Early in 2020 I was asked by Place Labs to give a semiotic point of view on the idea of “disaster” and implications for place-making and environments. At that moment disaster of a certain type loomed large in our collective consciousness - catastrophic events created by an evolving environmental crisis seemed suddenly to be terrifyingly close to home. This disaster narrative still looms, but the Covid-19 curve-ball thickens the plot. By the time I presented these thoughts on how we conceptualise disaster, Corona was a new story, by the time of writing it’s the dominant story.
The concept of disaster is a cultural one and its meaning shifts according to our contextual moment. Covid-19 has consolidated the idea that in order to re-route to a sustainable future, we need to stop talking about disaster as something that’s always about to happen. In this article I’ll explore some shifts in how we might reframe our communication and perception of environmental disaster as something already unfolding so that we can respond in ways that unstick us from a paralysing fight or flight response. We have a pivotal opportunity to use stories, experiences and places to redefine how we show up as humans in this disaster era.
From other to us
The etymology of disaster tells us that bad fate, ‘bad star’ is at the root of how we use the term. The idea of the ‘Act of God’ is still projected today when we talk about natural disasters, some people still believing it’s part of our insurance t and cs.
The early days of science-fiction concerned themselves with disaster wrought by alien life forms invading our Earthly covenant. Bergonzi’s writing on H G Wells suggests these stories reflected a sense of doom at the expanding industrial revolution - “a certain collective death-wish pervaded the national consciousness at the time.” With the atomic bomb the nature of disaster became man-made and totally devastating – Hiroshima showed people a new possible future in all its horrifying and grotesque wonder. Posters about “the bomb” and safety drills offered little guidance about what to do after the event. Aside from enigmatic orders like ‘don’t spread rumours’. These disasters while no longer ‘Acts of God’ still operated within an idea of good and evil and threat from the ‘other’.
But total destruction of culture and community, the invading of the ‘other’, the degrading of environment already happened centuries ago and over and over since. For the indigenous people of the Americas, the arrival of the Europeans was like the arrival of alien visitors who destroyed everything they knew, devastating culture, community and environment. Industrialisation and capitalism was disastrous at its inception, but it’s only recently that we see ourselves, in the ‘developed’ Western world, as victims and perpetrators of these phenomena. As Paul Virilio writes, “the inventor of the ship was also the inventor of the shipwreck”
From There & Next to Here & Now
A lot of disaster narrative concerns itself with the aftermath. The aesthetics of destruction. The sweeping away of what we know, the systems and behaviours that define us. The vision of space devoid of its place-ness. The elimination of history and culture and community is extremely painful and alluring. We wonder what lies within humanity that will shape how we rebuild ourselves? As Margaret Atwood warns in The Testaments – “History does not repeat itself, but it rhymes”. Similarly with 28 Days Later, Blade Runner and The Road – the emptiness and need left by some unspecified natural or humanitarian disaster is filled at first by the darkness of humanity. Is it cathartic for us to play out the worst of ourselves? Susan Sontag writes about science fiction films in her 1965 essay The Imagination of Disaster that*,* ‘the whole movie can be devoted to the fantasy of occupying the deserted metropolis and starting all over again, a world Robinson Crusoe’. What does it say about our collective self-image that these Robinson Crusoe visions are typically so bleak? Environmental campaigners, scientists and storytellers are just getting to grips with the power of alternative scenario narratives - giving us a light to head towards, preferred and possible futures that do not fall into utopia or dystopia hyperbole.
28 Days Later; The Handmaids Tale
One of the familiar scenes in disaster imagination landscapes is the empty supermarket – the threat of scarcity, the stripping of comforts or the sudden disappearance of commerce is terrifying. If you Google Venezuelan supermarket (today, 2020) you’ll see hundreds of images of empty shelves. Add to that drinking water or electrical grid, and you see a cinematic future unfolding in a place.
Part of the emotional toll of today’s pandemic moment comes from the revelation of how fragile the systems that hold the status quo in place really are. The potential for disaster is woven into the system we live within and use everyday – so detached are most of us from self-sufficiency and the maintenance of supportive infrastructure. Covid-19 has consolidated the idea that we need to stop talking about disaster as something that’s about to happen. This has the effect of constantly placing disaster somewhere ‘out there’ happening to someone else or to a future generation. It takes a short sharp existential threat like this one to expose how ill-prepared we are for future scarcity.
From random events to predetermined consequences
Hurricane Katrina’s ravaging of New Orleans was a wake up call for the Western World. We saw the outcome of systemic negligence of communities made stark and vivid. The indelible images generated in popular culture showed the world that natural disaster is not only natural. As described in the essay collection Do you know what it feels like to miss New Orleans, the inadequate levees broke and “so many unbelievable things were suddenly true”. Perhaps what’s most unbelievable is the continuing inequity in protective infrastructure globally.
Beyonce, Formation
A heart-breaking scene in Bong Joon-Ho’s Parasite depicts the same rain storm as disastrous for one family, destroying their basement home and as an annoyance for another, cutting short a family camping trip. Disaster is not just a measurable effect, it’s subjectively experienced. Research indicates that by 2050 we can expect 1.5 billion people to be displaced by climate change. This will not feel sudden, it will be a steady swelling and consolidating of the refugee crisis unfolding now. How do we attribute responsibility when what underpins disaster events is part nature and part history?