Butterflies

Copenhagen, Denmark
December 11, 2009

Yesterday was “Youth and Future Generations Day” here at COP 15. The vast majority of side events were dedicated to student action, education issues, justice for children, and so forth. I, along with hundreds of other youth delegates from all over the world, wore a bright orange t-shirt which asked all passers-by “How old will you be in 2050?”

I’ll allow you a moment for the mental math.

For those at the conference who would be older than, say, 75 in 2050, bright orange scarves were given out to show solidarity with the needs and desires of the youth movement. For one day, the whole conference underwent a metamorphosis from shades of formal black to brilliant orange. Everything looked young and new.

The highlight of this event, which I was lucky enough to find a seat for, was a discussion between key climate negotiators and 3 youth leaders chosen by their international peers. Speaking were several UN officials, the climate ministers of Mexico and Maldives, and Yvo de Boer, the Executive Secretary of the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change. In other words, the President of COP 15.

There were at least 200 people in a room meant to seat maybe seventy five. Cameras rolled over every angle. Men and women in business attire sat on the floor watching, listening. The pure density of orange-clad onlookers made the room swelter. The speeches began, and they were astounding. A young woman from India told us her road to environmental activism through the flooded streets of her city. She waded through waist-high water in Mumbai for five days before she found her family, and in those five days made the solemn decision to give up her new career in advertising to fight global climate change. Thunderous standing applause met her impassioned plea for help to Mr. De Boer. “I put my trust in you. We all put our trust in you. Please do not let us down.”

The minister of the environment in the Republic of Maldives talked about his small nation – a disparate collection of 1,000 islands and 300,000 people in the Indian Ocean. The average island there is the size of a football field, and sea levels are rising. If current trends continue, his homeland will be no more in less than a century. “We are a people with 2,000 years of history,” he said. “There is where I was born. There is where I want to die. There is where our children our born. There is where we want our children to be buried.” The room wept.

But somewhere in the midst of these speeches, perhaps born from the live trees reaching to the top of the atrium indoors in the Bella Center, a single black and orange butterfly began gliding around the room. Some were startled as it landed on their laptops, others smiled as it orbited their heads. Photographers, knowing that this butterfly is itself as much a story as anything else in the conference, followed it with their camera lenses until it seemed like they were sure to fall over, but none managed to capture it. It was far too fleeting, too elusive in its spontaneity. From whence this poor, lost creature came is still a matter of speculation. The day outside was cold and bitten with teeth of rain, no day for a butterfly to live. A UN administrator jokingly suggested in his speech that it was, finally, the incontrovertible evidence for climate change, but I like to imagine that it is a refugee, an immigrant. It stumbled into someone’s bag or briefcase in the summer of the southern hemisphere, chilled by the travel, waking up groggily in a strange land. But whatever the origin of the poor, beautiful insect, it fluttered throughout the ensuing speeches, tracing lazy curves and leafy spirals through the air charged with emotion and lit for cameras. It listened, I am sure, to all the speakers as they all called in their own ways for help, for action. Each speech was a cry for help. Each was a statement of trust and hope.

It was Mr. De Boer’s turn to respond. The Executive Secretary of UNFCCC. The person leading and moderating the negotiations at this conference. With great reluctance, he turned on the microphone in front of him. He stared wearily at the cameras, at the audience, at the youth seated at the table beside him. Absentmindedly, he fiddled with his bright orange scarf. Slowly, haltingly, he spoke. I will paraphrase as exactly as I can.

“Your speeches were excellent. Thank you so very much. But there is one problem.” Here he paused for a long time, not dramatically, not rhetorically. He was truly overcome. “You speak of trust, and putting your trust in this process. But be careful with your trust. It should not be given. It must be earned.” And then, as if in afterthought, he added “and this process has yet to earn mine.”

The audience was stunned. Some clapped reluctantly. Some quietly nodded agreement. A camera flashed and whirred. The room was dead.

What does one say to that? The head of climate change negotiations, a tireless worker and great figure, a man who we all depend on, who future generations depend on. How does one respond when he looks you in the eye and admits he no longer believes that the job can be done? There is no response but silence.

Awkwardly, strangled, the meeting continued with the next speaker. Mr. De Boer was called to another meeting. The cameras packed up and left. The crowd thinned. I retained my seat until the end, when the last panelist had spoken with bravado that fell hollow on the room. As I left, I looked around for one more glimpse of the butterfly. But it was nowhere to be found. Perhaps it found its way out into the cold and rain, to be chilled. Perhaps it was crushed accidently, a reflex from some negotiator seeing it in the corner of his eye. Or perhaps it never truly existed in the first place. All seem just as likely. But there is also the chance that it is still here in the Bella Center, hidden and fragile, waiting to show up again. That is my sincerest hope.

-Josh