• How Climate Migration Will Reshape America. Millions will be displaced. Where will they go?

    August besieged California with a heat unseen in generations. A surge in air-conditioning broke the state’s electrical grid, leaving a population already ravaged by the coronavirus to work remotely by the dim light of their cellphones. By midmonth, the state had recorded possibly the hottest temperature ever measured on earth — 130 degrees in Death Valley — and an otherworldly storm of lightning had cracked open the sky. From Santa Cruz to Lake Tahoe, thousands of bolts of electricity exploded down onto withered grasslands and forests, some of them already hollowed out by climate-driven infestations of beetles and kiln-dried by the worst five-year drought on record. Soon, California was on fire.

    This article, the second in a series on global climate migration, is a partnership between ProPublica and The New York Times Magazine, with support from the Pulitzer Center. Read Part 1.

    Over the next two weeks, 900 blazes incinerated six times as much land as all the state’s 2019 wildfires combined, forcing 100,000 people from their homes. Three of the largest fires in history burned simultaneously in a ring around the San Francisco Bay Area. Another fire burned just 12 miles from my home in Marin County. I watched as towering plumes of smoke billowed from distant hills in all directions and air tankers crisscrossed the skies. Like many Californians, I spent those weeks worrying about what might happen next, wondering how long it would be before an inferno of 60-foot flames swept up the steep, grassy hillside on its way toward my own house, rehearsing in my mind what my family would do to escape.

    But I also had a longer-term question, about what would happen once this unprecedented fire season ended. Was it finally time to leave for good?

    I had an unusual perspective on the matter. For two years, I have been studying how climate change will influence global migration. My sense was that of all the devastating consequences of a warming planet — changing landscapes, pandemics, mass extinctions — the potential movement of hundreds of millions of climate refugees across the planet stands to be among the most important. I traveled across four countries to witness how rising temperatures were driving climate refugees away from some of the poorest and hottest parts of the world. I had also helped create an enormous computer simulation to analyze how global demographics might shift, and now I was working on a data-mapping project about migration here in the United States.

    So it was with some sense of recognition that I faced the fires these last few weeks. In recent years, summer has brought a season of fear to California, with ever-worsening wildfires closing in. But this year felt different. The hopelessness of the pattern was now clear, and the pandemic had already uprooted so many Americans. Relocation no longer seemed like such a distant prospect. Like the subjects of my reporting, climate change had found me, its indiscriminate forces erasing all semblance of normalcy. Suddenly I had to ask myself the very question I’d been asking others: Was it time to move?

    I am far from the only American facing such questions. This summer has seen more fires, more heat, more storms — all of it making life increasingly untenable in larger areas of the nation. Already, droughts regularly threaten food crops across the West, while destructive floods inundate towns and fields from the Dakotas to Maryland, collapsing dams in Michigan and raising the shorelines of the Great Lakes. Rising seas and increasingly violent hurricanes are making thousands of miles of American shoreline nearly uninhabitable. As California burned, Hurricane Laura pounded the Louisiana coast with 150-mile-an-hour winds, killing at least 25 people; it was the 12th named storm to form by that point in 2020, another record. Phoenix, meanwhile, endured 53 days of 110-degree heat — 20 more days than the previous record.

    For years, Americans have avoided confronting these changes in their own backyards. The decisions we make about where to live are distorted not just by politics that play down climate risks, but also by expensive subsidies and incentives aimed at defying nature. In much of the developing world, vulnerable people will attempt to flee the emerging perils of global warming, seeking cooler temperatures, more fresh water and safety. But here in the United States, people have largely gravitated toward environmental danger, building along coastlines from New Jersey to Florida and settling across the cloudless deserts of the Southwest.

    I wanted to know if this was beginning to change. Might Americans finally be waking up to how climate is about to transform their lives? And if so — if a great domestic relocation might be in the offing — was it possible to project where we might go? To answer these questions, I interviewed more than four dozen experts: economists and demographers, climate scientists and insurance executives, architects and urban planners, and I mapped out the danger zones that will close in on Americans over the next 30 years. The maps for the first time combined exclusive climate data from the Rhodium Group, an independent data-analytics firm; wildfire projections modeled by United States Forest Service researchers and others; and data about America’s shifting climate niches, an evolution of work first published by The Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences last spring. (See a detailed analysis of the maps.)

    What I found was a nation on the cusp of a great transformation. Across the United States, some 162 million people — nearly one in two — will most likely experience a decline in the quality of their environment, namely more heat and less water. For 93 million of them, the changes could be particularly severe, and by 2070, our analysis suggests, if carbon emissions rise at extreme levels, at least four million Americans could find themselves living at the fringe, in places decidedly outside the ideal niche for human life. The cost of resisting the new climate reality is mounting. Florida officials have already acknowledged that defending some roadways against the sea will be unaffordable. And the nation’s federal flood-insurance program is for the first time requiring that some of its payouts be used to retreat from climate threats across the country. It will soon prove too expensive to maintain the status quo.

    Then what? One influential 2018 study, published in The Journal of the Association of Environmental and Resource Economists, suggests that one in 12 Americans in the Southern half of the country will move toward California, the Mountain West or the Northwest over the next 45 years because of climate influences alone. Such a shift in population is likely to increase poverty and widen the gulf between the rich and the poor. It will accelerate rapid, perhaps chaotic, urbanization of cities ill-equipped for the burden, testing their capacity to provide basic services and amplifying existing inequities. It will eat away at prosperity, dealing repeated economic blows to coastal, rural and Southern regions, which could in turn push entire communities to the brink of collapse. This process has already begun in rural Louisiana and coastal Georgia, where low-income and Black and Indigenous communities face environmental change on top of poor health and extreme poverty. Mobility itself, global-migration experts point out, is often a reflection of relative wealth, and as some move, many others will be left behind. Those who stay risk becoming trapped as the land and the society around them ceases to offer any more support.

    There are signs that the message is breaking through. Half of Americans now rank climate as a top political priority, up from roughly one-third in 2016, and three out of four now describe climate change as either “a crisis” or “a major problem.” This year, Democratic caucusgoers in Iowa, where tens of thousands of acres of farmland flooded in 2019, ranked climate second only to health care as an issue. A poll by researchers at Yale and George Mason Universities found that even Republicans’ views are shifting: One in three now think climate change should be declared a national emergency.

