India

This story also appears in the Global Post.

METTUR, India — The hot and humid South Indian community of Mettur in Tamil Nadu is a tangle of industry and nature.

Palm trees and factory chimneys tower over small farms. A giant dam cuts across a sacred river. The main manufacturer in town, Chemplast Sanmar, has been here for decades, producing refrigerant gases, industrial solvents and polyvinyl chloride for making plastics.

The company also churns out something more intangible: carbon credits.

Carbon credits, which serve as a cornerstone of the world's response to global warming, are a means by which a company can offset its carbon emissions. Under a United Nations program created by the Kyoto Protocol, they are awarded to companies in the developing world that reduce their greenhouse gases. They can then be sold to companies that face emissions restrictions in Europe, with each credit offsetting a metric ton of carbon dioxide.

The international carbon market has proven a financial success, generating hundreds of billions of dollars in transactions. Europe's trading system forecasts an environmental benefit, too: 21 percent lower emissions in 2020 compared to 2005. But some advocacy groups accuse the system of being too friendly to polluters and not doing enough for the environment.

Chemplast receives lucrative carbon credits for halting its release of an especially potent greenhouse gas. Chemplast has earned $10 million a year selling the credits to American and European companies, which in turn can use them to offset their own pollution.

Sounds like good news for Chemplast, but not to many of the villagers that live in Mettur.

They blame Chemplast for a slew of health problems. They say Chemplast's water and air pollution causes their breathing problems, rashes and stillbirths, and leaves their crops stunted and bitter.

They were outraged to learn that the company earns millions from the global effort to fight climate change.

Chemplast, which now claims a clean record, dumped wastewater into the river in Mettur for years and was previously cited for pollution violations.

Chemplast's carbon credit project highlights the conflict between the lofty environmental goals of the global carbon market and the sometimes-dirty reality on the ground. Should companies that have contaminated their local communities benefit from a system designed to reduce pollution?

It's a “tricky question,” said Michael Wara, a climate policy researcher at Stanford University. Wara points out that the U.N. system was created to help developing countries achieve sustainable development.

“You can certainly see that providing a lot of money to a facility that is polluting the neighborhood isn't sustainable development,” he said.

Others argue that the goal is reducing greenhouse gas emissions and that other pollution is beside the point.

But it's hardly irrelevant to 36-year-old Suseela, who like many South Indians uses only one name. Speaking in Tamil through a translator last summer, she took issue with Chemplast's carbon credits.

“I don't think the company deserves it. It's the people who actually need the support,” she said. “They are actually not controlling their pollution because here we have evidence that we are getting affected.”

Like many in Mettur, Suseela attributes all of her family's respiratory and reproductive problems to Chemplast. She said gas leaks from the company have sent her to the hospital and that the well water isn't drinkable. The oil from coconuts grown by her family can't be used for traditional hair treatments; it causes baldness.

Chemplast strongly denies polluting the area or causing any health problems.

“There are some groups who over the years have been continuously making false and motivated allegations against Chemplast,” the company stated in a written response to questions. “We can say with confidence that Chemplast adheres to the highest standards in managing the environment.”

Chemplast commissioned a health study by a local government medical college that lavished praise on the company and determined that it hadn't caused any health effects. The company also says it provides clean drinking water to the community as a “Corporate Social Responsibility initiative.” And the company points to a series of expensive improvements to decrease pollution, including a sophisticated treatment plant that eliminates all of Chemplast's liquid waste. Not one drop of wastewater, the company stated, has been discharged since September 2009.

Some of Chemplast's main improvements, however, were mandated years ago by the state pollution control board, according to records obtained through India's right-to-information law by activists. Since at least 2004, the state board repeatedly ordered Chemplast to stop pumping waste into the river, according to a GlobalPost review of hundreds of documents. The company finally stopped in Fall 2009, according to board documents.

Among other problems, board investigators had found hazardous chemicals like cancer-causing vinyl chloride in wastewater that Chemplast released into the river as recently as August 2009. The board also had found vinyl chloride in two village wells at levels far above U.S. drinking water standards.

