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Planning to Anticipate Potential Catastrophe in the Case of Risky Technologies
Connie P. Ozawa, Professor
Nohad A. Toulan School of Urban Studies and Planning
Abstract
Planning for the use of risky technologies presents an opportunity to consider how to
build resiliency in our communities. Communicative planning theory together with
negotiation theory provides a lens for examining behaviors that have caused officials and
public managers to lose the trust of their citizenry. Based on a review of the social
dynamics in two examples of dealing with risky technologies, the infamous Three Mile
Island nuclear facility and a proposal to cover an open reservoir in Portland, Oregon, I
posit ways in which key elements of social trust, competence, commitment, caring and
predictability can be asserted and reaffirmed by public authorities and planners through
public dialogues. These “guidelines for practice” are then illustrated through an example
of planning for aquifer storage and recovery systems.
Planning for the use of risky technologies presents an opportunity to consider how
to build resiliency in our communities. “Resilience” has been defined as the “capacity to
withstand loss and recover, to weather disturbance without dramatic loss of identity or
structural or functional complexity” (Goldstein, 2008). Risky technologies by their
nature foreshadow potential dangers to real populations. More specifically, planning to
accommodate the use of such technologies entails deliberate decisions by one group of
people to place other people in harms way to an unknowable degree of certainty.
Since the 1986 Superfund Amendment Reauthorization Act (SARA),
communities have invested in planning to anticipate crises resulting from risky
technologies. Emergency mitigation plans are one example of this effort. Such plans aim
largely to create and clarify the social organization and technological infrastructure
needed to implement physical actions to mitigate harm or to remove populations from
imminent danger. Communities develop emergency plans as a signal that if a crisis were
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to arise due to certain activities, the community would be able to respond and,
presumably, recover.
Planning for risky technologies embodies social relationships, namely those
between the decision makers, the implementers, public managers and planners, and the
population at risk. Technology-based risks are hence very unlike natural disasters or the
terrorizing acts of individuals. Planning occurs. Decisions are made. Relationships are
established long before as well as during crises, and remain long after. Given these
differences, can communicative planning theory help communities to enhance their
resilience in anticipation of technological calamities in ways that go beyond the simple
preparation of emergency mitigation plans? How do communications, a prominent
feature of communicative planning theory, impact the social dynamics in a community?
What can we learn about planning for risky technologies from past experiences and what
can we learn about communicative planning theory in general?
In this paper, I posit that social trust is an important ingredient of a resilient
community and that intentional behavior by individuals and institutions in planning for
the use of risky technologies can degrade or enhance a community’s resiliency. I begin
by reviewing work in communicative planning theory and augment it with a framework
for examining social trust in the community. I then present two examples of crises that
arose around risky technologies to identify pivotal points in the dynamics of ongoing
relationships. After an analysis of how trust was lost and regained, I present an
illustrative application of these ideas and conclude with a summary of the ways in which
communicative planning theory, with its linkages to negotiation theory, can help inform
planners and other public managers who plan for risky technologies.
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Communicative planning theory and social trust
Communicative planning theory is not only about creating plans, making
decisions, and solving problems, the objects of planning. It is also about the subjects of
planning - the decision makers, the implementers, the people affected by the decision or
plan, and the planners and public managers – and their relationship. Substance, process
and relationships are intertwined. As Healey has noted, communicative planning theory is
grounded, among other factors, in the acceptance that knowledge is socially constructed,
that individuals learn about their ‘preferences’ through interaction with others, and that
public policies intended to manage “co-existence in shared spaces” must involve all with
a ‘stake’ in a given place (Healey, pp. 29-30).
Communicative planning theorists recognize the value of the dynamics and
substance of communication, but also the broader context in which planning occurs and
the importance of relationships, particularly through not only overcoming communication
barriers but also recognizing and acknowledging the legitimacy of others and their
concerns. Some works focus on the blow-by-blow details of specific encounters
(Forester, 1999; Sandercock, 2001). The new institutionalists consider how structures and
relationships affect agency (Healey, 1997).
Communicative planning theory borrows heavily from the negotiation, public
dispute resolution and consensus building fields (Forester, 1999; Healey, 1997; Hillier,
2002; Innes, 1998). Such cross-fertilization makes sense since planning is joint decision
making and is at its core a negotiation among many parties (Shmueli, et al., 2008). Not
surprisingly, the negotiation literature similarly highlights the importance of substance,
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process and relationships. In fact, authors from the consensus building field have long
noted the primacy of these key components of negotiations (Carpenter and Kennedy,
1987), and considerable attention has been directed toward the people and relationship
aspects of negotiations (Bush and Folger, 2005; Fisher and Brown, 1987; Fisher and
Shapiro, 2005; Kolb and Williams, 2000 and 2003). Relationships are important in
negotiations because they set the context for interpretation of the words and actions of the
parties. In the public sector, issues rarely arise and get settled quickly. More often, issues
are negotiated over a period of time during which words are confirmed by actions, which
then inform the interpretation of subsequent words and actions. This sequence of words
and actions that temper the exchange and interaction among parties constitute the
relational aspects of negotiations and mirror aspects of Healey’s conception of
communicative planning theory noted above.
