My Relationship with Climate Fiction
I’ve always had a weird relationship with fiction. When I was younger, it was something that I could indulge in entirely, and I devoured every book, every movie, even every video game, that I found an interest in. As long as the story was great, I was invested in it, and was entirely engulfed in it. In fact, I still remember my middle school days, where I used to wait intensely for the next book of my favorite series, “The Last Apprentice” series, picking it up almost as soon as it came out. I also distinctly remember myself refusing to put that book down as soon as I got it, at times even finishing it entirely on the very same day. However, as I grew up, getting into my late high school and college years, my taste changed. I simply chose non-fiction much more frequently than fiction, and that included choosing to forgo fictional films for documentaries.
I don’t exactly know what prompted the change. Perhaps it was that I craved just more information, seeking to learn more than what I was being taught in my classes. It could also be the case that I just found non-fiction easier to digest, mostly because, as the years went on, I grew exhausted in using my imagination. Which, if one does think about, is a weird ability to lose. I think my science education kind of played a role in that, for my education specifically sought to teach me how to pay attention to the information that was directly presented in front of me, and to strictly make conclusions based upon that data. Now, that’s certainly not a bad thing to be taught. In fact, I would argue that Americans at large need to be taught that more thoroughly. And, if they can be, then I would argue that would lead to a much better America. But that’s for another time.
Nevertheless, I was at a point in my life where I genuinely felt exhausted and not able to use my imagination, and as an environmental science student, I was forced to be perpetually locked in a state of anxiety where facts led me to conclusions of an unstable future world. Facts also led me to moderate my stances of what could be possible in terms of climate action, generally forcing me to only consider solutions such as cap and trade, and the overall creation of market mechanisms that would allow climate action to be a bipartisan endeavor. Unfortunately, that also led me to disregard any sort of environmental and social justice measures, as I was hyper focused on only sticking to a certain type of science, and I genuinely didn’t want to muddy the waters because I still believed in bipartisan action on a legislative and electoral front. Any sort of action from the grassroots was seen as being something too dangerous for me. But, then the 2018 IPCC report came out, and it shattered my entire perception on the issue — as was abundantly clear from that report: any more delay was potentially catastrophic.
That report, apart from fueling my anxiety even further, also caused me to pivot on the focus of my studies. I soon realized something from the science itself: that there was an intense need for pressing and swift action to mitigate further warming, but our institutions were too rigid that they stopped that pressing action to occur. And, I quickly came to the realization that the cause for that rigidity was the narratives that surrounded our society — narratives of hardships if we got off of fossil fuels quickly; narratives of political practicality that came from the intense need to cater to the increasingly extreme right in the United States; and narratives of the virtues of selfish individuality that pigeon-holed people into only thinking of themselves in order to survive in this society. Along with the specter of neoliberalism, those narratives persisted, and I realized that they had to be desperately broken down so that we had the chance of engaging in climate action that was in line with the science. So, I looked at different narratives, and that forced me to engage with fiction once more, and from that search, I came upon climate fiction.
Now, climate fiction, or cli-fi, is a uniquely 21st century genre that saw its rise with the increased prevalence of climate change in the global psyche. It’s understandably a broad thing to talk about, as stories about climate change can span various genres. For instance, climate change can be in the background of romantic stories — think of Makoto Shinkai’s “Weathering with You” — even though the phenomenon can be left unstated in those types of works. And, it can be the same for many other genres, which is why a definition could be useful to understand what works fall into the category of cli-fi.
Cli-fi, as Dr. Adeline Johns-Putra, a lecturer and researcher at University of Exeter states, is fiction that is “concerned with anthropogenic climate change or global warming as [it is now understood].” The origins of it as a unique genre is not exactly known, especially since there were fictional stories that dealt with the environment before the 21st century — one of my favorites actually being Hayao Miyazaki’s “Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind.” However, the tentative origin of the word cli-fi can be traced back to the early 2000s, with it reaching prominence in newspaper accounts in 2013. In fact, if we broadly talk about art in general that dealt with climate change, we can see that mention of it rose in the 2000s, particularly gaining prominence from 2009 to 2015, for that was the time frame of major UNFCCC COP meetings that discussed climate change in a decisive manner.
