Thursday, 24 December 2009

Open Letter to Chevron

An open letter from Amazon Watch to the incoming Chairman and CEO of Chevron, Mr. John S. Watson:

Dear Mr. Watson:

I write to you on behalf of Amazon Watch to express our hope that as Chief Executive of Chevron Corporation you will have the fortitude and vision to genuinely address the most painful and immediate challenge facing your company - the Ecuador disaster.

Our hope is that you will not miss this critical opportunity to resolve the human and environmental tragedy in Ecuador and transform Chevron into the responsible 21st century energy company professed in 'The Chevron Way' and in your 'Human Energy' advertising campaigns.

Your company is currently facing a $27.3 billion financial liability in Ecuador. We ask that you reflect on Chevron's handling of the Ecuador situation over the course of the last decade. You should remember Chevron's Annual General Shareholder Meeting in April 2001 - on the eve of the Texaco acquisition - when I delivered to your company a binder, titled "El Dorado," with more than 500 pages of comprehensive evidence documenting Texaco's massive environmental contamination in the Ecuadorian Amazon. At that meeting, I warned Chevron that by acquiring Texaco the company would not only take on the moral responsibility of rectifying the tragedy in the Amazon, but also assume a very costly financial liability.

Despite increasing shareholder and analyst concern, the growing public demand that Chevron take responsibility for its actions in Ecuador, and the resulting multi-billion liability they have spawned, Amazon Watch has witnessed your company pursue an expensive, ethically questionable, and counterproductive policy with regard to the Ecuador case.

Mr. Watson, as you surely know, the situation on the ground is dire. Thousands of acres of once pristine rainforest have been devastated by oil pollution. More than 30,000 indigenous peoples and campesinos have been left without clean water to drink. Children play beside toxic waste pits. Young women have been ravaged by stomach and uterine cancer due to poisoned water. As you are well aware, Texaco has admitted to having deliberately released 18 billion gallons of toxic wastewater into the waterways of the Ecuadorian Amazon, and to having left hundreds of abandoned unlined pits filled with crude oil and poison sludge over the course of more than two decades of oil operations. And now, as a direct result, a devastating public health crisis has consumed the region.

We are keenly attuned to Chevron's public relations strategy with respect to this matter. The basic approach is to consistently blame the contamination of the Amazon on Petroecuador, Ecuador's National Oil Company. Petroecuador's poor record of environmental stewardship - largely because it has used an oil production system built by Texaco and designed to pollute - does not diminish Texaco's responsibility for catastrophic contamination from 1964 to 1990. Texaco's deliberate dumping dwarfs any subsequent pollution. Rather than continuing to shift the blame to Petruecuador, it is time for Chevron to assume the responsibility for Texaco's legacy in Ecuador.

To remind you of Texaco's unethical practices in the 1970's, we have attached here a confidential memorandum from the Chairman of the Texaco Board of Directors to the Acting Manager of Texaco in Ecuador in 1972. The memo instructs the staff only to report "major events as per Oil Spill Response Plan" if they attract "the attention of press and/or regulatory authorities" and goes on to instruct: "no reports are to be kept on a routine basis and all previous reports to be removed...and destroyed." We trust that as the incoming CEO of Chevron, you do not condone this kind of denial, neglect and obfuscation made plain in the 1972 Texaco memo. We are interested in hearing your position on the matter.

Furthermore, and perhaps most importantly, it is our understanding that you have never been to Ecuador, Mr. Watson. It is of great concern to us, and should be to you, that the information and advice provided to Chevron senior management since the Texaco acquisition has lacked integrity and independence. We do not believe that a well-informed and responsible senior management team could reasonably pursue the current "blind fight" legal and public relations strategy if it indeed possessed accurate information. Consequently, and with the best intentions, we would like to invite you to visit the affected region of Ecuador in the sincere hope that seeing the abandoned toxic waste pits and poisoned waters and hearing the innumerable stories of human suffering will move you to do the right thing.

Until Chevron takes meaningful steps to resolve this case, it will continue to play out in the courts of Ecuador, as well as in the global court of public opinion. You have a choice between allowing the ongoing suffering and environmental devastation in Ecuador to tarnish your company's reputation, or providing a bold example of 'The Chevron Way,' which states "We respect the law, support universal human rights, protect the environment, and benefit the communities where we work."

