09/03/2019

These Women Are Changing The Landscape Of Antarctic Research

National Geographic - Elizabeth Rush

Polar science used to be dominated by men. An expedition to Thwaites Glacier is helping change that.
Rebecca Totten Minzoni of the University of Alabama prepares the Megacore machinery for drilling into sediment in Antarctica, to better understand how climate change is impacting melting glaciers. Photograph by Linda Welzenbach, Rice University
Elizabeth Rush
Elizabeth Rush is the author of Rising: Dispatches from the New American Shore. She teaches creative nonfiction at Brown University.
Up on the helicopter deck Meghan Spoth and Victoria Fitzgerald practice setting up camp. Just over Spoth’s shoulder a mile-wide tabular iceberg slides past, revealing the piercing cobalt at the berg’s cold center. Spoth pulls at the brim of her condor-embroidered ballcap and tosses a roll of duct tape to Fitzgerald.
The two young researchers, who hail from the University of Maine and Alabama respectively, have come to the Amundsen Sea, a rarely explored corner of the Antarctic continent, to better understand the rate at which the Thwaites Glacier disintegrated in the past so that modelers might make more accurate estimates of how fast sea levels will rise in the coming century.
The women lash their tarp tent to the deck. Sharp blasts of air rattle the plastic lean-to. They slide underneath to practice maneuvering in total darkness, a prerequisite for the kind of luminescence dating methods they plan to employ. This is a simulation of the work that Spoth and Fitzgerald will carry out in the coming days on the Lindsey and Schafer Islands, archipelagos so remote that human foot-fall has never before rung from many of these glacially scoured mounds. The team, headed up by Brenda Hall of the University of Maine, will be looking for paleontological records—things like seal skin and penguin bones—to help them better understand just how quickly the ice withdrew during the last deglaciation.
Their work is part of the International Thwaites Glacier Collaboration, a five-year effort to gather data that will create more accurate models of sea-level rise rates for the coming century. This field season, the R/V Nathaniel B. Palmer is sailing to Thwaites’ calving front. Nicknamed by news-media the “Doomsday Glacier,” this is a threshold system, the 150 kilometer-wide ice front that reaches all the way back to the wet heart of the West Antarctic Ice Shelf.
Unlike East Antarctica, where the ice sheets tend to ride on solid ground, much of the West Antarctic Ice Sheet rests on land that lays up to two kilometers below sea level, making the system inherently unstable, and runaway ice sheet collapse a possibility. Thwaites is the choke-point, holding much of the ice sheet in place. But the toe-hold it has on the solid earth—also known as the glacier’s grounding line, which also rests below sea level—recently began to recede.
Today the ice sheet is retreating as fast as 1.2 kilometers per year. It might not sound like much, but that is up to five times the rate of retreat during the transition between the Pleistocene and Holocene, when global sea levels rose about sixty feet every 1,000 years. Translate those numbers to the human time-scale and you get the rough equivalent of six feet of rise every century.
“That retreat, when the grounding line moves all the way to the inner shelf around 10,000 years ago, that is nowhere near as rapid as what we are witnessing now,” says Rebecca Totten Minzoni, assistant professor of Geological Sciences at the University of Alabama. “Thwaites Glacier is probably the most important part of the Antarctic contribution to global sea-level rise this century. It is not just a problem for our science community it is problem for the global community,” she adds.
Minzoni, who decided to study Antarctic ice sheet retreat after her family home flooded during Hurricane Katrina, hopes that the data collected on this excursion can lead to more informed public policy surrounding sea-level rise readiness and equity.

