Raquel Celina Rodriguez walks carefully over the cracked earth of the Vega de Tilopozo, a once-vibrant wetland in Chile’s Atacama Desert. Once filled with springs and lush vegetation, this area is now parched and dotted with dry holes where water once pooled.
“It used to be green everywhere,” Raquel recalls. “The grass was so tall, the animals were hidden in it.” Now, she points to a few llamas grazing in the sparse remains of the grassland. For generations, her family raised livestock here. But as rainfall diminished, so did the grass. Then things got worse.
Raquel blames the growing thirst for lithium. Deep beneath the Atacama salt flats lies one of the world’s richest sources of the metal—an essential component in rechargeable batteries used in electric vehicles, solar storage, and consumer electronics.
The demand for lithium has surged. Global consumption more than doubled between 2021 and 2024, rising from 95,000 to 205,000 tonnes, according to the International Energy Agency. By 2040, it’s expected to surpass 900,000 tonnes—mostly driven by the electric vehicle industry.
While the world embraces lithium as a solution to the climate crisis, communities in Atacama are feeling the environmental fallout.
Shifting Landscapes, Shrinking Lagoons
Chile, the world’s second-largest lithium producer after Australia, has ambitious plans to expand. A new state-private partnership between Codelco and SQM received approval to extract up to 2.5 million metric tonnes of lithium metal equivalent annually until 2060. The government frames this as a step toward climate action and national revenue generation.
But extracting lithium is water-intensive. Mining firms pump underground brine into vast evaporation ponds—siphoning off water from a region already facing drought conditions.
Biologist Faviola González, who monitors ecosystems in the Los Flamencos National Reserve, has watched the area change dramatically. “The lagoons are shrinking,” she says. “And flamingo populations are declining because the tiny organisms they feed on are disappearing.”
In 2021, a temporary reduction in water extraction led to a modest rebound in flamingo reproduction, but Faviola says it’s not enough. The region’s ancient aquifers replenish slowly. Excessive pumping, she warns, risks long-term ecological harm.
Damage to native vegetation has also been recorded. A 2022 report by the Natural Resources Defense Council found that nearly one-third of the native carob trees (algarrobos) on SQM’s property began dying around 2013 due to mining impacts.
Environmental Impact and Industry Response
Mining, by its nature, comes with environmental consequences. Karen Smith Stegen, a political science professor specializing in resource politics, says that while some damage is inevitable, companies must do more to reduce harm.
“There should have been social impact assessments from the beginning—engaging with communities and understanding how mining would affect water and ecosystems,” she says.
Mining companies now claim they’re taking that approach. Valentín Barrera, Sustainability Manager at SQM Lithium, says they’ve launched environmental assessments and are piloting technologies aimed at minimizing water use. One pilot project in Antofagasta has reportedly recovered over a million cubic meters of water. He says starting in 2031, they hope to cut brine extraction by at least 50%.
But locals remain wary. “We feel like we’re being used as a test lab,” says Faviola. She worries that the new water reinjection methods could bring unintended consequences to the fragile salt flats.
Sara Plaza, another resident from Raquel’s community, remembers seeing the wetlands recede as early as 2005. Despite visible water loss, she says mining never slowed. “They give us some money,” she says, “but I’d rather have water and nature. That’s what we lived on.”
A Community Under Pressure
Sergio Cubillos, leader of the Peine community where Raquel and Sara live, says their entire infrastructure—from water to electricity—had to be revamped due to shortages.
He acknowledges climate change is a factor, but insists the major strain comes from decades of mining. “Millions of cubic meters of water have been extracted since the 1980s,” he says. “Decisions are made in Santiago, far from the people directly affected.”
While he supports the transition to renewable energy, Sergio argues local voices must be central to the process. His community has negotiated some benefits, but fears over future expansion persist.
Chile’s government says indigenous communities have been consulted and that new production will include technologies designed to reduce environmental and social impacts. Officials also argue lithium’s strategic value can boost national development.
Still, Sergio is unconvinced. “If the new methods harm our environment, we’ll resist. We won’t let Peine be sacrificed.”
A Broader Dilemma
The struggle in the Atacama reflects a global paradox: in fighting climate change, are we creating new environmental problems?
Some argue that lithium extraction, though harmful, brings necessary economic benefits. Daniel Jimenez, a consultant in Santiago, even claims some environmental concerns are exaggerated by communities seeking compensation.
But Professor Stegen disagrees. “Mining may bring jobs and infrastructure, but many indigenous communities value their land and way of life far more than money,” she says. Disruption to traditional economies and rising housing costs are often overlooked trade-offs.
In conversations with Atacama residents, money was not the main concern. Instead, people asked why they bear the burden of a global energy transition.
Raquel puts it simply: “Maybe lithium is good for cities. But it’s harming us. We don’t live like we used to.”
Faviola adds: “People in the U.S. or Europe use far more energy than we do. Their carbon footprint is bigger. But it’s our water that’s being taken. Our sacred birds that are disappearing.”
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