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Reasons to Love Climate Change: Can any good come out of the greatest crisis ever to face mankind?
Translations available in: English (original) | French | Spanish | Italian | German | Portuguese | Swedish | Russian | Dutch | Arabic

A few months out from graduation, my college room was occupied by three grim friends, dolefully informing me that they had no idea what they wanted to do with their lives. A philosophical pang in the voice of one of them revealed that his was not the standard angst of a retiring university student, and that something more profound was on his mind. The lecturers at our university probably enjoy hosting symposiums. In Ancient Greek ‘symposium’ means drinking party, not philosophy, but this seemed like an appropriate moment for both. I opened the fridge and began to tell them about Alexander the Great, and his personal tutor Aristotle.
By the time he was an old man, Aristotle knew a thing or two about politics. He had witnessed the collapse of the noble Athenian democracy, and the myriad subsequent failures patched together out of its ruins. It looked as if Athens, once the marvel of the world, would never again enjoy a just and stable government. His solution was the Lyceum, a school that trained young men to live well and therefore, lead well. He wrote an ethical treatise for his students, amongst whom was Alexander the Great, which argued that whatever character they wished to project upon becoming kings, they would have to practice all their lives. He explained that small acts of courage, like standing up for a friend, would prepare them for greater ones, like going into battle. It followed logically, he said, that the harder the challenge, the stronger the character forged. Young Alexander was enamoured of the idea. He told Aristotle he was going to conquer the known world. Aristotle was not exactly impressed; his glory-hungry charge had not quite grasped his point.

Aristotle had wanted Alexander to practice a particular kind of personality; a happy one. Happiness, he said, was the result of actions consistent with a set of virtuous principles. How did he, and subsequent philosophers like Kant, judge if a principle was virtuous or not? By how much it helped the community. By doing happy-making deeds, a person becomes happy, and so do the people around them, meaning the original person become even happier. Aristotle came to this conclusion by the following logic: It is up to each of us to choose a purpose in our lives, for it is the act of choice that makes us human. Most people, when offered this choice, would opt to pursue happiness. This was something all the Greek philosophers agreed upon, but they each had a different way of getting themselves to be happy. Aristotle considered all their ideas, and decided that there were three main paths to happiness. The first he called the life of pleasure, which involves the instant gratification of all our physical and emotional desires. On this path, however, happiness does not last long; we will always need another hit of goodies or entertainment, and it might not be available. Trying to get it at any cost will invariably lead us into conflict with the rest of our community. The second option then, is a life of learning, or the endless pursuit of beautiful truth. This too becomes unhappiness, for as we arrange our knowledge into ever more tidy sets, we stray further from real experiences we were observing, and so further from the truth being sought. It’s like the man who goes bird watching to tick the birds off his list rather than enjoy their beauty. Not only that but as we are learning, we discover distracting failures in our community which hide a truer, more beautiful world. The pursuit of knowledge does not let us address these problems for fear of disrupting the system we’re trying to observe the truth of.
The third life puts the problems of the first two together, and tackles them head on. Aristotle called it the ‘political life’, suggesting that if serving yourself or compiling knowledge makes you unhappy, then serving others and using knowledge will probably have the opposite effect. In other words, use the things that you learn about your community to solve whatever conflicts arise in it. Yet the political life is also the most difficult; there are, after all, so many challenges for us to address when we set out to help those around us. And that is exactly Aristotle’s point. As he had explained to Alexander earlier, the bigger the challenge, the bigger the personality that comes out of it. You become a better leader through leading, the community becomes better for having a better leader, and you become better for living in a good community. A virtuous cycle ensues as individual and community grow together. No wonder Aristotle wanted his young king to be happy; it would make everyone else happy too.
A friend finished his drink and smirked, ‘so you think because I’m a cynic, that if you explain it to me rationally I’ll want to go and feed starving orphans. You think because I’m intellectual, that if you say some old Greek guy told me to do it, I’ll go chain myself up in the rainforest.’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I was only trying to make you happy.’
Our older siblings in Generation X laugh at most of us young people –Generation Ys– who care about climate change. They wonder when we’ll get over our little fixation on saving the world. We wonder how they could think of doing anything else. It might cheer them up, after all.