One critical factor in relationships and how they are structured is what is
generally referred to as “trust.” From an institutionalist perspective, this “trust” is
generalized beyond interpersonal connections, to the trust in institutions, organizations,
and their public spokespersons.
In the negotiation literature, some have questioned the importance of trust in
negotiations. Indeed, some negotiators live by the mantra, “Don’t trust, verify.”
However, titles such as Getting Together, Beyond Emotion, and The Shadow Negotiation,
underscore the positive force that trust among parties can bring to collaboration (Fisher
and Brown, 1987; Fisher and Shapiro, 2005; Kolb and Williams, 2000).
One reason behind the controversy over trust may arise from confusion between
what social psychologists have referred to as “affect-based trust” and “cognition-based
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trust.” “Affect-based” trust is what we might recognize as the sort of trust that seems
inherent in individuals, to varying degrees – the sort of trust that elicits comments such as
“She is a trusting person and does not expect ill of anyone.” This aspect of trust is
generally believed to reside in the individual and is elusive in the sense that it is not wellestablished how an individual comes to hold such a perspective. (Interestingly, scientists
have identified that a hormone, oxytocin, is associated with social attachment and
affiliation (Kosfeld, et al 2005). In experiments, human subjects administered a dose of
oxytocin exhibited higher levels of affect-based trust.)
In contrast, “cognition-based trust” is the mechanism by which a trusting person
may lose trust and may be the basis for “building trust” when trust between entities is
absent or lost. Cognition-based trust arises from observable behaviors, actions and
experience. Because cognition-based trust can be intentionally shaped, it is particularly
relevant to planners and public managers anticipating risky situations.
The question is not whether trust is necessary for negotiations or planning, but
how it can facilitate collaboration and how we can work to build trust into our
relationships. In planning for risky technologies, attention to building trust among the
public, government, and other actors may offer a relational foundation that can withstand
unexpected, uncertain and undesirable surprises.
Operationalizing Social trust
Because planning for risky technologies entails joint decision making towards an
uncertain future, the development of strong social relationships may be as important as
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the integrity of the technical specifications of technological safety devices and evacuation
plans.
The “glue” that holds communities together, it is argued, is social trust. It is
social trust that allows us to work together with the expectation that our collective efforts
will result in the collective good. Kumar and Paddison have laid an excellent starting
point for a discussion of trust in collaborative planning (Kumar and Paddison, 2000).
They state,
…Trust is generally understood as “a leap of faith [whereby stakeholders] believe
that each is interested in the others’ welfare and that neither will act without first
considering the action’s impact on the other” (Kumar, 1996, p. 95). According to
Shaw (1997, p. 22) “when we trust others, we assume that they will behave in a
manner consistent with our interests, [that is], those we trust are both willing and
able to meet our needs.” (Kumar and Paddison, 2000, p. 209)
Kumar and Paddison identify “markers” of trust, indications to one party that others care
about their interests. The question is whether this “leap of faith” derives from a belief in
the altruism or paternalism of others, or out of the belief that others accept that their own
interests will not be met without an agreement that is acceptable and fills the needs of the
other party(ies) (Fisher and Ury, 1981; Susskind and Cruikshank, 1987).
Communicating to others the understanding of their concerns and needs, and how a
particular course of action (a plan, decision, or a particular alternative for solving a
problem) meets both others’ and one’s own interests, may be one factor in demonstrating
that one is trustworthy – working toward a common goal, which is a resolution that will
satisfy the needs of all involved.
If this is true, then Gidden’s notion of ‘active trust’ can be operationalized. That
is, because cognition-based trust can be intentionally shaped, it is particularly relevant to
planners and public managers anticipating risky situations. Kumar and Paddison write,
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…that generative politics should be pursued to attain what he [Giddens] calls,
‘active trust.’ …Actively seeking trust would, therefore, engage professionals
with the stakeholders in a process of continuous interaction under the conditions
of communicative rationality leading to shared understanding and mutually
agreed upon decisions. (Kumar and Paddison, 2000, p. 209)
Kumar and Paddison link the process of generating trust to communicative rationality.
However, an intermediate step is needed, namely to examine the elements of cognitionbased trust. That is, what specific factors in substantive communications and actions
enhance cognition-based trust between individuals, organizations and institutions?
Kasperson et al. (1992) have offered a framework that may be helpful here. In their
work on siting hazardous facilities, they defined social trust as “a person’s expectation
that other persons and institutions in a social relationship can be relied upon to act in
ways that are competent, predictable, and caring” (Kasperson, et al., 1992, p. 169). They
then go on to identify one additional dimensions of social trust, which they label
“commitment” Key points describing these four components are presented below:
1.
2.
3.
4.
Commitment:…trust relies on perceptions of uncompromised commitment to a
mission or goal (such as protection of the public health), and fulfillment of
fiduciary obligations or other social norms…
Competence: Trust is gained only when the individual or institution in a social
relationship is judged to be reasonably competent in its actions over time.