Women explorers
The day after the tarp-tent test, the first sediment core from just off the Abbott Ice Shelf is brought onboard. Minzoni, who is Fitzgerald’s adviser, coaches her through the process of taking samples from each layer of the milk-chocolate colored mud that they have extracted from the deep. They work shoulder to shoulder in bright orange jumpsuits, peeling back the layers of the meters-long cylinder of silt.
While the science taking place on board the Palmer is exceptional—many of the places we collect data from are marked as “open and uncharted” on the map of the region we have pinned to the wall of the Dry Lab—equally exceptional is the number of women scientists and crew members involved. Of the 57 people on board, 16 are women; a figure that would have been all but unthinkable a few decades ago. And if you only count the scientists the ratio (9 of 22 overall) skews significantly higher; one of whom, Anna Wåhlin, of the University of Gothenburg, just broke records by being the first person to send an Autonomous Underwater Vehicle under the Thwaites Ice Sheet.
But for much of human civilization’s engagement with Antarctica women weren’t welcome. When New York Times journalist Walter Sullivan wrote of the first all-women scientific expedition to the great southlands in the late 1960s he described the undertaking as ‘an incursion of females’ into ‘the largest male sanctuary remaining on this planet.”
It wasn’t until 1974 that Alice McWinnie, the first woman to head an Antarctic research station, wintered-over there, with her required “assistant” a biologist and nun named Sister Mary Odile Cahoon. According to Julia Wellner, one of the principle investigators in the International Thwaites Glacier Collaboration, “The first woman allowed in the Marine Antarctic Program in the United States was, I believe, in the late 70s. That is because the U.S. ran all of their marine science through the Coast Guard and the Coast Guard simply didn’t allow women on ships.”
Giant icebergs are calving off the Antarctic ice sheets in a process scientists are trying to better understand. Photograph by Elizabeth Rush
Many of the more established career scientists involved in this collaborative effort to better understand Thwaites, Wellner included, had next to no female mentors. A simple fact that some have suggested played a significant role in determining not only the gender parity onboard vessels but also the science taking place there.
“Scientific studies themselves can be gendered, especially when credibility is attributed to research produced through typically masculine activities or manly characteristics, such as heroism, risk, conquests, strength, self-sufficiency, and exploration,” writes Mark Carey in his recent study investigating the interplay between gender, glaciers, and the science employed to better understand the latter. The characteristics he lists have long defined the stories we tell about Antarctica, limiting the way we understand this complex and interconnected, difficult to fathom and even harder to predict, place that only two hundred years ago was a blank space on many of our maps.

Counting penguin bones
Come morning the deck of the Palmer is coated in a thin film of ice from the storm that blew through the previous night. The wind-chill is -14 degrees Fahrenheit. Spoth, Fitzgerald, Kelly Hogan and Scott Braddock don layer after layer of long underwear, overtopped by plastic raingear and bright orange jackets known as “float coats,” which are meant to provide both warmth and buoyancy in case the scientists topple overboard on their journey from the Palmer out to the islands.
They pile pick axes, shovels, the tarp tent, GPS units, and hundreds of plastic specimen bags into a Zodiac. Once they have unloaded all their gear on the shore, including the 40-pound survival kits the National Science Foundation requires researchers who leave the vessel to cart along; and once they have changed out their soggy gloves and socks, they climb to the island’s highest point and look east. There they let out a collective sigh of relief. The telltale terracing of the island’s ancient beaches that Hall had seen in blurry satellite images, now lay in front of them, as real as the penguin-poo-covered rock beneath their feet.
Hogan and Spoth take the lower set of beaches while Fitzgerald and Braddock aim high. I join Spoth and Hogan on the far side of the island. Every couple hundred yards, I dig a small hole. The two women lay on the ground, draw their faces close to the stones I have heaped up on the lip of the pit, and begin to sift through them with meticulous care. “I’ve got one,” Hogan calls out over the wind. She cups her hands around the specimen she wishes to sample—the tip of a penguin rib, no more than half an inch long—and waits for Spoth to note the GPS coordinates in her field notebook. Then tweezers out, camera out, slip the sliver of bone into bag, number it and tuck it into the burlap sack.
There is so little ice-free land in this remote corner of the Amundsen Sea that before this study was conducted there was only one data point used to model the relative rate of sea-level rise in the region. Which means that the 200 or so samples collected in the field will dramatically improve not only our understanding of past deglaciation events but also the potential futures these ice sheets might breed. To get an accurate estimate of the rate of recent glacial retreat and relative sea-level rise, the scientists need to know just how quickly these islands “rebounded” after the glacier withdrew and to what height.
Joee Patterson and Jack Greenberg deploy the Megacore off the R/V Palmer research ship. Photograph by Elizabeth Rush
“Without an understanding of those longer-term trends that tell us how the ice behaved in the past, it is quite difficult to separate out and analyze the modern change we are witnessing now, and even harder still is predicting possible future ice loss,” says Hogan.
Back in the Palmer’s hold, as we transit to our next scientific site, Spoth and Braddock fold tinfoil boats to hold the specimens drying in the oven. Hogan and Fitzgerald, who are actually onboard to analyze sediment samples, rejoin their respective teams and prepare for the next week’s work. The level of collaboration on board is impressive, with groups sharing scientists and equipment as each experiment demands.
That wasn’t always the case, says Rob Larter, the chief scientist and one of the only people onboard who has been doing science in Antarctica long enough to remember when women on the vessels were an anomaly. “A bunch of men on a ship can be a bit more confrontational,” he says over a cup of tea in his cabin. But Larter is reticent to point to gender as the sole driver of change determining how the science on board the Palmer is conducted.
The urgency surrounding the question of how quickly Thwaites is collapsing and its potential contribution to global sea levels fuels our need to understand this dynamic system in an integrated way. If Thwaites goes, it could take the whole of the West Antarctic Ice Sheet with it. Sea levels could rise as much as twelve feet, drowning not only significant portions of our coastal cities, but also rural areas where property taxes are low and innovative infrastructure solutions difficult to fund.
“The thing about the Thwaites program is that this is one of the first times we have created such a comprehensive view of one glacier system,” says Hogan. “Oceans, ice, over-ice, marine bed, airborne surveys, we are collecting this data all in one go to try to really understand the system in a holistic way.”
While it impossible to separate out the impact of the gender of the scientists onboard from the interdisciplinary nature of the international collaboration, one thing is certain: change has come both to the Southern Ocean and to the bellies of the ships that ply these waters. Today 55 percent of the members of the International Association of Polar Early Career Scientists identify as women. But just how long will it take for the culture surrounding Antarctic exploration and the stories we tell about this place to change?
“In my experience somebody who sometimes treats you like a girl will, in the end, always treat you like a girl and someone who treats you like a colleague will always treat you like a colleague,” says Joee Patterson, one of the boat’s marine technicians, the creative group of people who build contraptions like the tarp tent and who helm the small boats that deliver the researchers to shore.
Patterson slips on her hard hat, which has her name and a heart painted on the back in pink, sparkly letters, and clicks the last of the twelve Plexi-tubes on the 1,600-pound Megacore driller into place. Then she clips herself into her safety belt and begins lowering the device over the starboard side deck. Soon the sun will briefly set on our little corner of Antarctica.
Come morning we will motor over to the coring site to continue the work of peering into the past to better understand the present and our collective future. If Minzoni, Fitzgerald, Spoth, Wåhlin, Hogan, Patterson, and the many other women scientists and technicians on board the Palmer are any indication, as the far south tips out of balance, the gender of the researchers working here—the questions they pose and the manner they go about attempting to answer them—might, for the first time, arrive at a different kind of equilibrium.

