Foundation (CODAF) and Environmental Rights Action/Friends of the Earth Nigeria (ERA/FoEN) are actively supporting communities like Odimodi by providing legal counsel and amplifying their voices in calls for justice. While the Nigerian Supreme Court recently permitted Shell to proceed with its asset sale, advocates demand the company fully remediate the land and waterways and compensate affected residents before exiting.

Odimodi’s plight exemplifies the deep inequalities and systemic failures perpetuated by transnational oil corporations and weak regulatory frameworks. As an activist from CODAF says, “Governments who are supposed to be regulators to regulate the activities of these oil industries [turn] blind eyes and deaf ears to the situation … the oil industry pays the bills of the regulators.” In this way, vulnerable communities are left to bear the devastating costs.

Pangkalan Susu, Indonesia

In the coastal community of Pangkalan Susu, the scars of industrial development run deep. Once a vibrant region supported by fishing, farming and mangrove forests, it is now grappling with the multifaceted impacts of the Pangkalan Susu coal-fired power plant. This facility not only pollutes the air and water but also erodes the social fabric and economic resilience of the community.

The plant’s operations have devastated local ecosystems and livelihoods. Coal ash is dumped without filtration into the air and water — covertly during the night, to evade detection — poisoning land and reducing farmers’ harvests by up to 75%. Fisherfolk, forced out of their traditional fishing grounds by armed security personnel, face the double burden of declining fish stocks and unsafe fishing conditions as they are pushed farther out to sea with inadequate equipment.

Respiratory illnesses and cancer are also on the rise, and many residents are forced to migrate to plantations or cities in search of work, leaving their homes and traditions behind. The power plant was commissioned by the state electricity company PLN and constructed in phases by Chinese firms Guangdong Power Engineering Corporation and Sinohydro, in partnership with Indonesian company PT Nusantara Energi Mandiri. Financing involved significant loans from the Export-Import Bank of China, while multiple coal suppliers from Indonesian Borneo and Sumatra profit from the plant’s operations.

Beyond environmental damage, community members face significant intimidation and threats. This climate of fear has silenced many, yet organizations like the Srikandi Lestari Foundation, a women-led organization, persist in their advocacy to push for accountability. In conversation with a community member and an activist from the foundation, they mentioned how “one of the members of Srikandi Lestari was almost killed while trying to collect proof and data for a report to the U.N. on illegal activities. He was crushed by a vehicle and left with a broken leg.”

Security forces working with the plant have suppressed protests, while whistleblowers risk losing their jobs, or worse. At the end of the conversation, the activist said that Srikandi Lestari continues campaigning for the power plant to be shut down and for greater accountability from the government and companies involved.

Meanwhile, promises of sustainability ring hollow. Efforts to rebrand coal-based operations as “clean,” such as by converting coal to synthetic liquid gas, fail to address the ongoing environmental and health crises. The broader context of national energy strategies further exacerbates the challenges. The Sarulla geothermal project, for example, has left nearby villages dry and barren from its siphoning of water for its operations, while displacing Indigenous Toba Batak families and labeling their land as “cursed” to justify its degradation.

Yet, amid these injustices, resilience emerges. In a project supported by the Srikandi Lestari Foundation, women in Pangkalan Susu have turned to the mangroves for solutions, using their abundance to create traditional sweets and snacks, reclaiming both a livelihood and a connection to the forest. This initiative symbolizes a quiet defiance and a commitment to preserving their cultural heritage.

The stories from Pangkalan Susu and Sarulla illustrate how industrial-scale energy projects extract more than resources; they also take the essence of local communities, leaving environmental ruin, social disintegration and cultural loss in their wake. Without meaningful interventions, these sacrifice zones will remain a harrowing testament to the human and environmental cost of unchecked development.

Global network of sacrifice zones

The stories of Tula, Antofagasta, Odimodi and Pangkalan Susu are not isolated; they are threads in a global tapestry of sacrifice zones where communities pay the price for industrial expansion. What ties these struggles together is not only the systematic exploitation they endure but also their resilience and determination to fight back.

To dismantle sacrifice zones, governments and corporations must prioritize people over profit, implement robust environmental safeguards, and respect the rights and autonomy of affected communities. These efforts must be paired with systemic changes to development financing, ensuring that projects serve the well-being of people and the planet, rather than perpetuating cycles of harm.

The fight for environmental justice is not just a struggle to protect land, air and water; it is a battle to reclaim futures stolen by greed and negligence. In their courage and perseverance, the people of Tula, Antofagasta, Odimodi and Pangkalan Susu light the way for communities to shape their own development outcomes.

Daniela Sepulveda is communications facilitator for the Coalition for Human Rights in Development based in São Paulo, Brazil.

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Citation:

Díaz-Quiñonez, J. A. (2023). Tula basin, the most polluted region in Mexico. Mexican Journal of Medical Research ICSA, 11(22), I-II. doi:10.29057/mjmr.v11i22.11093