Rather than continue to battle the communities that have already paid a heavy price to enrich Chevron, we believe you have an opportunity to help bring an end to their decades of needless suffering.

We don't make these suggestions lightly or symbolically; we appeal to you to resolve this human and environmental tragedy, and lead Chevron into a new era of meaningful corporate social responsibility.

We look forward to your response.


Atossa Soltani

Executive Director
Amazon Watch

Wednesday, 23 December 2009

"I'm here to represent my child"

An English activist who marched on the Reclaim Power action in Copenhagen on 16th Dec 2009 explains why he did it.

Monday, 21 December 2009

Cop Out Camp Out

Climate Campers swooped on the centre of Copenhagen to protest against the Hopenhagen campaign which activists claim is symbolic of the greenwash clouding talks at the climate summit.

Fifty odd demonstrators sprang the surprise protest at City Hall Square shortly after seven on Thursday evening. The Hopenhagen campaign has taken over the square to provide a space for people to call for a fair deal at the CoP15 talks.

However, one of the main sponsors of the event is Coca Cola who recently launched a PR campaign focusing on water use despite continuing to steal vast quantities of water from communities in India to feed their thirsty factories.

The protest was also an act of solidarity with activists who have been camped out in London for the duration of the talks in an effort to draw attention to the false solutions being discussed in the Bella Center.

The action began when a number of activists set up their pop up tents beneath the giant spherical video screen at the heart of the Hopenhagen arena.

Police initially asked questions before trying to stop more tents being erected but overwhelmed by the influx of further demonstrators retreated and called for support.

Activists formed a human chain around the few tents and sang chants such as "Our climate, not your business!".

Minutes later a senior officer arrived but somewhat surprisingly announced that campers were free to stay for up to an hour despite having no permission. A quick consensus decision was taken in the group and police agreed to let people stay until midnight and the tents stay until 2.00am.

Shortly after, activists walked over to the glass TV2 television studio and held up banners outside during a live broadcast.

By 11:30pm only a few activists remained alongside their tents and they were reportedly driven back to the crash space in Vestvolden by police after midnight.

Thursday, 17 December 2009

Reclaim the Power - Inside the Bella Centre

Janneke Romijn of the Global Forest Coalition explains what happened inside the Bella Centre during the Reclaim the Power action on 16th Dec 2009.

Tuesday, 15 December 2009

Night in the cells

Music from the party, before the police raided/

Monday 14th December, 2009

Throughout the week, the autonomous community of Christiania has been host to a large marquee laying on food and providing entertainment and workshops for activists. On Monday night a party was thrown for activists after a massive participatory panel discussion (more on that later).

After Naomi Klein and the panel finished the tent was transformed into a mini-rave with musical equipment rolled out and a giant screen erected on stage. Hundreds of people stayed behind and the music started bouncing out of the soundsystem, accompanied by visuals of street protests, riots, cops and oil rigs. At first the crowd was quiet and thin but as the locally brewed beer started flowing and the musician started with the percussion the vibe picked up and the atmosphere was electric, with more people joining in as the night went on.

Close to 11pm, the music - some gypsy-ska-punk-beats crazy stuff - suddenly cut out and somebody appeared on stage with a mic. They announced that riots had broken out in the streets nearby and police were using tear gas but that people were safe in Christiania, which was a kind of sanctuary. People didn't seem too alarmed despite the unmistakeable smell of tear gas seeping into the tent. The guy on stage said we should carry on dancing and the DJ started the music again. If anything, people rallied around the fact shit was kicking off outside and partied harder.

The smell of tear gas kept creeping in and out, getting stronger each time. We could hear the police helicopter outside and occasional explosions. The DJ was giving us updates every so often, reminding us all of the after party which happened to be at a venue slap bang in the middle of the riots. It was like tuning in to some kind of fucked up pirate radio station in the belly of deepest, darkest London.

I ventured outside to the toilets, risking the tear gas which can really irritate contact lenses. As I headed back inside a red projectile fizzed over a wall spewing grey smoke and landed yards away from the tent. I looked around - all I could see was party goers. The only things they held in their hands were bottles of beer. Inside, the dancefloor was noticeably quieter and I suggested to Raph, one of the legal observers I was with and Alex, another camper, that we try and get out of dodge. It was obvious the police weren't content with tackling rioters, they wanted us too.

