With a career spanning roles at the nonprofit environmental communication center GRID-Arendal and the United Nations Environment Programme in Europe and Africa, Otto co-founded Zoï 16 years ago to make environmental information accessible and compelling for decision-makers and the public.

I first encountered Zoï a few years ago at a UN conference on the Belt and Road Initiative (BRI). There, Otto introduced me to the concept of environmental and social safeguards, a pragmatic approach that functions less as an aspirational best practice and more as a crucial safety net. Acting as a shield, these safeguards help to balance urgent infrastructure needs with long-term sustainability.

Infrastructure connectivity through roads and railways facilitates access to essential services like healthcare and education, which are critical for adapting to climate change and building resilience, particularly in the world’s most vulnerable mountain communities. Meanwhile, BRI infrastructure projects have long faced criticism for contributing to debt crises, ecological degradation, and inadequate engagement with local communities, as extensively documented by researchers and institutions.

Over the past decade, sustained engagement from activists and advocacy groups has pushed Chinese development banks, corporations, and industry associations to gradually – though imperfectly – integrate environmental and social policies into their practices. China is also increasingly embracing the “small yet beautiful” approach in future BRI projects, shifting away from large-scale infrastructure projects. While this transition serves China’s strategic interests and contributes to global climate action, its gradual retreat is widening an already substantial funding gap.

I hope you enjoy this newsletter. Let us know what you think in the comments. If you’d like to write for us, drop us an email at contact@shuangtan.me.

Essay: How a ‘Smaller and Greener’ BRI Could Leave Vulnerable Mountain Communities Behind

China’s Belt and Road initiative has improved connectivity in the world’s mountain regions. To continuously boost climate resiliency, infrastructure finance is key.

By Dr. Otto Simonett

Edited by Hongqiao Liu and Kevin Schoenmakers

Every summer, I escape Geneva and retreat to the serene mountains of Grisons in eastern Switzerland, better known to the world as the site of the Davos World Economic Forum. There, my brother and I share an old cabin perched on a ridge overlooking the Schams Valley. This cabin, worn by 100 years of sunshine, snow, and storms, including the mountains’ Foehn winds, has become my sanctuary.

Reaching this remote hideaway is easier than you’d expect. Switzerland’s efficient public transportation allows me to blend into the wilderness within a few hours. Isolated, my days are spent reading, hiking, cooking meals on the wood-fired stove, and reconnecting with nature. But modern conveniences are never far: we have clean water, stable electricity, and a smart webcam that provides live weather conditions and forecasts.

But mountainous areas in many other countries aren’t so lucky. All together, the globe’s mountains are home to over a billion people and provide vital resources – such as freshwater, biodiversity, and recreation – for billions more downstream. However, their remoteness and limited access to markets and services often leave local mountain communities facing higher poverty rates and slower development compared to lowland areas.

China’s Belt-and-Road Initiative, the BRI, started some 12 years ago and provided severely needed funding for infrastructure projects in mountainous areas. These include a highway connecting Montenegro with Serbia, and a highway connecting Central Asia’s Fergana Valley – shared by Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, and Tajikistan – with China. Given mountain regions’ compounded challenges, the countries embraced these developments with general enthusiasm.

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The benefits of these projects can be transformative: reduced travel times, expanded cargo capacities, improved access to essential services, and more trade and other economic opportunities. Better and modern infrastructure also reduces disruptions from natural disasters, can contribute to more efficient energy use, and provide alternative income sources such as tourism. In the last decade, BRI projects improved the transportation networks in several mountain regions of the world.

But these projects came with environmental concerns. Since 2009, my team at the Zoï Environment Network, a nonprofit dedicated to making environmental information appealing and accessible, has focused on enhancing awareness of climate and environmental issues across the world’s mountainous regions. These areas are on the front lines of climate change, with accelerated warming, glacier retreat, and more frequent natural disasters.

