Climate Activism Soars Planetwide Ahead of Copenhagen Climate Talks

For the Climate Conference, a short story, an offering:

"Children in Copenhagen"

Have any of them been to Copenhagen before? No polls are taken. Many would not even know.

Mudflats, fields, macadam stretches; wastescapes, lawns, prairielands, long-haul truck routes. The children cross all of them to get here.

None is older than twelve. No: than eight.

A one-bulb breakfast. Robert likes that: use the morning dark to make things cozy. He lowers the oatmeal flame, fights squealy springs for toast, sets down cylinders of orange juice, all in a tent of light that drapes just over the table. The drying rack, the fridge, the Sunday cupboard – all in penumbra: nice. Spooning lingonberry jam, Robert calls to his son, Rand, upstairs.

Crashing into view is not what they do. More like seeping. Agglomerating. A light shifts then they are the shift in the light.

Some have traveled only for days. Some, vast distances – could be half a globe. But, ultimately, on foot. On feet, now not moving.

Robert unmakes and reties the book bag, cinching it tighter. He gives it to Rand, gives him his mittens, fastens his Sherpa’s hat’s chinstrap up to the other side. A touch on the shoulder and Robert cracks the door open, gives his son to the still-dark day.

Sorts? All sorts. Ragamuffins, pharmacists’ apprentices, daughters of dockworkers, cutters. Even some from Brentwood!

They are, individually, bossy, meek, bland, funny, needful; curious, well-off, moody, simple; acting, uncomprehending, there. Not a one gifted with clairvoyance.

The police in Copenhagen do not oppose the straggle, then the drift, then the in-stream of small bodies, in layered clothes.

Several smile, joke, show exhilaration when they arrive. Soon they plant their bags, hmph, claim a place. Then, in general, kneel. Bring hands upward, outward, knit cold fingers, turn eyes down. Raise their gaze, every now and then, for needed distant vision, but, in general, keep eyes down.

Around the Scandinavian palace, behind shrubs then lawns then sharp-topped iron fences, parks and parking lots attend. This is where the children come, filling perimeter-lands with diminutive bodies.

Cocooned in clothes – brown coats, green-brown trousers, bulky, deep-weave woolen hats – the children come. Festooned with totebags, rucksacks, fingerless gloves, the children take spaces averaging two to three body-widths apart. They stand not close, not far; go silent, for a while.

Similarity, yes, surely. They are small – so small – two-legged, shouldered, quiet, seeping steam-breath. Also variety: slimmer, rounder, flat-nosed, pointy, mocha and rose-white, all of that. But every one, throughout the circle, facing towards, directly towards, the Scandinavian palace.

A Scandinavian palace fitted with mullioned windows, pilasters, modest spires, a porticoed door. Tufted with ash trees.

The children kneel, lower their eyes, and start to murmur.

Hundreds of languages – Urdu, Turkish, Greek, Vietnamese – and pre-languages are used. Sound-meanings from every acre of the Earth. All different, all saying/communicating differently, all saying the same things. All directed towards the Scandinavian palace.

Every one was stopped by parents, by caretakers, by responsibles. Every one stopped him- or herself. A hesitation in the lacing. Pauses before handles. Then – gone.

At first, passersby stop, try to hear what the children are murmuring. Some take pictures; some check cellphone-time.

Many passersby do none of those things.

People look for organizers, for bannered groups guiding and prodding, for secret adults.

Also unseen: dozens, maybe hundreds of men and women, in trim, dark, formal suits. Dignitaries.

Inside the Scandinavian palace, the dignitaries sit to opened folders. They propose numbers, temperaments, needs, obligations; parry numbers, temperaments, obligations. They quarry personal relationships. They contemplate results, consequences, impressions, futures theirs and not. They draw up images, projections, strategies. Again: unseen.

“I am here because—”
“I am here.”

Some people do not see them…claim they do not see them. Some say the park, the parking lot, the perimetric areas are empty.

Does anyone count? Some try, most don’t. There is what counts. There are tens, hundreds of thousands, more. There.

Under their feet: leveled grass, pebbles, winter-stiff soil, micro-discardings, snowpacks, grit. Feet and knees.

The children do not weep. They do not check their watches or cells. They murmur.

Yes, they have left their families to come here. They are multitudinous and alone. They are even smaller than their swaddling.

Hour after hour, the children pray. Those who have language often don’t know what it means. Its significance. Its extensions. Its ripple implications. They say it anyway.

Where did they find such language? Nonsense. It found them.

Children who as yet have no language communicate with steps, with body-turns, with presence.

Inside they eat meat, outside, snow. But the snow is translucent, shimmery, liquidy, nature-pure, radiant white. But it is snow.

Do children leave? This is obscenity. They are there, so they do not leave. They are there because they cannot leave.

Once, afternoon-light ceding, the porticoed door of the Scandinavian palace opens. Five, maybe six men emerge, in dark suits. They look. Around them, the thousand-million children, unseen. Unseen only where they look.

Long hours of sleet the second day. Long hours of sleet and prayer.

From the sky, their shadows form patterns. As the sun arcs and retreats, lovely, intricate, geometric figures. Lines bold then dissolving. Widely scattered, they gain rigor and complexity. Depth and lyricism.

An assembly also marked by amazing uniformity. Courtesy, quiet, steppings-around; tolerance of inadvertent touching. And no claims on originality of expression. They know they are saying the same thing. They know that is why they are saying it.

Their sound is a sea. The sea. Huffing, buzzing, churning, affricate-filled.