Climate Change: Narrate A History Beyond The ‘Triumph Of Humanity’ To Find Imaginative Solutions

The Conversation

‘American Progress’ by John Gast. Wikipedia
One reason why people find it difficult to think about climate change and the future may be their understanding of human history. The present day is believed to be the product of centuries of development. These developments have led to a globalised world of complex states, in which daily life for most people is highly urbanised, consumerist and competitive.
By this account, humanity has triumphed over the dangers and uncertainties of the natural world, and this triumph will continue to unfold in the future. Anything else would seem to be going “backwards”, in a world where “backwardness” is pitied or despised.
But it is now clear that we haven’t triumphed. The future has become very uncertain and our way of thinking needs to change. Could new historical narratives help? How might they look?

Progress towards oblivion
The current view of the past, present and future as a trajectory of progress is constantly reiterated by politicians and taught to children in schools. It does not offer many alternatives to the ideas and practices driving climate change and ecological breakdown.
There is a reassuring promise in this narrative that things naturally improve with time, requiring no commitment from ordinary people. Progress is delivered through steady work by governments and scientists, with moments of transformation by activists or visionaries. The direction of history itself is towards the general good.
It is very hard, then, for anyone thinking in this framework to imagine a future in which societies adapt to the challenges of climate change. This is especially the case where adaptions might have to take the form of significantly reduced consumption, unfamiliar forms of social organisation, and harder work to produce food or manage local environments.
Ecologically benign societies are difficult to imagine when all previous human history is a story of domination and consumption. 3000AD/Shutterstock
 These ideas about the future look very different from the technologically advanced and globalised tomorrow that the progress narrative seemed to promise. At present, ideas in popular culture about the impact of climate change are often apocalyptic and dystopian. Ideas about mitigating climate change seem limited to fantasies of last-minute salvation by scientific genius or alien intervention.
In this respect, climate change stands in contrast to other issues that are more rooted in a cultural understanding of history. Arguments around Britain’s departure from the European Union, for example, matter to people across the political spectrum because they’re integrated with ideas about the nation’s past trajectory, as well as the immediate concerns of people and communities.
Responding to climate change, meanwhile, demands a collective rupture from several centuries of development within a timescale of decades. This poses both a challenge and an opportunity to the study of history.
Fields such as climate, environmental or global history help to think about the past in planetary rather than national terms. Some of that questions the western interpretation of history and the exploitation of people and nature which punctuates it.
Recovering the stories of people marginalised from these narratives helps people think about life in a different light. Many indigenous peoples, for example, have ideas about the past that situate humans within complex ecosystems.
Environmental historians also ask how past societies interacted with their surroundings and consider how and why more ecologically stable ways of living were destroyed through colonisation by powerful, expanding empires.
Water-tight aboriginal craft for collecting seeds, fruit and liquids, made from tightly woven grass in Northern Australia. Fir0002/Wikipedia, CC BY-NC
Bruce Pascoe’s Dark Emu looks at the sustainable land management techniques of Australia’s First Peoples, which were ignored by British settlers. He suggests a way forward for Australian agriculture based on those practices.
Their subject also explores how climatic and environmental change affected earlier civilisations. The fall of Rome, for example, fits into a global shift in climate conditions around 500 C.E. that also resulted in the “fall” of complex states in China, India, Mesoamerica, Peru, and Mexico.
Population health and biodiversity improved significantly in the following period, popularly known as the “Dark Ages”. So were powerful states always a good thing?