While expectations may not be violated if these individuals or institutions are
occasionally wrong, consistent failures and discoveries of unexpected
incompetence and inadequacies can lead to a loss of trust….
Caring. Perceptions that an individual or institution will act in a way that
shows concern for and beneficence to trusting individuals are critical….
Predictability. Trust rests on the fulfillment of expectations and
faith…predictability does not necessarily require consistency of behavior.
Complete consistency of behavior would require unchanging actions or
beliefs, even in the face of contradictory information, and also more
consistency in values and related behavior than most individuals, groups, or
institutions possess. (Kasperson et al., 1992, p. 170)
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Kasperson et al. (1992) recognize that “trust operates simultaneously at the cognitive,
emotional, and behavioral levels” (p. 171). However, the cognitive aspects of trust are
ones that can be observed and examined. Viewing protracted public planning and
decision making sequences as a negotiation sequence allows opportunities to identify
how trust is lost, eroded and rebuilt and may yield lessons relevant to planning for risky
technologies.
We turn now to an examination of two crises in which public officials and
managers lost the public trust. We aim to identify those points in the unfolding of the
events in which the reactions of planners and public managers reinforced trust or a lack
of trust from the public.
Nuclear power and Three Mile Island:
Our first case is the crisis that occurred at the Three Mile Island (TMI) nuclear
power plant in 1979. In fact, federal emergency response requirements enacted through
SARA, were largely a response to Three Mile Island and subsequent industrial accidents,
including tragic chemical releases in Union Carbide’s Bhopal, India and Institute, West
Virginia plants. In their book, Dealing with an Angry Public, Susskind and Field use the
period immediately following the disruption at the facility to instruct how principles of
mutual gains bargaining could have been employed to mitigate the fears and distrust that
arose in the days following the event. We take a slightly broader approach here,
considering in addition relations before and for several years after the event.
Nuclear power in many ways epitomizes risky technology. It is a technology with
low probability of an event of devastating consequence. Facility design, construction and
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operation are conducted with multiple redundancies in safety systems, but as the events at
Three Mile Island and Chernobyl later in 1986 remind us, malfunctions do occur. In the
case of the Three Mile Island facility, some might argue the community did not survive
intact. According to research conducted by Goldsteen and Schor (c1991), the physical
and mental well-being of the surrounding population was seriously affected and the
legitimacy of the facility operator, government spokespersons and agencies involved was
severely diminished. At the national level, TMI could be viewed as a major factor behind
the demise of nuclear industry overall. No new licenses were sought for nuclear facilities
in the United States for 25 years following the event.
The nuclear power industry had a shaky reception in many regions of the country,
with rather sophisticated organizations such as the Clamshell Alliance in Seabrook, NH,
the Oyster Shell Alliance near New Orleans, and the Abalone Alliance in California
raising unresolvable doubts about the safety of nuclear power generation. Anti-nuke
fever did not hit, however, at Three Mile Island (TMI), located on an island in the
Susquehanna River about 10 miles from Harrisburg, the state capital of Pennsylvania.
According to Goldsteen and Schorr, “the Nuclear Regulatory Commission’s (NRC)
Special Inquiry Group reported that, ‘preliminary hearings were virtually devoid of
rancor; there were no charges of landgrabbing, no residential dislocations. Some farmers
were apprehensive about the possible effects of radioactive releases from the plant, but
this seemed hardly more ominous than the potential smog and soot from a fossil fuel
plant.’” (p. 11)
In fact, most residents were relatively agnostic about the risks of nuclear
power until the fateful near-meltdown and release of radioactivity that occurred
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on 28 March 1979. Residents in the area woke up to a series of conflicting and
contradictory press releases from Metropolitan Edison, the owner and operator of
the TMI plant, and state and federal government officials about a malfunction at
the plant, the release of radioactive gases and progress in stabilizing the crisis.
(Local officials seemed to be relatively out-of-the-loop of official reports.)
Indeed, it was learned later that the plant operators did not understand accurately
the full nature of the incident for several days. Government officials, particularly
then Governor Thornburgh, immediately attempted to convey reassuring yet
appropriately precautionary statements, such as encouraging only the evacuation
of pregnant women and young children. On Day Two, the NRC spokesperson
issued a statement to the public prematurely declaring the “danger was over,”
despite authorities not regaining control of the facility. By the evening of Day
Three, trusted news anchor Walter Cronkite broadcasted to the nation that, “The
world has never known a day quite like today. It faced the considerable
uncertainties and dangers of the worst nuclear power plant accident of the atomic
age. And the horror tonight is that it could get much worse.” (Seaman, 2006).
Cronkite’s dire report arose from an expert’s assessment of the situation,
the so-called “bubble theory” that, it was learned later, had been calculated
erroneously. The NRC promptly attempted to discredit the “bubble theory” with
press releases the next day. On Day Five, in an effort to calm fears and nerves,
President Jimmy Carter and Governor Thornburgh visited the control room at
TMI to demonstrate the lack of danger of a core meltdown or any other
catastrophic event.
