by John Kurmann
You ever try to count to 6 billion? I doubt it. It’d be a waste of time. 6 billion is too big a number to even contemplate. For some reason, though, we have, collectively, counted to 6 billion. 6 billion people, that is.
Last year was the Year of 6 Billion, the year the human population of Earth is projected to have reached 6 billion. According to the United Nations, the day the 6 billionth person was born was last October 12.
Of course the day itself is pretty arbitrary. The 6 billionth person may’ve been born earlier, or later, or not yet. No one really knows for sure. We aren’t taking a head count, and we couldn’t if we tried.
Picking the exact Day of 6 Billion isn’t important, though. You pick a day to get people’s attention, so you can tell them that the population is still growing, and how fast.
So, how fast?
When my maternal grandmother was born, 82 years ago, it’s estimated there were just under 2 billion people alive here.
When my mother was born, 59 years ago, there were 2 billion–plus.
By the time she had her tenth birthday, there were more than 2.5 billion—despite the massive casualties of World War II.
When she gave birth to me 35 years ago, the population was between 3 and 3.5 billion.
By the time I celebrated my tenth birthday, there were more than 4 billion of us.
It’s estimated that we reached 5 billion the July I celebrated my 22nd birthday, not quite 13 years ago.
Now, after just twelve more trips around the sun, there’re 6 billion of us.
I’ve almost seen our population double in my lifetime. For me—and probably all of you—what’s been called “the population explosion” has been a fact of life for our whole lives. But why? Why does our population keep growing so quickly?
Nothing explains quite like a parable:
You awaken to find yourself a passenger on a train. You don’t know how you got there, or where the train is going.
You notice out of the corner of your eye that the ground drops off into a deep canyon just beyond the tracks.
And the train isn’t just riding, either. It’s hurtling down the tracks, and the scrub and parched dirt outside seem to be racing past the window.
The car you’re riding in is rocking back and forth on the tracks madly, threatening to rip itself free and go careening off into the chasm.
It’s only then you notice the deep thrum of the locomotive pulsing through the car, and the sound of metal being strained and twisted. Over it all is a wailing screech, which you quickly recognize as the sound of the brakes being applied to halt the spinning of the train’s wheels.
Then you realize that everyone else in the car is screaming in desperate fear. They all have both hands stretched to a lever above the window next to their seats, and they’re pulling it down and to the rear, their muscles straining, sweat flowing down their faces, veins bulging.
Just as you notice that there is a lever above your window, too, a voice over the intercom thrashes its way into your mind.
“Attention all passengers! This is the engineer speaking! We’ve only been able to slow the train down, and we don’t have any chance of stopping it in time at this rate! All of you must pull harder on the brake at your seat or we won’t be able to stop before we plummet off the cliff ahead! Pull with everything you’ve got!”
All the people around you tighten their grips on the brake levers above them and pull hard, down, and back, grimacing with the effort. Caught up in the desperation of the moment, you reach over your head to grasp the lever above your window and join them in straining mightily to stop the train.
The brakes scream under the increased pressure, and the train seems to slow just a bit, but it’s still rocketing down the tracks. You’re pulling with all your might, the other passengers seem to be pulling with all their might, and yet the train is barely slowed.
You lunge out of your seat and race to the front of the car, through the door, and on into the next car. It, too, is filled with passengers working mightily on their own levers. Car after car is the same.
Finally you reach the locomotive and burst into the control compartment. The engineer whirls to face you.
“What are you doing in here? We need every passenger pulling on the brakes if we’re going to have any hope of stopping this train! Get back to your seat!”
“We can’t stop the train that way! Everyone but me is pulling, and we’re still moving! There must be some other way to stop the train!”
“No! The brakes are our only hope! Now get back to your seat and pull!”
He spins back to the instrument panel with fierce determination set in his face. He starts shouting into a microphone: “Passengers! You’ve got to pull harder!”
Only then do you notice the chamber beyond the control compartment. Through heavy, dark smoke you see figures moving, and a blazing light. You can just make out that the figures are workers. What could they possibly be doing? Why aren’t they helping to stop the train? Then the realization hits you:
They’re feverishly shoveling coal into the combustion chamber of the locomotive.
We’re like the people on that locomotive when it comes to dealing with our population growth. Our leaders keep exhorting us to pull harder on our brakes while other people keep working at adding fuel to the fire that drives the engine. And nothing is being done to convince them to stop. For the most part, in fact they’re being encouraged to keep shoveling, because hardly anyone seems to realize that their efforts feed the fire that’s propelling this locomotive toward the cliff ahead.
Next time: What are the brakes, who are the workers, what is the fuel, and why aren’t we doing anything to put out the fire?
John Kurmann has an earnest desire to save the world, thinks of himself as a community (of life) activist, and has been a Sierra Club member since 1996. To contact him with any questions or comments about this article, please call 816–753–6081 or send an e–mail to dsdnt@kctera.net