We Are the Weather

by Jonathan Safran Foer

  More than generally, and more than bad. According to the UN, animal agriculture is “one of the top two or three most significant contributors to the most serious environmental problems, at every scale from local to global … It should be a major policy focus when dealing with problems of land degradation, climate change and air pollution, water shortage and water pollution and loss of biodiversity. Livestock’s contribution to environmental problems is on a massive scale.”

  So why bother mentioning that there’s such a thing as a good farm?

  Because it’s extremely tempting to oversimplify this scientifically and psychologically complicated issue: cherry-pick convenient statistics, dismiss “illogical” feelings, ignore marginal cases. And when it’s already so hard to take to heart that what we eat matters—when even smart and caring people seek holes they can escape through with their lifestyles intact—inaccuracies can feel like dishonesties.

  That’s another counterargument, by the way: the numbers are vague to the point of being untrustworthy. I’ve cited animal agriculture’s contributions to global greenhouse gas emissions at 14.5 percent. I’ve also cited them at 51 percent. And the low estimate wasn’t provided by Tyson Foods, and the high estimate wasn’t provided by PETA. It is arguably the most important of all climate change statistics, and the high estimate is more than three-times the low estimate. If I can’t be more precise than that, why should anyone trust what I’m saying?

  Why should they?

  I can be more precise. In the appendix, I present the methodology behind those numbers and explain why I think 51 percent is more accurate. But the systems in question are complex and linked, and quantifying them requires making significant assumptions. Even the most politically neutral scientists face that challenge.

  Take the shift to electric cars. How do we factor in the relative cleanliness of the electric grid that powers the cars? In China, coal generates 47 percent of electricity; a shift to electric cars would be a climate-change catastrophe. How do we consider the fact that it takes about twice the amount of energy to produce an electric car as it does a conventional one? And what about the other forms of environmental damage, like the mining of rare minerals for batteries, an energy-intensive process that can make use of only about 0.2 percent of what is pulled from the ground—with the other 99.8 percent (now toxically contaminated) being thrown back as untreated pollution?

  It is dangerous to pretend that we know more than we do. But it is even more dangerous to pretend that we know less. The difference between 14.5 percent and 51 percent is enormous, but even the low end makes absolutely clear that if we want to stop climate change, we cannot ignore the contributions of animal products.

  Frankfurter asked Karski about the height of the Warsaw Ghetto’s wall. If Karski had answered that it was between eight and twenty-five feet, would that have made any difference? To the Jews unable to scale it? To Frankfurter as he considered their fate? To us as we judge Frankfurter?

  But without knowing the height of the wall, we can’t plan how to overcome it.

  Different studies suggest different dietary changes in response to climate change, but the ballpark is pretty clear. The most comprehensive assessment of the livestock industry’s environmental impact was published in Nature in October 2018. After analyzing food-production systems from every country around the world, the authors concluded that while undernourished people living in poverty across the globe could actually eat a little more meat and dairy, the average world citizen needs to shift to a plant-based diet in order to prevent catastrophic, irreversible environmental damage. The average U.S. and U.K. citizen must consume 90 percent less beef and 60 percent less dairy.

  How would anyone keep track of that?

  No animal products for breakfast or lunch. It might not amount to precisely the reductions that are asked for, but it’s just about right, and easy to remember.

  And easy to do?

  Depends on the shark. It would be both disingenuous and counterproductive to pretend that eating only plant-based foods before dinner won’t require some adjusting. But I bet that if most people think back over their favorite meals of the past few years—the meals that brought them the most culinary and social pleasure, that meant the most culturally or religiously—virtually all of them would be dinners.

  And we have to acknowledge that change is inevitable. We can choose to make changes, or we can be subject to other changes—mass migration, disease, armed conflict, a greatly diminished quality of life—but there is no future without change. The luxury of choosing which changes we prefer has an expiration date.

  For you?

  What?

  Has the change been easy for you?

  I’ve set myself the deadline of finishing this book to give up dairy and eggs.

  You’re joking.

  I’m not.

  You mean you haven’t been consistent with it yet?

  I haven’t yet tried.

  How the hell do you explain that?

  With the only counterargument that leaves me stumped: this is a fantasy. It is a scientifically sound fantasy, an ethical fantasy, an irrefutable fantasy. But a fantasy. Large numbers of people are not going to change how they eat, certainly not in the required time. Clinging to a fantasy is every bit as dangerous as dismissing a viable plan.

  And how would you respond to that?

  Being living proof of their argument, I would have a very difficult time.

  Try.

  The truth is, I’m not hopeful.

  Good. Now tell me how the fantasy could be a viable plan.

  It’s hard to imagine.

  Even if it’s the longest of shots.

