Category Archives: Climate Change

Global heating isn’t important–if you’re not suffering.

In the last weeks of June, Europe experienced a heatwave that broke temperature records from France through to Hungary. The heatwave combined high daytime and nighttime temperatures with high humidity. The result was more than 2,000 excess deaths in France alone.

The third heatwave of the European summer has started.

I have been fascinated by the political and technocratic response to the heatwave because, rhetorically at least, this summer has broken through the background hum of climate change conversations. There is a sense of urgency that I have not heard before. “Panic” is probably too strong a word, but governments are clearly worried. Will Europe be liveable in summer in 10 years time?

Having grown up with hot Australian summers and no air conditioning, I was familiar with the routine. Windows open at night to cool the house. Curtains and windows closed during the day to prevent it heating up. Fans helped. Evaporative cooling only worked if the humidity was not already too high. If it was too high, it didn’t feel like you were cooling, it felt like a sauna.

Where I now live in Europe, domestic air conditioning is not permitted, and the Australian strategies only worked partially in my apartment. Before the heatwave began, the internal wall temperatures were in the low 20s, by the end of the heatwave they were around 28.5. The thermal mass of the building had increased. The concrete and steel had absorbed the rolling heat of the day and radiated it out at night. Sleep was late in coming, patchy, and uncomfortable.

The thermal mass problem tracked something a colleague of mine at icddr,b and I had found in slums in Dhaka, Bangladesh. We had placed temperature data loggers in people’s dwelling and captured the rise and fall of temperature and humidity during the day and night. The construction materials were essentially tin and concrete. A tin roof and tin walls became an oven during the day, but cooled rapidly at night (low thermal mass). A concrete roof and concrete walls (high thermal mass) meant that the building’s internal temperature didn’t rise rapidly during the day, but nor did it cool rapidly at night. The concrete smoothed out the temperature variations, but in the absence of active cooling, it eventually rose to the average ambient temperature.

This is the challenge that Europe faces in a world of much hotter summers. Standard passive cooling techniques will get you only so far. Shade to avoid the direct rays of the sun or solar reflectance (albedo) surface to avoid the impact of direct exposure helps. High emissivity surfaces that radiate heat outwards in the cool of the night. Insulation (thermal resistance) to prevent the heat penetrating. Evaporative cooling if humidity permits and water is available.

In summers of regular heatwaves, however, these techniques are limited. Passive cooling can delay equilibrium, but it cannot overcome it. Eventually the thermal properties of the buildings catch-up. And it is difficult to design the building that sheds heat and never captures heat for a scorching summer, but retains and doesn’t lose heat in the winter. All of this assumes that there is even an option to make massive design changes. The vast majority of European housing stock was built with winters in mind, not summers. The oldest buildings, those that give the historic beauty to European cities, have poor thermal properties, and structural changes to them are heavily restricted by conservation laws.

If one cannot rely on passive cooling, then active cooling becomes the fallback. Historically, there have been very low rates of air conditioning in Europe compared to the United States. The latest heat wave, however, has opened discussion about allowing those in “genuine need” to install air conditioning. This, in itself, opens a can of worms. Who has genuine need? Who will pay for the active cooling for those who need it but cannot afford it. The elderly and those with chronic health conditions are often most vulnerable to heat stress. As groups of people, however, they tend to have less disposable income for the purchase and installation of active cooling. Unfortunately, in a continuous heat-stressed environment, everyone will be in need of cooling.

Widespread European air conditioning will also carry at least two unintended consequences. The first is that air conditioning needs manufacturing and maintaining, and power to run it. This will inevitably have greenhouse gas-production issues for a world that desperately needs to reduce greenhouse gas emissions. The second is that, if one is cooling the inside of a building, one is inevitably dumping heat into the outside. And it is slightly worse than that, you cannot move heat from inside to outside a building cost free, you must generate some additional heat to do that. Large scale air conditioning in cities can raise the external air temperature between 1 and 2 degrees, and it creates a feedback loop, because additional internal cooling is needed to overcome the increase in the rising external heat. The consequence for those who do not have air conditioning (those without “genuine need” or those without homes) is that they will experience even more extreme heat waves so that others may suffer less.

Will Europe be liveable in the summers in 10 years time? It really depends on what you mean by “liveable”. The dead trees I have seen– already unable to survive a June heatwave–do not augur well (see the related article on an iconic English oak tree). Passive cooling will help, but as the thermal mass argument demonstrates, it will be insufficient–the second law of thermodynamics prevents it. The answer Europeans seem to be reaching for is air conditioning–for those who can afford it. The heat it dumps outside falls on those who cannot, just as the emissions it produces fall on everyone, everywhere, including places already less able to cope. Widespread air conditioning does not solve Europe’s heat problem. Change nothing about how we live, and shift the cost onto those with the least capacity to bear it.