Infrastructure project development in mountain regions, with their sensitive ecosystems and implications for downstream regions, requires high environmental scrutiny. The planned Uzbekistan-Kyrgyzstan-China highway will cross the Mountains of Central Asia biodiversity hotspot at high elevations of 2,500-3,000 meters. At this altitude, climate change has already impacted the mountain permafrost, rock, and soil stability and the safety of mines. The almost completed new strategic North-South road in Kyrgyzstan is essential for ensuring connectivity and economic security in parts of the country. But it may also bring more and new environmental pressures to the fragile mountain ecosystems.

Ensuring the environmental safety and sustainability of large-scale infrastructure is critical. Thoughtful planning can help avoid the risks of long-term debt and stranded assets and manage the environmental footprint associated with construction and operation. For instance, the above-mentioned China-built highway in Montenegro for the time being leads to “nowhere,” waiting for a missing bit connecting it to Serbia. And, the existing construction has already damaged parts of the UNESCO-protected Tara river banks. Better coordination between the countries and taking into account basic environmental safeguards could have prevented the current situation.

Applying robust safeguards, and implementing climate-resilient – or “climate-proof” – approaches can protect both the environment and local economies. This involves integrating climate impact scenarios into the planning and design of roads, railways, and other infrastructure.

While these practices are standard in some regions and are used by the international development banks, they are often overlooked in remote mountain areas, where climate considerations, transparency, and community concerns are less integrated into planning. Mountain regions have more complex climates and higher natural disaster risks than lowland areas, and their communities are not of primary concern to decision makers.

With the BRI, an important funding source for infrastructure projects in developing countries, pivoting toward supporting smaller, greener, and “beautiful” projects like clean technology, the substantial financing gap further widened. In the 12 years of its existence, cumulative BRI investment in infrastructure was $679 billion world-wide. But annual spending had already started to decline in 2017. It is unknown who may fill this investment gap, in particular in remote and poor mountain communities. The U.S. already spent way less than China on such projects, and seems even less willing to invest abroad under the second Trump administration.

In Switzerland, my home country, many people take our convenient, affordable public transport and high-speed internet for granted. We sometimes forget how profoundly connectivity impacts people’s lives and economic development – provided that environmental and social safeguards are applied and that public and eco-friendly transport options are prioritized. If our existing easy access to connectivity should teach us anything, it is not to judge too critically when we see new large infrastructure projects elsewhere in the world, but to realize that all mountain communities should enjoy the prosperity that connectivity brings.

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I hope you enjoy this newsletter. Share your thoughts in the comments.

If you’d like to write for Shuang Tan, republish our articles, or submit a testimonial, email us at contact@shuangtan.me.

Until next week,

Hongqiao

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In this essay, she reflects on the emotional rollercoaster of the past three years – starting with confusion, denial, and fear when first confronting the stark realities of climate disasters, followed by overwhelming anxiety and uncertainty, and eventually, a deep sense of urgency to wake up those sleepwalking into a boiling planet. She also speaks to the loneliness, helplessness, and frustration of struggling to find connection, empathy, and understanding – before finally discovering hope and optimism by celebrating small victories of herself, her colleagues, and her peers.

Sophie’s story deeply resonates with my own journey. A decade ago, I left journalism and joined CWR, after realizing that merely having a front-row seat to history did not fulfill my desire to drive social change. At CWR, I worked on research, investigations, and extensive stakeholder engagement to push businesses and financial institutions toward proactively tackling China’s environmental challenges, rather than standing by or taking advantage of the crisis. There, I learned to transform my cynicism, political frustration, and climate anxiety into strategic vision and agile action.

It was also during my time with CWR that I realized I should not limit myself to just writing to inform but that I should write for change. In many ways, writing and editing the Shuang Tan newsletter has become my own way of coping with climate anxiety, channeling disappointment and frustration into inspiration and collective consensus as I continue the long and urgent fight to save the planet.

I started this newsletter with one simple belief: Iit’s impossible to effectively tackle climate change without China, just as it’s impossible to build a prosperous China without adequate climate action. But as geopolitical turbulence continues, climate “islands” and “oases” are quickly turning into deserts. Do we really just need more diplomatic statements, policy analyses, and technological breakthroughs, or is something deeper holding us back? Perhaps more personal stories like Sophie’s could remind us why we are fighting this fight – for the planet, for humanity, and for people we love and care about.