The pollution board cited Chemplast for a chlorine gas leak in 2004 that sent numerous villagers to the hospital, and another leak in 2007. In 2008, the board ordered Chemplast to stop even minor releases, stating, “it is unfair on the part of the unit to discharge such quantity of Chlorine, as chlorine is toxic.”

Chemplast is responsible for “unsafe” levels of mercury, chloroform and vinyl chloride in the area, according to Mark Chernaik, staff scientist at Oregon-based Environmental Law Alliance Worldwide. Chernaik analyzed data from soil and water samples taken by activists in Mettur.

“Vinyl chloride does not occur naturally,” he said. “There’s no other plausible explanation for vinyl chloride in a water quality sample in Mettur other than that it has been released by Chemplast.”

But none of that technically matters for Chemplast's carbon credit project.

Since 2007, it has earned credits for incinerating HFC-23, a byproduct from its production of refrigerant gas. HFC-23 is 11,700 times more potent than carbon dioxide in causing global warming.

Without the incentive of carbon credits, the logic goes, Chemplast would release HFC-23 into the atmosphere. Chemplast says the incinerator cost $2.2 million.

Chemplast now earns twice as much from carbon credits as from selling the refrigerant gas, according to its annual report.

Indeed, HFC-23 carbon credits are controversial because they could provide a financial incentive to produce more of the refrigerant gas, which itself is bad for the atmosphere. Because of the criticisms, Europe recently banned HFC-23 credits from its cap-and-trade system, starting May 2013.

In 2008, Chemplast agreed to sell 3.2 million carbon credits over five years to a commodities trading company now owned by J.P. Morgan. Those credits were then re-sold to Western manufacturers like Boston-based Cabot Corporation.

Cabot is one of the world's biggest producers of the carbon powder that makes printer toner black and strengthens car tires. Goodyear is its top client. Cabot's European factories, which are bound to carbon caps, have used hundreds of thousands of Chemplast's carbon credits.

Chemplast and Cabot operate a joint venture in Mettur, but a Cabot spokesperson said Cabot didn't specifically intend to buy Chemplast credits.

It appears Cabot didn't need the credits to comply with emission caps — instead, the company made a profit by selling its own emission allowances at one price and buying the carbon credits for less.

In the international carbon market, everyone was making money.

But what about the villagers of Mettur?

Back in 2005, Chemplast had to consult “local stakeholders” as part of the U.N. process to certify its carbon credit project. The company convened a community meeting and reported that the invitees unanimously supported the project and expressed “full confidence and faith in the Company’s assurances.”

The international auditor reviewing the project didn't note any community opposition either. Yet earlier that year, a self-styled “people's tribunal” had conducted public hearings and issued a report accusing Chemplast of “irreparable damage to humans and the environment.”

The local farmers' group that has agitated against Chemplast for years took this reporter on a tour of alleged pollution victims last summer.

S. Mannadhan, a farmer wearing a white turban, showed off the smelly water from his well and said his corn and bananas are no longer edible. Bhagyalakshmi, a sari-clad woman whose husband works for Chemplast, says the company's nearby coal yard blows so much dust they all have breathing problems. A. Marimuthu, a village councilman wearing a traditional white sheet around his waist, displayed a rash on his arms. He and another village leader described a meeting last year where they said Chemplast officials offered bribes to silence their criticism.

Chemplast shoots down these allegations as “false and malicious.” The company accused some critics of attempting extortion, offering silence for lucrative contracts. It says groundwater analyses “by and large do not show any issues” -- there are one or two “supposedly contaminated” wells but the source of pollution is unclear. The company said it controls its coal dust and that hundreds of families live next to Chemplast without any health problems.

As for the gas leaks, Chemplast said a minor 2004 leak was blown out of proportion and that “disgruntled elements in Mettur continue to make similar unfounded allegations at regular intervals.”

This would all be a local dispute if it weren't for the carbon credits connecting Chemplast to the global emissions trade.

On the market, carbon credits are neatly packaged interchangeable units. But as the case of Chemplast shows, they come from real, sometimes complicated, places.

This story was supported in part by the Dick Goldensohn Fund for International Investigative Reporting at the Center for Investigative Reporting.

This story also ran in the Los Angeles Times.