    Policymakers, having left America unprepared for what’s next, now face brutal choices about which communities to save — often at exorbitant costs — and which to sacrifice. Their decisions will almost inevitably make the nation more divided, with those worst off relegated to a nightmare future in which they are left to fend for themselves. Nor will these disruptions wait for the worst environmental changes to occur. The wave begins when individual perception of risk starts to shift, when the environmental threat reaches past the least fortunate and rattles the physical and financial security of broader, wealthier parts of the population. It begins when even places like California’s suburbs are no longer safe.

    It has already begun.

    Let’s start with some basics. Across the country, it’s going to get hot. Buffalo may feel in a few decades like Tempe, Ariz., does today, and Tempe itself will sustain 100-degree average summer temperatures by the end of the century. Extreme humidity from New Orleans to northern Wisconsin will make summers increasingly unbearable, turning otherwise seemingly survivable heat waves into debilitating health threats. Fresh water will also be in short supply, not only in the West but also in places like Florida, Georgia and Alabama, where droughts now regularly wither cotton fields. By 2040, according to federal government projections, extreme water shortages will be nearly ubiquitous west of Missouri. The Memphis Sands Aquifer, a crucial water supply for Mississippi, Tennessee, Arkansas and Louisiana, is already overdrawn by hundreds of millions of gallons a day. Much of the Ogallala Aquifer — which supplies nearly a third of the nation’s irrigation groundwater — could be gone by the end of the century.

    It can be difficult to see the challenges clearly because so many factors are in play. At least 28 million Americans are likely to face megafires like the ones we are now seeing in California, in places like Texas and Florida and Georgia. At the same time, 100 million Americans — largely in the Mississippi River Basin from Louisiana to Wisconsin — will increasingly face humidity so extreme that working outside or playing school sports could cause heatstroke. Crop yields will be decimated from Texas to Alabama and all the way north through Oklahoma and Kansas and into Nebraska.

    The challenges are so widespread and so interrelated that Americans seeking to flee one could well run into another. I live on a hilltop, 400 feet above sea level, and my home will never be touched by rising waters. But by the end of this century, if the more extreme projections of eight to 10 feet of sea-level rise come to fruition, the shoreline of San Francisco Bay will move three miles closer to my house, as it subsumes some 166 square miles of land, including a high school, a new county hospital and the store where I buy groceries. The freeway to San Francisco will need to be raised, and to the east, a new bridge will be required to connect the community of Point Richmond to the city of Berkeley. The Latino, Asian and Black communities who live in the most-vulnerable low-lying districts will be displaced first, but research from Mathew Hauer, a sociologist at Florida State University who published some of the first modeling of American climate migration in the journal Nature Climate Change in 2017, suggests that the toll will eventually be far more widespread: Nearly one in three people here in Marin County will leave, part of the roughly 700,000 who his models suggest may abandon the broader Bay Area as a result of sea-level rise alone.

    From Maine to North Carolina to Texas, rising sea levels are not just chewing up shorelines but also raising rivers and swamping the subterranean infrastructure of coastal communities, making a stable life there all but impossible. Coastal high points will be cut off from roadways, amenities and escape routes, and even far inland, saltwater will seep into underground drinking-water supplies. Eight of the nation’s 20 largest metropolitan areas — Miami, New York and Boston among them — will be profoundly altered, indirectly affecting some 50 million people. Imagine large concrete walls separating Fort Lauderdale condominiums from a beachless waterfront, or dozens of new bridges connecting the islands of Philadelphia. Not every city can spend $100 billion on a sea wall, as New York most likely will. Barrier islands? Rural areas along the coast without a strong tax base? They are likely, in the long term, unsalvageable.

    In all, Hauer projects that 13 million Americans will be forced to move away from submerged coastlines. Add to that the people contending with wildfires and other risks, and the number of Americans who might move — though difficult to predict precisely — could easily be tens of millions larger. Even 13 million climate migrants, though, would rank as the largest migration in North American history. The Great Migration — of six million Black Americans out of the South from 1916 to 1970 — transformed almost everything we know about America, from the fate of its labor movement to the shape of its cities to the sound of its music. What would it look like when twice that many people moved? What might change?

    Americans have been conditioned not to respond to geographical climate threats as people in the rest of the world do. It is natural that rural Guatemalans or subsistence farmers in Kenya, facing drought or scorching heat, would seek out someplace more stable and resilient. Even a subtle environmental change — a dry well, say — can mean life or death, and without money to address the problem, migration is often simply a question of survival.

    By comparison, Americans are richer, often much richer, and more insulated from the shocks of climate change. They are distanced from the food and water sources they depend on, and they are part of a culture that sees every problem as capable of being solved by money. So even as the average flow of the Colorado River — the water supply for 40 million Western Americans and the backbone of the nation’s vegetable and cattle farming — has declined for most of the last 33 years, the population of Nevada has doubled. At the same time, more than 1.5 million people have moved to the Phoenix metro area, despite its dependence on that same river (and the fact that temperatures there now regularly hit 115 degrees). Since Hurricane Andrew devastated Florida in 1992 — and even as that state has become a global example of the threat of sea-level rise — more than five million people have moved to Florida’s shorelines, driving a historic boom in building and real estate.

    Similar patterns are evident across the country. Census data show us how Americans move: toward heat, toward coastlines, toward drought, regardless of evidence of increasing storms and flooding and other disasters.

    The sense that money and technology can overcome nature has emboldened Americans. Where money and technology fail, though, it inevitably falls to government policies — and government subsidies — to pick up the slack. Thanks to federally subsidized canals, for example, water in part of the Desert Southwest costs less than it does in Philadelphia. The federal National Flood Insurance Program has paid to rebuild houses that have flooded six times over in the same spot. And federal agriculture aid withholds subsidies from farmers who switch to drought-resistant crops, while paying growers to replant the same ones that failed. Farmers, seed manufacturers, real estate developers and a few homeowners benefit, at least momentarily, but the gap between what the climate can destroy and what money can replace is growing.

    Perhaps no market force has proved more influential — and more misguided — than the nation’s property-insurance system. From state to state, readily available and affordable policies have made it attractive to buy or replace homes even where they are at high risk of disasters, systematically obscuring the reality of the climate threat and fooling many Americans into thinking that their decisions are safer than they actually are. Part of the problem is that most policies look only 12 months into the future, ignoring long-term trends even as insurance availability influences development and drives people’s long-term decision-making.

