Learning Objectives for this Chapter
After reading this Chapter, you should be able to:
- develop an introductory understanding of the sorts of topics that social scientists working in the area of environmental sociology typically explore, and
- develop skills to critically analyse approaches to understanding and managing our environment, drawing on different theoretical perspectives.
How do social scientists think about the environment?
Environmental sociology examines the interactions and interrelationships between society and the natural environment. According to Harper (in Hannigan 2014), the movement grew out of the ‘Limits of growth’ model, which was proposed by Meadows et al. (1972). The model drew attention to the fact that: “… the world’s finite… resources — timber, coal, oil — were being depleted at an alarmingly rapid clip and were in danger of running out. [The authors of the model] pointed to runaway population growth, uncontrolled industrial production and material consumption as the chief culprits” (Hannigan 2014: 3).
Fifty years on, the situation has worsened dramatically; the ways in which we live continue to have considerable and wide-ranging negative impacts on our environment. Climate change and global warming are now central features in most environmental debates and, while climate (and other) scientists play an important role in helping us to understand the extent of damage to the planet (e.g., atmospheric changes), social scientists also have a great deal to contribute. A sociological perspective is critically important, for example, in exploring how humans have contributed to and can also respond to the threats posed by environmental degradation and climate change. By making simple changes to the ways in which we live and organise our societies, it is possible to halt and even reverse the impacts of environmental degradation and climate change.
Think about how life might be different if we were to live in ways that recognised how deeply interconnected we are to the environment around us. For instance, how might this affect our work, families, cities, systems of government, economy and/or more?
As we’ve discussed in previous chapters, using our sociological imaginations is central to thinking critically about social ‘problems’ – including by thinking through both agency and structure, and how these interact. Going back to our earlier diagram (see right), it helps us to think about how relationships between the concentric circles of our nested lives play a role in both framing our understanding and responses to social problems. Drawing on our sociological imaginations is also critically important in environmental sociology. It helps us to think through the myriad ways in which we, as individuals, might change our behaviours, but also how social institutions and broader social structures can also influence and/or lead change. While individuals can play an important role, it is unlikely that we will see substantial improvements until we see significant shifts at the level of social structure — for instance, in key social institutions, like the economy.
Sustainable development goals
The notion of sustainable development arose in the 1980s and seeks to balance development across the ‘triple bottom line’ of social (‘people’), economic (‘profit’) and environmental (‘planet’) domains (Elkington 1997). For development to be sustainable, it must consider all three areas at once.
In 2000, countries across the world came together to develop a set of eight goals that sought to achieve sustainability in global development, as well as tackle global poverty. These were called the Millennium Development Goals (MDGs), and were later replaced with a more complex set of 17 Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) in 2015. The SDGs seek to (for example) end poverty, improve wellbeing (e.g. by achieving zero hunger, improving health care, and addressing other social determinants of health), promote peace and encourage sustainable living. However, in many industrialised societies, including Australia, concerns about the economy still tend to override concerns about people and the environment. This demonstrates (again) that solutions to social challenges require us to tackle deeply divisive questions about the kinds of societies we want to live in — questions that are tightly bound up with politics and power.
Watch the video below, which provides a quick explanation of how the SDGs came about.
Transitioning from the MDGs to the SDGs [3:02]
After watching the video, consider: while sustainable development is supposed to balance development across the social, economy and environmental domains, we frequently see businesses make decisions that prioritise profit over people and the planet. Before moving on, can you think of some examples where this is the case?
Reflection exercise: critiquing the SDGs
The SDGs are far from universally celebrated, and many have heavily critiqued the SDG approach. For a brief overview of some of these core critiques, read this short blog from the London School of Economics:
Hickel, Jason. 2015. ‘Five reasons to think twice about the UN’s Sustainable Development Goals‘. LSE Blog, September 23.
After reading the blog, do the following:
- Take a piece of paper and write down, in your own words, short summaries of the so-called ‘five reasons to think twice about the SDGs’.
- After writing your short summaries, reflect on these five arguments/critiques. Which critique do you think is strongest or most important? Why do you think so?
- Are there additional critiques of the SDGs that you think are missing from the short analysis provided in this blog?