We dived through the fire exit on the other side of the tent and climbed up a tree covered dyke to get a view of the enclave. The helicopter was right above us now and its spotlight was sweeping across Christiania. On the other side of the dyke lay the water. Christiania is roughly in the middle of a triangular-shaped island, its only exits, the bridges, were to the south, in the direction of the riots. As we poured over a map and tried to figure an escape route another gas grenade exploded nearby and Italian voices on the path along the dyke screamed at us to move, that the police were coming in.

We ran along the top of the dyke and decided to go down, back into Christiania again. Wisps of tear gas were hanging in the air, stinging the back of the throat but not so strongly that it made breathing difficult. Crowds of people were walking in different directions but there was little sense of urgency or even panic. Then out of nowhere cries of "hak, hak, hak!" drifted through the darkness and the silhouettes of riot cops running towards us appeared in the dim light of the square to our right. All hell broke loose and people started running into the next little street, by the Woodstock bar. Somebody shouted "Don't run, don't panic" and people calmed down. The police ran straight past us and ignored us. We poked our heads around another corner and another squad of cops charged at us, but they too ignored us.

At this point we were in a kind of square. On two parallel sides were the ex-military barracks turned into accomodation. In the middle was the hut that comprised the Woodstock bar and on the third side was a line of shops. Along this little street was another square, where most of the drug pushers sell their goods. This is where the police were currently standing, flashing lights in our direction but apparently not bothered by our presence. The shadows filled with more police bodies and as we questioned why they may have raided the peaceful freetown the police charged at us again. This time they came from all directions, swarming around us. Faced with rushing cops brandishing batons Alex and I got close to the wall of the Woodstock bar, as did most others. The police forced us right up to the wall, threatening us with a beating if we didn't comply, which everybody did, bar one mouth from the door of the bar.

The time was now midnight and for nearly forty minutes we sat against the wall. To my left the police threw a couple of black clad Italians to the ground, shouting at them to get down before slapping on the plasticuffs. Not far away I could hear the piercing screams of a girl in distress, punctuated by the occasional "fuck you!". She was thrown to the ground next to me too and soon stopped screaming. Minutes later these people were hauled up and led away. Somebody inside the bar started blasting out "Fuck the Police" by NWA. All the time, photographers ambled around, flashes popping in the pitch black night. I was glad for their presence, especially as the cop in front of me kept stroking her pistol.

After one hench motherfucker of a copper shined a flashlight in each of our faces we picked up and lead to nearby picnic tables and searched individually. I asked why I was being searched:

"You will be told at the first available opportunity."

"But I want to know, now!"

"I can't tell you."

And with that, the cop told me to wear my backpack on my chest and then strapped the plasticuffs on me, pulling them tight so they dug into my skin. Then I was lead around the corner and dropped to the floor, where I had to sit with my legs apart so others could sit up tight to me. I felt somebody sit behind me, his back resting against mine. His fingers gripped mine and I turned my head. "Italiano?" he said. English, I replied. We both sighed. Cops walked up and down counting us in what sounded like German. We sat here, on the cold hard ground for about half an hour in three single file lines. I was losing track of time. Everybody around me was speaking Italian. I looked for a familiar face but couldn't see one. God knows where Raph had gone.

Eventually, we were picked up one by one and led away through Christiania towards the exit. As we were picked up a policewoman with a video camera filmed our faces. We were paraded by a dozen different photographes and cameramen, past a smoldering fire close to the entrance and onto the streets. Police vans were everywhere and foam was running through the gutters. I was manhandled past a waiting police coach and thrown to the ground again and put in another line. I spotted one cop with his helmet off taking photos of us with a little digital camera. Many more were gloating, smiling and laughing amongst themselves. This time mats were provided but minutes later we were picked up and put on the coach. All the girls were put at the back, the guys near the front. Again, everybody seemed to be Italian.

The coach set off down the deserted streets which were lined with meatwagons and at the intersection with the main road, two riot vans parted to let us through. I looked out of the window and people lined the streets, shouting at the bus and raising a fist of solidarity.

We were sped across to the other side of the city with the sirens wailing and lights flashing. At the detention centre the bus waited for nearly half an hour outside before we were taken off individually and led inside, onto benches in two marked areas set aside for males and females. Every now and then the Italians sang a little chant. The only ones I understood were "liberte", "Freedom" and "toilet".

