Faced with US heat waves, the Navajo push for power -- and A/C
It will be a luxury in the vast Native American reservation, the largest in the United States, where more than 10,000 families are still without electricity and therefore air conditioning.
"It's climate change. It's getting hotter," Shorty tells AFP.
"This would be easier for us with the fan and maybe air conditioning. And we look forward to that."
In her 70 years, Shorty has seen her isolated, tiny hamlet of Tonalea, a dot in the enormous area of the reservation, change dramatically.
Summer monsoon rains are rarer,
and temperatures can touch 104 degrees Fahrenheit (40 degrees Celsius) in July and August -- previously unthinkable in the hamlet, located on a plateau at an altitude of 5,700 feet (1,730 meters).
The area's seasonal lakes are drying up, and in some years the livestock are dying of thirst.
Like many others, Shorty has a generator and small solar panels that allow her to power a gas fridge, cook and watch television.
But their power is limited, and she often has to choose which appliance to plug in.
Being hooked up to the electrical grid is "a big change. It's going to make my life a lot easier," she tells AFP.
- 'Survival mode' -
Most of the United States was electrified in the 1930s under president Franklin Roosevelt's New Deal initiatives.
But in the Navajo Nation, which stretches across Arizona, New Mexico and Utah, the first efforts only began in the 1960s, and there are still not enough power lines.
"This area was looked over," says Deenise Becenti of the Navajo Tribal Utility Authority (NTUA), the agency that manages the reservation's infrastructure.
"That surprises many people. They're saying, you know, why are there third world conditions that exist here in the United States, the greatest country in the world?"
To catch up, the semi-autonomous government of the reservation launched the "Light Up Navajo" project in 2019.
The humanitarian initiative sees electricity companies from all over the country send their employees to work in the reservation for around a dozen weeks a year.
Since 2019, electricity has been supplied to 5,000 families in the reservation, including 1,000 thanks to "Light Up Navajo," Becenti said.
But as climate change drives temperatures higher, families still without power in the reservation -- where many live below the poverty rate and unemployment is high -- are in "survival mode," she said.
- 'Angry' -
Elbert Yazzie's mobile home turns into a furnace in the summer, and he has already lost one member of his extended family to heat stroke.
"I used to like the heat," the 54-year-old, who lives in nearby Tuba City, tells AFP.
"But when you get older I guess your body can't take it no more."
His home was finally connected to electricity just weeks ago.
Since then, he has rigged up an evaporative air cooler, also known as a "swamp cooler," by salvaging three broken appliances from a garbage dump.
"Now we can turn on the A/C anytime we want, so we don't have to worry about the heat, and the generator and the gas, and all that stuff," he says.
"Now we don't have to go to (other) people's houses to cool down, we can just stay home, relax, watch TV, things like that."
He and Shorty are the fortunate ones.
Without more funding, connecting the remaining 10,000 Navajo families without electricity could take another two decades, Becenti says.
That is far too long for Gilberta Cortes, who no longer dares let her children play outside in the summer, for fear of getting heat-exacerbated nosebleeds.
An electricity pole has just been erected in front of the 42-year-old's house and a line is due to be extended to her in a few months' time.
But she has endured too much false hope to be serene.
"My mom and dad were in their 20s, they were promised power," but it never materialized, she says.
"I'm still angry."
