Accommodation New Zealand introduces
Even as the good people of Florida's west coast pulled the soggy mattresses from Helene out to the curb, Milton appeared on the horizon this week - a double blast of destruction from the Gulf of Mexico that's a reminder that physics takes no time off, not even in the weeks before a crucial election. My sense is that those storms will help turn the voting on 5 November into a climate election of sorts, even if - as is likely - neither Kamala Harris nor Donald Trump spend much time in the next 25 days talking about CO2 or solar power.
That's because these storms show not only the power of global heating (Helene's record rains, and Milton's almost unprecedented intensification, were reminders of what it means to have extremely hot ocean temperatures). More, they show what we're going to need to survive the now inevitable train of such disasters. Which is solidarity. Which is something only one ticket offers.
I confess that I've been all in to beat Trump for any number of reasons - Third Act, the group I founded to organize Americans over age 60 for action on climate and democracy, has been flooding the swing states with hundreds of thousands of postcards, and our silver wave door-knocking tour hits Georgia, Pennsylvania, Arizona and Nevada in the days ahead But if there was one way to sum up what this election means to me, it would be: solidarity. In the 40 years since Ronald Reagan's election, we've gone a long way down the path of hyper-individual, everyone for themselves. Joe Biden has tried to wrench the wheel back towards the FDR America-as-group-project model with tools like the spending in the Inflation Reduction Act, but it's a work in progress. The climate crisis, above all, requires the return of that solidarity.
That's because there's no way to keep it from getting worse without joint public action: the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change tells us we have five years left to cut emissions in half, which means it will not be accomplished one Tesla at a time; it requires aggressive public action of the kind the current White House is coordinating, as it sets up battery factories and shepherds new transmission lines through various regulatory fences.
But there's also no way to survive it, even in its current form, without intense cooperation. To give one example: Florida's insurance system is clearly breaking down, as one storm after another drives private insurers out of the state.
As the Tampa newspaper put it in June: "As the crisis escalates, state leaders are desperately trying to convince insurance companies to stick around. States are offering them more flexibility to raise premiums or drop certain homes from coverage, fast-tracking rate revisions and making it harder for residents to sue their insurance company." But as that seawall begins to fail, "a flood of new policyholders are joining state-backed insurance 'plans of last resort', leaving states to assume more of the risk on behalf of residents who can't find coverage in the private sector."
Indeed, so many people are swamping the "state-backed insurance plans" they're becoming overloaded with risk. Ten months ago, the Rhode Island senator Sheldon Whitehouse and his budget committee colleagues wrote to the Florida governor, Ron DeSantis, to ask for proof that Florida's public Citizens Insurance could survive disasters like the one now bearing down on Tampa. DeSantis may have given his most eloquent response in May, when he signed a bill essentially outlawing the phrase "climate change" in Florida statutes. "I'm not a global warming person," he explained.
Meanwhile, across the upland terrain drenched by Helene, rightwing forces have been relentlessly spreading rumors: most prominently, that the Federal Emergency Management Administration (Fema) spent all its money on migrants and has none left for Americans. This is not true. (Indeed, its closest approach to truth came during the Trump years when Fema did divert relief funds to "tighten the border".) But it's one more way to divide people, to use their very real trauma for political gain.
The dystopian future is not just about the endless fires and floods; it's also about a society that pulls apart in their face, where people can't work together because they've been so divided by disinformation and hate. It feels like Harris and Tim Walz are offering, above all, one last chance at an America where people actually work together on things, a United States. They even imagine a world where the world keeps working together, imagine that - one where we have, say, effective climate negotiations. That these things seem farfetched to us now is probably the strongest proof of how much they're needed.