I hope you enjoy this newsletter. Upgrade your subscription to read more powerful personal essays from Chinese journalists, social entrepreneurs, and campaigners as they reflect on their struggles, insights, and actions from the ground.

On a related note: I start to take clients as an authenticity and resilience coach. In this role, I hope to support more climate advocates and civil society professionals as they navigate personal and professional challenges – including learning to live with climate anxiety. For inquiries, please contact coach@liuhongqiao.com.

Essay: How I Spiraled Into Eco-Anxiety – And How I Cured It Through Action

A Gen Z Hong Kong native reflects on her emotional rollercoaster of declining the corporate path and instead diving into climate and water risk research.

By Sophie Lam

Edited by Hongqiao Liu and Kevin Schoenmakers

Three years ago, I was a fresh graduate from a U.K. university. Like most of my peers, I was set on a future in finance or consulting. Then I heard Debra Tan, the director of CWR, speaking at an event. The next thing I know, I threw my carefully plotted career plans out the window.

“Carbon is how we cause climate change; water is how we mostly feel it,” I remember Debra saying. Her talk shattered my narrow “carbon tunnel vision” and drowned me in the stark realities of water adaptation challenges that go far beyond reducing carbon emissions.

Growing up in Hong Kong, I had never considered that my home city, a wealthy global financial hub, would ever have to worry about water scarcity. After all, Mainland China has always ensured a stable fresh water supply for Hong Kong – what could possibly go wrong?

But then I discovered that this water is brought into the city by low-lying pumping stations, and that the city’s water supply is at risk of collapse because this critical lifeline is vulnerable to both powerful typhoons and rising seas.

That revelation felt like opening Pandora’s box. My naive self was thrown into an overwhelming whirlpool of information about the cascading impacts of climate change.

Terrified yet intrigued, I decided to dive deeper. I soon began a three-month internship at CWR, a Hong Kong-based think tank dedicated to embedding climate and water risks into business and finance.

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It was during this internship, while I assisted with mapping the city’s critical infrastructure such as rail lines, power supply equipment, and cold storage facilities against rising sea levels, that I came to another harrowing realization: within my lifetime, rising seas could permanently submerge thousands of Hong Kong homes – including my own.

Three months flew by. Determined to explore adaptation strategies that could save my home from being swallowed by the sea, I turned down a corporate job offer in the U.K. and joined CWR full-time.

I absorbed knowledge about climate and water risks like a sponge. My typical morning went like this: I logged monthly climate disasters and pored over scientific papers on vanishing glaciers, unstable tipping points, and record-breaking heat waves.

I am glad that I can use my knowledge of GIS software – which combines data with maps – to examine the impact of rising sea levels and extreme weather events on critical infrastructure in the Asia Pacific region. I also had the opportunity to work on CWR’s Re-IMAGINE HK initiative, which advocates for transformative adaptation by the Hong Kong government to save the city from future coastal threats. These efforts are all focused on improving resilience planning and managing the risks posed by climate change.

Nonetheless, I often felt myself coming back to the same questions. Given the worsening climate situation, is the work I’m doing meaningful? And how on earth am I making any impact?

The more I learned about the interconnectivity of climate and water risks, the harder it became to stay optimistic about our future. The data painted a grim reality: Our current emissions trajectory points to over 3°C of warming, and for Hong Kong, rising seas could jeopardize food supplies, flood transport systems, and cripple power infrastructure.

The weight of this knowledge, combined with my growing eco-anxiety, left me feeling out of sync with those around me. Desperate to spark conversations, I began sharing my “sea level rise 101” lectures and underwater HK maps with friends and family. But their typical reactions – disbelief, denial, or helplessness – only deepened my frustration. Even seasoned professionals at climate-related conferences offered little more than vague concern.

It seemed like no one else actually understood the severity of the crisis besides my colleagues at CWR. Loneliness and a sense of futility crept in, and I found myself spiraling into an eco-anxiety doom loop.

Despite everything, I continue to do what I do because, deep down, I know I am not alone in this fight. More importantly, as the youngest member of my team, I want to show the world that our generation has not given up – we still have opportunities to avoid the worst-case scenario.

