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The race to save Romania’s forests: how illegal loggers lay waste to the wilderness

“Even inside national parks, nothing is safe.”

Heavy rain clatters on the windscreen of Ion Holban’s four-by-four as he shifts through the gears to make it up a steep dirt track deep in Romania’s Carpathian Mountains, a wilderness where pristine forests host bears, wolves, lynx and wildcats. Holban wants to keep it this way, which is why he has organised a 50-strong group of experts and campaigners to join him on a week-long mission to map out the vast tracts of ancient woodland before it’s too late.

“There’s pressure from logging all across Romania,” says Holban, the campaign co-ordinator of Agent Green, an anti-logging NGO. “The government is not treating the virgin forests with the respect and value that they deserve. There’s very little protection in place.”

Romania is home to more than half of Europe’s last remaining primeval forests – some 200,000 hectares of beech, spruce, fir, oak and other species – much of it in the Carpathian Mountains, which sweep in an arc across the country. But by some estimates, it is losing as much as three hectares of total forest cover an hour, including valuable virgin forests, as a result of legal and illegal logging and degradation.

The problem has grown since the fall of communism in 1989. With corruption endemic in Romania, successive governments have been unwilling or unable to put a stop to illegal logging. Foreign timber companies have also been accused of taking advantage of the lax enforcement.

The Austrian company Holzindustrie Schweighofer is Romania’s biggest exporter of wood, with annual revenues of around half a billion pounds.    Much of the timber ends up in other member states of the EU, which Romania joined in 2007.

In 2015, the Environmental Investigation Agency (EIA), a US-based NGO, published a report on a two-year-long investigation that accused Schweighofer of purchasing illegally sourced wood. The company denied the claims.

Few areas are out of reach for illegal loggers. According to Greenpeace, of the 280,000 hectares of Romania’s total forest cover lost between 2000 and 2011, nearly half was located in national parks and other so-called protected areas.

“Even inside national parks, nothing is safe. There are ways in legislation to get around it,” says Holban, a well-built man, over a beer after a long day mapping the forests. “They can say they have an infestation of insects, and then they’ll inflate the issue and cut many more hectares than necessary.”

The race to save the trees has been set back this year. Environmental campaigners claim that the Social Democrat (PSD) government, which won power in December, is reversing hard-won measures designed to prevent illegal logging.

According to Agent Green and other NGOs, the government is trying to withdraw the official status of a register of virgin forests that was funded by the Royal Dutch Society for Nature Conservation in 2005. The PSD is also pushing to abandon a real-time tracing system for timber – monitored by satellites – that was initiated by the previous government and was supposed to come into full effect in April. The government has questioned the validity of the contract with the software company.

The effect of illegally logged timber on Romania’s rich biodiversity is clear. In June, Greenpeace Romania released aerial-view photos from Sadu Valley in Transylvania, in the centre of the country, where 100 hectares of state-owned forest have disappeared. The once-picturesque spruce-covered slopes now reveal barren expanses of earth scarred by fallen and dragged timber. Greenpeace called the site an ecological disaster.

“Sadu Valley is a sad example of how legal papers can cover for disastrous logging done without any respect for the law and the ecosystems,” says Valentin Salageanu, the head of forest campaigns at Greenpeace Romania. Greenpeace claims that the trees in Sadu Valley should have been selectively cut – removing fewer trees over a larger area – rather than clear-cut, which is much more damaging to the wider ecosystem. “It’s not at all an isolated incident, but a widespread practice in state and privately-owned forests,” Salageanu says.

The campaigners’ claims are backed up by official statistics. Between 2009 and 2015, illegal logging reports to local authorities increased from 30 to 96 per day. A study by Romania’s National Forest Inventory, a state body, estimated that nearly half of all the timber harvested in the country between 2008 and 2014 was illegally cut.

Enforcement efforts by the previous government appeared to be paying off, with reports of illegal logging falling to 26 per day in 2016. But according to the campaigners, these gains are now in danger.

Public anger over illegal logging is widespread. In 2015, thousands of Romanians took to the streets in 14 cities to vent their anger over the alarming rate of deforestation. The European Union has also expressed its concern. In 2015, the European Commission highlighted Romania’s weak enforcement of EU regulations on timber and threatened to take the country to court if it continued failing to meet the required standards.

Without more external pressure, it may be up to the activists to lead the campaign to protect the country’s natural heritage. Thanks to their efforts, around 10 per cent of Romania’s virgin forests won Unesco World Heritage status in July.

“We’re regarded as a nuisance for the government right now,” says Octavian Anghelescu, a campaigner who joined Holban’s camp and will spend his free time this summer with Agent Green. “In time, hopefully, we’ll have a stronger voice and we can change the situation in favour of nature. Our forests are unique in Europe. It will be a great shame if we lose them.”

As the sun sets over the 18th-century former hunting lodge in Covasna County, several campaigners leave with Holban in his Jeep for home. But in a few hours, Holban will return with more volunteers eager to help save the forests. 