    Even where insurers have tried to withdraw policies or raise rates to reduce climate-related liabilities, state regulators have forced them to provide affordable coverage anyway, simply subsidizing the cost of underwriting such a risky policy or, in some cases, offering it themselves. The regulations — called Fair Access to Insurance Requirements — are justified by developers and local politicians alike as economic lifeboats “of last resort” in regions where climate change threatens to interrupt economic growth. While they do protect some entrenched and vulnerable communities, the laws also satisfy the demand of wealthier homeowners who still want to be able to buy insurance.

    At least 30 states, including Louisiana, Massachusetts, North Carolina and Texas, have developed so-called FAIR plans, and today they serve as a market backstop in the places facing the highest risks of climate-driven disasters, including coastal flooding, hurricanes and wildfires.

    In an era of climate change, though, such policies amount to a sort of shell game, meant to keep growth going even when other obvious signs and scientific research suggest that it should stop.

    That’s what happened in Florida. Hurricane Andrew reduced parts of cities to landfill and cost insurers nearly $16 billion in payouts. Many insurance companies, recognizing the likelihood that it would happen again, declined to renew policies and left the state. So the Florida Legislature created a state-run company to insure properties itself, preventing both an exodus and an economic collapse by essentially pretending that the climate vulnerabilities didn’t exist.

    As a result, Florida’s taxpayers by 2012 had assumed liabilities worth some $511 billion — more than seven times the state’s total budget — as the value of coastal property topped $2.8 trillion. Another direct hurricane risked bankrupting the state. Florida, concerned that it had taken on too much risk, has since scaled back its self-insurance plan. But the development that resulted is still in place.

    On a sweltering afternoon last October, with the skies above me full of wildfire smoke, I called Jesse Keenan, an urban-planning and climate-change specialist then at Harvard’s Graduate School of Design, who advises the federal Commodity Futures Trading Commission on market hazards from climate change. Keenan, who is now an associate professor of real estate at Tulane University’s School of Architecture, had been in the news last year for projecting where people might move to — suggesting that Duluth, Minn., for instance, should brace for a coming real estate boom as climate migrants move north. But like other scientists I’d spoken with, Keenan had been reluctant to draw conclusions about where these migrants would be driven from.

    Last fall, though, as the previous round of fires ravaged California, his phone began to ring, with private-equity investors and bankers all looking for his read on the state’s future. Their interest suggested a growing investor-grade nervousness about swiftly mounting environmental risk in the hottest real estate markets in the country. It’s an early sign, he told me, that the momentum is about to switch directions. “And once this flips,” he added, “it’s likely to flip very quickly.”

    In fact, the correction — a newfound respect for the destructive power of nature, coupled with a sudden disavowal of Americans’ appetite for reckless development — had begun two years earlier, when a frightening surge in disasters offered a jolting preview of how the climate crisis was changing the rules.

    On October 9, 2017, a wildfire blazed through the suburban blue-collar neighborhood of Coffey Park in Santa Rosa, Calif., virtually in my own backyard. I awoke to learn that more than 1,800 buildings were reduced to ashes, less than 35 miles from where I slept. Inchlong cinders had piled on my windowsills like falling snow.

    The Tubbs Fire, as it was called, shouldn’t have been possible. Coffey Park is surrounded not by vegetation but by concrete and malls and freeways. So insurers had rated it as “basically zero risk,” according to Kevin Van Leer, then a risk modeler from the global insurance liability firm Risk Management Solutions. (He now does similar work for Cape Analytics.) But Van Leer, who had spent seven years picking through the debris left by disasters to understand how insurers could anticipate — and price — the risk of their happening again, had begun to see other “impossible” fires. After a 2016 fire tornado ripped through northern Canada and a firestorm consumed Gatlinburg, Tenn., he said, “alarm bells started going off” for the insurance industry.

    What Van Leer saw when he walked through Coffey Park a week after the Tubbs Fire changed the way he would model and project fire risk forever. Typically, fire would spread along the ground, burning maybe 50 percent of structures. In Santa Rosa, more than 90 percent had been leveled. “The destruction was complete,” he told me. Van Leer determined that the fire had jumped through the forest canopy, spawning 70-mile-per-hour winds that kicked a storm of embers into the modest homes of Coffey Park, which burned at an acre a second as homes ignited spontaneously from the radiant heat. It was the kind of thing that might never have been possible if California’s autumn winds weren’t getting fiercer and drier every year, colliding with intensifying, climate-driven heat and ever-expanding development. “It’s hard to forecast something you’ve never seen before,” he said.

    For me, the awakening to imminent climate risk came with California’s rolling power blackouts last fall — an effort to pre-emptively avoid the risk of a live wire sparking a fire — which showed me that all my notional perspective about climate risk and my own life choices were on a collision course. After the first one, all the food in our refrigerator was lost. When power was interrupted six more times in three weeks, we stopped trying to keep it stocked. All around us, small fires burned. Thick smoke produced fits of coughing. Then, as now, I packed an ax and a go-bag in my car, ready to evacuate. As former Gov. Jerry Brown said, it was beginning to feel like the “new abnormal.”

    It was no surprise, then, that California’s property insurers — having watched 26 years’ worth of profits dissolve over 24 months — began dropping policies, or that California’s insurance commissioner, trying to slow the slide, placed a moratorium on insurance cancellations for parts of the state in 2020. In February, the Legislature introduced a bill compelling California to, in the words of one consumer advocacy group, “follow the lead of Florida” by mandating that insurance remain available, in this case with a requirement that homeowners first harden their properties against fire. At the same time, participation in California’s FAIR plan for catastrophic fires has grown by at least 180 percent since 2015, and in Santa Rosa, houses are being rebuilt in the very same wildfire-vulnerable zones that proved so deadly in 2017. Given that a new study projects a 20 percent increase in extreme-fire-weather days by 2035, such practices suggest a special form of climate negligence.

    It’s only a matter of time before homeowners begin to recognize the unsustainability of this approach. Market shock, when driven by the sort of cultural awakening to risk that Keenan observes, can strike a neighborhood like an infectious disease, with fear spreading doubt — and devaluation — from door to door. It happened that way in the foreclosure crisis.