The tangle of life
The destruction of indigenous populations by Europeans from 1500 onwards may have caused huge environmental changes on the American continent. As 56 million lives were extinguished, the regrowth of forests on abandoned farms may have absorbed enough atmospheric carbon to cool the global climate in the Little Ice Age.
Societies across the world suffered during this period. In Europe, it was a time of savage persecution of “witches”, partly due to the belief that they were deliberately causing the “unnatural” weather conditions.
The Dutch Republic did show resilience in the harsher climate conditions of “the frigid golden age”. Its innovations for harnessing the energy of changing weather and wind patterns in shipping fuelled an aggressive trading empire.
‘The Frozen Thames’ (1677). Did Europe’s Little Ice Age derive from 56 million deaths in the Americas? Abraham Hondius/Wikipedia
While such strategies are not templates for future action, they do underline the fact that humans have and can adapt with radically altered lifestyles, expectations, aspirations and standards of living. They needn’t always aspire to more of the same that they have at present.
This idea begs questions about the nature of history itself. Must history continue to be a story of humans alone? Could it become the study of humans in complex ecosystems, exploring the entangled pasts of people, animals, insects, microbes, plants, trees, forests, soils, oceans, glaciers, stones, volcanic eruptions, solar cycles and orbital variations?
Narrating a richer past would lessen the shock of discovering that we are, after all, earthbound inhabitants of the only planet where life is known to exist. It could show us that our survival is dependent on countless complicated and delicate relationships. Relationships that “progress” narratives have required us to ignore, despise and even fear.
In recognising that the established view of human history can and must change, people can think radically about society, rather than following the present course out of a failure of imagination.

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Why This Climate Change Data Is On Flip-Flops, Leggings, And Cars

VoxUmair Irfan

“Warming stripes” keep showing up on clothes and crafts.
Stripes showing how the planet has warmed over the past century
have become a motif in crafts and clothing, as in this flip-flop sandal.
Climate scientists don’t usually become tastemakers.
But Ed Hawkins at the National Centre for Atmospheric Science at the University of Reading in the United Kingdom has a knack for creating haunting viral visuals of humanity’s impact on the planet. And a pattern he created last year is now showing up on everything from flip-flops to blown glass to Teslas.
Hawkins noticed that the past five years have been the hottest on record, as average global temperatures keep peaking in a more than century-long pattern of gradual, and then rapid, warming.
And he wanted to convey to the public in a fresh way just how dramatic this recent warming is — warming that is undoubtedly tied to greenhouse gas emissions from human activity.
Why? For one thing, the standard way of visualizing this data — in charts like this — is kind of ugly:

Global average temperatures are rising.
Berkeley Earth


In 2016, Hawkins decided to present this temperature trend as an animated spiral rather than a line graph. The visual soon started bouncing around the web. It was even featured in the opening ceremony of the 2016 Olympics in Rio de Janeiro:

This spiral animation shows the steady rise in global average temperatures due to climate change.
Ed Hawkins/Climate Lab Book
But Hawkins wanted to make something with more aesthetic appeal and an even lower barrier of entry for a casual viewer. “We very deliberately set out to make a simple representation of global temperatures” for people unfamiliar with climate science, he told me.
The result was climate warming stripes:

These stripes show the steady warming of the planet over the past century.
Dark blues are cooler years and dark reds are hotter.
Ed Hawkins/ Climate Lab Book


The stirring cerulean-to-crimson bars tell a story about how the planet has changed over the past century and the what’s in store for this one. It’s a vivid visual of the warming humanity is causing. The color of each stripe represents the relative annual average global temperature from 1850 to 2017. The fact that there are more blues on one side of the pattern and more reds on the other clearly indicates that the planet is warming.
Despite the existential dread they may inspire, the climate stripes have become a motif in clothing and crafts since they were created in 2018.
Take a look. Here we have a tie and cufflinks, part of a coordinated campaign last summer by meteorologists to raise awareness about climate change:

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Hawkins has also set up a Zazzle store where you can buy prints of the warming stripes on earrings, water bottles, and leggings (the proceeds go to charity):

Climate stripe leggings
Zazzle
Then there’s glasswork:

Light sculptures:

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View on Twitter

And even a car:
A Tesla Model 3 electric car with wrapped with the climate stripe pattern.
Mark Hanson/NetZeroMN
Mark Hanson, the owner of this stripey Tesla, notes that the climate stripes have served as a conversation starter at electric vehicle get-togethers. “At one of the events, I heard a woman using the ‘warming stripes’ design to show her daughter how the Earth’s temperature has been changing,” he wrote in a blog post. “Besides events such as the above, I have had conversations in parking lots, while eating lunch, and almost anywhere. Some of them about the Tesla Model 3, some about the car wrap and many about both!”
Hawkins says the stripes have caught on in part because they are simple, but also because they can be used in so many different ways.
He has also made different versions of the stripes tailored to represent warming trends in particular cities and countries, giving different parts of the world their own unique local climate barcodes.

The climate warming stripes tell an even more alarming story when animated
Kevin Pluck, a UK-based software engineer who has made a hobby of designing mesmerizing climate visuals, recently took the stripes one step further and animated them:

What’s interesting about this visual is you can see how what was once a relatively warm year starts to become cooler as temperatures continue to rise. Look at 1940, which was one of the warmest years in the 20th century at the time. It registers as a deep red:

The year 1940 was one of the warmest years on record at the time.
Kevin Pluck
By 2010, the stripe for 1940 has literally paled in comparison to the hotter temperatures of the 21st century:
By the end of the century, 1940 was no longer one of the hottest years on record.
Kevin Pluck
“You can see in the first few decades there was a random scattering of cool years and warm years as one would expect in a stable climate,” Pluck wrote in an email. “This all changed again during the 1980’s and 90’s when the warming really started to pick up reducing most of the first century to shades of blue.”
That means today’s hottest may soon become tomorrow’s coolest. While this animation is more visually appealing than some of the frenetic carbon dioxide trackers out there showing humanity’s relentless output of greenhouse gases, it’s no less alarming. Animations also capture the fact that climate change is a dynamic phenomenon. Here is how my colleague David Roberts put it on Twitter:

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Australia Needs A National Plan To Face The Growing Threat Of Climate Disasters

The Conversation

Without a solid national plan to confront climate threats, there’s plenty more hardship on the horizon. AAP Image/Rob Blakers
Dr Robert Glasser served as Special Representative of the UN Secretary-General for Disaster Risk Reduction and Head of the UN Office for Disaster Risk Reduction from January 2016 to March 2018. Dr Glasser is currently a Visiting Fellow at the Australian Strategic Policy Institute and an Honorary Associate Professor at the Crawford School of Public Policy at the Australian National University.
We are entering a new era in the security of Australia, not because of terrorism, the rise of China, or even the cybersecurity threat, but because of climate change.
If the world warms beyond 2℃, as seems increasingly likely, an era of disasters will be upon us, with profound implications for how we organise ourselves to protect Australian lives, property and economic interests, and our way of life.
The early warning of this era is arriving almost daily, in news reports from across the globe of record-breaking heatwaves, prolonged droughts, massive bushfires, torrential flooding, and record-setting storms.
In a new special report from the Australian Strategic Policy Institute, I argue that Australia is not facing up to the pace of these worsening threats.
We need a national strategy to deal specifically with climate disaster preparedness.
Even without climate change, the impact of these natural hazards is enormous. More than 500 Australians – roughly the same number who died in the Vietnam War – die each year from heat stress alone. The annual economic costs of natural disasters are projected to increase to A$39 billion by 2050. This is roughly equivalent to what the federal government spends each year on the Australian Defence Force.
Climate change will dramatically increase the frequency and severity of many of these hazards. The number of record hot days in Australia has doubled in the past 50 years, and heatwaves have become longer and hotter.
Extreme fire weather days have increased in recent decades in many regions of Australia. Shorter and more intense rainstorms that trigger flash floods and urban flooding are also becoming more frequent, and sea level has been rising at an accelerated rate since 1993.
Australians are already exposed to a wide range of the hazards that climate change is amplifying. Almost 4 million of our people, and about 20% of our national economic output, are in areas with high or extreme risk of tropical cyclones. Meanwhile, 2.2 million people and 11% of economic activity are in places with high or extreme risk of bushfire.
Sydney's skyline is dramatically altered by the freak dust storm which hit the eastern coast of Australia on Wednesday the 23rd of September 2009. IMAGE  Colin Seton