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Metropolitan Edison withheld and misinformed government officials (Susskind
and Field, 1996). Authorities and the media disseminated conflicting information
apparently without attempting to reconcile competing statements. Some residents
believed the miscommunications were not inadvertent, but a result of flat-out lies
(Goldsteen and Schorr, c1991, p. 82). Clearly post-event communications were not
handled well.
The response to the emergency was dominated by an atmosphere of almost total
confusion. There was lack of communication at all levels. Many key
recommendations were made by individuals who were not in possession of
accurate information, and those who managed the accident were slow to realize
the significance and implications of the events that had taken place (The
President's Commission on the Accident at Three Mile Island, 1979).
Confusing and contradictory communications clearly contributed to a growing distrust of
authorities. Importantly, however, residents not only felt that communications were
mishandled, but also that those in charge were not competent:
It appeared to those living nearby that, time and again important information
about their exposure to radiation and the stability of the plant was withheld or not
timely. The accident created the baffling impression that the individuals in charge
of managing the accident did not know what they were doing. (Goldsteen and
Schor, c1991, p. 34)
Over the subsequent months and years, clean up of the TMI facility progressed with a
much lower sense of urgency. However, community members continued to express
mistrust of Metropolitan Edison and government regulators.
In response to a question about how she felt six months after the crisis event, one
resident said of Metropolitan Edison’s plans to decontaminate the plant:
“I heard yesterday…[that they] are going to let this gas [Krypton -85] out, and it’s
the best and it’s the safest [approach]. How can they say it’s the safest? …We’re
just experiments….We are their experiments because it’s cheaper that way, and
it’s easier all around.” (Goldsteen and Schor, , c1991, p. 38-39.)
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Inevitably, unscheduled releases also occurred, which then had to be admitted and
explained after the fact. This did not add to the community sense of confidence in the
competency of plant operators. One resident stated bluntly, “I don’t think that they
know what they’re doing.” (Goldsteen and Schor, , c1991, p.57)
Another resident said, “I kind of feel that money talks louder than voices, and
they [Metropolitan Edison] have the influence and money behind them.” (Goldsteen and
Schor, , c1991, p. 53) An editorial in the Philadelphia Inquirer amplified this sentiment.
“There are alternatives to venting in to the atmosphere the radioactive krypton
gas…Venting is by far the cheapest and easiest method…”(Goldsteen and Schor, , c1991,
p. 133) Residents were not reassured that the plant operators or the government
regulators considered their health or welfare a priority.
Residents also became aware that the power generated at the Three Mile Island
facility was not generated for their use, but was sent hundreds of miles away to residents
in New Jersey. Nonetheless, local residents saw their own utility rates increase, which
they presumed were used to cover clean up costs. This action again served to reinforce
the sense that Metropolitan Edison, and the regulators by association, were concerned
more about their own fiscal viability and profits than the wellbeing of the nearby
residents.
The decontamination process progressed over the next seven years. This process
entailed additional planned and controlled releases of radioactive materials into the air
and water of the Susquehanna River. Accusations of mismanagement and incompetence
continued to make their way into the media (Lyons, 1983). Experts dueled in the press
over the health risks of low level exposures to radiation. The local authorities did little to
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allay resident concerns, however. While a public health study was commissioned to
investigate health impacts of the releases, the public health official chosen to the lead the
study had stated publicly his opinion that risks were not significant. His choice led
residents to believe the study could not be unbiased and that the government was not
sincere in its concern for the residents’ well-being (Goldsteen and Schorr, c1991).
Seven years later, when the facility applied for permits to restart power
generation, residents continued to voice concerns about the competency and truthfulness
of nuclear plant operators. Over and over residents were given clues that suggested that
other interests were higher priority than their own welfare. Twenty years later the mayor
of the nearby town of Middleton remained convinced that radiation releases caused
cancer among residents. Some residents keep radiation monitors in their homes. A large
number of residents continued to regard Metropolitan Edison and government regulators
with distrust (Life on Earth, 1999).
Mt. Tabor Reservoir
When the Portland, Oregon Water Bureau announced that they were planning to
bury two of the City’s main reservoirs in 2002, they did not expect the public opposition
that erupted. Only months after Sept. 11, 2001, heightened security and fears about
terrorist activities seemed rampant across the country. Open reservoirs that supplied the
city’s residents with their drinking water seemed like a sitting target for terrorists and one
that warranted obvious precaution. Led by a core group of residents, however, several
hundreds of citizens joined hands and stood in a circle around the Mt. Tabor reservoir in
a symbolic gesture to protect it from the City’s bulldozers and forced not only
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reconsideration, but ultimately a reversal of the decision by city leaders. How did the
City deal with the public in this situation and how were relationships between city
residents and the Water Bureau and elected officials affected?