    Keenan calls the practice of drawing arbitrary lending boundaries around areas of perceived environmental risk “bluelining,” and indeed many of the neighborhoods that banks are bluelining are the same as the ones that were hit by the racist redlining practice in days past. This summer, climate-data analysts at the First Street Foundation released maps showing that 70 percent more buildings in the United States were vulnerable to flood risk than previously thought; most of the underestimated risk was in low-income neighborhoods.

    Such neighborhoods see little in the way of flood-prevention investment. My Bay Area neighborhood, on the other hand, has benefited from consistent investment in efforts to defend it against the ravages of climate change. That questions of livability had reached me, here, were testament to Keenan’s belief that the bluelining phenomenon will eventually affect large majorities of equity-holding middle-class Americans too, with broad implications for the overall economy, starting in the nation’s largest state.

    Under the radar, a new class of dangerous debt — climate-distressed mortgage loans — might already be threatening the financial system. Lending data analyzed by Keenan and his co-author, Jacob Bradt, for a study published in the journal Climatic Change in June shows that small banks are liberally making loans on environmentally threatened homes, but then quickly passing them along to federal mortgage backers. At the same time, they have all but stopped lending money for the higher-end properties worth too much for the government to accept, suggesting that the banks are knowingly passing climate liabilities along to taxpayers as stranded assets.

    Once home values begin a one-way plummet, it’s easy for economists to see how entire communities spin out of control. The tax base declines and the school system and civic services falter, creating a negative feedback loop that pushes more people to leave. Rising insurance costs and the perception of risk force credit-rating agencies to downgrade towns, making it more difficult for them to issue bonds and plug the springing financial leaks. Local banks, meanwhile, keep securitizing their mortgage debt, sloughing off their own liabilities.

    Keenan, though, had a bigger point: All the structural disincentives that had built Americans’ irrational response to the climate risk were now reaching their logical endpoint. A pandemic-induced economic collapse will only heighten the vulnerabilities and speed the transition, reducing to nothing whatever thin margin of financial protection has kept people in place. Until now, the market mechanisms had essentially socialized the consequences of high-risk development. But as the costs rise — and the insurers quit, and the bankers divest, and the farm subsidies prove too wasteful, and so on — the full weight of responsibility will fall on individual people.

    And that’s when the real migration might begin.

    As I spoke with Keenan last year, I looked out my own kitchen window onto hillsides of parkland, singed brown by months of dry summer heat. This was precisely the land that my utility, Pacific Gas & Electric, had three times identified as such an imperiled tinderbox that it had to shut off power to avoid fire. It was precisely the kind of wildland-urban interface that all the studies I read blamed for heightening Californians’ exposure to climate risks. I mentioned this on the phone and then asked Keenan, “Should I be selling my house and getting — ”

    He cut me off: “Yes.”

    Americans have dealt with climate disaster before. The Dust Bowl started after the federal government expanded the Homestead Act to offer more land to settlers willing to work the marginal soil of the Great Plains. Millions took up the invitation, replacing hardy prairie grass with thirsty crops like corn, wheat and cotton. Then, entirely predictably, came the drought. From 1929 to 1934, crop yields across Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas and Missouri plunged by 60 percent, leaving farmers destitute and exposing the now-barren topsoil to dry winds and soaring temperatures. The resulting dust storms, some of them taller than skyscrapers, buried homes whole and blew as far east as Washington. The disaster propelled an exodus of some 2.5 million people, mostly to the West, where newcomers — “Okies” not just from Oklahoma but also Texas, Arkansas and Missouri — unsettled communities and competed for jobs. Colorado tried to seal its border from the climate refugees; in California, they were funneled into squalid shanty towns. Only after the migrants settled and had years to claw back a decent life did some towns bounce back stronger.

    The places migrants left behind never fully recovered. Eighty years later, Dust Bowl towns still have slower economic growth and lower per capita income than the rest of the country. Dust Bowl survivors and their children are less likely to go to college and more likely to live in poverty. Climatic change made them poor, and it has kept them poor ever since.

    A Dust Bowl event will most likely happen again. The Great Plains states today provide nearly half of the nation’s wheat, sorghum and cattle and much of its corn; the farmers and ranchers there export that food to Africa, South America and Asia. Crop yields, though, will drop sharply with every degree of warming. By 2050, researchers at the University of Chicago and the NASA Goddard Institute for Space Studies found, Dust Bowl-era yields will be the norm, even as demand for scarce water jumps by as much as 20 percent. Another extreme drought would drive near-total crop losses worse than the Dust Bowl, kneecapping the broader economy. At that point, the authors write, “abandonment is one option.”

    Projections are inherently imprecise, but the gradual changes to America’s cropland — plus the steady baking and burning and flooding — suggest that we are already witnessing a slower-forming but much larger replay of the Dust Bowl that will destroy more than just crops. In 2017, Solomon Hsiang, a climate economist at the University of California, Berkeley, led an analysis of the economic impact of climate-driven changes like rising mortality and rising energy costs, finding that the poorest counties in the United States — mostly across the South and the Southwest — will in some extreme cases face damages equal to more than a third of their gross domestic products. The 2018 National Climate Assessment also warns that the U.S. economy over all could contract by 10 percent.

    That kind of loss typically drives people toward cities, and researchers expect that trend to continue after the Covid-19 pandemic ends. In 1950, less than 65 percent of Americans lived in cities. By 2050, only 10 percent will live outside them, in part because of climatic change. By 2100, Hauer estimates, Atlanta, Orlando, Houston and Austin could each receive more than a quarter million new residents as a result of sea-level displacement alone, meaning it may be those cities — not the places that empty out — that wind up bearing the brunt of America’s reshuffling. The World Bank warns that fast-moving climate urbanization leads to rising unemployment, competition for services and deepening poverty.

    So what will happen to Atlanta — a metro area of 5.8 million people that may lose its water supply to drought and that our data also shows will face an increase in heat-driven wildfires? Hauer estimates that hundreds of thousands of climate refugees will move into the city by 2100, swelling its population and stressing its infrastructure. Atlanta — where poor transportation and water systems contributed to the state’s C+ infrastructure grade last year — already suffers greater income inequality than any other large American city, making it a virtual tinderbox for social conflict. One in 10 households earns less than $10,000 a year, and rings of extreme poverty are growing on its outskirts even as the city center grows wealthier.

