| Last year I was out in Phoenix, Arizona, during a deadly, prolonged heatwave, reporting in an area where a lot of homeless people live. For weeks temperatures hit at least 110F (43C). In heat that extreme, the pavement gets so hot it burns people’s skin. These are horrifying, unlivable conditions, and yet there were hundreds of people out there on the concrete.
I remember talking to people, trying to understand their situation and how they were feeling, all the while knowing many would die as a result of the heat. When you’re reporting on wildfires, you watch as emergency crews rush to save lives. Extreme heat is called a silent killer for a reason – the disaster unfolds quietly but takes more lives than any other.
At the Guardian, we believe in the crucial importance of documenting the climate crisis as it unfolds. It’s especially important to us to listen to the voices of those most impacted, often in communities who are otherwise ignored.
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I also consider it a privilege to be able to go out with emergency teams and witness their work. While reporting on the Oak fire near Mariposa, California (pictured above), I met a man in the evacuation area who said he had forgotten to grab life-saving medication in his rush to escape his house. The fire was getting close; we could see the helicopters dropping fire retardant nearby. Still, the firefighters said OK, we're going to take this guy back to his house to quickly grab his meds.
I went with them – but when they got to the man’s house, it turned out there was no medicine: he wanted to save his dog. He knew that if he had told the firefighters what he really wanted to go back for, they would have had to say no.
But once they were there, seeing this poor, terrified animal, they immediately agreed to help. The dog was old, with weak legs, and I watched as the man struggled to get his pet into the truck. The fire was incredibly close at this point and I could see the firefighters’ stress, but nobody was leaving without the dog. We got out just in time, smoke chasing us down the canyon.
In moments like that – unsafe moments – you just think: I've got a job to do. The fear comes when I'm back home and safe. Once you're out of danger you can start thinking like yourself again. That’s when it becomes haunting.
All of us are already traumatised by the climate crisis. These disasters are something we are going to be dealing with long into the future. So as well as raising the alarm, I try to write stories that offer hope – both for my own mental health, but also for our readers’. I talk often to scientists, and I know we can manage and adapt to climate change. There are ways to do things differently. We just have to keep talking about this crisis to ensure responding to it remains a priority.
There are many more stories we need to tell: so many beautiful landscapes at risk, and so many people whose voices deserve to be heard. If you can afford to help us keep writing those stories, we would be so grateful. |