Carbon trading is one means by which global carbon emissions can be reduced. Carbon trading essentially places a price on carbon emissions and thus, provides a financial incentive for companies to reduce their emissions over time. However, in her case study concerning Green Resources, Professor Kristen Lyons demonstrates how this kind of approach can also produce other unintended negative outcomes. This, again, draws out the crucial importance of using our sociological imaginations to think through how different responses to climate change can have varying impacts across our nested realities. Professor Lyons draws attention, for example, to the inequities in how we think about and respond to climate change — in particular, that those living in poverty are typically not responsible for climatic pollution, and yet tend to bear the burden of such impacts.
What is carbon trading?
To learn more about how carbon trading works, you might like to watch How Carbon Trading Works (YouTube, 2:43):
Reflection exercise: ‘whose responsibility is it to cool the planet?’
Watch Responsibility to cool a warming planet does not lie with the poor (YouTube, 16:46) below, which shows a TedTalk presented by Professor Kristen Lyons.
After watching the video, consider the following:
- How do the social sciences assist you to think more broadly about the causes and consequences of environmental issues?
- What are some of the drivers of the global carbon offset industry, and how effective do you think it is in addressing the global challenge of climate change?
Climate change amidst COVID-19
Research released in 2020 indicated that, as a result of the COVID-19 pandemic, “Global carbon emissions are likely to see their steepest fall… since the second world war” (Vaughan 2020). The below graph clearly illustrates this considerable drop.
It was expected, however, that these emissions would surge again during 2021, triggering calls for structural change to maintain co2 reductions (e.g. see Harvey 2020). This prediction was realised, with reporting indicating that carbon emissions had recovered again (Forster 2020). Forster (2020) reported that “Looking further ahead to 2030, simple climate models have estimated that global temperatures will only be around 0.01C lower as a result of COVID-19 than if countries followed the emissions pledges they already had in place at the height of the pandemic.” The global carbon monitor indicates that carbon emissions have, indeed, tended to track back upwards between 2020 and 2022.
Have a think about the above and then consider the following:
- What kinds of changes that occurred during the pandemic do you think would have contributed most to these drops in emissions?
- How might this help us to think about the way forward for reducing emissions in the post-COVID era?
Environmental extractivism, colonialism, and poverty
In considering the impacts of climate change, it is also crucial that we – as social scientists, using our sociological imaginations – understand how this contemporary social issue is also inflected by differing historical and political contexts. In this sub-section, we do this by considering the role of extractive industry (‘extractivism’ to use Professor Naomi Klein’s terminology) as part of colonial and neocolonial politics, and as being intimately bound up with contemporary experiences of poverty and exposure to climate change risks. Here, we draw on a case study of the island nation of Nauru from a recent book, Island Criminology (Scott and Staines, 2023). This text considers these cases through a ‘green criminology’ and critical theory lens.
The term ‘green criminology’ was first coined in 1990 (Lynch, 1990 ; Mahabir, 1990) and sought to draw attention to crimes committed against the physical and cultural environment. More than this, though, green criminology tends to expand the notion of ‘crime’ to include a kind of ‘harm-ology’ – that is, to consider not only harms to humans that may or may not be socially constructed as crimes, but also harm to the environment, to other species, and more (Shearing, 2015). It is only relatively recently, however, that green criminology has turned its attention more wholeheartedly towards the effects of environmental destruction on Indigenous peoples, including under colonisation (Lynch, Stretesky, & Long, 2018). Lynch et al (2018), for example, explore how Indigenous peoples have been caught up in a globalised, capitalist, and corporatised treadmill of production, and been subject to the exploitative extraction of natural resources from their territories (also see Bunker, 2005). Drawing on Klein (2015) , Morris (2019 , p 1123) explains:
Extractivism is the form of accumulation, associated with colonialism and imperialism, whereby territories, populations, and animal and plant life were rendered into commodities for the taking so as to enrich the world economic centres. It is also an ideological mindset of removing resources under the guise of ‘development’, ultimately benefiting wealthy countries at the expense of poorer ones. What is new about extractivism today is the expansion of corporations and non-government organizations into ever-growing resource frontiers globally.