Aristotle’s age-old dictum states ‘we are what we do’; to become great, we must take on great challenges. The epic magnitude of the climate challenge, therefore, should be producing some very great personalities. For whatever reason, however, the leadership on climate change so far has been characterised by an almost total lack of will. Aristotle argued that exercising will through choice is the act that makes us human; choosing which of the three lives we will lead and the principals that guide it not only makes us who we are, but distinguishes us from every other animal driven purely by instinct. In failing to fight climate change, we may be loosing the very will that makes us human. Aristotle told his young kings they must constantly practice the kind of person they wanted to become. Failing to practice their will, just like failing to exercise their muscles, would leave them weak. If the kingdom were in danger, for example, they could not suddenly display the courage needed to save it if they had not been practicing courage all their lives.
What seems an age ago now, Francis Fukuyama wrote about the ‘Last Man’ and the ‘End of History’. There was an at once triumphal and nihilistic belief in the early 1990s, that the Cold War represented the end of all great conflicts, and therefore the end of all great people. Fukuyama was borrowing from Nietzsche’s suggestion that one day, a pathetic, impotent creature called the ‘Last Man’ will be all that remains of humankind. This barely human creature was pampered and conceited, yet totally unsure of itself and terrified of death. It had never faced a conflict requiring courage and compassion to overcome, so had never developed these qualities in its character. Fukuyama suggested that the age of the Last Man had begun, not so much with the end of the history, but with the dangerously irresponsible idea that history might have ended when, in fact, it hadn’t. Climate change is one of the many ways, and without doubt the most significant way, in which we are ignoring the continued march of history.
Each of us is a king or queen right at the moment when our kingdom needs a hero. What might it look like if today’s population began exercising its will again? The opposite of Nietzsche’s Last Man is his terrifying Übermench, an individual who is nothing but will, rather like Alexander the Great. Alexander and the other Übermenchen that Nietzsche admired tended to have a destructive impact upon their communities, rather like the person who pursues a Life of Pleasure in Aristotle’s theory. The Übermench may be pursuing things other than pleasure, but his actions are as selfish as the Last Man’s are self-preserving. As far as Aristotle was concerned, using will unwisely can be just as bad as not using it at all, so he despaired of Alexander’s selfish choices. The philosopher urged his charge to find the middle way between extremes like Übermench and Last Man, just as courage is the middle way between rashness and cowardice.

The parallel is forever being drawn between World War II and climate change, because nothing else quite matches the emotional and economic effort ‘total climate war’ entails. We are not charging to the sound of machine gun fire, or eating ersatz rations, or waiting on the news of a loved one’s death, yet we are displaying less will than our forbears. Perhaps it is because we lack a sense of our place within the community Aristotle is telling us to serve. Living through World War II, there was an acknowledged sense of history hanging over all. People saw themselves situated on a timeline, part of a linage stretching out in both directions to the past and future. There were hundreds who became heroes through their small actions or assigned duties, purely through association with the cause. By ‘hitching their wagon to something bigger’ they too became bigger. They have even been dubbed in popular journalism the Greatest Generation. If our generation could look at itself in the same way, and find its place within the greater human narrative, maybe we would feel more protective towards the world sustaining our story. Looking at ourselves as part of something chronologically bigger, even ‘through the grave’ (unlike the Last Man who is terrified of death), we may become concerned about how we will be remembered. We may also start to get an idea of the exact size and shape of the community we can serve to be happy.
***
The process of contextualising climate change within the human narrative starts further back in time than Aristotle. It begins with the birth of civilisation 5000 years ago in Mesopotamia. The Epic of Gilgamesh is the oldest story ever told. It speaks of the arrogant King Gilgamesh and his best friend Enkidu living high off the lands and people of the ancient Middle East. Their realm, far from being the barren desert we recognise from the oil wars today, was ringed by a forest stretching out to the ends of the Earth. In it lived a demon called Humbaba. Humbaba had never attacked humans but Gilgamesh decided to stop him before he got the chance. He and Enkidu journeyed deep into the forest to slay the beast. When the deed was done Gilgamesh began to fell the trees so that humankind would never again be threatened by the whims of an aimless wild. At last, only two trees –each tall enough, we can assume, to sink a tonne of carbon– were left standing. Enkidu, who had been sent by the Gods to quell Gilgamesh’s arrogance, warned his friend not to fell them, but the mighty king did it anyway. Hoping to appease the Gods for this crime, Enkidu made the trees into doors for a glorious temple. But nothing, especially not this gesture, could assuage the divine rage now bearing down upon the pair. The Gods laid a curse over all the lands that Gilgamesh ruled, to suffer drought, war and disunity for the rest of time. Now that does sound like the Middle East we know today. The last tonne of carbon that tips the scale on run-away climate change signals, for our global civilisation, the same deadly fate as those trees did to Gilgamesh.