This article first appeared in the 27 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Summer double issue

The Isle of Man, from where author Zoe Gilbert hails. CREDIT: GETTY
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Zoe Gilbert’s original debut novel Folk feeds our new appetite for myth

Is Folk a novel? Its publisher says so, but I’m not sure.

I’ll put up my hands and make an admission: I don’t read many contemporary novels. Most of them seem, well, too contemporary. For a long time, much “literary” fiction has skated along the surface of modern urban life, engaging with the “interiority” of the middle-class mind and whatever cultural brouhaha is currently in fashion among the progressive literati.

The result is a kind of placid, smug dullness about which it’s mostly impossible to care: an Ian McEwan-isation of the soul. For years, writers shunned or simply ignored the old storytellers’ realms of mythology, image and the collective unconscious; the strange, magical depths which underlie all things, but which our society prefers to pretend is not really there.

But something is stirring. In recent years, novelists have begun to venture out beyond the shores of reason, beyond the city and sometimes beyond the human, too. The result is a small blooming of books, and of films and music, which are exploring this strange otherness again. Writers such as Daisy Johnson, Andrew Michael Hurley, Sylvia Linsteadt and Ben Myers are pushing the boundaries of what has been called “folk horror”. They, in turn, are drawing from a thriving underworld of eeriness, folk culture and myth that is perhaps unparalleled in Britain since the 1970s.

What is going on here? Well, people are hungry. Hungry for real meat, and missing what they don’t know they have lost. What we might call the “folk soul” still undergirds our vision of the world, however many gadgets we use to navigate it. Why else would the likes of Game of Thrones and Lord of the Rings continue to grip the popular imagination?

The surface is not enough. Our culture is starving people of spiritual and mythic nourishment. We barely even know what these words mean any more, so how would our writers know how to engage with them? Yet when our stories remain stuck in a permanent present, something is missing – something old, strange and sacred. “Fantasy” novelists such as Alan Garner, M John Harrison and the late Ursula K Le Guin, have long known this better than their “literary” counterparts.

In this vein comes Folk, the debut novel by Zoe Gilbert, a past winner of the Costa Short Story Award. It draws deeply from the old tales of the Isle of Man, from where the author hails, to give us a book which is genuinely original, disturbing, beautiful and gripping. It is both a joy to read, and –always a bonus – a tricky book to pin down

Is Folk a novel? Its publisher says it is, but I’m not sure. It has recurring characters, but no single storyline; each chapter could stand alone. So is it a collection of short stories? Yes, but no: the same characters recur throughout, popping in and out of each others’ tales and adding to the weight of the whole. That whole makes up a convincing world peopled with distinctive characters, a verdant, living landscape and a liminality of strange beings who regularly intrude upon the everyday lives of the humans.

Perhaps Folk is neither a novel nor a collection of stories; perhaps it is a map. Indeed, one of its attractions for me is that a map of Neverness, the fictional village in which the stories are set, is the first thing you see when you open the book. (I am a sucker for books with maps in the front: I grew up on fantasy novels, and the cartography was always part of the attraction.) Folk can be read as a map of the British mythic imagination: of the river under the river. Starkly original and expertly written, it draws you, like a faerie song, into a kingdom from which you may never escape, and may not want to.

Gilbert’s writing has shades of Le Guin and Angela Carter, and like both of those authors she knows that real mythology, real folk culture, has a core of darkness to it; a core that both repels and entices. True fairytales are not fluffy, and they often do not have happy endings. There is an undercurrent of earthy danger here; a raw sexuality too, unashamed of itself.

A young boy is burned alive in a gorse bush, seeing visions of angels; a girl’s father kills and skins her pet hares; a woman is kidnapped by a water bull and ravished beneath the waves; a girl drowns her father by mistake; a woman murders her sister to steal her lover. But the darkness is not revelled in or overdone; it is intrinsic to the book’s realism. “Realism” might seem a bizarre word to use about tales set in a mythic land in which men are born with wings for arms and women become hares. But in a book like this, it is imperative that the newly-minted world has an internal logic and consistency.

Folk succeeds triumphantly in this regard. Reading its chapters – which have titles like “The Neverness Ox-men”, “Fishskin, Hareskin”, and “A Winter Guest” – is like sitting by a fire with some old storyteller, listening to the strange tales of his people. The work that has gone into creating the world of Neverness has paid off. These seem like stories from a real place.

This is the marker of the novel’s success: that immersion in its world makes that world seem, for a while, more real than the one you are living in. More appealing, too. When you turn the last page, you may find yourself looking out of the window, or at the screen of your phone or laptop, with a pang of regret and a sense of loss. Then you might find yourself returning to Neverness, like the children return to Narnia. It beats what passes at the moment for “reality”, and it is more human, too. 

“Confessions of a Recovering Environmentalist” by Paul Kingsnorth is published in paperback by Faber & Faber

Zoe Gilbert
Bloomsbury, 256pp, £14.99

This article first appeared in the 13 March 2018 issue of the New Statesman, Putin’s spy game