Nauru and extractive (neo)colonialism
Nauru is situated in Micronesia, north-east of Australia, has a population of around 10,800 people and is about 21 km2 in size (World Bank, 2021). The island’s isolation and remoteness meant that it was protected from colonisation for a longer period than many other Pacific islands, though the late 1800s saw interest in the fertiliser trade ‘catapult … [Nauru] onto the international trading scene’ (Morris, 2019, p 1125). The island of Nauru, initially a German colony (from 1888, after Germany was gifted the island in the Anglo-German Declaration), became a League of Nations mandated territory in 1914, and was subsequently administered by Australia until it achieved independence in 1968 (Bray, 1930; Morris, 2019). Having been identified as a rich site of phosphorous in the late 1800s, it later became what Morris (2019, p 1125) refers to as an ‘Australian-run British Phosphate Commission Control’, with mining rights jointly held by Australia, New Zealand, and Britain (with the two former countries being settler colonies of the latter) (Bray, 1930). The Pacific Islands Company (later Pacific Phosphate Company [PPC]) began mining on the small island from 1906 (Pollock, 2014), and extractive mining soon became Nauru’s main industry, with the Australian, New Zealand, and British governments buying out the PPC in 1920 to establish in its place the British Phosphate Commissioners (BPC).
Nauru’s isolation and remoteness supported the monopolisation of its resources by these powers, and particularly Australia as administrator. As one Australian public servant, P. Deane, cited in Firth (1978, p 36), explained, it was ‘impossible … to estimate the enormous value of the island [of Nauru] to Australia … It not only ensures to the farmer, free of all outside interference and control, his full requirements of phosphates – but does so at cost price.’ Early representations of the role of mining in the small island nation were overwhelmingly positive, depicting residents as having been ‘saved’ and made rich through industrial development (Morris, 2019). For example: ‘[Pleasant Island, or Nauru] is … self-supporting and the natives [sic.], grouped for administrative purposes into fourteen districts, each presided over by a chief, play the role of rich land-owners, receiving both rents for their lands and royalties on each ton of phosphate shipped’ (Bray, 1930, p 1371).
As we turn to below, however, the reality was far different. A similar scene played out during the 20th century on Ocean Island – now part of the nation state of Kiribati, and Nauru’s closest neighbour being situated nearly 300 km to the east. Phosphate mining began on Ocean Island from 1900 and continued until 1980 (Teaiwa, 2015a), originally being enabled through what Firth (1978, pp 36–7) describes as a ‘scandal’, since ‘Albert F Ellis of the Pacific Islands Company persuaded two [Indigenous Banaba] chiefs to put their marks on a document giving the company the right to take Ocean Island phosphate for 999 years for the trifling sum of £50 a year’. As mining expanded on Ocean Island, the British administration acquired further land and eventually, in 1945, forcibly exiled the local Banabans to Fiji’s Rabi Island (Firth, 1978). Drawing on the examples of both Nauru and Ocean islands, Firth (1978, p 37) argues that at the time these mining industries were established, ‘governments were merely the agents of private companies, providing legality for whatever the companies wished to do’. And in contrast to the often-positive portrayals of industrial expansion on the islands, the influx of people and trade has instead wrought numerous devastating effects, while providing few if any returns.
In Nauru, new influxes of people, including indentured labourers, to support local mining brought previously unknown diseases, including leprosy from 1911 onwards (Bray, 1930). As an example of islanding within islands (Mountz, 2015), lepers in Nauru were subject to several isolation practices, including being exiled to a Nauruan lazaret and for the most severe of cases, on a ‘strip of the coastline, consisting of coral reef and foreshore [which] has been isolated, … well supplied with water and food-bearing trees … [and where] Discipline is maintained by two chiefs’ (Bray, 1930, p 1373). Nauru claimed independence in 1968 and subsequently nationalised the island’s phosphate mining operations, which resulted in the nation briefly claiming the second-highest Gross Domestic Product in the world during the 1970s (that is, after Saudi Arabia). Nevertheless, the phosphate reserves soon diminished and mining-related income dried up (Bambrick, 2018). Thus, in addition to the introduction of disease, phosphate extraction also failed to deliver promised wealth to Nauruans; instead, mining channelled extreme wealth away from Nauru and into the hands of administering states and corporations. Meanwhile, Nauruans received little to nothing in the way of income or compensation for the pillaging of their island’s finite natural resources, and the country subsequently found itself in bankruptcy, while also needing to deal with significant environmental destruction. As Pollock (2014, p 109) puts it, Nauruans have been left:
… with little land to live on, no local resources, limited finances, and a high level of dependency on outside agencies. They must import all necessities, including food and water, using whatever returns their resource has provided throughout the XXth century. Today, they have become dependent on outside aid to replace their denuded island’s wealth.
