A story about how climate change news impact your body and mind by Katja Miklavčič, 29 yr, Ljubljana, Slovenia
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Katja is a communication officer at PIC–Legal center for the Protection of Human Rights and the Environment.
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The moment she placed the pile of freshly washed laundry on the desk — which doubled as her writing table — the opening theme of the evening news thundered from her computer. The clock on the screen read 6:58 p.m.
‘It had been two years since the devastating fire, yet the desperate residents still have no idea what fate awaits their homes’, echoed the anchor’s voice throughout the small room — no, really, the entire apartment.
She gave a thorough shake to a freshly laundered T-shirt, its scent of new fabric softener filling the air, and neatly hung it over the drying rack. The news reported, that so long after the disaster, some were still in serious distress. Looking at the tidily hung T-shirt brought her a small, fleeting sense of relief.
‘Last year was the hottest on record. Scientists warn that the consequences of global warming will only become more severe,’ the anchor continued.
She took a deep breath, seized the next T-shirt, equally fragrant, gave it a strong shake — forcefully, firmly — and exhaled loudly, muttering a silent curse at the thought of what awaited humanity. Her gaze drifted out the window to the street, where her neighbour was dutifully sorting waste. Compost in one bin, plastic in another, as if it were a matter of life and death as if recycling alone would save us all.
The anchor spoke on,‘The country is falling far behind in its renewable energy targets. We’ve requested an explanation from the ministry, but are still waiting for answers.’
This time she cursed aloud.
‘World leaders would soon be meeting at COP. Once again, ambitious goals or commitments are not to be expected, ’the anchor said, unwavering.
The freshly laundered pants she held in her hands, ready to be placed on the drying rack, didn’t make it there. She glanced at the screen, staring at it as the anchor’s mouth continued to move, articulating each word clearly, though she couldn’t hear them. Her arms dropped, and the pants slipped to the floor. Her heart began to race, and she tried to keep her hands pressed against hersides, but to no avail — they shook too much, her fingers tapping gently against her thighs. Herbreaths grew shallow, and the first tears of frustration and despair trickled down her cheeks. The clock of life ticked on, in sync with her fingers tapping against her legs, her thoughts screaming. Why don’t the authorities act? For crying out loud, why won’t they act?