Over the past three years, there have been moments that gave me hope. For example, CWR was invited to HSBC’s headquarters to present to concerned business leaders in the real estate, insurance, and utilities sectors on the topic of sea level rise risks in Hong Kong. Moments like these reassured me that the work my organization does is reaching the right people and making an impact.

I am also fortunate to have encountered many inspiring young people through my work. At the 2023 Stockholm International Water Week, I met Meghna Chakraborty, a junior rapporteur who founded the South Asia Young Women in Water platform shortly after the conference. This initiative empowers young women to lead conversations on water management. I also met numerous young inventors tackling issues such as pollution from microplastics or crude oil spills with innovative solutions.

To this day, I have no regrets about straying away from the corporate path. Joining CWR has opened my eyes to both the challenges and potential solutions for addressing water risks.

In my three years of working on climate and water issues, I have learned how to initiate uncomfortable but necessary conversations that drive meaningful change. While I constantly remind myself that climate change is not something we can solve overnight, I know that we no longer have the luxury of time.

It might be true that as an individual, we cannot control the accelerating pace of climate change, but we can still focus on the small yet meaningful changes we can make to combat it. We may have more collective bargaining power than we realize to influence corporate behavior. So, don’t be afraid to speak up and share your ideas.

After all, it’s our future that’s on the line. We must act now!

* The article is adapted from Sophie Lam’s essay that first appeared in CWR’s monthly newsletter.

* Cover Image Credit: Valeria Araya for ArtistsForClimate.org

Get in touch

I hope you enjoy this newsletter. Share your thoughts in the comments.

If you’d like to write for Shuang Tan, republish our articles, or submit a testimonial, email us at contact@shuangtan.me.

Until next week,

Hongqiao

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Shuang Tan is a proud partner of Covering Climate Now, a journalism collaboration dedicated to improving the caliber and prominence of climate journalism.

During his 26 years with Greenpeace International, John used documentary photography to raise public awareness of many environmental crises, including climate change. His takeaway? “Fun” and “positivity” are not just essential when you’re hiking through an icy mountain landscape, but also for reaching a wider audience and forging change.

This may sound counterintuitive, even troubling to some. After all, what’s fun and positive about climate change? But I know he is not attempting to sugarcoat disasters or to obsessively draw a “silver lining” on our planetary crisis.

It is true that we’re sleepwalking toward a future where global temperatures could rise by 3°C – a prospect that feels anything but positive. Yet, in moments of despair, we – as human beings – instinctively look for hope, because hope gives us the courage to connect, to create, and to envision a way forward.

John’s insights carry particular weight in the context of China, and they resonate with me so much. “Even” because today, most climate NGOs and think tanks in China primarily focus on influencing government policy. The landscape has become increasingly dry and technical, with a noticeable lack of inspiring, uplifting stories. This has led to a growing sense of fatigue, frustration, and disempowerment among climate advocates. “Especially” because we know from experience that negative narratives tend to have a shorter lifespan in China. A “positive” climate story, he argues, can inspire action, build momentum, and foster the collective belief that change is possible.

As we were editing this essay, two events took place on the Tibetan Plateau.

Two days ago, a 6.8 magnitude earthquake struck Dingri County in Shigatse Prefecture, less than 60 kilometers from Mount Qomolangma Base Camp. The very next day, nearly 1,000 kilometers away, another 5.5-magnitude earthquake shook Maduo County in Qinghai’s Golog Prefecture, where the Yellow River originates. The two earthquakes were “unrelated,” according to Chinese experts from the National Earthquake Networks Center.

And just two weeks ago, the Chinese government approved a massive hydropower project on the lower reaches of the Yarlung Tsangpo River. Designed to generate over three times more power than the Three Gorges Dam, the world’s next largest hydropower project – also the most expensive infrastructure – has been hailed as a milestone in China’s “dual carbon” goals and its efforts to combat climate change. Officials assured that the project “would not harm” downstream regions such as India and Bangladesh.