It was now two hours since we were lined up against the wall and still we hadn't been told why we were detained. One by one the police picked us up, led us through a doorway and into a hallway with about fifteen desks, each staffed by a couple of cops wearing gloves. Behind these desks stood plain clothes officers, watching things carefully. My plasticuffs, much to my relief, were finally cut off and I was told to remove my bag, jacket, shoes and belt and everything was piled in to a plastic box by my feet. I was handed a piece of paper explaining why I was here, under what powers and what my rights were. Basically, I had none. I was here because I may have been involved in public disorder, that was it.

I was were guided through another doorway into the holding centre. This was a large room full of cages, in turn full of detainees. There is no other way to describe it then as it being like a dog rescue centre full of kennels. After being allowed to the toilet I was put in a cage with eight other guys - Italians and Danes - and given a blanket and rollmat. I was kept until just after 5am when they released nearly all of us, gave me back my stuff and put us back on a coach. Then we were driven to the nearest train station - they refused to tell us where we going - and dropped off, in the middle of nowhere as far I was concerned. But we were free, after five hours of detention for fuck knows why, I was free again. Now I just had to figure out how to get home...

Monday, 14 December 2009

Hit the Production, Close the Harbour

One of the main actions planned for Sunday 13th was the so called Hit the Production demo, which hoped to shut down Copenhagen harbour in a symbolic action against one of the symbols of capitalism - the global shipping trade. The demonstration would meet at the Trianglen in the north of the city and head towards the harbour but it hadn't been sanctioned by the police so arrests were likely.

At first the march was quiet. At the front stood people clutching a yellow and black banner that wouldn't have looked out of place at the Hacienda had it not included an anti-capitalist slogan. Those holding it looked quiet and determined. Many were dressed in black but few had covered their faces. Next to this banner was another, with the word Co2lonialism in white writing on a black background. At this point it was hard to tell how many protesters were there. The number seemed small, surely under a thousand, whilst scores of journalists and photographers scurried around getting images of the illegal assembly.

Further back a small truck with a soundsystem rolled up. Its sides had been dropped down and a number of protesters stood inside, clutching a microphone. Its arrival seemed to spur on the rest of the march and the vanguard set off. All this time, police in hi-vis jackets had stood at some distance from the demonstration which as far as we were aware still had no permission. As it moved off down Osterbrogade the police followed, keeping their distance but this time pulling their riot helmets on. At the rear, a number of blue police vans spread across the width of the road and followed the procession.

The activists in the back of the truck started chanting, something unintelligible, likely in Danish, but it sounded good. Osterbrogade turned into Dag Hammerskjolds Alle and ahead in the distance lay the US Embassy. One of the cops holding a megaphone pulled out some plastic coated sheets and the media swooped on him as he read something out in Danish, presumably the first warning to disperse. People shouted back to say it in English but the request was ignored.

As we neared the embassy more police vans came roaring up to meet the demonstration, lurching to a halt in front of the Embassy which almost looked abandoned. A guy on the mic in the truck began shouting in broken English that we were doing nothing wrong, that we had a right to demonstrate and that we shouldn't fear the police, in between politically charged hip hop tunes. More cops, suited and booted and ready for a riot, spilled out of the vans from the rear and trotted alongside the march which carried on regardless, past the the US Embassy and onwards to Osterport station.
Hundreds of people, probably over a thousand, walked down the street along the cycle lanes and pavement, avoiding getting embroiled in the main body of the march and ignoring pleas from the soundsystem to form one solid bloc. It was hard to tell how many of these were reluctant protesters eager to avoid the likely police response or curious passersby and pedestrians. The street here is really wide and almost dwarfed the march, probably making it appear smaller than it actually was.

At the station we began to turn left onto Folke Bernadottes Alle towards the harbour and this is where the police made their move. The march ground to a halt and before we realised what was happening police encircled us all. To my right was the Kastellat (on the other side is the Little Mermaid). Some people, sensing the imminent kettle and probable arrest, tried to head off along a path beside the junction but some cops hopped over the wall from the road and shoved people back into the kettle. Others dared to slide down the embankment leading to the castle moat, covered in trees and bushes. Some made their escape but most were picked up by police further along.

We began to squeeze together and journalists piled in as a scuffle broke out beside the truck. The police were trying to board it and were tugging at those on board. A missile was thrown at the police and I could hear dogs barking in front of me. Within minutes the activists on the truck were hauled off and it was driven away through the police line leaving a patch of broken glass which turned out to be the driver's window which had been smashed in by the cops.