The minutes, the quarter-hours, the hours pass. The temperature dips. Daylight dances. But the children remain. In prayer. The many-million children remain in prayer.

When changing shifts – i.e., leaving – support staff from the Scandinavian palace place small packs of foodstuffs by the knees of murmuring children. The sequence is as follows: emerge from the palace, look around (eyes saucering), stop, smile; drop pack of foodstuffs, scurry off.

At night, the dignitaries go to peach-walled rooms to reflect, to reconsider, to sup, to sleep, the children stay, pray.

Sometimes, their hands before their chests, before their faces, grazing their lips, the children’s fingers rhythmically fidget.

Altogether occasionally, a child ceases, says something to a neighbor, a passerby. Low-voiced. Few, few words. Starts to pray again.

How many are there? It is impossible to know. Statistical models go away ashamed. Measurements are ironies. Say ten thousand if you like. Say ten million. Once you start to count, you find more than you can count.

Windows sheen the Scandinavian palace. Tall, elegant, separated into panes, dressed with draping curtains that, with a finger, can be pulled back. That are, slightly, perhaps once every four hours, finger-pulled back.

Ultimately, it is words, outside, and words, inside. Words bearing more weight than words, words becoming fragments of themselves. Words expanding like gas. Hyper-efficient in production, if not in consumption.

One group is cold – very cold – the other superbly warm. No, we aren’t talking body temperature.

How can so many children be assembled there? One count runs to billions. It depends on your definition of “assembled.” Your, while we’re at it, definition of “there.”

Conceded: this report lacks narrative tension. Now let’s get on with it.

Some time during the third afternoon – maybe it’s the fourth afternoon – a child faints. Lets go of the murmur, half rotates, follows an inturned foot and knee down. By his costume, it’s possible he’s from Macau. He was rested. Had sufficient food and water. December sun in Copenhagen is a caress of the cheek. A boy, some 110 centimeters tall, comforts and renews him. When he faints.

How to capture the driven, desperate, yearning fervor of the ghost-faced, murmuring children? Just look at them.

Is there enough to eat? What do you think?

The children make do. Make do and pray.

Questions of collectivity, of community, do not concern them. Identity is a waste of time. Pray, just pray.

The bell – and soon, Robert is handling mittens, taking the book bag, helping Rand off with his heartstirring-small parka. The winter door clicks shut behind them.

Do the children know they are praying? Shush. Every whirl, every glimpse, every shudder, every hand-stretch – everywhere – is a prayer.

First you notice one shivering. Then you can’t imagine how you hadn’t seen all the others.

Prayers and interests. Which stronger? Needs are hopes. Are hopes needs? So—

The children murmur.

The children there – here – continue to murmur.

They murmur, in prayer.

####

There's a very similar article published earlier this week by Indymedia UK which has more details of recent direct action and links to events going on around the Cop15:

Cop15 Climate Conference: System Change, Not Climate Change
http://indymedia.org.uk/en/2009/11/442160.html

To follow reports over the coming weeks see the following websites doing grass roots media coverage:

http://indymedia.dk
http://climateimc.org
http://modkraft.dk

Here it is, for anyone who has doubts about climate science. This is not for deniers and skeptics, for whom no amount of empirical, peer-reviewed evidence will suffice.

http://www.realclimate.org/index.php/archives/2009/11/wheres-the-data/

"Much of the discussion in recent days has been motivated by the idea that climate science is somehow unfairly restricting access to raw data upon which scientific conclusions are based. This is a powerful meme and one that has clear resonance far beyond the people who are actually interested in analysing data themselves. However, many of the people raising this issue are not aware of what and how much data is actually available.

Therefore, we have set up a page of data links to sources of temperature and other climate data, codes to process it, model outputs, model codes, reconstructions, paleo-records, the codes involved in reconstructions etc....."

"The climate science community fully understands how important it is that data sources are made as open and transparent as possible, for research purposes as well as for other interested parties, and is actively working to increase accessibility and usability of the data. We encourage people to investigate the various graphical portals to get a feel for the data and what can be done with it. The providers of these online resources are very interested in getting feedback on any of these sites and so don’t hesitate to contact them if you want to see improvements."

Despite ClimateGate
Despite Declining Temperatures
Despite Unpredicted Lackluster Hurricane Seasons
Despite that CO2 is a natural and essential gas
Despite that Polar Bear Populations are Increasing
Despite the Reality of a Shattered American Economy
Despite the Burden of New Taxes on a Struggling Population
And Despite the SUN

I will speak on behalf of all Eco Nuts -- FULL SPEED AHEAD WITH CAP AND TRADE!! Who Cares about Actual Results and Facts when it Feels Good to Do Something for The Planet.

Why do we work so hard trying to believe that death by CO2 is legitimate when there is practically an “admition” in ClimateGate that the planet is not dying after all? It’s like we wish for this misery to happen. Are we off the rails here or what? We are losing sight of our goals and doubling our efforts anyways and history will not be kind to us wishing for doom for every human on the planet. I’m seeing now that motivating by fear could have been excusable at some point but when we started promising “death” of the planet, we set ourselves up for this big fall we are experiencing. The longer we wait to abandon this CO2 mistake turned outright criminal, the less that fall will hurt environmentalism.Admitting we were wrong has a price as we would have to turn our backs on some climate scientists and politicians and possibly fellow environmentalists with the distinct possibility of two opposing groups forming post CO2 era. And the CO2 faction can’t possibly be sustainable because don’t forget, we promised death. It’s going to be hard times for environmentalism and it looks like we earned it by spreading needless fear and losing the public’s trust in the process.