Greta Thunberg - Our House Is on Fire - Scenes of a Family and a Planet in Crisis

‘What are they going to ask?’

‘The same things I said before,’ Svante replies.

‘But tell me more. What can they ask? Question me like you’re one of them.’

‘“Did your parents put you up to this?” You’re going to get that question all the time.’

‘Then I’ll tell it like it is. I’m the one who influenced you and not the other way around.’

‘Exactly,’ Svante replies.

Greta continues, ‘They can just look at my Twitter account and see what I’ve written. I might be shy and unsociable, but it’s not like I’ve been living in a vacuum. I’ve won second prize in a writing contest. I’ve got publishers to rewrite textbooks. You can read about that online.’

‘But they’re not going to. Unfortunately. Only the haters dig up the past. No one else cares. And if it doesn’t fit into their story I can guarantee they aren’t going to bring it up. But people will understand. Your climate struggle is no secret. There’s even a whole pitch for a TV programme about how you got your mother to become an “involuntary environmental warrior”, and because it came from a producer and a production company that in theory can do whatever they want, I guarantee that every decision-maker at Sveriges Television has read it.’

Greta takes in what her father is saying.

‘Nothing came of that programme, right?’

‘No, we can let that one go. It’s been a year and a half. The public broadcasting service won’t touch the climate issue with a ten-foot pole.’

‘But what else are they going to ask?’ Greta continues.

‘All kinds of things. The important thing is that you tell it like it is and emphasize facts. You have to have all the facts and make sure that you know what you’re talking about. They’re probably going to ask you, “But what are we supposed to do about it?” or “What is the priority?”, because we grown-ups have learned that we must always have concrete answers to every question, even if we don’t. How something is said is more important than what is said. Keep that in mind.’

‘Okay,’ Greta says slowly. ‘But there are no solutions within the current system. The only thing we can do is start treating the crisis like a crisis.’

‘Exactly,’ says Svante. ‘But no one is going to understand that. So you’ll have to repeat it. Again and again and again.’

Just like me, Svante would prefer that Greta drop the idea of a school strike. It would definitely be easier that way. But he also sees how much energy it gives her to talk and think about it and he tries to answer all of her questions. However difficult they may be.

They leave the path to walk in among enormous stone blocks. They climb up to a perfect lunch spot under a boulder that acts as a shelter from the sporadic rain showers.

Svante sends a picture to Beata and me on his phone. It is still an incredibly big deal for us that Greta can eat in new places. Outdoors even. Bean pasta with a pinch of salt and slices of lingonberry sourdough rye can be taken almost anywhere, and that opens up amazing possibilities.

Like hiking in the mountains.

The cloud cover breaks up and the sun peeks out again. Opposite them, the entire mountain wall is like a gigantic, improvised waterfall. Water rushes for several kilometres down the cliff face.

They look out over the valley another few hundred metres below. A small river delta spreads out across the luxuriant grass and hundreds of reindeer are moving about like ants down there. Perhaps there are thousands.

Suddenly some at the edge of the herd start running and a few follow. After a while they slow down, stop and continue grazing.

‘Going on school strike for the climate is going to be incomprehensible to anyone who doesn’t understand how serious the situation is,’ Greta says happily. Almost euphorically. ‘And because almost no one knows, almost no one is going to understand. I am going to be so incredibly hated,’ she says with a laugh.

‘Maybe kids will understand,’ Svante says.

‘No. Kids act like their parents,’ she answers. ‘I haven’t met a single kid who cares about the climate. Everyone says that it’s the kids who will save us, but I don’t believe that.’

Svante sits silently. He hopes she’s wrong.

Greta continues, ‘If we have two years left before the emissions curve has to go down, something has to start happening now, and by next spring something must have happened. Something huge and totally unexpected.’

The reindeer move slowly around the river down in the valley. The air is warmer now.

They pack up and continue the hike until they are at the foot of the last hill before Trollsjön. Once they reach the lake, they should be able to see the bottom thirty or forty metres down because the water is so clear. They see how the mountain walls around the lake are dripping from rain and melt water and everything is in constant motion. The wind is gusting.

You can sense the lake beyond the ledge above the path. But Greta looks tired.

‘Can you manage?’ Svante asks. ‘There’s only a few hundred metres left, we’re almost there.’

‘Don’t know,’ Greta replies.

They stand there. Take a picture with the phone. Wait.

‘When I was little I was taught never to give up. You should always try harder,’ Svante says, preparing a little speech.

‘My first summer job was at a laundry in Bromma, and it took like an hour and a half to get there every morning. I laundered soiled sheets and blankets from a nursing home and I wanted to quit right away, but Grandma made me continue and I’ve always thought that it was a really good thing. Me not giving up. But. Now I’m not so sure any more. Sometimes I think that maybe we ought to give up a little more often. Or at least take a few steps back sometimes.’

It is starting to drizzle again and it is four kilometres down to the road. They’ve been gone for ten days and soon it will be time to drive back to Stockholm. Tomorrow they plan to drive to Kvikkjokk as the first leg of the journey homeward.

‘You know what,’ he says, ‘let’s turn around here. We don’t need to see everything. We don’t need to have been everywhere.’

I am so tired of our story.

But now we’re sitting there, telling it all again.

Svante talks. I talk. We converse politely because the children are in the room with us.

Greta is investigating a cube and some educational triangles that are on the table in the consultation room.

Beata is squirming and rolling her eyes.

She wants to go home and dance. She’s as tired of BUP as I am.

When we’re done and the children have gone out ahead, the doctor sighs and shakes his head.

‘Yes, good Lord,’ he says, ‘you do need help.’

All three of us smile. Everyone wishes us well.

Everyone does their best. And often a little more.

Exactly like most other people; people who want to do good things from their unique perspectives.

The whole family walks home together along Fleminggatan. It’s summer. The birds are singing in the trees and summer clouds stretch across the sky like an upside-down archipelago.

An aeroplane has drawn a line over the horizon.

It’s superfluous to us now. We don’t need it any more.

Svante has promised to take Greta to a building supplier’s to buy a scrap piece of wood that she can paint white and make a sign out of. ‘School Strike for the Climate’, it will say – she decided that a long time ago. And although Svante and I realize what enormous risks she is going to be exposed to – although more than anything we want her to drop the whole idea of going on strike from school – we support her. With just the right measure of enthusiasm. Because even though the school strike is drawing nearer and nearer she doesn’t seem to be showing any signs of dropping her idea. Quite the opposite. And we see that she feels good as she draws up her plans – better than she has felt in many years. Better than ever before, in fact.