As mentioned by Dr. Caren Irr, professor of English at Brandeis University, the roots of climate fiction can be based on some prevalent environmental narratives of the past — namely Rachel Carson’s “Silent Spring” and Henry David Thoreau’s “Walden.” If we look at some post-apocalyptic themes of some climate fiction, works that are also infused with a cautionary tone, we can see that it follows the works of Carson’s. In contrast to that, if we observe stories of a solitary observer of nature, we can see that those types of works follow Thoreau's work.
Undoubtedly, climate fiction does have some similarities with science fiction in general, especially when it comes to images of technologically modified humans, reaped with artificial extensions to the human body. But, even as themes such as human modification are used in climate fiction and science fiction, where the overarching genre and sub-genre diverge is in their consideration of the “present.” Whereas science fiction focuses on extrapolating technological development to the future, climate fiction, as Dr. Caren Irr notes, focuses on the near future, with the “post-apocalyptic scenarios…[assuming a] turning point…occurring…before our own historical moment.” Hence climate fiction’s ability to translate the present to the future, showing scenes that not only could very well happen, but those that seemed to have happened already.
My interest with climate fiction, however, does not stem from how the science of climate change is presented in those works. Indeed, the science could be interesting itself, and could perhaps expose people to it in a way that could make them more interested to learn more about it, or to be more sympathetic towards it. The science in those works could also inspire technological feats that can work to address the phenomenon of climate change. In fact, works of science fiction helped to spur the invention of certain technologies — like the mobile phone, which was inspired by “Star Trek,” and the rocket, which was inspired from H.G. Wells’s work. But, even though the science should be analyzed in certain works of climate fiction, it should also be noted that some of those works could muddy the waters of the science of climate change itself. For instance, if we look at the film “The Day After Tomorrow” — which I find to be a unique case because that film actually has research on it from a climate communication standpoint — one study found that, even though the film got people to quantitatively care more about the phenomenon, it still prompted difficulties for respondents to understand where the actual science ended and where the fiction began. From a scientific standpoint, that’s quite dangerous, because it sort of makes people unaware of what the actual effects could be of climate change, and could also cause people to be manipulated by denialists who would be ready to point out the absurd science, maybe even deeming another work like it a propaganda piece that does nothing but heighten climate anxiety. And from that, the denialist might also manipulate a person to the point where that person might discredit real scientific findings also.
So, although I think the science in the works of various climate fiction can be interesting to look into, in this piece, I would like to focus my attention on how those works can humanize the phenomenon of climate change itself, garnering empathy to the people who are on the front lines of its effects, and perhaps prompting action. I also want to look at how climate fiction can be a conduit for the radical imagination of various people, perhaps helping to guide those people to envision a better future, and to imagine direct actions that could lead to that world — while also serving as a way for those people to hold onto hope. Thus, allow me to proceed onto the first topic that I want to look at: particularly how climate fiction can gather empathy for people on the front line of climate change’s effects, perhaps allowing for action to be carried out also.
Fiction and Empathy
One of the hallmark features of fiction that I constantly think about is the ability of it to make me feel intensely for the characters. Often when I’m reading, or when I’m watching a film, the emotions that a character goes through, I go through also, even if the scenarios that a character deals with are scenarios that I haven’t gone through directly. Like, even though I haven’t been in a serious relationship yet, whenever I read a well written romance work, or watch a well directed film that involves romance, I often find myself deeply understanding why the couple on the screen feel that way, and I even sometimes laugh when they laugh, feel heartbreak when they feel heartbreak, or cry when they cry. That ability for fiction to get you to understand and feel the emotions of the characters, is one of the things that makes it extremely salient to countless individuals, even if the work is a work of speculative fiction that deals with scenarios that are not relatable for a large segment of the population. For instance, I know of friends who were deeply entrenched with the world and characters of “Percy Jackson,” finding comfort in those books and often thinking of the characters in those books as their friends, or even as themselves. The same could be said for “Star Wars,” for the superheroes of various Marvel or DC comics, or even for various Disney and Pixar movies.
