The Forgotten Legacy of Pasco: Mining, Resistance, and Climate Justice in the Peruvian Highlands
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Nestled in the central highlands of Peru, the region of Pasco carries a history as rich and complex as the mineral veins running beneath its soil. For centuries, this rugged landscape has been a battleground between imperial ambitions, corporate greed, and the resilience of Indigenous communities. Today, as the world grapples with climate change and environmental degradation, Pasco’s story offers a stark reminder of the human cost of unchecked extraction.
Long before the Spanish conquest, the Yaro and Yanesha peoples thrived in Pasco’s high-altitude ecosystems. But the arrival of the colonizers in the 16th century marked the beginning of a relentless plunder. Silver from Cerro de Pasco—the "mountain that eats men"—fueled the Spanish Empire, bankrolling wars and palaces an ocean away. The infamous mita system forced Indigenous laborers into deadly mine shafts, where many perished from exhaustion, cave-ins, or mercury poisoning.
By the 19th century, foreign corporations replaced colonial rulers. British and American investors, lured by copper and zinc, turned Cerro de Pasco into a company town. The Cerro de Pasco Copper Corporation, later absorbed by U.S.-based Cerro Corporation, operated with near-total control over workers’ lives. Labor strikes in the 1920s and 1930s were met with violent repression, yet they sowed the seeds of Peru’s labor movement.
In the 1950s, the mining industry shifted from underground tunnels to open-pit extraction. The colossal Cerro de Pasco mine—now a gaping crater half a mile wide—swallowed entire neighborhoods. Families in the adjacent city of Cerro de Pasco breathe air thick with lead and arsenic. Children play on soil contaminated with cadmium. A 2022 study found that 90% of local kids under 12 had dangerous levels of heavy metals in their blood.
Yet the mines never brought prosperity. While multinationals like Volcan Compañía Minera and Glencore post record profits, Pasco remains one of Peru’s poorest regions. Unemployment is rampant, and those who do work in mining face precarious contracts. "We are digging our own graves," a union leader told me, "but what choice do we have?"
Climate change has amplified Pasco’s crisis. The region’s glaciers, once reliable water sources, are vanishing at alarming rates. Mining operations consume vast quantities of water, leaving campesino communities downstream with polluted rivers and parched fields. In 2020, farmers from Huayllay blockaded mining trucks after the Rímac River turned toxic—a scene repeated across the Andes.
Meanwhile, corporate "water management" schemes often prioritize mines over people. A leaked 2021 report revealed that a major mining consortium had secretly diverted glacial meltwater to its operations during a drought, violating international water-sharing agreements.
In the shadow of the mines, a quiet revolution is growing. Women like Máxima Acuña, the campesina who stood against Yanacocha’s gold mine, have become symbols of resistance. In Pasco, grassroots collectives like Mujeres Unidas por el Agua (Women United for Water) test soil, document health impacts, and demand accountability. Their lawsuits have forced the government to acknowledge "sacrifice zones"—though little has changed.
Multinationals now tout "sustainable mining," promoting electric trucks and carbon offsets. But activists call it greenwashing. "You can’t offset a poisoned child," snaps a community organizer in tiny Paragsha, where birth defects are rampant. Real solutions, they argue, require phasing out extraction and investing in regenerative economies—not just cleaner ways to exploit the earth.
Indigenous communities are reviving ancestral agricultural practices, proving that post-mining economies can thrive. Near Oxapampa, agroforestry projects restore degraded land while providing livelihoods. "The earth remembers how to heal," an Asháninka elder remarked, "if we let her."
As COP summits debate climate finance, Pasco embodies the stark inequalities of the energy transition. The Global North’s demand for "green" minerals—lithium for batteries, copper for wind turbines—repeats old patterns of extraction. The difference? This time, the world is watching.
International solidarity networks now amplify Pasco’s struggles. A 2023 EU regulation on conflict minerals briefly included environmental harms, thanks in part to Peruvian advocacy. But legal victories mean little without enforcement. "They fine the companies," a lawyer in Lima told me, "but the fines are cheaper than fixing the problem."
In Pasco’s poisoned soil lies a warning: the climate crisis cannot be solved by the same logic that caused it. True justice requires listening to those who’ve resisted the longest—before their land becomes another cautionary tale in the annals of extraction.