  If it happens, there won’t be any one thing that makes it happen. Doing what needs to be done will involve invention (like creating veggie burgers that are indistinguishable from beef hamburgers), and legislation (like adjusting farm subsidies and holding animal agriculture responsible for its environmental destruction), and bottom-up advocacy (like college students demanding their cafeterias not serve animal products before dinner), and top-down advocacy (like celebrities spreading the message that we cannot save the planet without changing how we eat), and—

  No one will cure climate change? Everyone will cure climate change?

  Exactly.

  Help me to see how.

  Honestly, I can’t see it.

  You’re hopeless.

  I’m realistic.

  And even if you think I already know, remind me why it is realistic to be hopeless?

  You’re joking?

  Say it.

  Because of the destruction we’ve already wreaked—destruction that either has to be undone or cannot be undone. Because of the fact that within a single year, loggers destroyed an area five times the size of London in the Amazon, an ecosystem that takes four thousand years to regenerate. Because of how difficult it will be to reverse a way of being with 7.5 billion people putting their weight on the gas pedal. Because American CO2e emissions increased by 3.4 percent in 2018. Because of the imprecision of math that depends on precision—the difference of half a degree could be the difference that makes all the difference. Because of the justified desire of developing countries to become like the countries most responsible for climate change. Because as it gets hotter, more air-conditioning will be used, which will expel more greenhouse gases. Because of the thousands of other positive feedback loops. Because of the 2017 discovery that methane emissions from cattle are at least 11 percent higher than previously thought and the 2018 discovery that oceans are warming 40 percent faster than previously thought. Because many of the people most affected by climate change (and best able to testify to its horrors) don’t have the means to share their testimonies and shake our collective conscience. Because the interests motivated against solving the problem are more powerful, driven, and clever than the interests motivated to solve it. Because in the next thirty years, the human population is expected to increase by 2.3 billion, and global income is expe
cted to triple, meaning many more people will be able to eat diets rich in animal products. Because of the seeming impossibility of cooperation across countries and within countries. Because there’s a very good chance it’s already too late to avoid runaway climate change. Because—

  I get it.

  Because of human nature: people like me, who should care and should be motivated and should make big changes, find it almost impossible to make small sacrifices for profound future benefit. Because—

  Enough.

  Because I haven’t even tried.

  I don’t know.

  What’s not to know?

  Why are we still talking?

  What do you mean?

  You just told me you haven’t even tried, and yet we’re still talking.

  So?

  Remember “Dispute with the Soul of One Who Is Tired of Life”?

  I’m not writing a suicide note.

  That’s my point. And my stubborn hope.

  I thought you were anti hope.

  I’m anti stolen hope.

  And the price of hope is action.

  And there is one action that gives me hope.

  Giving up animal products?

  No.

  You’ve lost me.

  I haven’t. Not yet. We’re still talking, so you haven’t yet lost yourself.

  What are you saying?

  Suicide notes end. We’re still swimming. This is what it looks like to try. Are you tired?

  Of this conversation? Yes.

  Of life.

  No.

  “Dispute with the Soul of One Who Is Not Yet Tired of Life.” But it’s wrong to assume that the soul is what we appeal to with the momentous questions in the momentous moments: How should I live? Whom should I love? What is the purpose? It’s the soul that asks the questions, not answers them. The soul is no more “over there” than the causes and solutions to climate change. Even worse, we are tragically confused about what is momentous.

  Confused how?

  We ask the soul, “Are you hopeful?” The soul asks us, “What’s for lunch?”

  Mr. Karski.

  What about him?

  Mr. Karski, a man like me talking to a man like you must be totally frank.

  I’m Karski?

  I must say I am unable to believe what you told me.

  You think I have been lying to you?

  I didn’t say that you were lying. I said I am unable to believe you. My mind, my heart, they are made in such a way that I cannot accept it.

  Made by whom?

  I’m sorry, but I have an urgent matter to attend to.

  Mr. Karski.

  … Yes?

  A man like me talking to a man like you must be totally frank.

  You think I have been lying to you?

  I don’t know.

  What’s not to know?

  How tall is the ice shelf?

  Two hundred feet.

  That doesn’t sound so bad.

  One hundred feet.

  I don’t know.

  Mr. Karski.

  Yes.

  I want to believe you.

  Is scale the problem? That the immensity of the tragedy forces it into abstraction? Because I was lying earlier.

  I didn’t say you were lying.

  Only a few thousand children are dying of malnutrition. Now will you do something to save them?

  That’s not the problem.

  Is it distance? I made it seem far away so that you wouldn’t be frightened, but the Supreme Court will be underwater.

  Distance isn’t the problem.

  I am trapped beneath a car.

  Excuse me?

  I need you to lift it off me.

  There is no car.

  Why won’t you save my life?

  Because it clearly doesn’t need to be saved.

  So why won’t you save the lives that clearly need to be saved?

  Because I am also trapped under a car.

  Mr. Karski, a man like me talking to a man like you must be totally frank.

  Who cares about frankness now?

  Mr. Karski. I’ve given you my time, heard you out, told you my position. Now you must leave.

  I accept that you don’t believe me. I rarely believe myself. I don’t need you to believe me.