We were getting crushed together on all sides by the police and I found myself stuck between the first police line and another, mainly of police vans lined bumper to bumper. One guy made a break for it but was picked off by a giant cop who slung him back into the crowd. Chants of "This is what democracy looks like!" rang out. Some people behind me started sliding between a gap in the wall and the first police van but the driver inched forward and squeezed them out. The vans behind did the same and cops in the immediate frontline began picking at people behind them and throwing them into the central crowd. We noticed the footplate on the back of one of the police vans meant there was a good foot or so of space between them and clambered over the plate to get out of the kettle. The driver in the van looked on helpless.

Outside the kettle it became apparent that the police had actually formed two kettles, having split the group in half. Police vans were dotted everywhere and the intersection was a mess of blue meatwagons, riot cops, protesters, pedestrians and press. Traffic was still moving through and a French guy with a peace flag wrapped around his body crawled into the lane to try and stop it. A burly cop stood on his trousers and pinned him to the ground to allow traffic through but undeterred the kid started crawling around in a circle.

Soon the traffic stopped and the cop let go of him, smiling. This was a signal for all his friends to join him and with a cry of "Everybody, die!" more flopped on top of each other in the street, stopping an oncoming bus. The police seemed disinterested at first but after a while they ordered them to get up or face arrest. Many sprang up immediately and began pleading with their friends but the original held out fastidiously until eventually he was manhandled out of the way.I noticed one of the French girls had bright red eyes and what looked like sores all over her face. I overheard her talking to a journalist saying that the cops used tear gas inside the kettle. I didn't see any so wondered if she meant pepper spray, but was later informed by somebody else that they heard it used at one point.

We bumped into more climate campers who had escaped the kettle and sensed another move by police to round up the stragglers and outliers so decided to get out of dodge. Police buses had already arrived to take away detainees. As we were heading away from the protest a radio journalist breathlessly asked us if we had a camera, telling us that two undercover cops had been spotted throwing missiles into the crowd. He pointed them out, two shady looking characters both dressed in the same black windcheaters and wearing gloves. Aware that people were growing suspicious the two agent provocateurs sidled off and started walking away from the protest. Fellow camper Alex and I followed them all the way back to the Trianglen, on the off chance they jumped in the back of a police van but we lost them. Realising that was our demonstration over we grabbed a coffee and took a breather.

Daniel Vockins (Age of Stupid) at Klima Forum

Daniel Vockins from the Age of Stupid team talks about The Stupid Show at Cop15.

Sunday, 13 December 2009

An Uneventful Bus Trip

The Bus Journey. 1600 Fri 11th Dec - 1500 Sat 12th Dec.

The Climate Campers were instantly recognisable, a rag tag bunch of bedraggled youths loitering beneath the bridge surrounded by backpacks and clanking camping equipment. One of the teachers - the campers charged with seeing each coach through the mammoth trip unscathed - patiently signed people in and appointed them to coaches depending on the degree of their personal aversion to the mainstream media. Some of these meeja folk were already milling around with their giant cameras, including, strangely enough, Chinese State TV. I wonder if they film dissent in their own country so keenly?

As it neared the departure time one camper commandeered a megaphone and marshalled us all across the road, bringing traffic to a halt and invoking the wrath of London cabbies and irate motorcyclists. Soon after we pulled away, a convoy of three coaches slipped into rush hour London traffic, the sort that pumps vast quantities of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere, all so the suit from Morgan Stanley can get home without having to mingle with the proles. To widespread delight we'd been blessed with a toilet. Despite countless warnings about drinking too much for risk of pissing ourselves because the ooaches would lack such basic amenities, we actually had a toilet on board. It's the little things in life, especially when you consider millions of people don't have access to such sanitation.

We waxed lyrical about corporations and the environment, laughed at photos of the Danish police detention cell (think Danish interior design meets Gitmo) and forged friendships with the many likeminded folk (200 odd) who had made the choice to venture to Copenhagen. Close to Dover our legal observer took the mic and gave us our briefing about getting out of the UK. Much had been made about the police and border agents' propensity to use schedule 7 of the Terrorism Act to hinder activists travelling abroad. The legislation gives authorities the right to detain people for up to nine hours to ascertain whether they may be taking part in terrorist activity, the definition of which is so broad it could include travelling to Copenhagen to put pressure on our leaders to reach a fair deal. Corporate lobbyists are exempt, natch.