 

 

A Christmas Story

In the last year of the reign of Biden, there was a ruler in Judea named Benyamin. He was a man of great cunning and greater cruelty.

In those days, Judea, though powerful, was a vassal state. Its strength was created through alliances with distant empires. It wielded its might with a fierce arm and harboured a deep hatred for its neighbors. Benyamin, fearing the loss of his power, sought to destroy the Philistines on that small strip of land called Gaza, and claim it for himself.

For over four hundred and forty days and nights, he commanded his armies to bomb their towns and villages, reducing them to rubble. The Philistines were corralled, trapped within walls and wire, with no escape. Benyamin promised them safety in Rafah and bombed the people there. He offered refuge in Jabalia, and bombed the people there.

In Gaza, there was no safety and there was no food.

Even as leaders wept for the Philistines, they sold weapons to Benyamin and lent him money to prosecute his war. Thus, the world watched in silence as the Philistines endured great suffering. Their cries rose up to heaven, seemingly unanswered.

And so it came to pass, in the last days of the last year of Biden, there was a humble Philistine named Yusouf born of the family of Dawoud. Before the war, Yusouf had been a mechanic. He worked hard each day fixing tires and carburetors, changing break-pads and exhaust systems. And at the end of each day, he would return home to his young wife, Mariam. The same Mariam, you may have heard of her, who was known for her inexhaustable cheerfulness.

That was before the war. Now Mariam was gaunt and tired, and heavy with child.

On the night of the winter solstice, in a dream, a messenger came to Yusouf. “Be not afraid, Yusouf”, the messenger said. “Be not afraid for yourself, for the wife you love so very much, or for your son—who will change the world. What will be, will be and was always meant to be”. Yusouf was troubled by this dream, and found himself torn between wonder, happiness, and fear. Mariam asked him why he looked troubled, but he said nothing and kept his own counsel.

The following night the same messenger visited Mariam in her dreams. Mariam was neither afraid nor troubled. The next morning she had a smile on her face that Yusouf had not seen for so long he had almost forgotten it. “It is time, Yusouf”, she said. “We have to go to the hospital in Beit Lahiya.”

Yusouf was troubled. Long ago he had learned to trust Mariam, but his motorbike had no fuel and it was a long walk. Too far for Mariam, and they were bombing Beit Lahiya. He remembered the words of the messenger in his dreams and he went from neighbour to neighbour. A teaspoon of fuel here, half a cup there. No one demanded payment. If they had any fuel, no one refused him. Having little, they shared what they had. It was the small act of kindness that binds communities. Yusouf wept for their generosity.

When he had gathered enough fuel, he had Mariam climb on the bike. Shadiah, the old sweet seller who had not made a sweet in over a year and could barely remember the smell of honey or rosewater, helped her onto the back.

Yusouf rode carefully. He weaved slowly around potholes and navigated bumps. In spite of his care, he could feel Mariam tense and grip him tighter. And then the motorbike stopped. A last gasping jerk and silence. The fuel was spent.

The late afternoon air was cooling as he helped Mariam walk towards the hospital. When they arrived at the gate, a porter stopped, them. “They’re evacuating the hospital. You can’t go in”, the porter told them. Yusouf begged. “My wife, she is going to give birth,” he told the porter—who could plainly see this for himself. The porter looked at Mariam and took pity. “You can’t go in, but there is a small community clinic around the corner. It was bombed recently, but some of it, a room or two, is still standing. I’ll send a midwife.”

Yusouf gently guided Mariam to the clinic. He found an old mattress on a broken gurney and a blanket. He lay it on the floor and settled Mariam.

If there had been a midwife—if she had ever arrived… if she had ever got the porter’s message—she would have been eager to retell the story of the birth. Sharing a coffee, with a date-filled siwa, she would have painted the picture. Mariam’s face was one of grace. Yusouf anxiously held her hand. The baby came quickly, with a minimum of fuss, as if Mariam was having her fifth and not her first.

Yusouf quickly scooped up the baby as it began to vocalise it’s unhappiness with the shock of a cold Gaza night. He cut the cord crudely but effectively with his pocket knife. And it was only as he was passing the the baby to Mariam that he looked confused. He did not have the son he was promised, he had a daughter. The moment was so fleeting that quantum physicists would have struggled to measure the breadth of time, and Yusouf smiled at the messenger’s joke.

Because there was no midwife to witness this moment, we need to account for the witnesses who were present. There was a mangy dog with a limp looking for warmth. He watched patiently and, once the birth was completed, he found a place at Mariam’s feet. There were three rats that crawled out of the rubble looking for scraps. They gave a hopeful sniff of the night air and sat respectfully and companionably on a broken chair. As soon as the moment passed, they disappeared into the crevices afforded by broken brick and torn concrete. Finally, there was an unremarkable cat. In comfortable fellowship, they all watch the moment of birth knowing that, tomorrow or the next day, they were mortal enemies, but tonight there was peace.

