As the US Retreats From Climate Aid, the World’s Most Vulnerable Pay the Price

“The era of American dominance is ending; the era of collective climate survival is here. Rebuilding climate aid is not about prestige. It is about preservation of communities and cultures, of regional stability, and even of America’s own long-term security,” writes Emelie Y. Jimenez.

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By Emelie Y. Jimenez

At last year’s COP30 meeting in Belém, Brazil, delegates from nearly all countries came together to confront the accelerating realities of climate change. They arrived with plans, partnerships and most importantly, a willingness to act together. Notably, one country was missing: the United States. 

As the devastating reality of climate change continues to seep into every major world decision, the gap between what the world needs and what the US is willing to contribute is widening. The cost will not be just political. It will be human. It will be cultural.

On his first day back in office in January 2024, President Donald Trump withdrew the US from the Paris Agreement. But the damage didn’t stop there. A broad “reevaluation” of foreign aid led to the unprecedented dismantling of the US Agency for International Development (USAID). More than 80% of the agency’s programs were terminated, with the small number of those retained transferred to the State Department. Billions of dollars in climate-related development projects were zeroed out. Local partners were left in limbo and one of the world’s most established engines of long-term climate resilience simply vanished.

The dismantling of US foreign aid is only the most recent example of a longstanding pattern. For decades, long before today’s climate crisis accelerated displacement, US-based corporations contributed to environmental harm abroad. Chevron’s operations in the Ecuadorian Amazon are one of the most well-documented examples: unlined waste pits and discharged toxic drilling byproducts contaminated rivers and groundwater relied upon by Indigenous communities for drinking, cooking, and bathing. The result was widespread ecological destruction and long-term health impacts that residents are still fighting to have recognized.

Similar patterns appear in the Caribbean. In Jamaica, foreign bauxite (the world’s main source of aluminum) mining companies – many of them American – extracted ore for decades, stripping forests and degrading water systems. After reserves in older mining zones were exhausted, pressure grew to expand operations into Cockpit Country, one of the island’s most ecologically sensitive regions and home to Maroon communities whose cultural and historical survival depends on that land. Once again, Indigenous and rural communities were asked to bear the cost of extraction.

These aren’t isolated stories. They illustrate a broader truth: the US has long benefited from extractive practices that leave vulnerable communities with polluted water, degraded ecosystems, and fewer options to remain on their land. Climate change is now compounding these harms, turning environmental injustice into displacement and displacement into cultural loss. As rising temperatures intensify storms, droughts, and sea-level rise, the communities already burdened by extraction are often the first to face climate-driven migration, creating a cycle that deepens inequality across generations.

During my Peace Corps service in Zambia, I saw this pattern unfold in real time. Families were forced to abandon farmland scorched by drought and relentless heat. As crops failed and wells dried up, communities left the land that had shaped their traditions, rituals, and collective memory. This slow-moving, internal displacement does not make international headlines, but it quietly erodes culture long before the world takes notice.

Meanwhile, as the US steps back, China is stepping in. The country has announced its ambitious climate action plan to commit to reduce net greenhouse gas emissions by 7-10% by 2035. This effort is not purely altruistic, it is driven by strategic economic interests and a deliberate push to dominate clean-energy markets. China now dominates solar panel production, battery supply chains, wind technologies, and electric vehicles. Its investments are shaping the global energy landscape. 

While cheaper renewable technologies can benefit the Global South, the problem is access. If communities most vulnerable to climate shocks cannot afford or deploy this technology, they remain trapped between climate stress and insufficient support.

This is where the US could contribute. Not as a savior or a colonizing superpower, but as a responsible partner. The era of American dominance is ending; the era of collective climate survival is here. Rebuilding climate aid is not about prestige. It is about preservation of communities and cultures, of regional stability, and even of America’s own long-term security. Climate displacement does not respect borders. When families are uprooted, the ripple effects reach economies, migration systems, and geopolitics everywhere. Supporting resilience abroad is therefore both a moral obligation and a pragmatic necessity.

If the US continues to shrink its presence on the global stage, the world will adjust, but vulnerable communities will not. Their capacity to remain rooted depends on investments that help them weather drought, heat, and rising seas, not speeches at conferences.

The US has a choice: it can watch climate migration accelerate from the sidelines as it slowly arrives on home soil, or it can join the collective effort to slow the forces pushing people from their homes. This moment demands participation, not power plays. 

If America does not lead, then, at the very least, it must not abandon those fighting to stay in place. Climate migration is not a distant future; it is a present reality reshaping lives every day. The question is not whether the US will feel its consequences, but whether it will act before they are irreversible.

Featured image: Moniruzzaman Sazal / Climate Visuals Countdown, via Wikimedia Commons.

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About the author: Emelie Y. Jimenez is a policy professional in Washington, D.C., where she works on federal housing outreach supporting vulnerable communities. She formerly served as a Peace Corps volunteer in rural Zambia, working on clean water and maternal health initiatives supported by USAID. Her previous research with the Jack D. Gordon Institute examined human trafficking and transnational law in the Western Hemisphere. She holds a B.A. in Political Science from Florida International University and writes at the intersection of climate, migration, and inequality.