In 2007, the Vatican was declared the world’s first carbon-neutral state, claiming it offset all its emissions through a Hungarian forest project. The only catch? The trees were never planted. Meanwhile, in Europe’s carbon market, criminals set up fake factories to generate pollution, destroy it, and sell carbon credits. In Kenya, entire indigenous communities were displaced to make room for carbon offset projects benefiting corporations in the Global North. Tesla, the face of clean energy, earned more from carbon credits than it did selling cars. In 2023, it was revealed that 90 per cent of rainforest carbon offsets issued by Verra, the world’s largest certifier, were, in fact, worthless.
Carbon credits are the commodification of conscience, a convenient illusion that allows the world’s richest to absolve their sins without ever facing the true cost of their actions, leaving the poor to bear the weight of a polluted future. Despite these absurdities, carbon credits are still widely accepted. The system allows wealthy nations and corporations to pollute without consequences by outsourcing the burden of environmental responsibility to poorer countries.
This hypocrisy is glaring. El Salvador’s recent proposal to accept deported criminals from the US for financial compensation is a stark reflection of this global double standard about carbon offsets through carbon credits. If we’re to be honest, we can only say: well trained.
El Salvador’s suggestion, shocking to many, is merely holding up a mirror to how the West has long operated. For decades, rich nations have absolved themselves of environmental guilt by offloading their problems onto the Global South. If the affluent can buy their way out of climate responsibility, why shouldn’t a struggling country attempt to do the same with its security and economic challenges? The logic is the same: pay for absolution.
The proposal, as outlined by US Secretary of State Marco Rubio, offers to house not just its own deported nationals but also criminals from other countries, including convicted Americans, in exchange for a fee. This move has sparked outrage worldwide. Critics argue that no country should be used as a “dumping ground” for criminals, and that governance cannot be reduced to mere transactions. But these same critics are often the ones who defend the carbon credit system as a legitimate solution to the climate crisis. If nations can pay to avoid environmental accountability, why shouldn’t El Salvador sell its prison space?
The carbon credit system operates on a simple premise: if you emit more carbon than you should, pay someone else—preferably in a poorer country—to clean up your mess. It’s a convenient solution, but it’s not real climate action. Wealthy nations and corporations continue polluting, all while claiming carbon neutrality by funding projects in developing nations. But in practice, these projects rarely deliver what they promise.
Corporations have become experts in carbon credit deception. Shell, one of the world’s biggest polluters, was the largest buyer of carbon credits in 2024, while simultaneously cutting investments in clean energy. Microsoft purchased credits for a forest conservation project—only to discover the trees were never at risk. Amazon’s carbon-neutral shipping program relied on questionable tree-planting offsets. It’s like dumping your trash in someone else’s backyard and calling it “clean.”
When Britain sent thousands of criminals to Australia during the 18th and 19th centuries, it was framed as an act of governance. Today, El Salvador faces condemnation for suggesting something similar. But the real difference is not in the principle; it’s in who is making the offer. What El Salvador has proposed is no different. It’s simply exposing the hypocrisy of a system that commodifies problems. The global backlash against El Salvador’s plan isn’t born out of moral outrage, but from the discomfort of being confronted with a logic that the West has mastered.
The Global North has long set the terms of transactional morality, dressing its extractive policies in the guise of “climate responsibility” while accusing others of ethical compromise. El Salvador’s error, perhaps, lies in assuming it had earned the right to play by the same rules.
This situation forces us to reconsider what true accountability looks like on the global stage. Wealthier nations have long been in the habit of externalising their burdens, whether it’s pollution, criminal deportation, or exploitative labour practices, perpetuating a cycle of inequality. The moral and psychological cost of these transactions falls squarely on the shoulders of the Global South, which is repeatedly pushed into accepting these exploitative deals out of economic necessity.
As El Salvador’s proposal makes painfully clear, nations in the Global South are too often treated as bargaining chips in a geopolitical game, never fully allowed to assert their own priorities or dignity. Perhaps the real question we should be asking is not whether countries like El Salvador can play by the same rules, but whether we are ready to confront the systemic inequality that makes such proposals even possible.
This is not a defence of El Salvador’s proposal, but an indictment of the double standards that underpin global policy. If the world finds the commodification of problems so repugnant, it must first examine the industries and policies that have perfected this art of externalising responsibility. The uncomfortable truth is that El Salvador is simply a student who has learned all too well.
Disclaimer: The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publication.