During the last Ice Age, around 18,000 years ago, the oceans froze at the poles leaving land exposed elsewhere. Humankind’s ancestors walked from China to Australia, from France to Britain, and across the Bering Straight into America. As the ice age slowly ended, the seas rose again and sundered the tribes from one another. The climate reached a kind of equilibrium known affectionately to archaeologists as the Long Spring. In this new warmth, plants on the Levantine plain hybridised to form farmable grain crops, which led some humans to settle there and domesticate wild sheep and goats. Civilisation had begun where 5000 years later, it would be drilling for oil fields beneath the wheat fields that spawned it. If it chooses to continue doing so, spring will become summer and the seas will rise higher.
***
All cells have an ideal temperature at which they function best. As a result, all living organisms have an ideal temperature too, and they attempt to maintain it consistently through a process called homeostasis. For humans, the ideal average is 37ºC, allowing brain cells to be at one temperature and stomach cells to be at another. For the planet right now, the ideal average is 15ºC, allowing humans to be at 37ºC, fish to be at their ideal temperature, and reptiles, birds and plants to be at theirs. For millennia, life has been inadvertently changing the planet’s temperature, making it hotter by breathing and decaying, or colder by sequestering carbon. Oil is the life that perished in stagnant seas on a younger, hotter planet, cooling it enough to make way for the diversity of organisms we know today. If we disrupt these planetary homeostatic processes, we will be left to perform them ourselves with the kind of technological super-projects that may or may not be possible.

When James Lovelock conceived of the Gaia hypothesis, he took pains to explain that the green movement was not about ‘saving the planet’; the planet would save itself by eliminating mankind. To do this, it would sacrifice its stable climate along with all the other species that rely on it. Having jettisoned the offending limb on the tree of life, it would return to a cycle of sweats and chills for a few million years, after which it may be lucky enough to stabilize again and re-evolve it’s current biodiversity. In a few billion years more, it would be pulled towards the sun, overheat, and perish.
Lovelock casts humankind as Gaia’s sentient organ, poignantly identifying our place amongst the geological processes with these words; ‘at least she got to see herself before she died.’ Being conscious, Homo sapiens have been able to observe the beauty and complexity of life on Earth, right at the point when, thanks to a stable climate, it was at its most diverse.

Some scientists argue that human consciousness is a scientific singularity, an event when a complex system forms a whole greater than the sum of its parts. It belongs to a lineage of singularities each made possible by its forbear: life, Gaia, consciousness. It began with life. Amino acids became DNA strands that became cells that became cells within cells until organisms emerged that could not survive without the thousands of specialist elements contained within them. It was a new ‘social contract’, for those specialist elements could no longer survive without the organism of which they where a part either. Life heaped upon life until the planet itself became self-regulating, with its living parts cycling through water, carbon and nitrogen at a pace ideal for them all to remain alive. The Earth System, Gaia, of which we are each a cell, allowed for a third singularity. Homo sapiens, over the 200,000 years of their relatively rapid evolution, became possessed of a brain so complex that for the first time in the animal kingdom, something became self-aware. We know this state as consciousness. Put very simply, what distinguishes consciousness from the wider animal experience is the explicit knowledge of its own existence. Rather than relying on automated instinctual processes, the conscious organism can and must make choices about its own survival.
Before anything was known about the lineage of consciousness, Aristotle had said that choice was our species’ defining trait, and that the key to a life of meaning was making wise choices. Writing in the early 20th century, Heidegger had something to add; ‘It is only in full awareness of our own mortality that life can take on any purposive meaning.’ Imagine then just how meaningful our choices are getting then, when we are aware not only of the death of our civilisation, but maybe the death of our species.
Put the science of Earth Systems next to Aristotle’s virtue ethics and a bold new vision of the 21st century begins to crystallise. Our community consists of the entire planet, and serving it, through actions both simple and great, is the only thing that can make us happy. We are the privileged generation, for none before us has had the opportunity to become, by the greatness of the challenge, so great in character. That is a reason to love this crisis. When you understand the dauntingly comprehensive task that is climate change, you will know what kind of a person you are. Is it all too hard, or is it just a chance to prove your character?

September 18, 2009 | 6:56 AM Comments  0 comments





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