A number of activists who tried travelling to Copenhagen weeks earlier had been questioned - it's a criminal offence not to answer quesitions, so forget about your right to remain silent - and some prevented from leaving the country. An email circulating around the campers warned we may be pulled aside and asked quesitions such as: "What do your parents do? What papers do they read? What papers do you read?". In the end, nobody asked anything. Immigration control didn't even ask to see our passports. We were waved through with all the attention a Daily Mail reader pays to a tramp in the street. The authorities must have been busy watching Hollyoaks in the comfort of their huts, or something.

On the ferry across the channel we sank pints, offered interviews to some of the 'embedded' media and wrestled on the deck in the freezing cold. Bonding, I assume. Then it was a swift drive through France and another stop in Belgium where some poor sod manning the service station shop alone was inundated with scores of hippies trying to determine which of the sandwiches in the chiller cabinet were vegetarian.

Coaches were not designed for sleeping in but we made a sterling effort nonetheless. Among the most interesting of positions were the dead bodies approach adopted by the couple in front of us, who collapsed in a pile on top of each other and didn't stir for hours. Or the "sleeping in the aisle" tactic as used by my travelling buddy Helen, which pleased me because it meant i could curl up across both our seats.

We woke up in Germany, where you have to spend a penny to spend a penny in the service stations. Or to be precise, 50 cents. Of course, few of us actually did pay 50 cents, opting to hop over the turnstile instead, as did I, quickly followed by the attendant who had glanced at the CCTV in time to see a lanky, hairy Yorkshireman vault the barrier. Despite having my penis in my hand he charged up to the urinal and demanded 50 cents from me. I played dumb and claimed I had no change (actually, I didn't) and exclaimed I'd pay after. I didn't travel all this way to get busted for ducking out of paying for the toilet.

We forged ahead, barreling down the autobahns towards the border with Denmark. Now that the sun had risen we could see the full extent of the German delectation for wind turbines. Clusters of them dotted the landscape, hundreds of them in fact. Whenever we looked out of the window there was another wind farm. It puts the UK to shame. Denmark is no different, albet on a smaller scale. At any one time, look out of the window and you will see a wind turbine, even if it's only one, somewhere in view.

The wires were telling us that our intended and long winded route by road into Denmark was subject to delays of up to five hours as border police searched coaches and passengers meticulously, so we opted to go for the ferry at Fehmarn. This turned out to be a canny decision as we were waved through on the German side without any hassle. We expected more on the Danish side and held our breaths as our coach was pulled over and our passports collected. Beside us, a car carrying a family of activists was being searched with the help of a little labrador. At one point, police removed a bag of what looked like boiler suits from the vehicle, but before we could dwell on it further our passports were returned and we were sent our way without so much as a single glance from the police. Only the open road lay between us and Copenhagen.

Monday, 7 December 2009

COP15: It begins

I've been a bit quiet on here lately, I do apologise, but I've been busy with mountains of university work (more on that later) and a bit of the sniffles. Nonetheless, the Copenhagen summit kicked off today and on Friday I'll be leaving merry old England on a coach with the Climate Camp crew for a week gallivanting around the Danish capital. I'll be blogging and updating via Twitter daily so keep an eye out.

For the time being, here's a few links of interest.

Whilst the attention is fixated on Copenhagen for the next couple of weeks, maybe some pressure can be put on the Danish government to cease the cruel slaughter of dolphins in the Danish territory of the Faroe Islands?
Link via @huwspanner

Take a brewery, throw in some Gitmo-inspired interior design and what do you get? Detention centres, Copenhagen style.

"Critics call the holding pens — and a variety of other security preparations made as thousands of government officials, heads of state, environmental groups and assorted anarchists descend on the Danish capital — over the top. The police say the reactions of the critics are overheated, if predictable."

The first issue of a newsletter (pdf) produced in Copenhagen, "giving the latest news from COP15 and climate struggles across the globe. It is produced collective by Institute for Security Studies, Carbon Trade Watch, and Earthlife Africa Jhb."

Includes articles on global trade from an environment perspective, the carbon lobby and a fact sheet exploring why the talks are on the wrong path. There's even a crossword.

Climate Camp have occupied part of Trafalgar Square and intend to stay there for the duration of the Copenhagen talks. Follow events on the Climate Camp website.