Closure of pollution-spewing paper mill puts poor Russian town in peril

BAIKALSK, Russia - Even after the troubles began at the mill, most of the families lingered, clinging to vague hope. As early autumn gave way to snow, they gathered up rumors, pinched pennies, and drank a little more than usual.

Their way of life was at risk. The global financial meltdown had succeeded where historic changes and generations of crusading environmentalists had failed: It stopped production at Baikalsk Pulp & Paper Mill, a Soviet relic and environmental menace that serves as the economic lifeline for this town of 17,000 people.

The mill closure threatens to drive this lonesome town, clinging to the southern shore of Lake Baikal in the great wastes of Siberia, to extinction.

"It seems to me this will soon be a dead town," said Alexander Shendrik, head of the mill's union. "Everybody depends upon the plant."

The town was founded by Communist Party volunteers who constructed the mill amid the rich timber forest. The factory chugged for decades alongside the oldest, deepest lake on the planet, a vast ecological gem nicknamed the Galapagos of Russia for the rare species it houses.

Through the years, the volunteers started families and meshed into a close-knit, working-class community. The mill was privatized with the fall of the Soviet Union, but the lifestyle was little changed.

But the mill has long been criticized by both Russian and foreign environmentalists as a dangerous anachronism, a remnant from the days when the Soviet Union rushed to create industry at any cost. A battle has raged for years over whether to close the mill to preserve the lake, a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Because of environmental concerns, the mill had been forced to adopt a cleaner but costlier mode of production. This was a wan victory for environmentalists, who had wanted to shut the plant altogether, and a blow to workers, who believe their livelihood was put at risk for an abstract ecological threat they consider exaggerated.

Still, the danger of closure didn't come until pulp prices plunged this year, along with those of other commodities. The mill was operating at a loss, and, in September, management issued the first order to halt production.

Most of the 2,280 mill workers have been told they are redundant, as the lingo goes, and put on forced leave until early February. They were supposed to draw a percentage of their salaries until then - average pay is just more than $500 a month - but have been warned not to expect any money this month.

"Some of the people, like us, have nowhere to run," said Yanina Ilnitskaya, 40, who worked as a translator at the mill.

Townspeople are used to the harsh winters that sweep down off the tundra and push over the mountains to Mongolia. They are used to living hand to mouth and to drowning out environmentalists who say that the mill tainted the lake with chlorine runoff.

Townspeople contend that, as a matter of economic survival, they should be allowed to resume the older, dirtier system of paper making.

"We're watching this process, watching local and federal authorities, and trying to use our influence not to let them give this permission to the paper mill," said Roman Vazhenkov, head of Greenpeace's Lake Baikal campaign.

Vazhenkov acknowledged the dire social threat and said he hoped the government would provide some aid to the people of Baikalsk. Still, he celebrated the work stoppage. "Environmentally, we were very glad about the closure," he said.