As far back as the 1970s, the City had considered covering its largest open air
reservoirs that are located in two city parks, Washington Park on the west side of town
just above downtown, and Mt. Tabor Park on the eastside of the Willamette River, atop a
volcanic cinder cone. The then newly organized federal Environmental Protection
Agency issued a statement discouraging new construction of uncovered reservoirs due to
rising health concerns. The City contracted with engineering firm CH2MHill to conduct a
study of the facilities, constructed between 1894 and 1911, but gave up plans to retrofit
the facilities due to the high estimated costs of doing so. In 1981, the State of Oregon
passed rules requiring all new open reservoirs to be equipped with watertight roofs. In
1999, EPA passed rules requiring the covering or treatment of water from all open
reservoirs serving populations of 10,000 persons or more, effective October 2008.
The City of Portland’s main water supply is from the Bull Run reservoir, deep in
the Cascade Mountains. Bull Run water is considered among the purest sources on the
continental United States and has met all EPA drinking water standards up to 1999
without treatment or filtering. Portlanders are proud of this drinking water, fiscally
prudent, and wary of add-on treatments that bear their own risks of chemical
contamination. They are also avid outdoors people who seem to hold a clear affinity for
the local landscape of a sea of greens punctuated by cherished water features. (Indeed,
the much loved Jane Jacobs commented on the prevalence of parks with fountains in
downtown Portland (Ozawa, 2004).)
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Late in 1999, the City of Portland commissioned another study of its aging
reservoirs, contracting with Montgomery Watson Harza (MWH), a 6,000-person global
engineering firm with an office of 40 staff located in Portland and whose vice-president
was a former chief engineer at the Water Bureau. The firm’s March 2001 assessment
concluded that the reservoirs indeed were in need of significant repairs, but that no major
overhaul of the system would be required for another 20-25 years.
Then the fateful events of September 11, 2001 occurred and the entire country
was swept into a frenzy about security from terrorists. Montgomery Watson Harza took
their study of the Portland water system to a Maryland-based firm specializing in
security, and came back to Portland city leaders with the recommendation that the
reservoirs be covered in order to avoid deliberate contamination by terrorists. The city
council members apparently believed it was timely to take action on the reservoirs and in
spring 2002, gave consent to the Water Bureau, which was overseen by Commissioner
Dan Saltzman, to move ahead with the project without pausing for public notice and
comment. A public involvement plan was set up to discuss not whether to cover the
reservoirs, but to provide input about the park land atop the buried facilities. The
contract to facilitate public involvement was given to MWH, which also has the expertise
to bid on the infrastructure project itself.
This relatively swift action, which initially committed an estimated $76 million
city dollars alarmed neighbors of the Mt. Tabor reservoir. Residents formed a group
called, “Friends of Mt. Tabor Reservoir” and began demanding the issue be reconsidered
through a more open process involving residents. In their document entitled,
“Introduction to the Organization and Its Goals” (2004), the authors stated that neighbors
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were shocked by the City’s “careless, even arrogant approach to citizen involvement.”
Members of the Friends group researched how other communities were dealing with
uncovered reservoirs to identify alternatives to burial and found an example in Pittsburgh,
PA, where a micro-filtration plant was added to the water system at half the cost of
covering the reservoir. They were skeptical of MWH’s reports and legal documents
which they contended included a “significant amount of boilerplate material” and were
“heavily self-referential” signaling to the group’s members that the consultants,
were not neutral parties. Consultants had interests to promote. By arguing for
increased security or highlighting the necessity of new water quality
requirements, they were making the case for additional studies and creating new
opportunities for design and construction contracts (Friends of Mt. Tabor
Reservoir, 2004, p. 1).
Portland’s neighborhoods are organized in city-supported “neighborhood
associations.” Neighborhood associations near the city parks where the reservoirs were
located submitted written requests to Commissioner Saltzman to slow down the process
in order to allow for the airing of additional concerns. A letter from the Pearl District
Neighborhood Association states, “It is incomprehensible that proposed significant
changes to the visual character of the reservoirs should not be subject to extensive
discussion, planning, and public debate.” (Case, Jan. 10, 2002) The Arlington Heights
Neighborhood Association sent a letter acknowledging the City’s security concerns, but
questioning whether planned actions would be effective or fiscally wise. (Boly, January
8, 2003)
Residents flooded into public meetings. However, throughout 2002 and 2003,
pleas to Commissioner Saltzman and the Water Bureau were ignored and rebuffed.
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In January 2003, Commissioner Saltzman insisted, “The public health and safety
threats are real. We are acting on behalf of all citizens of Portland. If we’re going to do
this in the three-year timetable that we had planned to, it doesn’t allow for a timeout.”
(Jacklett, January 7, 2003) He not only continued to deny a need for reconsidering the
decision as requested by the Friends group, but also refused to engage the citizens in
discussion at all.
By the summer of 2003, fifteen local businesses worried about the additional
costs of the facility banned together to question the City’s decision. This group also
noted a lack of consultation in the process and claimed that the final costs of the project
could well exceed a doubling of the city’s official estimates. Commissioner Saltzman
insisted that the project would stay within a $107 million price tag and with respect to the
business group’s opposition was reported as commenting, “They’re coming in quite late”
(Neves and Giedwoyn, 2003)
In August 2003, a majority of the members of the city-sponsored Mt. Tabor
Reservoir Replacement Project public advisory committee signed a memo addressed to
the mayor and the city council. In this memo the committee underscored the historic
value of the reservoirs and the concern that “the decision to bury the reservoirs was made
under a false sense of urgency, without proper public process, and that creative
alternatives were not considered.” The memo went on to request the Council to “defer
further effort on this expensive and controversial project until there has been an
independent analysis of alternatives, and full and open public discussion of those
findings” (Members of Mt. Tabor Reservoir Replacement Project, 2003).
