Hope

When I wrote my first climate thriller, it received an enormously positive reception. I especially remember the first professional review, which awarded it 5 out of 6 stars and, among many words of praise, highlighted its realism. But the reviewer also pointed out that I should remember to give the reader a sense of hope. She emphasised that I had indeed done so in the small details, but she wanted to remind me of it, so I would carry that thought with me in my future writing.

Since then, the remark has lingered in the back of my mind whenever I continue work on one of my climate novels in the The Victims of Hothouse Earth series. For what does the notion of “hope” actually mean?

I realised I had to find out if it was something I ought to work with more consciously in my novels, and so I immersed myself in a number of books and articles on the subject. Two works in particular stood out:

• Jane Goodall: The Book of Hope – A Survival Guide for Trying Times (2022)

• Kristian Leth: Hope – A Defence of the Future (2018)

  
  

What they share is the message that the world has always faced enormous challenges, yet humankind has managed to pull through every single time. Kristian Leth, in particular, argues passionately that humanity is on a positive trajectory, and that there are fewer poor people in the world today than at any other point in history. These are indisputable facts.

Yet when one digs deeper into the reasoning behind why Leth and Goodall believe we should remain hopeful despite dystopian climate forecasts, the arguments unfortunately begin to ring hollow. For when they attempt to paint a positive picture of the future, they overlook the countless victims along the way, as the world struggled through each crisis.

The hope you are encouraged to cling to seems to be the hope that it will happen to everyone else but you. That you yourself will escape becoming one of the many casualties the future may bring.

In the following, I will revisit some of the global crises that both authors highlight as reasons to remain hopeful after catastrophe, and explain why you and I do not need to worry as much.

History is marked by numerous pandemics and conflicts that have claimed vast numbers of lives. The greatest among them include:

• The Black Death (1346–1353): 25–30 million deaths in Europe, 75–200 million worldwide

  
  

• First World War (1914–1918): 16–17 million deaths

• Spanish Flu (1918–1920): more than 50 million deaths

  
  

• Second World War (1939–1945): 75 million deaths

  
  

• Covid-19 (2020–2021): 7–15 million deaths

  
  

That is a staggering number of deaths over just a few years. And as I will point out shortly, these figures far exceed the fatalities caused by today’s climate crisis. Yes, those of our ancestors who survived, and we who lived through Covid-19, can be grateful that we made it. But what of those who did not? What of the victims? Do they mean nothing? Should hope in the climate crisis really rest on the idea that as long as it isn’t me but someone else who suffers, then all is well?

If we compare this with climate-related fatalities, the differences are striking.

A study from Monash University in Australia (2021) estimated climate-related deaths at around 5 million per year, with the proportion due to heat steadily increasing. WHO, in that context, reports that 37% of these are caused by human-driven climate change. They also estimate that climate change causes an additional 250,000 deaths every year, a figure that is rising.

By comparison, wars and conflicts across the globe in 2022 claimed “only” 200,000–240,000 lives, depending on source (Uppsala Conflict Data Program or Peace Research Institute Oslo).

In other words, climate change is already responsible for more deaths annually than the world’s conflicts combined — if one considers only causes such as heat, cold, drought, malaria, dysentery, and the other ailments that follow in its wake. What is not counted are the conflict-related deaths that can in fact be linked to climate change.

Studies show that between 3% and 20% of global conflicts are intensified by climate change, even if it is not the sole trigger. Strong evidence suggests that certain regions — especially in Africa — are likely to experience sharp increases in armed conflict due to fragile regimes and poor socio-economic conditions under climate stress. If one attempts to quantify, uncertain though it must be, then as many as 25,000 conflict-related deaths each year may in reality be connected to climate change.

These figures indicate that by 2050 we may see an additional 6–10 million deaths worldwide from climate change and 5 million from conflicts. Numbers that neither Goodall nor Leth consider when speaking of how well humanity is doing. Nor do they take into account the growing numbers of displaced people in climate-stricken regions, or the worsening poverty among vulnerable populations.

In 2024, approximately 123 million people worldwide were displaced due to conflict or climate disasters. 20% — around 26 million — were directly linked to climate-related catastrophes. That may not sound like much, but it is only the tip of the iceberg when projecting forward. The World Bank estimates up to 250 million people displaced by 2050 due to droughts, floods, wildfires, and other natural disasters. This, in turn, will intensify conflicts, as populations with differing cultural backgrounds are forced closer together to share ever-scarcer resources.

It takes little imagination to grasp how such developments will exacerbate inequality in resource distribution between rich and poor — or how the proportion of people living below the poverty line will explode.

And so we return to the primary question: how much hope should one actually weave into climate fiction, and what kind of hope should it be? To what extent should the reader be left with the feeling that, in the end, everything will be all right?

Jonathan Watts, editor and climate journalist at The Guardian, has written about climate for decades. Judging from his more recent statements, he is no longer as hopeful as he once was, given that greenhouse gas emissions continue to rise at unprecedented rates despite our knowing the consequences for decades. He argues that we must abandon false hope and instead go into emergency mode.

On this point, I agree wholeheartedly. The idea that technology will come to our rescue — the hope politicians cling to — is equally the hope that the forces of capitalism will get us out of the mess we are in. But they overlook two crucial facts:

1. Capitalism is the very reason we are where we are today. Capitalism only changes course when it is profitable to do so. As long as climate-friendly solutions are less profitable than climate-damaging ones, capitalism will not save us.

   
   

2. Natural resources, on which many green solutions depend, are finite. There is nowhere near enough silicon to cover the global need for solar panels, nor lithium for batteries, nor copper for electrical distribution. Nor have we solved how to handle the waste products from the best alternatives we are turning to — such as how to dispose of old batteries, or where to put the radioactive material from large-scale nuclear plants. Current “solutions” involve burying it and leaving the problem to future generations, much like climate change itself.

   
   

This recognition is crucial. But it is a recognition politicians keep at arm’s length, because it demands a break with the growth paradigm, a recession in the name of the climate, and a fundamental change in how our societies function. That is not something one wins elections with — and so it remains unsaid.

And here lies the essence of hope in my climate novels: that readers will translate the dry numbers, statistics, and projections into vivid scenarios that spark new thoughts, scenarios close enough to feel real, without being reality itself. Stories that push readers to place greater demands on politicians and the companies they work for, to prioritise the climate — because suddenly the victims of climate change become tangible in their minds.

My novels are not scare campaigns. But they are frightening. They are not feel-good books. They are realistic, grounded in fact. They are a hope for a better future — a future unlike the one I depict, unlike the one climate scientists have warned us of for decades, and one many have grown deaf to.

The hope is that perhaps one day, the books will be read by that one person who can make all the difference — that they will be the spark that ignites the powder. Until then, we must prepare ourselves for what is to come. And one way of doing that is by reading my novels. Because after reading them, the news should no longer come as a shock.

Picture from geralt at Pixabay.