2045

“So this is it, isn’t it? This is where it ends?” “I guess so,” she whispered barely above the noise of the people gathering around the water truck. “You know, this would be an excellent time to say ‘I told you so’, but I’m not sure it would be funny this time”. 58º N, backlit by wildfires. The sound of people jogging for position around the necessities of life. The noise of makeshift tents in the wind. Not much further to go. You get used to things, adapt, persevere, quieting the whispering voice in the back of your head “we can’t go on like this”. You always do. But there’s an end to all things, and this was it.

2019

I was born in 1988. During my lifetime the world population increased from 5 billion to 7.5 billion. It never got to be 10. I vaguely recall a meeting in South Africa. “Global Evidence Summit” it was called. Doctors, scientists and engineers from all over the globe gathered around to talk about evidence based medicine. Practicing what the science teaches us about healing people, I guess. It was a strange thing to see 1500 people fly to Africa. The wealthiest of the wealthiest, meeting their neighbours halfway across the globe. A candle lit room, decorative flowers, and warm Sirah wine. Although it wasn’t so much the dinner that struck a nerve. Maybe, it was the main course. A brief introduction about the story of poverty, violence, and abuse. A brief introduction about a school, children telling the story as modern dance. A positive approach, firmly ingrained in the humanities and arts, performed for Davos Men. Fifteen-hundred of the most privileged, watching a dance while sinking their knifes into medium rare ostrich in a barely candle lit conference hall. Stanely Kubrick would proud. As would Kafka, I would imagine. Between the intoxicated and the toxic, we watched a dance. Somehow hoping it would be over soon. The clapping is just customary. All I felt was a strong dissonance of disgust and privilege. Knowing the people that would harass me on the streets for money, valuables, and a hint hope, would all be behind me in seven days. That I got to go back to my bed.

You tell yourself, you tell yourself, “I can’t talk about this”. You cannot talk about this. That the voice of white male from Europe holds no value amidst a drought stricken Africa. That no matter the Empathy, the shared pain of life, you can never say anything worthwhile. And, you can’t. That no matter the beauty of an interpretive dance, it’s just another dance. That the real dance, the one of inequality, suffering, and general unfairness of the universe, is one you can never understand. Nor escape. And you sit, and pour another wine. Put your face in serious mode, and say “I’m not sure this is right”. But, you know you’re glad you’re on the other side.

There’s this paper I read in Ethics class, that I never managed to find again. It goes like this: we’re all selfish, because we spend more money on our phone bill than we do on helping other people. We spend more money on a single pair of jeans than some do in their lifetime on clothes. We shop at supermarkets, knowing they throw out and burn half their inventory. We don’t care. Fundamentally, we don’t care. Never quite understood why we had to read it. It was a point about Utilitarianism I guess, that “goodness” is an objective that can be optimized. And, that if we behave rationally, goodness is a side effect. But it’s not.