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In the fall of 2003, the Friends group filed a lawsuit alleging the bond measure
that provided the source of funds for the reservoir project was overly vague and its
monies could not be used legally for these purposes. Although the Friends group would
ultimately lose this lawsuit, public criticism of the Water Bureau was growing and a
small group of influential local leaders met with Commissioner Saltzman in December
2003 to persuade him to delay the project long enough to form and hear
recommendations from a new citizen advisory panel. Saltzman agreed, though allowing
only 90 days for the new panel to come up with its findings and not opening a seat on the
panel for any members of the Friends group, who he said “would not be impartial.”
The Mt. Tabor and Washington Park reservoirs were listed on the National
Register of Historic Places in January 2004. In June 2004, the second citizen advisory
panel recommended that the City revisit the decision to bury the reservoir and implement
interim security measures. The City Council accepted this recommendation. In fall 2004,
a new mayor was elected and Mayor Potter reshuffled the commissioner assignments,
asking City Commissioner Randy Leonard to oversee the Water Bureau. Leonard
promptly sent e-mails to many citizen leaders apologizing for the past dismissive
responses to their concerns. The reservoir project was put on indefinite hold and the city
set out to request waivers from the increasingly prescriptive federal EPA drinking water
standards that required treatment of all drinking water for the parasite cryptosporidium
and the covering of all open reservoirs. Although these exemptions appear unlikely, the
city says it is also prepared to seek congressional action to allow Portland to continue to
take advantage of the naturally exceptional drinking water.
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In 2008, leaders in the Friends of the Mt. Tabor Reservoir group are working
closely with the Water Bureau around implementation of the interim security measures.
According to one formerly active member, it is likely that the City will lose its appeals to
the federal government and will eventually go ahead with covering both reservoirs
(Heying, 2008). This resignation was not conveyed with bitterness, but rather with the
realization that larger forces were in play. What was important, however, was that the
City is continuing to undertake, innovative large-scale public works projects in the
neighborhoods near Mt. Tabor, and relationships with the residents seem positive (City of
Portland, 2008).
Findings and Discussion
There is no evidence in either of these cases that the residents began with strong
distrust of public officials and managers. However, residents quickly came to believe
that these figures were not to be trusted. What did public officials and public managers
do to evoke this reaction? Sheer lack of responsiveness to residents was a huge factor
shaping public perceptions, but a closer look at the various elements of trust, as presented
by Kasperson and his colleagues, can provide more insight into exactly how trust was
lost.
In both cases, official decision makers and “those in charge” quickly came to be
regarded as less than competent. The plant operators and managers at Three Mile Island
were seen as not knowing what they were doing and certainly added to the perception of
incompetence by their repeated releases of contradictory information without coherent
explanations of the discrepancies. The Portland decision makers were viewed as being
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(mis)led by the consulting firm that had much to gain by presenting a limited range of
options for ensuring safe drinking water. While the lay public demonstrated their ability
to become technical experts surprisingly quickly, the fact that the City had not considered
the highly viable alternative identified by the Friends group seemed to shed doubt on the
City’s independent competency.
In both cases, residents had reason to doubt that decision makers shared a
commitment to common goals. In the Three Mile Island case, local utility users were
horrified about rates increased after the accident when they learned that the Three Mile
Island facility supplied power not to their own homes and businesses, but to markets
hundreds of miles away in the state of New Jersey. In the Portland case, City
Commissioner Saltzman signaled to community groups repeatedly that their concerns
were secondary to worries about increased project costs that might be incurred by project
delays. Moreover, the City’s acknowledgement that other methods of contamination of
the water supply would persist despite the capping and that other protective measures
would not be considered underscored residents’ suspicions about the commitment of the
City and their consultants to the putative goal of ensuring safe drinking water. For TMI
neighbors and Portland residents, dollars seemed to trump their safety.
The third factor contributing to trust put forward by Kasperson and his colleagues
they call “caring.” In the seven-year period following the near melt-down event at Three
Mile Island, residents continued to express anxieties about the safety of the facility and
the impact of prior radioactive releases on their long-term health. They were not
comforted by the state’s decision to contract the health study with a researcher who had
publicly expressed doubt of significant adverse health effects from TMI. In the minds of
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some residents, the mere act of ignoring residents’ feelings indicated a lack of sincere
concern for their well-being. As Goldsteen and Schor state, “The department [of health]
did not appear to be a vigilant guardian of community health but an apologist for the
nuclear power industry” (p. 150).