I think that’s one of the greatest things that fiction can offer: the ability for someone to experience emphatic growth by reading, or seeing, or playing a person’s experience. In fact, as noted by a study conducted in 2013, fiction, especially fiction that allows for people to generate images within their minds, has been shown to have a relationship with empathetic growth and prosocial behaviors — which can be defined as behaviors serving for the betterment of other people or for society as a whole. The reason for the link between empathy and fiction could be because fiction has the capability to show the experiences of characters, and as people observe those experiences, they have to make inferences on how the characters feel as they go along. The latter serves to help people garner a deeper understanding for the characters of the fiction they have chosen to engage with, and can allow them to use the lessons they learned from that fiction to gauge the emotions behind actual people, and perhaps prompt them to care even more. In fact, an interesting study conducted in 2009 showed the impact of reading a short story on people who actively sought to avoid feeling any emotions, especially negative ones. In that study, the authors found that those people actually experienced an increased level of emotional change, and the reason why could have been because fiction allowed for emotions, not fully understood within a person, to finally be expressed, and in entirely complex ways. That expression of emotions, more generally, allows for people to directly be confronted with feelings and thoughts that they might have never considered, or didn’t want to consider, as something they could feel. And, by being confronted with those emotions, people would have to deal with them, to understand them in their entirety, including understanding the characters who had to deal with those emotions in the first place. That could be one of the reasons why people generally think that fiction is a transformative thing for them that serves to spark changes in their lives. Not only does it allow for moments of relatability with characters, it also allows for people to understand their own emotions better, and allows for increased levels of empathetic growth.
This type of potential for empathetic growth is not only achieved by reading fictional works, however. In fact, the study that I mentioned earlier, conducted by Keith Oatley, a professor emeritus from the University of Toronto, also saw the same potential for emphatic growth from people who played the video game “Gone Home” — a first person exploration game that deals with a student coming home to try to discover where her family members have gone. Personally, it was a video game that I have played, and I enjoyed the slower paced gameplay because it allowed me to discover the different layers of depth of the characters. It was also an emotional experience, one that definitely made me aware of the internal struggles of an LGBTQ youth in the 90s (and maybe beyond) — which, I think, truly helped me in my growth of being more understanding and open minded. That could’ve been one of the reason why other people experienced some type of empathetic growth while playing the video game also, for it put a player directly into the shoes of a character trying to find out where her family went, and because of that, it let us feel the emotions of herself as she discovered more about her family, and also let us feel the emotions of the members of the family also.
Regardless of medium, good fiction can offer that same experience for other people. And, even though the studies I have listed don’t provide a strong causal link (which makes it hard to gauge whether fiction actually improves empathy or whether more empathetic people just generally engage in fiction) a correlational link is still worth looking at more deeply. Because, even though the same type of studies haven’t been done on cli-fi, or at least I haven’t discovered any that have been done, the potential for empathetic growth could change the discussion surrounding climate change also. For, all too often, the phenomenon is seen as a far away thing that can solely affect future generations, or affects people in far away places, which sometimes makes the need for immediate actions harder to convey. If fiction does, in fact, have the capability to increase empathetic growth, then stories that effectively show how climate change is already affecting front line communities, or can affect people directly in the future, perhaps can spur more robust and immediate action. Nevertheless, if that’s not the exact conclusion from the research, climate fiction has the potential to humanize the phenomenon also.
All too often, climate change is talked about in an increasingly scientific way that, at times, can neglect the human cost of the phenomenon in its entirety. By neglecting that human cost, however, it leads to the assumption that only technological solutions are needed in order to fix everything, which ignores the system wide changes needed in our society to address climate change. Climate fiction can convey the necessity for system wide changes in the midst of technological solutions that often serve as false promises. For example, Kim Stanley Robinson’s “Aurora” addresses that theme with great poignancy. It tells the tale of an intergenerational spaceship that seeks to carry humans to another “habitable” planet. But, when the inhabitants reach that planet, they can’t live on it, and at that point, the story turns into a love letter for the Earth. The arrogance that comes with an over reliance on technology is violently broadcasted, and the ugliness of people who solely rely on the means of technology to save us is also shown. Very bluntly then, the story asks the question: what’s the point of escaping to another planet, when we have a planet perfect for us right here, and since it’s perfect for us, shouldn’t we be doing everything we can to save it? Thus, even though “Aurora” shows incredible technological achievements, it also shows the humanity that can get drowned out by a constant striving for great technological breakthroughs, even though social solutions might have been all that was needed. The ending shows that quite clearly by the striving of people to recreate beaches — of public spaces that allows people to interact as humans. Which brings me to another thing climate fiction can do: diagnose social problems that perpetuate climate change, and also enhance the radical imagination of people to envision a better world.