    Atlanta has started bolstering its defenses against climate change, but in some cases this has only exacerbated divisions. When the city converted an old Westside rock quarry into a reservoir, part of a larger greenbelt to expand parkland, clean the air and protect against drought, the project also fueled rapid upscale growth, driving the poorest Black communities further into impoverished suburbs. That Atlanta hasn’t “fully grappled with” such challenges now, says Na’Taki Osborne Jelks, chair of the West Atlanta Watershed Alliance, means that with more people and higher temperatures, “the city might be pushed to what’s manageable.”

    So might Philadelphia, Chicago, Washington, Boston and other cities with long-neglected systems suddenly pressed to expand under increasingly adverse conditions.

    Once you accept that climate change is fast making large parts of the United States nearly uninhabitable, the future looks like this: With time, the bottom half of the country grows inhospitable, dangerous and hot. Something like a tenth of the people who live in the South and the Southwest — from South Carolina to Alabama to Texas to Southern California — decide to move north in search of a better economy and a more temperate environment. Those who stay behind are disproportionately poor and elderly.

    In these places, heat alone will cause as many as 80 additional deaths per 100,000 people — the nation’s opioid crisis, by comparison, produces 15 additional deaths per 100,000. The most affected people, meanwhile, will pay 20 percent more for energy, and their crops will yield half as much food or in some cases virtually none at all. That collective burden will drag down regional incomes by roughly 10 percent, amounting to one of the largest transfers of wealth in American history, as people who live farther north will benefit from that change and see their fortunes rise.

    The millions of people moving north will mostly head to the cities of the Northeast and Northwest, which will see their populations grow by roughly 10 percent, according to one model. Once-chilly places like Minnesota and Michigan and Vermont will become more temperate, verdant and inviting. Vast regions will prosper; just as Hsiang’s research forecast that Southern counties could see a tenth of their economy dry up, he projects that others as far as North Dakota and Minnesota will enjoy a corresponding expansion. Cities like Detroit, Rochester, Buffalo and Milwaukee will see a renaissance, with their excess capacity in infrastructure, water supplies and highways once again put to good use. One day, it’s possible that a high-speed rail line could race across the Dakotas, through Idaho’s up-and-coming wine country and the country’s new breadbasket along the Canadian border, to the megalopolis of Seattle, which by then has nearly merged with Vancouver to its north.

    Sitting in my own backyard one afternoon this summer, my wife and I talked through the implications of this looming American future. The facts were clear and increasingly foreboding. Yet there were so many intangibles — a love of nature, the busy pace of life, the high cost of moving — that conspired to keep us from leaving. Nobody wants to migrate away from home, even when an inexorable danger is inching ever closer. They do it when there is no longer any other choice.

    https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2020/09/15/magazine/climate-crisis-migration-america.html?smid=tw-share

    Quelques cartes:

    #migrations_environnementales #USA #Etats-Unis #réfugiés_climatiques #climat #changement_climatique #déplacés_internes #IDPs

  • The Next Great Migration. The Beauty and Terror of Life on the Move

    The news today is full of stories of dislocated people on the move. Wild species, too, are escaping warming seas and desiccated lands, creeping, swimming, and flying in a mass exodus from their past habitats. News media presents this scrambling of the planet’s migration patterns as unprecedented, provoking fears of the spread of disease and conflict and waves of anxiety across the Western world. On both sides of the Atlantic, experts issue alarmed predictions of millions of invading aliens, unstoppable as an advancing tsunami, and countries respond by electing anti-immigration leaders who slam closed borders that were historically porous.

    But the science and history of migration in animals, plants, and humans tell a different story. Far from being a disruptive behavior to be quelled at any cost, migration is an ancient and lifesaving response to environmental change, a biological imperative as necessary as breathing. Climate changes triggered the first human migrations out of Africa. Falling sea levels allowed our passage across the Bering Sea. Unhampered by barbed wire, migration allowed our ancestors to people the planet, catapulting us into the highest reaches of the Himalayan mountains and the most remote islands of the Pacific, creating and disseminating the biological, cultural, and social diversity that ecosystems and societies depend upon. In other words, migration is not the crisis—it is the solution.

    Conclusively tracking the history of misinformation from the 18th century through today’s anti-immigration policies, The Next Great Migration makes the case for a future in which migration is not a source of fear, but of hope.

    https://www.bloomsbury.com/us/the-next-great-migration-9781635571998
    #adaptation #asile #migrations #réfugiés #mobilité #solution #problème #résilience #livre #changement_climatique #climat #réfugiés_environnementaux #migrations_environnementales #histoire #survie #crise #histoire_des_migrations

    ping @isskein @karine4 @_kg_ @reka

    • Climate migration is not a problem. It’s a solution.

      Climate migration is often associated with crisis and catastrophe, but #Sonia_Shah, author of “The Next Great Migration,” wants us to think differently about migration. On The World’s weekly look at climate change solutions, The Big Fix, Shah speaks to host Marco Werman about her reporting that considers how the world would be more resilient if people were given legal safe ways to move.

      https://www.pri.org/file/2020-08-21/climate-migration-not-problem-it-s-solution

      –—

      Sonia Shah parle aussi de #musique métissée, dont celle de #Mulatu_Astatke, qui n’aurait pas pu voir le jour sans la migrations de populations au cours de l’histoire :


      https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mulatu_Astatke

      #immobilité #fermeture_des_frontières

    • Migration as Bio-Resilience : On Sonia Shah’s “The Next Great Migration”

      DURING THE UNUSUALLY frigid winter of 1949, a breeding pair of gray wolves crossed a frozen-over channel onto Michigan’s Isle Royale, a narrow spit of land just south of the US-Canadian maritime border in Lake Superior. Finding abundant prey, including moose, the pair had pups, starting a small lupine clan. Over the next almost 50 years, without access to the mainland, the clan grew increasingly inbred, with over half the wolves developing congenital spinal deformities and serious eye problems. As the wolf population declined — scientists even found one mother dead in her den, with seven unborn pups in her — the moose population came thundering back, gobbling up and trampling the forest’s buds and shoots. The ecosystem’s food chain now had a few broken links.

      The Isle Royale wolf population was saved, however, by a lone migrant. In 1997, a male wolf made his way to the island. Within a generation — wolf generations are a little less than five years — 56 percent of the young wolves carried the newcomer’s genes. In the years since, thanks to ongoing conservation efforts, more wolves have been brought to the island to provide enough genetic diversity not only to save the wolves but preserve the ecosystem’s new balance.

