Apocalypse (Not) Now?

It was a calm summer evening. I remember putting out the chairs, opening the windows, waiting for the cast of about twenty young people to arrive, gathering to rehearse the rock musical we’d written together.

But when they arrived, they were distracted, their minds elsewhere. “What’s going to happen?” Zara asked, agitated and clearly not talking about our rehearsal. “What if they do the same to us?”

“I reckon they might,” said Andy, “because of what we’ve just gone and done to them.”

I’d never seen them like this. There was no bravado on show. They were genuinely scared and trying to work out what might happen. Earlier that day, American bombers had flown from Upper Heyford in England to drop bombs on Libya. We were rehearsing seven miles from Upper Heyford. Some of the young people lived near the base.

A few of them disagreed with Andy, thinking it unlikely that the Libyans would retaliate or would target Upper Heyford if they did. Others weren’t so sure. They all knew about Hiroshima and Nagasaki; they’d all learned in school about what bombs can do; they’d all imagined what it might have been like for the Japanese and, inevitably, they’d all imagined themselves in that situation.

That was 1986. Fast forward 33 years and I’m supervising a therapist who works with young people in a school. He reports that the young people in his school seem unusually distracted and agitated at the moment. Some really strange behaviors are occurring. There’s been more anxiety than usual, he says; more parents are reporting trouble at home; more young people are seemingly giving up on themselves and on school. And this week most of the students have been skipping school, going off to join the local climate change marches. Lots of them are wearing badges and other expressions of concern, he tells me. Some have joined organizations advocating direct action to prevent climate change. Many of them are talking about whether the world will end.

“I think they’re really scared!” he says. “And I don’t know what we’re supposed to say to them. They’re not stupid! They’ve read all about climate change; they’ve been on the websites; they’ve watched the programmes: they know their stuff. In fact, they know more about it than I do! So what do you say to someone who thinks the world might end?”

I’m reminded of 1986 and that calm summer evening. I hadn’t known what to say either. I’d tried to say something about the Libyan Air Force not being especially strong. I’d suggested to Zara and Andy and their friends that the politicians had probably thought it all through and probably had a plan. But all I was really saying was "don’t worry, everything’s going be all right" which I didn’t necessarily believe. I had no idea what was going to happen either. I was simply trying to be reassuring.

In my experience, young people are more disturbed when adults deny the very thing that young people know to be true. That might mean denying the possibility of failure, or that someone’s illness might lead to their eventual death. It might mean denying that climate change will undoubtedly affect and might eventually curtail life on earth. It’s the lie that’s the problem: when young people want to believe and trust in adults but know full well that what they’re being told just isn’t true. That’s what’s so disturbing. That’s what makes young people feel especially unsafe.

I wish I’d told my rehearsal group that they were right to worry, that I was also worrying but that we were in it together. Because I think it’s the solidarity that helps. However terrible the situation we’re facing, it’s worse when we feel alone and better when we’re with other people. And that, I’m sure, is one reason why young people are going on marches: to remind themselves that they’re not alone, that however much adults may obfuscate and may avoid questions, young people—at the very least—have each other.