As climate conferences come and go, as pledges are made and forgotten, there is conversation – earnest, bewildered searching – in the alleys of drowning coastal cities, around failed wells in the interior, midst the ruins of storm-flattened villages, and in the camps of the misbegotten who have fled terror spawned by clamor for thinning resources. What is causing these disquieting signs? As an Irish poet once asked,
‘And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?’*
In the interior of southern Africa that brute reality is skies of brass. The refreshment of heaven’s rain is being withheld. Landmark trees like age-old baobabs – wild watchmen of arid lands – topple over for want of water. Cattle first suffer lethargy and then, weakened, buckle and collapse. I once saw a Kalahari herder pitch over into the dust in full stride for simple thirst. His crook had no power to save him. Imagine the fate of his stock.
the world’s first oil well, drilled by the Russians in July,
1846. Azerbaijan thus became the world’s first and
most significant early crude oil producer. The irony of
this history could hardly be escaped in the aftermath of
the conference when climate activists accused the West
of having dodged its responsibilities for causing the
worst effects of climate change on vulnerable and poor
nations. photo credit: COP 29
I had the good fortune one day to sit in a corner of an African city bus station, having lunch with a friend. We found shade beside a thorny bougainvillea as travelers with their own plates of rice and stew gathered at a table where conversation began. What was giving rise to this pitiless suffering? What had caused the rains to cease for so long a time? The probing went straight onto the high ground of the moral and spiritual roots of nature’s disarray. A taxi driver began, venturing that surely scandalous rates of crime, a want of basic humanity (‘botho’) or of mere consideration for one another could trigger such calamities. What had become of common decency, he asked? Is that not already a worse disaster than parched fields?
By now, the cooks at the food stand edged into the circle of those who had gathered to eavesdrop. Yes, said one of them, all traces of social decorum have fled. When we were children, she said, we trembled even to meet a school teacher on the path for the awe of such an encounter. Another traveler up’ed the ante like some old-time prophet, by insisting that society resembled a gang of scofflaws whose ills could only be remedied by full-scale sackcloth and ashes failing which the heavens would remain closed. That he was still wearing a suit did not overly help his case.
came to pass. Busses depart from here to many of the major regional cities – Johannesburg,
Harare, Windhoek, Maseru, Lusaka – most of which suffer from serious drought conditions.
Modern transit and infrastructure do provide the wherewithal to battle human deprivation
during seasons of hunger. But sourcing supplies from distant countries can be risky, as the
war in Ukraine graphically illustrates. And attracting donor assistance is difficult given pre-
occupation with Ukraine, Sudan, Gaza and other points of dire suffering. photo credit:
SarveshLutchman
But then a confident, middle-aged man cleared his throat and set forth a most intriguing reason. He explained that the customary prayers for heaven’s mercy have in recent times been offered with the community gathered at the ‘kgotla’, the traditional village court, where the chief and local elders settle grievances and conduct business. Since this is the ground where quarrels are settled, he said, where the misdeeds of citizens are laid bare, where victims rehearse their sufferings, these precincts are inherently impure. To offer prayers from such defiled ground is vain.
Formerly, he continued, grandparents and forebearers sought out pristine places to plead with heaven. They went to windy hilltops, to the desert, to the empty water courses. Pleadings from such wild and unspoiled venues had influence with heaven he concluded.
With that, the circle of seeking, of attentiveness, even of reverence in the face of troubles and of people’s yearning to understand how they had occasioned and might remedy these ills, bowed, whispered a ‘peace’ to one another and hurried away to catch their departures to other drought-stricken places.
As outside observers we would not be able to fully understand the causes enumerated by this fellowship of hard times in an African bus station. But one thing seems clear – that they locate the cause of these troubles in the realm of the spirit, in the realm of the heart. And that cannot be far from the truth: that our climate troubles can be traced back finally to betrayal of noblest values, back to defiled ground, back to failed conscience, back to want of reverence.
So, having taken a cue from my seat at the bus station that day, I propose an utterly humble step for COP 30 when it convenes next year in Belem, Brazil. Let all the delegates, the oil barons, the lobbyists, the activists, the hundreds of advisors and technical staff remove their shoes before entering the conference venue. Let them all enter bare-footed as a confession of equality and of their own fragility as creatures, of dependence on one another, and ultimately of reverence for the earth and its future. Let this small gesture ennoble their deliberations to yield a measure of accord and of determination to spare nothing for the deliverance of this garden we once called Eden.
It would enhearten the souls at an African bus station.
*The concluding couplet of ’Second Coming’ by Y. B. Yeats
Thanks so much for this story, Jonathan–I love your proposal that COP attendees remove their shoes to express humility and remorse. And those of us not in attendance but watching and listening from afar can also remove our shoes to honor our Mother Earth.
We can well visualize what your story tells. But, visiting Gaborone from Lusaka in the 80’s, we found the garden in the house you lived in, in Gabs, to be dry, brittle and bare save a few tomato plants in pots, carefully watered to try to save them. We lived in the same house after you did, and came to a lush garden lovingly planted and tended by our MM director. We had rain so hard it lapped at the door into the house. Such extremes …. and today, the cycle has swung to drought again.