IIn the vast white desert of Salinas Grandes, 45-year-old Antonio Carpanchay raises an axe and chips away at the earth. He has worked the land since he was 12, splitting and collecting salt, replenishing it for the next season and teaching his children to do the same.

“Our whole indigenous community works here, even the elders,” he says, shielding his sunburned face from the sun. “We’ve always done it. It’s our livelihood.”

As his son watches warily, Karpanchai points north, to a pile of black stones and mud that stands out from the stark whiteness of the plains. “They started mining for lithium in 2010,” he says. “We made them stop because they were destroying the environment and affecting the water quality. But now they’re coming back, and I’m scared. We could lose everything we have.”

The Salinas Grandes are the largest salt flats in Argentina, stretching over 200 miles and containing a biodiverse ecosystem. Sitting in the Lithium Triangle The same goes for parts of Chile and Bolivia.

Lithium is a silvery metal known as platinum and is a vital element in batteries for mobile phones and electric cars. By 2040, global demand is predicted to increase more than 40-fold. But that exploitation has also raised moral debates, pitting the transition to green energy against the rights of local and indigenous peoples.

Thirty-three indigenous communities in the Atacama and Cola regions, fearful of losing or polluting their water resources and being forced off their lands, have banded together for 14 years to try to halt the mining operations. “Please respect our territory” and “No to lithium” are scrawled on dozens of road signs, abandoned buildings, and murals.

But now, with more than 30 global mining conglomerates moving into the region at the instigation of “anarcho-capitalist” President Javier Milley, the battle lines are being redrawn. Offers of jobs and investment are increasingly dividing communities, with some already reneging on agreements and more expected to follow.

“Businesses are moving in,” Karpanchai said. “I worry about my grandchildren’s future.”

TThe biggest concern for indigenous peoples is water. Approximately 2 million liters of evaporation is required per tonne of lithium. This threatens to dry up the region’s wetlands and already dry rivers and lakes. Industrial-scale pumping also threatens to contaminate fresh groundwater, endangering livestock and small-scale agriculture. The impacts will likely reach farther than the immediate source of the water: as locals say, “water knows no borders.”

Clemente Flores, a 59-year-old community leader, says water is the most important part of Pachamama, which means “Mother Earth.” “Water nourishes the air, the soil, the pastures for the animals and the food we eat,” he argues.

“If we used all the water for mining, the salt flats would dry up. We need water to grow salt. Without salt, there are no jobs,” said Karpanchai, who relies on the freshwater resources to raise llamas and sheep. “Chemicals from mining could pollute the water and pastures. We could lose everything.”

Flavia Lamas, 30, a tour guide on the salt flats, remembers when lithium companies began exploring around 2010. “They said mining lithium would not affect Mother Earth, but then water became a problem. Water was running off the salt flats and after just one month our land started to degrade,” she says.

According to Pia Marchegiani, director of environmental policy at the NGO: Environment and Natural Resources Foundation (Fern) Environmental assessments leave gaps in understanding the full impact of large-scale development. “This region is a watershed. Water comes from everywhere, but nobody is looking at the whole picture,” Marchegiani says. “You have Australians, Americans, Europeans, Chinese, Koreans, but nobody is adding up their water use.”

Wildlife within the ecosystem may also be affected. A 2022 study found that flamingosLithium mining in Chile is slowly killing off coral reefs that feed on microorganisms in seawater.

Communities also fear their land will disappear. Indigenous people consider the land sacred and ancestral, and have lived on it for centuries, but they worry they will be forcibly removed. “We can’t sacrifice our community land. Do you think that’s going to save the planet? Instead, we’re destroying Mother Earth herself,” Flores says.

youUntil recently, the 33 communities fought together as one, but over the past year, cracks have appeared as mining companies have offered economic incentives. “Companies are approaching,” Karpanchai said. “They approach us alone, they come in disguise. People are feeling the pressure.”

Lamas says mining companies are descending on the region like conquistadors in the 1500s. “The Spanish brought mirrors as gifts. Now the miners come by truck,” she says. “We’ve been offered gifts, trucks, and houses in the city, but we don’t want to live there.”

Marchegiani accuses the companies of deploying “divide and conquer” tactics. Alicia Chalabet, an indigenous lawyer from Salinas Grandes, says the community is under “constant pressure” to agree to the demands. “We’re flooded with lithium companies here. It’s increased a lot in the last five years,” said Chalabet, who is currently handling 20 cases. “The community is just an obstacle.”

The community of Lipan was the first to agree to let mining company Rishon Energy explore the waters beneath the saltwater in exchange for promises of jobs and essential services, but some residents say the decision was controversial, and some community members claim not all residents were allowed to vote.

Rishon denies that its decision to mine in Lipan was controversial and says it complied with all regulations that require it to seek local community support in lithium exploration. The company has previously told reporters that it has invested in 15 secondary school and 15 university scholarships, provided computers to local schools, and hired 12 workers from Lipan.

Anastasia Castillo, 38, grew up in Lipan and now lives in a nearby commune. She says neither she nor her parents, who remain in the village, agreed. “I’m very sad. My children’s future is ruined. We have 100 cows and 80 llamas in the area, which is my main job. I’m afraid they’ll die,” Castillo said. “Now we’re separated.”