Bambrick (2018, p 273) explains that ‘Most of the island is [now] missing, leaving just a coastal ring, and pollution from mining has also devastated surrounding fisheries from polluted run-off.’ However, neither Nauru nor Ocean Island have received just compensation for the devastation caused by the histories of extractive mining that took place there. In Nauru’s case, a compensation claim was made to the International Court of Justice in relation to damage caused by phosphate mining while the nation was under Australian administration (1914–68), but no legal finding was made and the matter was instead settled out of court in 1993, with Australia agreeing to pay Nauru a mere $107 million total in compensation – about half in a lump sum, and the remaining portion over a 20-year period (Maclellan, 2013). While the payment was intended to finance the island’s environmental rehabilitation, this has not occurred (Gale, 2016). Moreover, the final remaining reserves of phosphate continue to be mined on the island, with ongoing involvement by Australian mining companies. The operations of one Australian mining company on Nauru also recently attracted the attention of the Australian Federal Police, who found it had used inducements to secure political support for its continued mining operations (Dinnen & Walton, 2016). Meanwhile, Nauru’s position as a severely depleted remote island, in need of external aid for survival, has been used to explain its subsequent take up of the Australian government’s ‘most recent industrial package’, which has seen it shift to a new industry of refugee detention from 2001 onwards, beginning with the Australian government’s ‘Pacific Solution’ policy (Morris, 2019, p 1126; also McClellan, 2013).
The primary industry on the island has subsequently shifted in a relatively short space of time, from mining to refugee processing – again on behalf of and benefiting Australia, and arguably representing a kind of neo-colonial extractivism (Morris, 2019). The 2001 Australia–Nauru agreement resulted in an immediate influx of funding into the small island to create a new ‘industry’, which – Morris (2019) argues – saw asylum seekers replacing phosphate as the commodity of interest. Morris’ (2019, p 1122) description of the physical legacies of this shift is palpable:
Nauru’s phosphate cantilevers went unrepaired, testament to the residues of a past resource economy in phosphate extraction. Piles of fertilizer component lay in loading warehouses, unfeasible for export to earmarked Australian and Asian destinations due to long-overdue repairs to Nauru’s loading bay. The country’s landscapes lay pockmarked, mined in a panic of dwindling availability. But three refugee processing centres [now] crowned the country, gleaming from in between dilapidated phosphate extraction fields …
The impacts of these dovetailing extractive industries are arguably amplified in Nauru because of the limited local resources available to those living on the small island; that is, the size and isolation of the island, coupled with the devastating impacts of colonialism, arguably worked together to seal its fate. Moreover, the isolation and small size of Nauru enables its border to be more carefully administered, while also creating a site of exception where lines of legality are blurred (Agamben, 2005). In some instances, the exceptionalism of this island space has protected Australian political and commercial interests, while at other times it has fostered and protected those engaged in corruption within Nauru itself, including Australian businesses and Nauruan nationals. In the case of refugee detention, Nauru’s relative isolation is also helpful in keeping most of the horrors of Australian asylum seeker policy hidden from view, and – because they are detained offshore – these asylum seekers also have no official recourse to appeal decisions on their refugee status determinations under Australian law. This essentially enables Australia to openly contravene its obligations under multiple international conventions, which has resulted in widespread criticism on the international stage. For example, the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) has repeatedly drawn attention to the poor conditions of Australia’s offshore detention centres, including in Nauru, Christmas, and Manus islands, and called for an end to Australia’s offshore processing policies (UNHCR, 2018), with other national and international advocacy groups doing the same (Amnesty International, 2016; Human Rights Watch, 2021; Refugee Council of Australia, 2021).
Meanwhile, the Nauruan government has staunchly protected Australian political interests by frequently disallowing visas to journalists and researchers who are unsympathetic to the operation of its detention centres (Davidson, 2018). The few stories that have emerged, however, indicate that asylum seekers’ human rights are frequently violated in Nauruan detention, with Amnesty International referring to Nauru in its 2016 report as an ‘island of despair’ and documenting multiple horrific stories of actual and attempted suicides, including by children. According to Walton and Dinnen (2020 , p 530), Nauru not only benefits from this arrangement by maintaining Australian funding to run the detention centre, but also in terms of gaining leverage in its relations with Australia. The authors argue that this has subsequently ‘constrain[ed] … critical responses [by Australian authorities] to the alleged involvement of local [Nauruan] political actors in organised crime’ (Walton & Dinnen, 2020 , p 530). In multiple senses, therefore, Nauru’s island isolation establishes it as an exceptional site where the horrors of Australia’s layered extractivism go relatively unnoticed, and whereby Australia can thus escape accountability for its actions.