      This is just one of many examples of the bio-benefits of migratory species provided by Sonia Shah in her new book, The Next Great Migration. Hers is an original take on the oft-stultifying debate about immigration, most frequently argued over by unbending stalwarts on opposite extremes, or sometimes quibbled over by noncommittal centrists. There are now more displaced humans than ever — around one percent of the total human population — and the climate crises together with humanity’s ceaseless creep are driving an increasing number of nonhuman species to search for more welcoming climes. That half of the story is popularly understood: the world is on the move. What is less often acknowledged, and what Shah convincingly fills out, is its biological necessity. “Migration’s ecological function extends beyond the survival of the migrant itself,” she writes. “Wild migrants build the botanical scaffolding of entire ecosystems.” Besides spreading pollen and seeds — upon which the survival of many plants depend — migrants also transport genes, thus bringing genetic diversity. Migration is not only a human fact but a biological one.

      But the understanding of migration’s critical import — whether broadly biological or specifically human — has been a long time coming.

      “The idea that certain people and species belong in certain fixed places has had a long history in Western culture,” Shah writes. By its logic, “migration is by necessity a catastrophe, because it violates the natural order.” The so-called “natural order” is actually a construct that has been buoyed for millennia by a broad coalition of scientists, politicians, and other ideologically inflected cavillers. As for the word “migrant,” it didn’t even appear in the English language until the 17th century — when it was coined by Thomas Browne — and it took another hundred years before it was applied to humans. One important migrant-denialist, as Shah details, was Swedish-born naturalist Carl Linnaeus, most famous for formalizing binomial nomenclature, the modern system of classifying organisms as, say, Canis lupus or Homo sapiens.

      Shah goes beyond Linnaeus’s contribution to taxonomy — which, notably, is itself subject to critique, as when essayist Anne Fadiman describes it as a “form of mental colonising and empire-building” — to illuminate his blinkered fealty to the dominant narratives of the day. More than just falling in line, he worked to cement the alleged differences between human populations — crudely exaggerating, for instance, features of “red,” “yellow,” “black,” or “white” skinned people. He sparred with competing theorists who were beginning to propose then-revolutionary ideas — for instance, that all humans originated in and migrated out of Africa. With the concept of the “Great Chain of Being,” he toadied to the reigning theological explanation for the world being as it was; this concept hierarchically categorized, in ascending order, matter, plants, animals, peasants, clergy, noblemen, kings, and, finally, God. To support his views, Linnaeus took a trip to northern Sweden where he “studied” the indigenous Sami people, all the while complaining of the climate and the locals not speaking Swedish. Robbing them of a few native costumes, he then freely fabricated stories about their culture and origins. He later tried to give credence to biological differences between Africans and Europeans by committing to the bizarre fantasy that black women had elongated labia minora, to which he referred using the Latin term sinus pudoris. The cultural backdrop to his explanations and speculations was the generally held view that migration was an anomaly, and that people and animals lived where they belonged and belonged where they lived — and always had.

      Ignorance — deliberate, political, or simply true and profound — of the realities of even animal migration went so far as pushing scientists to hatch myriad far-fetched theories to explain, for example, where migratory birds went in the winter. Leading naturalists at the time explained some birds’ seasonal disappearance by claiming that they hibernated in lakes — a theory first proposed by Aristotle — or hid in remote caves. Driving such assumptions was, in part, the idea of a stable and God-created “harmony of nature.” When some thinkers began to question such fixed stability, Linneaus doubled down, insisting that animals inhabited their specific climes, and remained there. The implication for humans was not only that they had not migrated from Africa, but that Africans — as well as Asians and Native Americans — were biologically distinct. This kind of racial essentialism was an important structural component of what would morph into race science or eugenics. Linnaeus divided Homo sapiens into Homo sapiens europaeus (white, serious, strong), Homo sapiens asiaticus (yellow, melancholy, greedy), Homo sapiens americanus (red, ill-tempered, subjugated), and Homo sapiens afer (black, impassive, lazy), as well as Homo caudatus (inhabitants of the Antarctic globe), and even Homo monstrosus (pygmies and Patagonian giants).

      “Scientific ideas that cast migration as a form of disorder were not obscure theoretical concerns confined to esoteric academic journals,” but, Shah writes, “theoretical ballast for today’s generation of anti-immigration lobbyists and policy makers.”

      Here Shah dredges up more vile fantasies, like that of the “Malphigian layer” in the late 17th century, which claimed that Africans had an extra layer of skin consisting of “a thick, fatty black liquid of unknown provenance.” While the Malphigian layer has been roundly dismissed, such invented differences between peoples continue to bedevil medical treatment: even today, black people are presumed to be able to tolerate more pain, and so it’s perhaps hardly surprising that more black women die in childbirth.

      The idea was “that people who lived on different continents were biologically foreign to one another, a claim that would fuel centuries of xenophobia and generations of racial violence.” Or, put more simply, Linnaeus and other believed: “We belong here. They belong there.”

      ¤

      “The classifications of species as either ‘native’ or ‘alien’ is one of the organizing principles of conservation,” Shah writes, quoting a 2007 scientific study in Progress in Human Geography. The implications of that dichotomous classification are harmful to humans and nonhumans alike, setting the stage for xenophobia and white anthropomorphism. As a case in point, the son of author and conservationist Aldo Leopold recommended in 1963, that US national parks “preserve, or where necessary […] recreate the ecologic scene as viewed by the first European visitors.” The idea of a pristine, pre-colonial era presumes an ahistorical falsehood: that humans and others left no trace, or that those traces could be undone and the ecologic scene returned to a static Eden. While many indigenous cultures certainly live less disruptively within their environment, in the case of both the Americas and Australia for example, the arrival of the first Homo sapiens heralded the swift extinction of scores of native species — in the Americas, woolly mammoths, giant sloths, saber-toothed tigers, camelops, and the dire wolf. Yet the pull toward preservation persists.