In the Mt. Tabor case, the City failed to understand the core concerns of the
residents. While covering a beloved, historic water feature was the focal point of the
dialogue, the City’s responses throughout 2002 and 2003, as personified by
Commissioner’s Saltzman’s lack of desire to engage the Friends group and later the
business group, demonstrated outright lack of respect. His refusal to talk with the
citizens sacrificed opportunities to acknowledge the legitimacy of their right to express
their views. Conversely, Commissioner Leonard’s apology later in 2004 signaled
recognition of the residents and paved the way for working together productively.
Perhaps more perniciously, refusal to engage the residents closed off
opportunities to convey information that can be useful in trust building. Negotiation
theory provides useful concepts here. Fisher and Ury’s prescription of “focusing on
interests, not positions,” advises negotiators to look beyond the demands that others make
to understand why they are making those demands. In other words, what is motivating
their behavior? Robust agreements are agreements that recognize the interdependence of
parties. Competent negotiators will weigh proposed agreements against (1) other means
available to them for satisfying their needs (what Fisher and Ury call BATNA, or best
alternative to a negotiated agreement), and (2) their understanding of the extent to which
the needs of others involved will be met by the proposed agreement. This latter factor
arises from the supposition that if all parties have something to gain from the proposal,
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they are more likely to carry out their responsibilities under the agreement and/or are less
likely to thwart others from fulfilling their roles in implementation. These two measures
strongly align with Kasperson et al’s components of trust, commitment and caring.
In the Mt. Tabor case, perhaps more so than Three Mile Island, the inconsistency
of the City’s response to their outcries was not only baffling and highly frustrating, but
also added to suspicions of the City’s underlying motives behind the reservoir projects.
The City of Portland is well-known for its open decision making process. The apparently
abrupt decision by the city council to move forward on the project without additional
public input despite the public outcry struck many as out of character with the city’s
culture. This “lack of predictability” fueled citizen doubts and distrust.
While these cases provide examples of the ways in which the actions and
communications of key actors worked to erode trust, how can this knowledge be
translated into efforts to build trust, and more importantly, strong relationships in the
community?
Aquifer Storage and Recovery (ASR)
In the next section of this paper, I consider how we can improve planning for
risky technologies by intentionally building a foundation of trust among decision makers
and affected populations. Risky technologies fall on a multi-dimensional spectrum ,
ranging from situations of high probability of a low magnitude impact to low probability
of a high magnitude impact, voluntary to imposed risk, and varying distributions of
benefits and risks. I focus discussion here on planning for aquifer storage and recovery
(ASR) systems, an arguably low probability risk technology that has aroused public
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concern in some parts of the country, but has not yet attracted the sort of opposition as
nuclear power.
Competition for fresh water is a hot issue, especially in the dry southern and
western United States where drought amid growing populations is prevalent. Water
managers in municipalities from the southeastern U.S. to the far corners of the northeast
have installed or are considering the use of aquifer storage and recovery (ASR) systems.
By their nature, with often only a small pumping station appearing above ground, ASR
systems are out-of-sight and for much of the public, out-of-mind. In Florida and
Wisconsin, however, communities have mobilized to eliminate or restrict the use of ASR
(Roeder, 2005; CWAC, accessed 10-15-08). At stake in this case, similar to the Portland
case, is the safety of the drinking water supply. But in the case of ASR, not only the
storage vessel but the source of life and livelihood itself, aquifers and surface stream
waters, are potentially threatened.
ASR systems essentially divert water from surface streams during heavy flow
seasons and pump it into existing pools trapped in geological formations underground
where it is stored until needed. Stream water has a distinctive chemical “signature” and
its molecular weight is believed to be just different enough for it to remain in a “bubble”
floating amid the aquifer’s native water. Environmentalists worry that injected surface
water will migrate beyond the “bubble” that forms, eventually eroding rock formations
that contain the aquifer causing the leaching of arsenic, manganese and other minerals
and contaminating the water supply. Others worry that high stream flows serve an
ecological purpose that may not be appreciated or even understood fully, and that
reducing surface water during high flow seasons will have detrimental impacts
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downstream and on wildlife habitats. Finally, others are anxious about the “slippery
slope” phenomenon, in which once initial withdrawals from streams are made, political
resistance to raising the quantities of withdrawals as well as expanding the temporal
boundaries that define the high flow season will weaken.
ASR facilities have been installed throughout the eastern United States, more
sparingly in the mid-section of the country, and sporadically across the western states, as
well as around the world. Advocates of ASR are eager to spread the technology further.
Communities are largely uninformed, though concerns such as those mentioned above
have been raised. If regulators adhere strictly to a conservative outtake of surface waters,
then perhaps excess flows can be reserved for socially preferred uses during dry seasons.
If advocates are correct and surface water can be held without consequence underground
in aquifers, perhaps this technology can provide a cost-efficient service. However, if the
“bubble” doesn’t hold and exotic (imported) waters migrate underground and eventually
erode rock formations or leach dangerous chemicals, or if high stream flows perform
ecological purposes not yet understood, then vital resources may be irreparably
destroyed. Given the lack of experience and data around such questions, ASR is indeed a
“risky technology.” Long-term effects are uncertain.