Despite the government’s assurances, some geological experts and environmental advocates see the project as a gamble. Over the past decade, many argue that preserving the region’s unparalleled biodiversity through national parks is a safer and more sustainable alternative to exploiting its hydropower potential.

We will delve deeper into the role of mega-hydropower projects in China’s “dual carbon” transition in a future newsletter. In the meantime, I wish you a belated Happy New Year, and I hope you enjoy the breathtaking photographs.

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John Novis: Finding the ‘Positive’ Climate Story Through ‘Photo Activism’

Greenpeace’s former Head of Photography reflects on why fun and positivity are key for successful campaigns – especially in China.

By John Novis

Edited by Hongqiao Liu and Kevin Schoenmakers

In 1997, I was part of a Greenpeace campaign to record the polar regions’ rapid loss of ice. At that time, man-made climate change was already the scientific consensus but was still far from widely accepted as alarming, urgent, or even as true. My goal was to repeat the success of an earlier expedition, during which we took photos that helped pressure nations to sign a treaty to protect Antarctica.

However, the photos we returned home with this time, after our long journey on the Arctic Sunrise ship, mostly showed stark landscapes. They lacked impacted people, flora, and fauna that would resonate with the public, let alone convey the urgent consequences of climate breakdown to governments, industries, or investors.

In search of more immediate visuals, we turned our focus to China. The Himalayas and the countless snow peaks on the Tibetan Plateau, known as the “Third Pole,” are home to the largest ice mass outside the polar regions. The area experiences climate change at a faster pace than anywhere else on the planet, affecting local communities, wildlife, and the mountain range’s many glaciers.

In the spring of 2007, after a 10-day expedition, we – an international team of scientists, photojournalists, and environmental advocates – arrived at the Rongbuk Glacier on the northern side of Qomolangma (Mount Everest) to document its retreat. Earlier expeditions and the Chinese Academy of Science had been monitoring the shrinkage of the glacier – one of the largest in the Himalayas – over a number of years.

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Greenpeace colleagues in the Beijing office had gained permission from China Science Press to use a 1968 panoramic photo showing the western side of the iconic glacier. It lies along the route mountaineers take to the peak, and as such features in many images and stories of those who have braved the conquest.

Our team set out walking across the glacier to reach the viewpoint of the 1968 photo. But after about half a day, our Tibetan guide halted the walk as crevasses had begun appearing. He feared for our safety. I was devastated that, after months of training and preparation for this singular endeavor, we could see our destination about a kilometer away but could advance no further. I started photographing from where we had stopped, the view being not exactly as in 1968 but close enough to give a visual comparison.

The Rongbuk Glacier was astonishing. A huge expanse of moraine, the dark sediment left by a glacier, filled the frame instead of the white ice that was abundant in the 1968 photo. It left me no doubt that rapid change was happening to the mountain. After carefully comparing the old and new photos, we concluded that the glacier had retreated by two kilometers over the preceding four decades.

The science seemed evident before our eyes: climate change disrupts the Himalayas’ water cycle. Moisture is carried from the ocean and falls as rain or snow on the mountains. Much of it seeps into the ground, with the mountains acting as gigantic sponges. The rest is stored as ice and melts slowly in summer. But rain is becoming more erratic, either coming in torrents or not at all. Such abnormal rainfall patterns can significantly contribute to groundwater depletion and, as a result, glacier shrinkage.

During the expedition, I also took photos of how the changing weather patterns affected local people and wildlife. At the time of the expedition to the Rongbuk Glacier, I didn’t fully grasp the far-reaching consequences of climate change. Looking back now, it is evident that the plight of Tibetan nomadic communities foreshadowed a much larger issue: climate refugees. All around the world, millions of people have been forced to flee their homes and seek survival in regions less impacted by climate change. This mass displacement poses immense risks to health, security, and economic stability, with potentially catastrophic consequences.

I had asked a Beijing-based environmental journalist to accompany the team to help make sure our journey would receive Chinese and international press coverage. Several magazines, including Marie Claire and Asia Geographic, published our photos and wrote accompanying features with titles such as “Mount Everest is Melting.” Leonardo DiCaprio shared a photo of a farmer and child in dryland conditions near Mount Qomolangma to his millions of social media followers. Greenpeace used the imagery in its fundraising, and I have used it in talks to demonstrate the difficulties of visualizing climate change.