Thousands of immigrants from India have crossed into the United States illegally at the southern tip of Texas in the last year, part of a mysterious and rapidly growing human smuggling pipeline that is backing up court dockets, filling detention centers and triggering investigations.

The immigrants, mostly young men from poor villages, claim to be fleeing religious and political persecution. More than 1,600 Indians have been caught since the influx began here early last year, while an undetermined number, perhaps thousands more, are believed to have sneaked through undetected, according to U.S. border authorities.

Hundreds have been released on their own recognizance or after posting bond. They catch buses or go to local Indian-run motels before flying north for the final leg of their months-long journeys.

"It was long ... dangerous, very dangerous," said one young man wearing a turban outside the bus station in the Rio Grande Valley town of Harlingen.

The Indian migration in some ways mirrors the journeys of previous waves of immigrants from far-flung places, such as China and Brazil, who have illegally crossed the U.S. border here. But the suddenness and still-undetermined cause of the Indian migration baffles many border authorities and judges.

The trend has caught the attention of anti-terrorism officials because of the pipeline's efficiency in delivering to America's doorstep large numbers of people from a troubled region. Authorities interview the immigrants, most of whom arrive with no documents, to ensure that people from neighboring Pakistan or Middle East countries are not slipping through.

There is no evidence that terrorists are using the smuggling pipeline, FBI and Department of Homeland Security officials said.

The influx shows signs of accelerating: About 650 Indians were arrested in South Texas in the last three months of 2010 alone. Indians are now the largest group of immigrants other than Latin Americans being caught at the Southwest border.

The migration is the "most significant" human smuggling trend being tracked by U.S. authorities, said Kumar Kibble, deputy director of Immigration and Customs Enforcement. In 2009, the Border Patrol arrested only 99 Indians along the entire Southwest border.

"It's a dramatic increase," Kibble said. "We do want to monitor these pipelines and shut them down, because it is a vulnerability. They could either knowingly or unknowingly smuggle people into the U.S. that pose a national security threat."

Most of the immigrants claim to be from the Punjab or Gujarat states. They are largely Sikhs who say they face religious persecution, or members of the Bharatiya Janata Party who claim to be targeted for beatings by members of the National Congress Party.

But analysts and human rights monitors say political conditions in India don't explain the migration. There is no evidence of the kind of persecution that would prompt a mass exodus, they say, and Sikhs haven't been targets since the 1980s. The Prime Minister of India, Manmohan Singh, is himself a Sikh.

"There is no reason to believe these claims have any truth to them," said Sumit Ganguly, a political science professor and director of the India Studies Program at Indiana University.

Some authorities think the immigrants are simply seeking economic opportunities and are willing to pay $12,000 to $20,000 to groups that smuggle them to staging grounds in northern Mexico. Kibble said smugglers may have shifted to the Southwest after ICE dismantled visa fraud rings that brought Indians to the Northeast.

Many Indians begin their journey by flying from Mumbai to Dubai, then to South American countries such as Ecuador or Venezuela, according to authorities and immigration attorneys. Guatemala has emerged as the key transit hub into Mexico, they said. The roundabout journeys are necessary because Mexico requires visas for Indians.

They sneak across the dangerous Guatemala-Mexico border and take buses or private vehicles to the closest U.S.-Mexico border. Mexican organized crime groups are suspected of being involved either running the operations or charging groups tolls to pass through their territory.

The Indians usually wade across the Rio Grande, then are shuttled from stash houses to transportation rings that take them north. David Aguilar, deputy commissioner of Customs and Border Protection, agency within the Department of Homeland Security, said he believes a high percentage are caught as soon as they cross the river.

"We very intensely interview, look at their backgrounds, check them against any watch list," Aguilar said, adding that although India is not considered a "special interest" source country for terrorists, the undocumented immigrants are closely scrutinized as if it is.

The detainees eventually claim asylum. In January, immigration court calendars at the area's two main detention facilities were full of Patel and Singh surnames, and attorneys and judges struggled to keep up. Some attorneys had failed to file the necessary forms; interpreters were not always available. Judge Keith Hunsuckle said more immigration judges would soon be assigned to handle the increased workload.