Hashtags

Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles

News.com.au
a day ago
- News.com.au
Faced with US heat waves, the Navajo push for power -- and A/C
Workmen plant electricity poles in the rust-orange earth of the Navajo Nation and run cables to Christine Shorty's house -- finally giving her power against the searing Arizona desert heat. It will be a luxury in the vast Native American reservation, the largest in the United States, where more than 10,000 families are still without electricity and therefore air conditioning. "It's climate change. It's getting hotter," Shorty tells AFP. "This would be easier for us with the fan and maybe air conditioning. And we look forward to that." In her 70 years, Shorty has seen her isolated, tiny hamlet of Tonalea, a dot in the enormous area of the reservation, change dramatically. Summer monsoon rains are rarer, and temperatures can touch 104 degrees Fahrenheit (40 degrees Celsius) in July and August -- previously unthinkable in the hamlet, located on a plateau at an altitude of 5,700 feet (1,730 meters). The area's seasonal lakes are drying up, and in some years the livestock are dying of thirst. Like many others, Shorty has a generator and small solar panels that allow her to power a gas fridge, cook and watch television. But their power is limited, and she often has to choose which appliance to plug in. Being hooked up to the electrical grid is "a big change. It's going to make my life a lot easier," she tells AFP. - 'Survival mode' - Most of the United States was electrified in the 1930s under president Franklin Roosevelt's New Deal initiatives. But in the Navajo Nation, which stretches across Arizona, New Mexico and Utah, the first efforts only began in the 1960s, and there are still not enough power lines. "This area was looked over," says Deenise Becenti of the Navajo Tribal Utility Authority (NTUA), the agency that manages the reservation's infrastructure. "That surprises many people. They're saying, you know, why are there third world conditions that exist here in the United States, the greatest country in the world?" To catch up, the semi-autonomous government of the reservation launched the "Light Up Navajo" project in 2019. The humanitarian initiative sees electricity companies from all over the country send their employees to work in the reservation for around a dozen weeks a year. Since 2019, electricity has been supplied to 5,000 families in the reservation, including 1,000 thanks to "Light Up Navajo," Becenti said. But as climate change drives temperatures higher, families still without power in the reservation -- where many live below the poverty rate and unemployment is high -- are in "survival mode," she said. - 'Angry' - Elbert Yazzie's mobile home turns into a furnace in the summer, and he has already lost one member of his extended family to heat stroke. "I used to like the heat," the 54-year-old, who lives in nearby Tuba City, tells AFP. "But when you get older I guess your body can't take it no more." His home was finally connected to electricity just weeks ago. Since then, he has rigged up an evaporative air cooler, also known as a "swamp cooler," by salvaging three broken appliances from a garbage dump. "Now we can turn on the A/C anytime we want, so we don't have to worry about the heat, and the generator and the gas, and all that stuff," he says. "Now we don't have to go to (other) people's houses to cool down, we can just stay home, relax, watch TV, things like that." He and Shorty are the fortunate ones. Without more funding, connecting the remaining 10,000 Navajo families without electricity could take another two decades, Becenti says. That is far too long for Gilberta Cortes, who no longer dares let her children play outside in the summer, for fear of getting heat-exacerbated nosebleeds. An electricity pole has just been erected in front of the 42-year-old's house and a line is due to be extended to her in a few months' time. But she has endured too much false hope to be serene. "My mom and dad were in their 20s, they were promised power," but it never materialized, she says. "I'm still angry."