How can the lessons from the past enhanced by a fuller understanding of trust and
closer attention to negotiation theory guide planners involved in the implementation of
ASR systems and other risky technologies?
Taken as descriptive theory, communicative planning suggests that
communications occur continuously, intentionally or not, among elected officials,
industry, planners and public managers and residents. Communications can build and
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strengthen trust or erode and destroy trust. Because we do plan for risky technologies,
that is, we consciously make decisions to enable their operations, public managers and
planners can begin a process of developing a strong relationship with other populations
likely to be affected by decisions long before any risks are imminent.
Taken as normative theory, communication planning suggests the first step is to
ensure that relationships among the populations managing and populations at risk from
the use of a risky technology are acknowledged. ASR operators and regulators should
anticipate undesirable events by working to build a strong social foundation among
community members. The first guideline for planning for risky technologies is early
notice and identification of likely affected populations. This might entail publicizing
ASR proposals widely at the initial planning stages, as well as actively seeking out
special communication methods to reach affected populations.
Then, two-way communication channels must be opened and structured around
the exchange of information. Public managers, elected officials, technology operators and
residents need to hear and listen to one another’s worries and concerns. Potential risks
surrounding the technology should also be shared openly, including information about the
possible pitfalls of this technology, the unknown threats to underground water sources
and surface water habitats and stream flows. Identifying the bounds of certainty and
uncertainty will add a level of candidness to the discussions and, counter-intuitively, may
bolster the perception of competency of the operators and regulators, especially if a lowprobability crisis occurs (Ozawa, 2005). This second guideline is known in the consensus
building literature as “joint factfinding,” but this stage might be labeled more
accurately “socially constructing a shared knowledge base” around technical as well as
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political issues. Including representatives of the community in the planning and
permitting process demonstrates a respect for community concerns and well-being by the
industry and water districts, regulators, elected officials and planners.
Sharing information about concerns and interests serves not only to satisfy a need
to feel heard and understood. In negotiations, understanding what others care about and
why a particular alternative solution satisfies their needs is key to crafting an agreement
that is stable, durable and implemented. Moreover, creating agreements that are mutually
acceptable de facto acknowledges interdependency and legitimizes all groups. The third
guideline is facilitating discussions that reveal how various groups’ needs will be met
through various alternatives courses of action.
Communities live with risk; it is the involuntary imposition of risk and the maldistribution of benefits that emanate from risky technologies that often makes a given risk
unacceptable (citation). Indeed, every reduction in known levels of risk comes with a
cost and at some point, a community may agree to accept a certain level of risk so that the
additional dollars may be better spent elsewhere. In anticipation of the inevitable
acceptance of some level of risk, the mutual, common benefits of the use of the
technology should be made salient. In the case of ASR, such benefits would include
adequate, year-round water supplies for all users and the protection of resources for the
long-term. An ASR process that keeps salient the collective commitment to ensure
adequate water quantities and quality available to all users would reassure the community
that if an unfortunate event or consequence of ASR occurred, a response that would share
responsibility for the harms or deficiencies incurred. The fourth guideline is identifying
and keeping salient a collective commitment to a shared interest.
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Finally, elected officials, regulators, planners, technology operators and members
of the public must respond to one another’s legitimate concerns. Mutual recognition of
interdependence, and the shared commitment to the long-term health of the resource
make working together make sense. A forum and process for fostering strong community
relationships does not require a minimum frequency of utilization. It does require
consistency among the actors to utilize it. The fifth guideline is ensuring predictable and
continuing opportunities for interaction.
Currently, ASR regulators set up monitoring programs to attempt to track
unforeseen impacts on the aquifer. Permit systems limit surface water outtakes by season
and quantity. These are essentially legal and quasi-legal mechanisms to attempt to reduce
risk. Communication planning theory suggests that investing in strengthening social
relationships is a more flexible and effective means of preparing for a crisis.
In fact, as is the case with many risky technologies, the community, local
governments and water services districts, and the ASR industry itself have much to
benefit if ASR facilities operate as expected. However, planners and other public
managers involved with decisions about the use of risky technologies must anticipate a
worst case scenario (Clarke, 2005) and appreciate the social climate in which a disaster
might occur. A community’s ability to recover from a disaster is contingent on the level
of social trust among individuals and institutions. Communicative planning theory
provides a perspective for examining not just planning decisions and outcomes, but
process and social relationships as well. Viewing the interactions as an implicit
negotiation sharpens the focus on how specific behaviors affect social trust. However, as
in negotiations, communicative planning is not simply about on-the-spot reactions but
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entails a comprehensive view of an entire process and set of relationships from early
stages of planning.
By their nature, “accidents” cannot be avoided. Although the Mt. Tabor case
illustrates well the mishandling of planning for risky technologies, it also demonstrates
redemption and the power of a simple, though not always easy to execute, apology.
Communities are comprised of people. People are highly resilient. But a resilient
community requires relationships of trust of among its members. Communicative
planning theory, with its linkages to the negotiation field, has much to offer in terms of
attending to the elements of trust that can be acted upon.
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