  Go!

  I need you to act.

  Next time, I won’t even let you into this room.

  Next time?

  Next time I replay this conversation in my mind.

  The ice shelf could fit under your door.

  Is that tall?

  Why don’t you have any children, Mr. Karski?

  We didn’t want any.

  Why didn’t you want any?

  We were happy as we were.

  Is it because you are also doomed to forever replay this conversation in your mind?

  Why don’t you have any children, Justice Frankfurter?

  Is that any of your business?

  Why does my question make you defensive?

  Marion suffered a great deal. She was frail. It would have been too much.

  I am unable to believe you.

  You think I am lying?

  I didn’t say that you were lying. I think you cannot admit, even to yourself, that the prospect of a child’s judgment prevented you from having children.

  Mr. Karski.

  Your mind, your heart.

  Yes. They are made in such a way that I cannot accept what you have told me. Not because they are deficient. Because they function. If I were to accept what you have said, I would go mad.

  You would act.

  I would know that no action would be enough.

  You could refuse food and drink, die a slow death while the world looked on.

  That wouldn’t be enough.

  You could convene a group of influential figures to hear what I have to say, urge Congress to open an official investigation into climate atrocities, use your voice to publicly raise the urgent questions.

  That wouldn’t be enough.

  After I leave, you could eat a different kind of lunch than you otherwise would have chosen.

  I don’t know.

  Mr. Karski.

  I lied about the height of the ice shelf.

  I didn’t say that you were lying.

  But I was.

  So how tall is it?

  This tall.

  As tall as the walls of this room?

  As tall as the page on which these words are printed. Not as tall as. This page is the wall. The other side of it.

  I don’t understand.

  No matter how far away your obligations feel, no matter the height or thickness of the ice that separates you from them, they are only on the other side. Right there. Right here.

  I don’t know.

  Mr. Karski.

  What’s not to know!

  I don’t know.

  I must go now.

  Mr. Karski!

  The wall is melting, and I have an urgent matter to attend to.

  More urgent than this?

  I need to go back, and tell them what happened here, and implore them to save you.

  Save me?

  They must do more: die in greater numbers, more quickly, more grotesquely. They must do their part, create a spectacle of suffering that demands a response.

  Keep talking to me.

  What good would that do? Your mind, your heart, they are made in such a way that you cannot accept what I say.

  But they are always being made.

  I worry.

  That I won’t change?

  I worry that they won’t believe your disbelief.

  V.  MORE LIFE

  Finite Resources

  Returning from work one afternoon, my grandfather was stopped on the outskirts of his Polish village by a friend, who told him that everyone had been murdered and that he had to flee. “Everyone” included my grandfather’s wife and baby daughter. He wanted to turn himself in to the Nazis, but his
friend physically restrained him and forced my grandfather to survive. After several years of running and hiding, exercising hysterical resourcefulness to evade the Germans, he met my grandmother, and they moved to Lodz, where they lived in an empty home whose previous occupants had been murdered.

  Resourcefulness was the only quality that I heard attributed to my grandfather until a few years ago. He ran the black market of the displaced persons camp where he, my grandmother, and my mother spent their final months in Europe; traded currencies and precious metals; forged documents; hid his money in the carved-out heels of his shoes. In 1949, he and his young family boarded a ship to America with a suitcase that held ten thousand dollars in cash—today’s equivalent of more than one hundred thousand dollars. (They had more money than the American relatives who were taking them in.) Speaking little English, and unacquainted with American culture or business, he bought a series of small grocery stores, managed them, and then sold them for a profit. Such stories about him—and all stories about him were such stories—filled me with pride, as well as some embarrassment about my own relative lack of ingenuity.

  Around the time my mother was six, my grandfather said he was going downstairs to get the store ready—they often lived above the groceries they owned—and hanged himself from one of the air-conditioning units. Just when the threats appeared to have cleared, his resourcefulness, his ability to survive anything, reached its limit. He was forty-four.

  I didn’t know about my grandfather’s suicide until a series of somewhat accidental discoveries a decade ago. Clearly an earlier confrontation with the truth wouldn’t have changed any of the facts, but it might have spared my family unnecessary shame and the guilt that incubated in the silence.

  To some extent, we all knew what we didn’t know. Or we knew but didn’t believe, and in that way didn’t know.

  My mother recently told me that she remembers when her father tucked her in for the last time. “He kept kissing me and telling me that he loved me in Yiddish.”

  She believes that while he suffered from clinical depression, his suicide was triggered by a failed business venture, which would encumber the family with extreme debt—the shame of leaving his wife and children without enough resources compelled him to take away their greatest resource.

  Maybe resourcefulness really did define him so completely. Or maybe that description was a powerful act of repression, avoiding a truth by asserting its opposite. Maybe “resourceful,” counterintuitively, is a description of someone who survives with very few resources. Or maybe it is a description that means nothing at all, given to someone who was hardly known—another way of saying “he lived.”