This climate crisis is entering a new, unsettling phase, as the entire nation of Denmark prepares for potential flooding. In essence, the country is facing a closure, resulting in six million people being pushed abroad, attempting to cope as best as they can. Consequently, a significant number of Northern Europeans find themselves in a refugee-like situation. Sure, some may have resources to help ease their transition, but many are confronting an uncertain, daunting future—something they previously thought was someone else’s problem.
But hold on—this isn’t an actual news report. It’s the plot of a gripping new drama series called *Family Like Ours*, picked up by the BBC and available on iPlayer. I’ve seen a couple of episodes, and I’m struck by how adeptly it addresses European perspectives on exile politics. What really caught my attention is the portrayal of something akin to our current reality. It demonstrates how disasters can unfold amid everyday life. Initially, I found myself feeling a bit impatient. Why are the characters so calm? Where are the dramatic floods, wildfires, and social upheavals? At times, it felt a little dull. But you begin to appreciate the cleverness in the mundanity that defines each moment. This series encapsulates how we navigate life and what may lie ahead.
A compelling book by Dorian Lynsky explores various human imaginings of the apocalypse. He notes, “Compared to nuclear war, the climate emergency employs the familiar tools of storytellers.” Global warming may be too rapid for the planet yet too slow for catastrophe narratives. Even in dire situations, our typical response often seems out of a novel rather than reality. To illustrate, Lynsky cites a character from Margaret Atwood’s *The Year of the Flood*: “No one admitted to knowing because once arguments began, it became too obvious and unthinkable.”
Nowadays, such reflections mirror how people cope with our complex world. If one can look away from ecological collapse, it’s easy to downplay or dismiss other issues. There’s a moment, likely familiar to all of us, where we catch glimpses of grim news on our phones or radios and then scramble to regain a sense of calm and normalcy. This has long been humanity’s way of coping—an ingrained psychological tendency. However, in the context of today, it carries distinctly modern traits. Our newsfeeds often drown out critical issues, reducing them to mere background noise. As a result, what should be alarming frequently feels trivial.
It’s increasingly evident that this has political implications. Andrew Marantz wrote in *The New Yorker* about the subtler slide from democracy to authoritarianism following Trump’s reelection. In Hollywood disaster flicks, when calamity strikes, there’s no debate about its reality—just immediate chaos and noise. Yet in real life, it can creep in quietly. This normalization extends to the climate crisis and the way figures like Trump and other autocrats have shaped political discourse.
Marantz traveled to Budapest, where he spoke with scholars reflecting on the tactics of Prime Minister Viktor Orban. One academic expressed astonishment at the political changes that have occurred: “You think, ‘If they do something truly terrible, I’m out of here.’ And then they do, but you stay. Five years ago, you might not have even noticed.” The fact that many populists deny climate change aligns perfectly with this trend. As extreme heat waves become commonplace, ambitious plans emerge, often absent the more overt signs of authoritarianism. In simple terms, the politics of Orbán and Trump is intentionally crafted to resonate with current times—appearing far scarier to many than it truly is.
In the UK, a similar narrative is unfolding. During last week’s local elections, I found myself at Grimsby Town Hall witnessing Andrea Jenkins deliver her victory speech after being elected the first mayor of Greater Lincolnshire. Curiously, her outfit resembled something from a 1970s-themed costume party. She spoke about the dire state of affairs, claiming this was a time of reckoning for the “Soft Touch UK,” forcing people to live in tents. It’s reminiscent of fascist rhetoric, yet our political discussions have devolved into mere slaps on the wrist.
Yet, life continues. About two decades ago, I saw an exhibition featuring a photo by French photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson, showing a family of four by a river, food and wine scattered around. Initially, I questioned its significance, but then I noticed the plaque dated “1936-38.” We continue to gather, feast, drink, and drown out the noise, adjusting to whatever comes next.