      In 1999, Bill Clinton established the National Invasive Species Council, which was tasked with repelling “alien species.” This move was an outgrowth of the relatively recently created disciplines of conservation biology, restoration biology, and even invasion biology. I recall being a boy in northern Ohio and hearing of the horror and devastation promised by the zebra mussel’s inexorable encroachment into the ecosystems of the Great Lakes. One invasion biologist, writes Shah, “calculated that wild species moving freely across the planet would ravage large swaths of ecosystems. The number of land animals would drop by 65 percent, land birds by 47 percent, butterflies by 35 percent, and ocean life by 58 percent.” And while the globe is certainly losing species to extinction, blaming mobility or migration is missing the mark, and buoying up the old “myth of a sedentary planet,” as she puts it.

      For millennia, humans had hardly any idea of how some species could spread. They had neither the perspective nor technology to understand that creepy-crawlies have creeped and crawled vast distances and always been on the move, which is not, in the big picture, a bad thing. Zebra mussels, for example, were not the only, or even the greatest, threat to native clams in the Great Lakes. Besides disrupting the local ecosystems, they also contributed to those ecosystems by filtering water and becoming a new source of food for native fish and fowl. Shah notes that Canadian ecologist Mark Vellend has found that “wild newcomers generally increase species richness on a local and regional level.” Since the introduction of European species to the Americas 400 years ago, biodiversity has actually increased by 18 percent. In other words, Shah writes, “nature transgresses borders all the time.”

      In her last chapter, “The Wall,” she tackles the immunological implications of migration. While first acknowledging that certain dangers do uncontrovertibly exist, such as Europeans bringing smallpox to the Americas, or Rome spreading malaria to the outer regions of its empire, she metaphorizes xenophobia as a fever dream. To be sure, wariness of foreign pathogens may make sense, but to guide foreign policy on such grounds or let wariness morph into discrimination or violent backlash becomes, like a fever that climbs beyond what the host organism needs, “a self-destructive reaction, leading to seizures, delirium, and collapse.” It’s like a cytokine storm in the COVID-19 era. As Shah told me, “the reflexive solution to contagion — border closures, isolation, immobility — is in fact antithetical to biological resilience on a changing planet.”

      ¤

      In 2017, a solo Mexican wolf loped through the Chihuahuan Desert, heading north, following a path that other wolves, as well as humans, have traveled for thousands of years. Scientists were especially interested in this lone wolf, known as M1425, because he represented a waning population of endangered Mexican wolves dispersing genes from a tiny population in Mexico to a slightly more robust population in the United States.

      Like the Isle Royale wolves, “[i]f the two wild populations of Mexican gray wolves can find and mate with each other, the exchange of genetic material could boost recovery efforts for both populations,” a New Mexico magazine reported. But the area where M1425 crossed the international boundary is now closed off by a border wall, and the Center for Biological Diversity counts 93 species directly threatened by the proposed expansion of the wall. This is what we should be worried about.

      https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/migration-as-bio-resilience-on-sonia-shahs-the-next-great-migration
      #bio-résilience #résilience

      signalé par @isskein

  • #ILO Global Estimates on International Migrant Workers – Results and Methodology

    If the right policies are in place, labour migration can help countries respond to shifts in labour supply and demand, stimulate innovation and sustainable development, and transfer and update skills. However, a lack of international standards regarding concepts, definitions and methodologies for measuring labour migration data still needs to be addressed.

    This report gives global and regional estimates, broken down by income group, gender and age. It also describes the data, sources and methodology used, as well as the corresponding limitations.

    The report seeks to contribute to the 2018 Global Compact for Safe, Orderly and Regular Migration and to achieving SDG targets 8.8 and 10.7.


    https://www.ilo.org/global/publications/books/WCMS_652001/lang--en/index.htm

    Le résumé:


    https://www.ilo.org/wcmsp5/groups/public/---dgreports/---dcomm/---publ/documents/publication/wcms_652029.pdf

    #OIT #statistiques #chiffres #monde #genre #âge #2017 #migrations #travailleurs_migrants #travail #femmes

    • Global migrant numbers up 20 percent

      Migrants of working age make up 4.2 percent of the global population, and the number is growing. A UN report notes how poorer countries are increasingly supplying labor to richer ones to their own detriment.

      There are 277 million international migrants, 234 million migrants of working age (15 and older) and 164 million migrant workers worldwide, according to a UN report.

      Figures for 2017 from the United Nations’ Department of Economic and Social Affairs (UN/DESA) published on Wednesday show that migrants of working age make up 4.2 percent of the global population aged 15 and older, while migrant workers constitute 4.7 percent of all workers.

      The numbers rose by almost 20 percent between 2013 and 2017 for international migrants, 13 percent for migrants of working age and 9 percent for migrant workers.

      Distribution

      Of the 164 million migrant workers worldwide, 111.2 million (67.9 percent) are employed in high-income countries, 30.5 million (18.6 percent) in upper middle-income countries, 16.6 million (10.1 percent) in lower middle- income countries and 5.6 million (3.4 percent) in low-income countries.

      From 2013 to 2017, the concentration of migrant workers in high-income countries fell from 74.7 to 67.9 percent, while their share in upper middle-income countries increased, suggesting a shift in the number of migrant workers from high-income to lower-income countries.

      The report noted that this growing number could be attributed to the economic development of some lower-income nations, particularly if these countries are in close proximity to migrant origin countries with close social networks.

      The share of migrant workers in the labor force of destination countries has increased in all income groups except for lower middle-income countries.

      In high-income countries, falling numbers of migrant workers were observed simultaneously with a higher share in the labor force as a result of the sharp fall in the labor force participation of non-migrants, due to a variety of factors such as changes in demographics, technology and immigration policies.

      “Stricter migration policies in high-income countries and stronger economic growth among upper middle-income countries may also contribute to the trends observed,” the report noted.

      Geography

      Some 60.8 percent of all migrant workers are found in three subregions: Northern America (23.0 percent), Northern, Southern and Western Europe (23.9 percent) and Arab States (13.9 percent). The lowest number of migrant workers is hosted by Northern Africa (less than 1 percent).

      The subregion with the largest share of migrant workers as a proportion of all workers is Arab States (40.8 percent), followed by Northern America (20.6 percent) and Northern, Southern and Western Europe (17.8 percent).

      In nine out of 11 subregions, the labor force participation rate of migrants is higher than that of non-migrants. The largest difference is in the Arab States, where the labor force participation rate of migrants (75.4 percent) is substantially higher than that of non-migrants (42.2 percent).