“Nasrin”, Yousuf whispered in Mariam’s ear as he kissed her forehead. “We’ll call her Nasrin.” The wild rose that grows and conquers impossible places.

There was a photo journalist called Weissman, who heard from the porter that was a very pregnant woman at the clinic. “She’s about to pop”, the porter said. Weissman hurried to the bombed out clinic so that he could bear witness to this miracle in the midst of war.

He missed the birth. And when he arrived, he did not announce his presence. It seemed rude. An intrusion on a very private moment. It did not, however, stop him from taking photos for AAP.

He later shared those images with the world. Yusouf lay on the gurney mattress, propped against a half destroyed wall. Mariam was lying against him, exhausted, eyes closed, covered in a dirty blanket. The baby Nasrin was feeding quietly, just the top of her head with a shock of improbably thick dark hair peeking out. Yousuf stared through the broken roof at the stars in heaven. The blackness of a world without electricity made resplendent. He looked up with wonderment and contentment on his face. He was blessed, he thought. No. They were blessed. The messenger was right.

As Weissman picked his way in the dark towards the hospital gate, where he had last seen the porter, he shared the same hope that he had seen on Yusouf’s face. New life can change things.

The night sky lit up, brightening his path to the hospital. He turned back and was awed by a red flare descending slowly over the remains of the clinic as if announcing a new beginning to the world. A chance for something different was born here today.

The explosion shook the ground and Weissman fell. Cement and brick dust from where the clinic had stood rose sharply in to the air. An avalanche of dust raced towards him.

Harmonising Climate Protest with AI

Protest singer on an empty street corner (DALL.E created)

Protest songs have a rich and powerful history. They bring attention to issues and catalyse social change. From Bob Dylan’s poignant ballads to John Lennon’s “Give Peace a Chance“, music has been a potent force in shaping public opinion and spurring political action.

Most of us will never be a Dylan or a Lennon. I can barely hold a tune in the shower, and the only protests I ever hear are from my partner begging me to stop singing.

When it comes to the existential threat of climate change, there has been a surprising dearth of anthems that capture the zeitgeist and propel politicians forward. Given the urgency and scale of the crisis, one might expect a groundswell of musical activism akin to the protest songs that defined the civil rights, anti-war, and environmental movements of the 1960s and 70s. While there have been some notable examples, climate change hasn’t spawned a recognisable musical rallying cry that has permeated public consciousness and political discourse in quite the same way.

We are not missing information about the extent of the threat. Climate change has been a topic of discussion among scientists for at least four decades, and the evidence of its devastating impacts has been well-known for at least two decades. Despite this, the world’s response has been inadequate. Major carbon emitters have talked about the issue and have taken some actions, but these have been too limited, aimed at protecting a political base, and have not addressed issues of equity. The result? Global temperatures continue to rise, and the threat of climate change looms larger than ever.

Where are those protest songs that can galvanize the public and demand action from our leaders? Most of us lack the musical talent to create such anthems. We do not know a bass clef from a semi-quaver or Ska from a xylophone, but what if there was a way for non-musicians to give voice to their fury?

Enter AI.

Large language models such as Mistral, Claude, or ChatGPT can help write a song, and AI music generators like Suno can help voice it and set it to music. By combining these tools, anyone can create music. With luck, it may inspire, educate, and motivate people to take action. While these tools are not yet as good as good musicians, good musicians are relatively rare and they’re not necessarily interested in singing your song.

To illustrate the idea, I generated a couple of modest examples of climate protest songs using two completely different musical styles. The first, “Climate change love” is a dark scat jazz satire of what is (or may be) to come. “Le futur proche” (the near future) is a “rock anthem” on the short-sightedness of the upcoming UN Summit of the Future that completely misses the opportunity to consider what happens if we fail.

I know nothing about composing jazz or rock, but AI gives me a touch point to an expressive medium that is otherwise completely out of reach. It can democratise the protest song and give voice to a tin-eared muser. My two examples will not create a groundswell of protest or spin the earth off its axis (to paraphrase one of the songs). Each one took about 15 minutes to generate from lyrics to the final product.

My partner tells me they are repetitive and derivative, and I should not be as impressed as I am. She’s probably right! But the songs are infinitely better than anything I could produce on my own. You also can’t expect too much from the level of minimalist effort I expended. Hopefully, smarter and more talented people will be inspired to explore this medium and maybe spend an hour or two creating the song. Voice your protest in afrobeat rockabilly, sitar southern rock, or lo-fi Pacific reggae.

AI protest songs may not be perfect, but if Bob (Dylan or Marley) would like to contact me, perhaps we could collaborate on something that will shake the world.

In the meantime, let me leave you with Claude.ai ‘s lyrical take on the UN Summit of the Future …

Summit of the Future, planning for the peak
But what if we’re on the brink of a valley deep?
Climate’s getting hotter, world’s in decline.
Leaders need to wake up before we’re out of time!