Chronic crisis
As the frequency of extreme events increases, we are likely to see an increase in events happening at the same time in different parts of the country, or events following hard on the heels of previous ones. Communities may weather the first few setbacks but, in their weakened state, be ultimately overwhelmed.
Large parts of the country that are currently marginally viable for agriculture are increasingly likely to be in chronic crisis, from the compounding impacts of the steady rise of temperature, drought and bushfires.
The scale of those impacts will be unprecedented, and the patterns that the hazards take will change in ways that are difficult to predict. Australia’s fire season, for example, is already getting longer. Other research suggests that tropical cyclones are forming further from the Equator as the planet warms, putting new areas of eastern Australia in harm’s way.
This emerging era of disasters will increasingly stretch emergency services, undermine community resilience, and escalate economic costs and losses of life. Federal, state and local governments all need to start preparing now for the unprecedented scale of these emerging challenges.

Queensland as a case study
Queensland’s recent experience illustrates what could lie ahead for all of Australia. Late last year, a major drought severely affected the state. At that time, a senior manager involved in coordinating the state’s rebuilding efforts following Cyclone Debbie commented that his team was in the ironic situation of rebuilding from floods during a drought. The drought was making it difficult to find water to mix with gravel and to suppress the dust associated with rebuilding roads.
The drought intensified, contributing to an outbreak of more than 140 bushfires. This was followed and exacerbated by an extreme heatwave, with temperatures in the 40s that smashed records for the month of November. Bushfire conditions in parts of Queensland were classified as “catastrophic” for the first time since the rating scale was developed in 2009. More than a million hectares of bush and farmland were destroyed – the largest expanse of Queensland affected by fire since records began.
Just days later, Tropical Cyclone Owen approached the Queensland coast, threatening significant flooding and raising the risk of severe mudslides from the charred hillsides. Owen set an Australian record in dumping 681 millimetres of rain in just 24 hours – more than Melbourne usually receives in a year. It did not, however, diminish the drought gripping much of the state.
A few weeks later, record rains flooded more than 13.25 million hectares of Northern Queensland, killing hundreds of thousands of drought-stressed cattle. As two Queensland graziers wrote at the time: “Almost overnight we have transitioned from relative drought years to a flood disaster zone.”
From drought to deluge. AAP Image/Andrew Rankin
Time to prepare
We need to begin preparing now for this changing climate, by developing a national strategy that outlines exactly how we move on from business as usual and adopt a more responsible approach to climate disaster preparedness.
It makes no sense for the federal government to have two separate strategies (as it currently does) for disaster resilience and climate change adaptation. Given that 90% of major disasters worldwide are from climate-related hazards such as storms, droughts and floods, these two strategies should clearly be merged.
One of the prime objectives of the new strategy should be to scale up Australia’s efforts to prevent hazards from turning into disasters. Currently, the federal government spends 30 times more on rebuilding after disasters than it does on reducing the risks in the first place.
Australia should be leading global calls for urgent climate action, not just because we’re so vulnerable to climate hazards, but also for traditional national security reasons. We are the wealthiest nation in a region full of less-developed countries that are hugely vulnerable to climate change. Shocks to their food security, economic interests and political stability will undermine our own national security.
No military alliance, deployment of troops or new weapon system will adequately protect Australia from this rapidly escalating threat. The only effective “forward defence” is to reduce greenhouse gases globally, including in Australia, as quickly as possible. Without far greater ambition on this front, the scale of the disasters that lie ahead will overwhelm even the most concerted efforts to strengthen the resilience of Australian communities.

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