Since 2015, refugees have no longer been officially ‘detained’ within the Nauru detention facility, but instead able to experience a level of freedom (within island containment) in an ‘open centre’. Thus, Nauru has been described as an ‘open air prison that people cannot leave [due to its isolation], even when they have been officially recognised as refugees’ (Amnesty International, 2016, p 5). The detention of refugees under administrative (rather than judicial) arrangements means that they have no certainty about time frames for when their cases might be finalised, or when they might be able to leave the island. One Iranian refugee (in Amnesty International, 2016, p 22) who had been granted refugee status, and released to live ‘freely’ on Nauru, stated:
Now, the walls have changed, but nothing else. The situation is worse than in the camp [at the Refugee Processing Centre]. Before we were at least waiting, hoping that once we have the refugee status things will change, but now we understand that it doesn’t give us any freedom either. It is worse than a prison, because we have no idea how long we are in for and when we can get released.
The walls of the detention centre prison had been merely swapped out, in this refugee’s view, for the boundaries of the isolated island itself, which was experienced as dangerous and threatening. In this way, refugees on Nauru appear to experience ‘pains of freedom’ (Shammas 2014) in the form of uncertainty and (limited) exposure to freedom, without actually being free. They are trapped in a state of island-bound limbo; essentially stateless and homeless (Amnesty International, 2016).
The case of Nauru raises significant questions about social and distributive justice. Indeed, the sum of the past few centuries of ever-intensified industrialisation, (neo)colonialism, and extractivism, especially the burning of extracted coal, has been to create the looming disaster of climate change. It has repeatedly been pointed out that this event is far more likely to negatively impact the world’s poorest peoples and countries before anyone else. In particular, it is island states (and non-governing island entities) that are consistently at greatest threat from rising seawaters Mountz, 2015). These are sites ‘where the impacts of climate change will be experienced early and dramatically’ (Mountz, 2015, p 643); ‘Sovereign archipelago atoll states – Tuvalu, Marshall Islands, Kiribati [for example] – face comprehensive drowning with even a modest rise in sea level’ (Baldacchino, 2016, p 98). As a Pacific island located nearby these archipelago atoll states, Nauru will also be significantly affected as climate change predictions come to fruition. While Nauru (and other islands) bear the brunt of a warming planet, the negative social and economic impacts of resource extraction discussed above will be layered upon the negative effects of climate change, significantly lowering resilience and affecting long-term health, wellbeing, security, and survival (Bambrick, 2018; Holley et al, 2018).
Bambrick (2018) argues that, in relation to Pacific Island communities, (re)building resilience to climate change should entail a series of first- and second-order strategies that would see healthcare systems and other critical institutions strengthened, as well as promoting a shift away from extractivist capitalism and towards ‘climate compatible’ development that is community-led and promotes economic inclusion and security (also see Holley et al, 2018). For instance, she argues that sustainable tourism and carbon capture (for example, regeneration of forest regions to construct global carbon sinks) are potential alternatives that could be pursued (Bambrick, 2018). Nevertheless, although alternative industries like tourism and carbon offsets offer different avenues for island economies, they do not address the capitalist and consumptive structures and mindsets that continue to underlie the global climate change crisis in the Age of Anthropocene. In particular, carbon capture has been critiqued as a means of simply underwriting the continuation of extractive capitalism (as discussed earlier in this chapter), while making it more politically palatable – a form of ‘greenwashing’ (Klein, 2015). In contrast, a more fundamental change is arguably needed to avert the climate disaster, which would see a dramatic shift in the way that Western capitalism engages with and commodifies both people and the environment.