      Gender

      Among migrant workers, 96 million are men and 68 million are women. In 2017, the stock of male migrant workers was estimated to be 95.7 million, while the corresponding estimate for female migrant workers was 68.1 million.

      “The higher proportion of men among migrant workers may also be explained by...the higher likelihood of women to migrate for reasons other than employment (for instance, for family reunification), as well as by possible discrimination against women that reduces their employment opportunities in destination countries,” the report noted.

      It added that societal stigmatization, the discriminatory impacts of policies and legislation and violence and harassment undermine women’s access to decent work and can result in low pay, the absence of equal pay and the undervaluation of female-dominated sectors.

      Age

      Prime-age adults (ages 25-64) constitute nearly 87 percent of migrant workers. Youth workers (aged 15-24) and older workers (aged 65 plus) constitute 8.3 percent and 5.2 percent, respectively, of migrant workers. This age composition holds for male and female migrant workers alike.

      “The fact that the overwhelming majority of migrant workers consist of prime-age adults suggests that some countries of origin are losing the most productive part of their workforce, which could have a negative impact on their economic growth,” the report noted, but it added that emigration of prime-age individuals may also provide a source of remittances for countries of origin.

      Destination countries, meanwhile, benefit from receiving prime-age workers as they are increasingly faced with demographic pressures.

      Labor shortage in Germany

      Germany’s BDI industry association said skilled labor from abroad was key to Germany’s future economic success. “The integration of skilled workers from other countries contributes significantly to growth and jobs,” BDI President Dieter Kempf said.

      The country’s VDE association of electrical, electronic and IT engineering was the latest group in Germany to point to the growing need for foreign experts. Emphasizing that Germany itself was training too few engineers, VDE said there would be a shortage of 100,000 electrical engineers over the next 10 years.

      “We will strive to increase the number of engineers by means of migration,” VDE President Gunther Kegel noted.

      https://www.dw.com/en/global-migrant-numbers-up-20-percent/a-46596757

    • Al menos uno de cada cuatro movimientos migratorios son retornos a los países de origen

      Un estudio estima que entre el 26% y el 31% de los flujos de migración mundiales consisten en regresos a los lugares de partida. En los últimos 25 años apenas ha habido cambios en la proporción de población migrante mundial

      https://ctxt.es/es/20181226/Firmas/23708/ctxt-Observatorio-Social-La-Caixa-migracion.htm
      #retour_au_pays
      source: https://www.pnas.org/content/116/1/116

    • GLOBAL MIGRATION INDICATORS

      Préparé par le Centre mondial d’analyse des données sur la migration (CMADM) de l’OIM, le rapport 2018 sur les indicateurs de la migration dans le monde résume les principales tendances mondiales en fonction des dernières statistiques, présentant 21 indicateurs dans 17 domaines relatifs à la migration.

      Le rapport s’appuie sur des statistiques provenant de sources diverses facilement accessibles sur le Global Migration Data Portal.

      Le rapport regroupe les statistiques les plus récentes dans des domaines comme la migration de main-d’œuvre, les réfugiés, les étudiants internationaux, les envois de fonds, le trafic illicite de migrants, la gouvernance des migrations et bien d’autres, permettant aux responsables politiques et au grand public d’avoir un aperçu de l’ampleur et des dynamiques de la migration à travers le monde.

      Par ailleurs, le rapport est le premier à faire le lien entre le programme mondial de gouvernance des migrations et les débats sur les données migratoires. Les thèmes choisis sont particulièrement pertinents pour le Pacte mondial pour des migrations sûres, ordonnées et régulières et pour les Objectifs de développement durable (ODD). Le rapport fait un état des lieux des données sur chaque thème et propose des solutions pour les améliorer.

      « Bien que le Pacte mondial sur la migration et les ODD soient des cadres importants pour améliorer la façon dont nous gérons les migrations, des données plus précises et fiables sur les sujets relatifs à la migration sont nécessaires pour tirer parti de cette opportunité. Ce rapport donne un aperçu global de ce que nous savons et ne savons pas sur les tendances de la migration dans le monde », a déclaré Frank Laczko, Directeur du CMADM. 

      « La communauté internationale prend des mesures pour renforcer la collecte et la gestion des données sur la migration mais il reste beaucoup à faire. Une base de données solide est essentielle pour éclairer les politiques nationales sur la migration et seront plus que jamais nécessaires à la lumière du Pacte mondial pour des migrations sûres, ordonnées et régulières », a déclaré Antonio Vitorino, le nouveau Directeur général de l’Organisation internationale pour les migrations.

      https://www.iom.int/fr/news/loim-publie-un-rapport-sur-les-indicateurs-de-la-migration-dans-le-monde-2018

      –---------
      Pour télécharger le rapport :

      https://publications.iom.int/system/files/pdf/global_migration_indicators_2018.pdf

      Quelques éléments-clé :


      #indicateurs #femmes #travailleurs_étrangers #étudiants #réfugiés #migrations_forcées #étudiants_étrangers #remittances #trafic_d'êtres_humains #mourir_aux_frontières #esclavage_moderne #exploitation #smuggling #smugglers #passeurs #retours_volontaires #retour_volontaire #renvois #expulsions #IOM #OIM #économie #PIB #femmes #migrations_environnementales #réfugiés_environnementaux #catastrophes_naturelles #attitude #attitude_envers_les_migrants #opinion_publique #environnement

  • Réfugiés : une convention vaut mieux que deux tu l’auras

    On aurait d’un côté les réfugiés, fuyant la guerre, de l’autre des migrants venus chercher fortune ? La distinction, née après-guerre, ne résiste pas à l’analyse, d’autant qu’aux motifs politiques et économiques se conjuguent désormais les facteurs environnementaux. Mais il est urgent de n’y rien changer : sur elle, repose le droit international.

    http://www.revue-projet.com/articles/2017-06_gemenne_refugies-une-convention-vaut-mieux-que-deux-tu-l-auras
    #catégorisation #migrants_économiques #réfugiés #réfugiés #asile #migrations #terminologie #mots #vocabulaire #simplification #dichotomisation #dichotomie #migrations_forcées #migrations_volontaires #migrations_environnementales #migrations_climatiques #migration_politique #migration_économique #convention_de_Genève #convention_sur_les_réfugiés #François_Gemenne

    @sinehebdo @reka