Many detained immigrants clear the first hurdle toward a full asylum hearing by convincing asylum officers they have a "credible fear" of persecution if they return to India. They can then post bond and move anywhere in the United States as long as they agree to appear for their next court date.

Not all show up, however. "That's why I won't take their cases anymore," said Cathy Potter, a local immigration attorney who helped about 20 Indians get freed on bond last year. "It undermines my credibility. I don't want anything to do with this."

It is not clear how many Indians have been granted asylum or deported; immigration officials did not fulfill requests for that information. Judges and attorneys appear to be toughening up, however. Bond amounts have risen sharply in recent months, and attorneys say asylum claims are increasingly being rejected.

Judge William Peterson raised doubts during a recent hearing when a 27-year-old Punjabi woman claimed she had been beaten and raped, her sari ripped off by several attackers. The petite woman, her long hair in a ponytail, said she was targeted because her husband was a driver for National Congress Party officials.

"I haven't heard you tell me anything that you did on behalf of the party that would irritate these people," Peterson said at the hearing held by video conference.

"We used to give help to the poor. They did not like that," she said. Peterson rejected her claim for a "credible fear" finding, deeming her story inconsistent with statements she made to the asylum officer. "They're going to kill me. They're going to rape me," she pleaded, wiping away a tear.

But hundreds of immigrants have persuaded asylum officers and judges to grant credible fear findings, clearing the way for bond hearings. Hunsuckle, an immigration judge at the Port Isabel Detention Center near Brownsville, set bond amounts ranging from $15,000 to $40,000 for 10 Indians one recent morning.

Most said they had relatives or friends in the U.S. willing to sponsor them, though the judge raised concerns about some. In one case, a young man said his sponsor was his cousin, a woman. But the faxed identification document of the cousin showed a picture of a man with a beard. The bond was set at $15,000.

Once released, the immigrants are transported to the Greyhound bus station in downtown Harlingen. One recent evening, 10 Indians crowded around pay telephones and the bus counter, struggling with limited English skills to arrange travel.

One young man paid for a $204, two-day bus ride to New York City. When the clerk asked his name, he handed over his detention facility ID wristband.

A young man wearing a turban asked the clerk for information on the next bus to Indiana. He spoke broken English and later tried to provide details about his journey, but other immigrants nudged him to keep quiet. The trip was worth it, he said, adding, "I'm happy, because it's safe" in the U.S.

Outside, motel operators offered to shuttle the men to their nearby quarters. Shoving matches between motel operators have broken out in recent weeks as they compete to fill their $44-per-night rooms with immigrants.

The Indians are largely unseen in the towns along the Rio Grande Valley, where they disappear into detention centers, stash houses or motel rooms. Some Sikhs have been confronted by locals alarmed by the sight of people wearing turbans, motel workers say.

Federal agents investigating human smuggling rings have visited at least one motel, America's Best Value Inn in Raymondville, workers said. General Manager Kevin Patel denied any wrongdoing.

He houses about 20 Indians per week, he said, shuttling them to and from the bus station, printing out airline flight boarding passes. He serves them meals in his motel apartment, often the first Indian food they've had in months, he said.

One recent guest, Bharat Panchal, 37, said he released from detention in late January after friends posted his $20,000 bond. India had become dangerous, he said, because of political unrest in his home state of Gujarat. He was flying later that day to Los Angeles to live with a friend, he said.

Patel said the sudden appearance of Indian immigrants in South Texas baffled him.

"When they first showed up, I scratched my head a little bit," Patel said. But he has opened his doors and makes the immigrants feel at home.

"They need a place to stay," he said. "They need food. They speak my language, so, of course, as a human being, I can help them out."

Richard.marosi@latimes.com
abecker@cironline.org

This report is published in cooperation with the nonprofit Center for Investigative Reporting in Berkeley, where Becker is a staff reporter.

In the Indian state of Goa, DuPont has been stymied for more than ten years in its efforts to build a new chemical factory by an increasingly boisterous opposition of farmers, craftsmen and environmental activists. Reporter Mark Schapiro investigates DuPont's efforts to promote itself as a refurbished 'company with a conscience' and the indigenous populations' efforts to combat it.