Radical Imagination
If we talk about radical imagination in its simplest forms, then we see that it’s the ability for people to imagine the world not as it is, but as the way it can, or should, be. Often, the way that we engage with our society, and the ostensible rigidness that can define a society, can be because of the stories that are told surrounding it. For instance, stories of the “pure” family do a lot in making sure that anything that isn’t heteronormative is dangerous to the society at large. Similarly, stories about white supremacy horribly did a lot in perpetuating the cruel and inhumane treatment of black, indigenous, and other people of color, and does a lot in the present day by continuously criminalizing those communities. In the realm of climate change, often it’s stories about the necessity of fossil fuels in daily life, as well as stories about the “gifts” that they brought us, alongside stories of individual actions being at the forefront of changes that need to be made, that halts the very real necessity of system wide changes to fully address climate change. Often, old stories that have seeped into the consciousness of a place plays into the rigidness of that society. But, it should be noted that those stories could be changed, and that’s often a slow and painful process. But it can happen.
Engaging in radical imagination can be a way to change those stories, especially if that imagination can overtake the prevailing stories being told that hasten to slow down change (or prevent it all together). Depending on how a story is told, speculative fiction can garner a link between it and progressive politics, so that it can be easier to realize that another world is possible. One simple way that it can do so is by making people in oppressed communities realize that they are not alone, and also that the present condition that they’re living through is not forever. As Hamza Sarfraz notes, the escapism aspect of speculative fiction can perhaps serve as an alternative outlet for those people to hope for a better reality. And, if we want to take it one step further, speculative fiction can serve as a way for people who are not apart of those communities to step outside of their own worldviews for a moment, to realize the dangers that people with “otherised” identities can face, to even perhaps realize that the world they’re living in is one that’s intensely filled with white supremacy, and to hopefully realize the need to change it. With climate fiction then, the potential is there for the stories told to serve as a gateway for people to imagine a world where climate change has been addressed, as well as the gross inequalities that have perpetuated it. There’s also a potential for people, who don’t understand how the climate crisis perpetuates the same inequalities that white supremacy does, to realize that fact in an empathetic way.
That’s where two of my favorite works of climate fiction come in: “The Swan Book” by Alexis Wright and “The Marrow Thieves” by Cherie Dimaline — two books that portray climate change, and the violence of it, through the experience of indigenous people. In “The Marrow Thieves”, the constant and unfair longing by environmentalists for indigenous people and their practices to be at the forefront of the change to a more sustainable future gets played to its extreme. It shows a future world where climate change runs its nasty course and garners a future where the ability to dream vanishes from everyone who isn’t indigenous. That causes people in power to hunt down indigenous people so that they can extract dreams from their bone marrows, hence forcing indigenous people to share a piece of them that those people in power feel entitled to. That violence can then be seen to represent real settler violence that has occurred, and which is occurring today, and can hopefully open the eyes of people to understand how the land that they’re on, is indigenous land, which means that they, in some ways, benefited from that violence also. The book also shows how the drive to want indigenous knowledge and culture, no matter how well intentioned, can also serve to perpetuate the same violence that Indigenous people face all too often, and that looking for their culture to save everyone from climate change is nothing less than your own personal entitlement to their culture and the knowledge that’s stored within it.
The solution is then not to think of indigenous people as our saviors, or even as helpless victims that we have to save (as certain environmentalists and colonizers would think so). Rather, the solution could be, as “The Swan Book” attests to, to change the stories that are told in our world so that we understand that a sustainable future is possible. And, that doesn’t come from thinking of the land that we are currently on as something we can entirely exploit, or as something that we are separated from and have to fix. Rather, we have to tell stories of the land as a living and breathing organism, as “The Swan Book” does, and we must be willing to realize that we are as much a part of that land as the ants that we seem all too distant from. That also means not looking at indigenous people in a tokenized or “special” way, but instead listening to them and understanding the work that we have to put in to break down an exploitative system of white supremacy that perpetuates climate change. At the same time, the indigenous people we do listen to, shouldn’t only be the ones who are “integrated” into a perception of a “good” society. It’s a good thing if their experiences and stories make us feel uncomfortable — and works of climate fiction, especially from BIPOC, can, in fact, make us feel uncomfortable. That’s exactly how I felt reading those two works mentioned above. But, even though I felt that way, intensely disgusted and entirely uneasy, it did make me realize that the ways I grew up thinking of indigenous people were entirely problematic. Thus, those two stories forced me to put the work in to change my thoughts. And, I believe, climate fiction can do that for others also, along with giving them an imaginative framework to break down the old stories that are all too powerful in our society, and to imagine a future that is better. And to perhaps act to make that world a reality.