ABC News
a day ago
- ABC News
Australia's small Tuvaluan diaspora is about to grow fast — and it's determined to keep traditions alive
Tuvaluan migrant Frayzel Uale's first encounter with Australia left him gripped by culture shock. The traffic and skyscrapers in his new home city of Melbourne were unlike anything he had seen on his tiny home island in the Pacific. But that wasn't the hardest part about moving from Tuvalu in 2021 as a teenager. "It was fitting in … especially in school," he says. "It was hard to make friends due to the language barrier." Four years later, the 19-year-old has found his niche at a community hall near Melton, in Melbourne's north-west. On a Saturday night in June, he keeps the beat as the voices of more than 30 young people rise in song at a monthly youth event held by the Tuvaluan community. They're performing a fatele — a traditional dance song that brings Frayzel back to his childhood in Tuvalu. "It's the closest thing to home," he says. "Living in countries like this you can feel very isolated from home … you miss your homeland." Organisers say the youth events, known as Youth Connection Day, are about to grow more important for Tuvalu's small but vibrant diaspora. Up to 280 Tuvaluans a year will begin moving to Australia soon, under a new visa letting them escape the impact of climate change on their islands — agreed through the landmark Falepili Union treaty between the two countries. It's proving popular, with more than 4,000 people already having entered a ballot for the first batch of visas. The low-lying atoll nation is in peril from rising seas, and scientists say it could become uninhabitable within decades. Tuvaluans already living in Australia say they are determined to keep their culture alive in their adopted new country. "We need to hold on to something that is uniquely ours, in order for us to continue to survive," Youth Connection Day organiser Losa Sogivalu says. Frayzel says events like the youth night will help migrants settle in as they arrive under the new treaty. "We can help them slowly fit in, help them through the culture shock," he says. "It brings them a sense of belonging." Many of the young people gathered at the youth event have never seen Tuvalu. Ms Sogivalu says she didn't want to see them grow up outside of their traditional culture, as she did as a young person in New Zealand. "I want the kids to have what I didn't have," she says. At Arnolds Creek Children's and Community Centre, kids and teenagers play games teaching them Tuvaluan language and songs. The venue buzzes with energy as they compete in group singing contests and other team activities. Ms Sogivalu says the mood is "crazy" — in a good way. "It's loud, it's messy. But we wouldn't have it any other way," she says. "That's what we want. We want the kids to be their true selves." Latasi Monise, 16, was born and raised in Australia but is learning more about his Tuvaluan heritage at the events. "I get to come here and interact with people who are just like me," he says. Later in the night, he joins Frayzel in keeping the beat as the group dances in the fatele. Several young men tap the wooden box at the centre, while young women, girls and boys dance in a circle at the edge. After only two Youth Connection Day events, organisers have seen the young people grow in confidence as they dance. "I've also seen pride in their culture," Ms Sogivalu says. "As a young Pacific Islander, as a minority in this big country, you get lost. "And this is an opportunity for them to get connected, through their roots, to who they are." Youth Connection Day is one of a growing number of events run by community organisation Kaiga Tuvalu Victoria, as it prepares for the arrival of new Tuvaluan migrants. The group's president, Niu Boland, has seen the diaspora grow since he moved to Australia 25 years ago. When he arrived in Melbourne about 10 years ago, he found a small diaspora of Tuvaluans there who had moved from New Zealand. "There was still a bit of a community thing going on, but it's nothing like it is today," Mr Boland says. He estimates Melbourne's Tuvaluan community now numbers a few hundred. "Over the years, we seem to have a lot more numbers that attend our social functions." Many now meet weekly at a church service at Melton's Baptist Church, where the congregation sings and hears sermons in Tuvaluan language. But Tuvaluans who have already moved from its islands say starting a new life in Australia can be hard. Mr Boland says without a rental history, it could be hard finding a property in a tight housing market. "They'll just have to depend on the [Tuvaluan] community for support, a lot of community support," he says. "And the community will have to back that up, just for while they get their feet on the ground." Latasi says the reality of life in Australia could be harder than anticipated for some Tuvaluan migrants. "Most Pasifika people … they'll say 'it's freedom from what we know now, we just move there and there's so much opportunity,'" he says. "It's not exactly like that. They might come here and then not find a job, and then they'll have to just live with relatives who are already here. "I think it's great [they can move to Australia], but I don't think it's without its cons." For now, Melbourne's Tuvaluan community is ready to welcome more people, including at its youth nights. "We've started something that hopefully they'll be able to join, and they can help us as well to maintain the culture," Ms Sogivalu says. Learning Tuvalu's language also gives the community's young people hope they can see their homeland, despite rising sea levels. Latasi plans to finally make the trip one day — and speak Tuvaluan there. "I want it to be there, so me and my kids can visit, my grandkids can visit," he says. "I don't want it to just be gone."

ABC News
a day ago
- ABC News
Tuvaluan migrants build new life in Australia
Tuvaluan migrants in Australia fear losing their home to climate change – but they're determined not to lose their culture.