When the Lights Go Out? Let’s Build Communities, Not Bunkers
We are most safe when we are in community, caring for each other, supporting one another. Not to mention it's a lot more fun.
On the Tuesday after all of Spain and Portugal lost power, when I started hearing from friends who had lived through it too, I realized we might well have been in different cities.
“The lack of mobile and internet connection was quite scary,” wrote someone in one of my WhatsApp groups. Another called it an “end of the world” experience. A third messaged me to say he’d see me tomorrow ‘if I’m not eating the neighbour’s cat and siphoning fuel from the hospital.’
I’m pretty sure the last was a joke — that friend would definitely start with the neighbor’s dog — and admittedly there’s a bit of reflexive hyperbole in culture today. Everything is heightened.
But those reactions felt representative of the fear the episode awakened. For some, several hours without electricity and the internet — and the access to the outside world it brings — was destabilizing. A few started talking about apocalypse, the living dead or — the admittedly far more conceivable — regional war. “I guess this is how NATO has been knocked out and Europe is under attack,” said one person.
There are, of course, good reasons for such anxieties. Some were without power until nearly midnight or beyond, or without water until the next day. Others lacked — as on any given day I might have as well — either ready food to eat or cash with which to buy it. And the possibilities get much worse. There were people stranded far from home or even stuck in train cars and elevators. For anyone reliant on electrically powered medical equipment, I can only imagine the worry. The sirens echoing across the city brought this home. And who knows what country Putin will invade this year?
Yet despite all this, for many people, myself included, the power outage was an unexpected joy. I sat in the sun, ignored my almost useless phone and read a book. I later saw reports about people playing music in public parks, huddling for news around AM/FM, having long conversations with strangers and filling the city’s many squares. Granted, I was fortunate to be relatively unaffected, only missing a couple of work calls. That privilege allowed me to enjoy the quiet time. Not to mention I got power back in less than six hours. But I wasn’t the only one to come away feeling lighter.
“I know people who were seriously inconvenienced, but it was actually a beautiful experience for me; like going back in time,” wrote one person in my climate group’s WhatsApp channel. “I didn't feel pressured to do anything since I couldn't anyway, and I went out just to see how people were acting without having their mobile phones available. I had some beautiful conversations with both friends and strangers. And I was actually able to sit in the sun and read as well. For pleasure!”
Not that I want to imply a binary. I suspect that many people fall into both of these camps. Joy and fear often coexist. Sometimes I feel like I’ve spent most of my life trying to learn that we can choose between them. Buddhists, for instance, teach the concept of “first-arrow” pain. These are the traumatic events of life: losing your mother, your marriage, a job. These demand grief, require that you feel the pain. “Second-arrow” pain, by contrast, is worrying about the pain itself. Hard to stop, or even reduce, but what a relief if you can.
But how do we fuel the one (joy) and starve the other (fear)? I believe the answer lies, above all, in communities. If the photos I saw are any guide, those who made it to public squares to chat among neighbors and strangers, or listen to an impromptu saxophone solo or singer-songwriter performance, wore wide smiles and carefree looks. Camaraderie breeds calm. And close connections even more so.
Movies and fearful elites have fed an assumption that a breakdown in order, whether blackout or natural disaster, activates some inner savagery. The presumption is one of suspicion, hostility, violence. Yet the essayist Rebecca Solnit has written beautifully about the deep falsity of that unfortunately sticky narrative. In her book, A Paradise Built in Hell: The Extraordinary Communities that Arise in Disaster, she chronicles how fractures from the Arab Spring to Hurricane Season have driven people not to arms, but into each other’s arms and hearts.
One way to supercharge that process is to build community now, before disaster strikes. Sometimes these communities are ones of choice. For me, I feel fortunate to have met so many good folk through Let’s Talk About Climate Change, all thanks to showing up at a coworking space for a meeting a few years ago. It was that easy.
Others are of circumstance. I’ve seen during my time in Barcelona that many neighborhoods are remarkably tight-knit, from Gracia’s wild block parties to the sense that some people in Poble Sec know everyone else. One humbling personal reflection from el apagon: I don’t know several of my own neighbors. That makes for a new entry on my to-do list: a plate of nice-to-meet-you cookies.
For all the benefits and the beauty of the connections the internet brings, I hope this week’s power scare can also prompt us to remember the joys of living unplugged. I know this might sound hypocritical. First, I myself didn’t bother to go out during the blackout. Second, I have quoted here from WhatsApp messages (!) shared by a person I have mainly interacted with online (!) in a community organized on the internet (!). We definitely should keep all this. But maybe sometimes we should set it aside and read a book or go to the plaza.
In the words of Beibei, who was the one who hatched the idea for that fateful meeting I attended years ago, “life is also wonderful outside your phone, try to interact with someone in the real world too!”
I took inspiration from all of this to schedule an impromptu meeting of our climate group: When the Power Goes Out? Let’s Build Communities, Not Bunkers. For anyone out there in Barcelona, I hope you can join us on the beach — or, should it rain, in the warmth of a beachside cafe — on Saturday morning. That’s tomorrow!
Take Action
drop | Greet a neighbor. Ask about their day. Bring them cookies. Invite them to dinner.
ripple | Join a community. Go to a local meeting, be it at a bar, a bakery or the Barcelona beach.
Got even better ideas? Let me know. I’m new to this.
Power Out!
Power out! All dark and black . . . Fret not Body bumps Hands gliding softly Feet and the floor Rug! Another rug! Body bumps into another We mesh and dance swiftly Away in the dark!
Found at poets.org.
Worth Your Time
I finished my draft of this post on Friday morning, and called my editor-in-chief, Roshni Kavate. Not to talk about the piece but because, well, we’re married, and she happens to be out of town.
Her: The power outage is making me think about the importance of community. Me: Funny you should say that… and I tell her about it. After we hang up, I send her the draft.
An hour later, she texts me. I read it, expecting feedback: “lol I am liking this apagón content!” Next to it a link… to my dear friend Kevin Maguire’s post, El Apagón | The Blackout. Nothing like several hours without the internet to make us all think about life without the internet — or even civilization.
Gratitude
This newsletter is a collective project. Many thanks to Roshni and my chief copyeditor, Steve Kay. All errors are mine alone.