Como, WA
We have spent a summer trapped in our home with heatwave after heatwave hitting our city in the longest and hottest summer of my lifetime (and indeed the city’s lifetime).
I have had to stop my three year old son playing outside day after day and we have all had to stay in the same room as it is the only air conditioned one. Summer used to be a time of fun, of outdoor barbecues for dinner, of freedom. Now it has a feeling of containment and dread.
My job requires me to confront climate issues and victims of bushfire and other disasters and their experiences and the flood of climate information leave me feeling deep grief, distress and helplessness.
My little son loves animals passionately and i dread the day I will have to tell him about climate change and about how so many of the creatures that inspire him are threatened by mankind’s very existence. I fear he will grow into an adult in a time of increasingly frequent and severe natural disasters, in a country weakened economically and fragmented socially by these disasters. That by the time he grows up the Great Barrier Reef we describe to him will be dead and gone. Having him despite my fear for his future was an act of hope and defiance, but that hope is hard to maintain when our governments will seemingly not act to end the use of fossil fuels and replace them with renewables with the speed that will give my beautiful child the bright future he deserves. I hope and pray that this case changes the situation. And I thank these elders for bringing this action.
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I am surrounding by an ocean of drowning trees. They are not drowning in water, they are thirsty for it. Brown as scabs and waving like flags throughout the forest, on roadsides, and in backyards, Endlessly and silently gesturing to all of us. You can see them out of the corner of your eye, Niggling at the edge of our thoughts, As we relentlessly drive on without changing lanes, slowing down or coming to a stop. If we did that, we would have to turn and look. Like properly look, Noticing something for the first time that has been there all along. The forest that is, which has existed and perfected its survivorship over thousands of generations. We call it the Jarrah forest, and it is found nowhere else in the world. It has loved and nurtured the people of the south west of WA, Without question and without asking anything in return. It has given breath to our lungs, pure water for drinking and sacred footpaths to tread. It could have lasted forever if we had chosen to tread carefully, And looked after it like we would our own kin. The least we could have done is look after it. The sheer number of dying trees is new, and that’s what’s waving to us, As they are drowning in the hot, dry air; New saplings that have germinated after a brutal ‘controlled’ burn, Right before the rain stopped in spring last year. It’s barely rained since, And the tender young plants cannot reach water in time to survive through summer. We are nearly two thirds of the way through autumn, And still it feels like summer. We will get rain soon, And we will enjoy the lush, earthy smells and green tones, That will please our eyes and calm our minds. The new brown scabs will remain, Reminding us of the groundwater that we can’t see, That has been depleting every year. It will remain out of reach for the old, old trees, Not just the young saplings; The grandmothers of the landscape are dying. First you see the grey-green crown start to fade, And then turn yellow, And then brown, like weak tea. Without the elders and the saplings, What is left? And what will come next? Not air for our lungs. Or water for our bodies. Or shaded footpaths. The forest will no longer be safe. Just one word, and you will know; Fire. Everyone who thinks that we don’t need the forest to survive, Will realise too late. Or perhaps they don’t think at all. Or perhaps they know, and they choose to ignore. Or perhaps they think that we have dominion over the forest, And it is there to take from what we want, And the consequences are too far in the future to worry about now. Except they are not. Those poor, drowning trees. Not drowning in water, thirsty for it. Not waving, but drowning in the hot, dry air.
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