In this regard, there is much to learn from Indigenous philosophies and practices. As Holley et al (2018, p 191, emphasis added) point out, during the Holocene (about 12,000 years after the last Ice Age), many Indigenous peoples across the globe lived with ‘conceptions and rules that recognized our interconnectedness with the natural world’, while ‘many in the Global North barely glimpsed, or did not fully understand or acknowledge … that Nature constituted our biophysical security’. An initial step towards a more ecologically ‘just’ future might entail, for example, re-engaging with Western notions of time and space, which are typically conceived of as linear and fixed: signalling a beginning and (inevitable) end. For some Indigenous cultures, however, time is non-linear and not even circular. As Apalech (Wik) man from northern Australia, Tyson Yunkaporta (2019, pp 44–6), explains in relation to what he refers to as ‘First Law’:
It all comes out from that central point of impact, that big bang expanding and contracting, breathing out and in, no start and finish but a constant state where past, present and future are all one thing, one time, one place. Every breath ever taken is still in the air to breathe. I breathe the breaths of the Ancestors, and everybody else’s too … This is a sustainable system. Nothing is created or destroyed; it just moves and changes, and this is the First Law. Creation is in a constant state of motion, and we must move with it as the custodial species or we will damage the system and doom ourselves.
Arguably, a dramatic shift would arise if the planet were to be viewed through this lens by the colonising and corporate powers that have been primary architects of its destruction. Indeed, this kind of ‘long’ time represents a break from the short-termism that so often characterizes extractivist mindsets and endeavours. Surely also, human interaction with the lands and seas would change if all understood that, as a ‘custodial species’, we are nevertheless inseparable from (and thus, not in a position to dominate or commodify) the lands, seas, skies, and living organisms that reside within (Yunkaporta, 2019). In the broader research literature, these views are most often described as forms of environmental stewardship, which seek to protect, restore, and sustainably manage/utilize lands, seas, and the resources they hold, either explicitly or implicitly building on Indigenous ontologies and knowledges (Ens et al, 2016; Bennett et al, 2018). As radical (and subsequently, critical) criminology has long argued, a different valuing of natural and human resources would also perhaps contribute to reducing poverty, increasing social cohesion, and reducing crime. More than this, though, Holley et al (2018, p 186) ask how legal, security, and criminological scholarship in the Age of the Anthropocene can grapple with the question: ‘how [can] humanity secure itself from itself?’ By breaking down the socially constructed boundaries between humans, other species, and the planet – that is, (re-)embracing Indigenous ontologies that see this inseparability as simply part of life – legal scholars, criminologists, and others might conceive of the environment and other species that live within as additional ‘beings’ that are also deserving of respect and protection, possibly through conferral of legal rights (Holley et al, 2018). This also potentially paves the way for a green criminology that focuses on the interwoven security of both people and planet (Cao & Wyatt, 2016). As shown above, the actions of colonial and corporate extractivism have had disastrous effects for both island environments and peoples. Conversely, the world’s islands will be (and are) among the earliest and most significant beneficiaries of stewardship alternatives. In this respect, the places and spaces of islands in this emerging green criminology demand ongoing consideration.
Reflection exercise: Extractivism and justice for Nauru
After reading the above section about extractivism and (neo)colonialism in Nauru, consider the following:
- Think about the SDGs (described earlier), including the critiques of the SDGs described in the blog by Jason Hickel (referred to earlier in the chapter). How might an SDG approach respond to the situation in Nauru?
- Which, if any, of Hickel’s critiques of the SDGs might be borne out through the case study of Nauru?
- What approach do you think should be taken to restoring justice to the island nation of Nauru, and why?
Resources to support further learning
- Hannigan, J. 2014. Planet in peril. In. Environmental Sociology. Routledge: London and New York.
- Cumpston, Z. 2020. To address the ecological crisis, Aboriginal peoples must be restored as custodians of Country. The Conversation.
- Butzer, K. 2011. Collapse, environment, and society. PnAS, 109(10): 3632-3639.
- Candell, P. et al. 2020. ‘Global emissions are down by an unprecedented 7% — but don’t start celebrating just yet.’ The Conversation, December 11.
- Forster, P. 2021. ‘Covid-19 paused climate emissions – but they’re rising again.’ BBC Future, March 15.
- Maclellan N., ‘What has Australia done to Nauru?’, Overland (No. 212, spring 2013).
- Scott, J. and Staines, Z. 2023. Island Criminology. Bristol University Press.
- Tsinghua University, Laboratoire des sciences du climat & de l’environnement (LSCE), University of California, and Chinese Academy of Sciences. 2022. Global carbon monitor, real-time carbon monitoring ‘evolution’ map. Available at Carbon monitor.