Summary

The author reflects on the resurgence of nuclear threats in the present day, juxtaposing it with the hopeful period following the fall of the Berlin Wall, and grapples with the impact of these global crises on daily life and the future of his children.

Abstract

The article "Duck and Cover Part Deux" by Colby Hess is a personal reflection on the contrast between the optimism felt during the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989 and the current sense of impending doom due to the threat of nuclear warfare in the context of the Ukraine conflict. The author, who was 11 at the time of the Berlin Wall's collapse, recalls the collective relief and the promise of a brighter future without the shadow of nuclear annihilation. Thirty-three years later, with Vladimir Putin's nuclear threats and the repositioning of Russia's nuclear arsenal, Hess confronts the surreal return of these fears amidst other global challenges such as climate change and political polarization. He expresses the difficulty of focusing on everyday tasks when faced with the possibility of nuclear catastrophe and questions the utility of mundane work in the face of existential threats. Despite his usual inclination towards escapism, the author's role as a parent compels him to consider the future he wants for his children, oscillating between despair and the need to provide reassurance and love.

Opinions

The author views the current nuclear threats as an absurd and terrifying regression to a period that was thought to be over after the Cold War.
There is a sense of frustration and helplessness in the face of global crises that seem beyond the control of the average person.
The author criticizes the human tendency to repeat past mistakes, questioning whether humanity will ever learn from its history.
He expresses a deep concern for future generations, particularly his own children, and the world they will inherit.
The article conveys a profound disappointment in the failure to realize the peaceful and prosperous future that seemed possible after the fall of the Berlin Wall.
Despite the bleak outlook, the author emphasizes the importance of hope and the need to hold onto it for the sake of our children.

Duck and Cover Part Deux

First tragedy, then farce

A U.S. Government infographic advising on what to do in the event of a nuclear explosion. Image credit: FEMA

I vividly remember the day the Berlin Wall came crashing down. I was 11 years old. I sat with my family transfixed by the scenes playing out on the nightly news, by the jubilant crowds of ordinary people taking turns with sledgehammers, smashing away at that hated barrier and all it represented.

I remember the overwhelming sense of relief that for the first time in my life, I no longer needed to fear the possibility of nuclear annihilation. The future seemed bright, the possibilities limitless, as a new era of peace and prosperity unfolded before my innocent eyes. Perhaps the sci-fi dreams I’d long been promised were at last coming to pass.

I don’t believe in God, but if I were tasked today with painting a new Sistine Chapel, I’d portray him giving an epic facepalm. Our species is ridiculous.

But then fast-forward 33 years. War is raging in distant Ukraine. Vladimir Putin, the increasingly paranoid and delusional dictator of the largest nation on Earth has repeatedly threatened the West that he’ll use nuclear weapons against us if provoked. As I write this, there are reports that he’s begun repositioning parts of his vast nuclear arsenal after having placed his country’s nuclear forces on high alert.

A piece of the Berlin Wall set amidst the buildings of modern Seattle. Image ©2022 Colby T. Hess

It seems absolutely surreal and absurd and terrifying that on top of out-of-control climate change, on top of still-festering pandemic, on top of ever-worsening political polarization that seems ever-more likely to tip America into a new civil war, that now I must worry about everyone I know and love being consumed by a nuclear fireball.

I don’t believe in God, but if I were tasked today with painting a new Sistine Chapel, I’d portray him giving an epic facepalm. Our species is ridiculous.

But what can any ordinary person do about this mounting pile of existential crises? Like so many others, I’ve been finding it nearly impossible to focus on the mundane demands of my day job as the world teeters on the edge of World War III. How can one be expected to care about TPS reports when apartment buildings are being indiscriminately shelled half a world away? How can one dutifully hammer away at spreadsheets while a mad dictator threatens “consequences greater than any you have faced in history”?

But then again, what else can you do? What other choice is there but to mindlessly carry on with the banal demands of life?

Well, I know what I normally do. Generally speaking, I’d advocate for escapism in the face of forces beyond our control. Bring on the drugs, sex, and rock ’roll, and to hell with the rest. In fact, I’m on record stating:

You seriously want to survive the initial blast only to emerge into a radioactive wasteland where everything and everyone you’ve ever known and loved have been utterly destroyed?

Fuck that. Give me a lawn chair and a joint and a glass of scotch while getting a BJ and watching the mushroom cloud rise, and the blast wave rushing toward me as I open my arms and embrace sweet nothingness.

And yet it’s not that simple. I have kids. Ensuring their future is my consummate concern. So it’s either them drinking chocolate milk in their own kid-sized lawn chairs next to me (and scratch the BJ bit) or it’s the four of us frantically running for shelter as the sky erupts in flames.

I’m used to chastising my kids for tracking mud into the house as I usher them into the bathtub, but I can’t even imagine having to assist them with stripping off radioactive-dust-laden outer garments while frantically herding them into the shower to minimize their rads and rems. I’m used to having them avert their eyes when a sex scene comes on during a movie that’s perhaps not wholly age-appropriate, but I can’t fathom needing to warn them to look away to avoid being blinded by the flash of a nuclear blast.

It’s all too much. So I just sit numbly like everyone else, stunned in a doomscrolling fog of vacuity and indecision.

An antiwar banner hung over the famous local Seattle landmark “Waiting for the Interurban.” Image ©2022 Colby T. Hess

How has humanity managed to bungle our amazing potential so badly? Will we ever learn from our past mistakes? Will my children ever know that bright future I had briefly glimpsed back in 1989?

It’s all so depressing beyond words. And yet words are all that I have. So here are my parting ones:

Hug your children extra tight. Hold them close. Tell them how much you love them. Reassure them that everything is going to be okay. And try not to let them see your welling tears as you struggle to convince yourself that last statement isn’t a bald-faced lie.

Colby Hess is a freelance writer and photographer from Seattle, and author of the freethinker children’s book The Stranger of Wigglesworth.

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