During my 26-year tenure with Greenpeace, I documented all kinds of issues, from deforestation to illegal fishing, and, in China, grassland degradation, desertification, and water pollution. I witnessed how the organization’s photo assignments and edited imagery could change public perception and trigger debate about our relationship with the environment.

Over time, I gradually realized the clear distinction between the photo stories created at Greenpeace – what I call “photo activism” – and those produced in traditional photojournalism. While there is no difference in terms of quality, the images have different destinations. Our photos don’t just appear in news and magazine publications. We actively pushed for them to be used in press handouts, exhibitions, books, seminars, press conferences, fundraising events, and traditional and social media.

For photo activism to be effective, it is essential to document both the damage that is done and the beauty that is possible. For example, juxtaposing images of whales swimming freely or playful baby seals with scenes of their slaughter creates a striking aesthetic contrast, much like showcasing the grandeur of an ancient forest alongside the devastation of a clear-cut plot. Emphasizing positivity inspires hope, reminds viewers of what remains worth protecting, and encourages them to take action, instead of leading to indifference and thoughts like, “Why bother? It’s all messed up anyway.”

Now in retirement, I still remain an optimist about mankind’s climate change challenge. Perhaps my optimism stems from being young in the ‘60s and ‘70s, when changing ideas made an enlightened world seem possible. At the same time, I now see how hard it is for my daughters and grandchildren, who have never known a world without climate change, to keep spirits high.

But I believe photo activism continues to be a powerful tool for creating debate and evoking action, perhaps more so than ever. Technology and media have radically shifted since our expeditions in the 2000s. Climate pressure groups and citizen journalists armed with smartphones and social media capture and share every extreme weather event and climate protest. Even in less open societies such as China or Russia, I believe such imagery will find its way past internet controls and have people demanding action.

More recently, as our already saturated information landscape has seen the arrival of AI-generated images meant to disinform, people’s first response to a photo is not to consider its content but to question its credibility. However, I could see AI-generated photo activism appealing to a new generation and enhancing the climate debate.

Another source of optimism, for me, is how climate change protests were almost exclusively organized by NGO protest groups back in the 2000s, yet today young people are expressing their concerns on a grassroots level and organizing protests through social media. I documented one Fridays for Future demonstration through a participant’s eyes, from making banners in her family living room with school friends to marching and finishing the day at a rally with a national politician making an impassioned speech.

And I believe optimism is the driving force behind any successful campaign. As long as a team maintains their vision and group spirit despite disagreement and infuriating obstacles, optimism will surface the “fun” elements of the action even in the darkest moments. If we were all pessimists, nothing would happen at all!

Get in touch

I hope you enjoy this newsletter. Share your thoughts in the comments.

If you’d like to write for Shuang Tan, republish our articles, or submit a testimonial, email us at contact@shuangtan.me. 

Until next week,

Hongqiao

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Shuang Tan is a proud partner of Covering Climate Now, a journalism collaboration dedicated to improving the caliber and prominence of climate journalism.

The lack of reliable survey data makes it difficult to understand the reasons behind the public’s indifference or how the absence of science-based, timely, and human-centered climate information influences everyday decision-making.

The limited surveys on Chinese citizen’s climate awareness often draw contradictions. Depending on the survey provider, the year, and the population surveyed, conclusions range from strong or weak climate awareness to the elderly experiencing higher climate anxiety or youth being aware but inactive. Incompatible methodologies make comparison difficult.

“Do Chinese people care about climate change?” I’m often asked, and even experts in the China climate community demand an answer. Snapshotting the views and actions of 1.4 billion people, spread across 9.6 million square kilometers with varying levels of education, income, and media literacy, is impossible. More importantly, what does “caring for climate change” even mean?

In this week’s newsletter, Shanghai-based social entrepreneur Jing Feng shares how her father’s sudden illness this summer put her advocacy of sustainable lifestyles on the back burner in favor of the conveniences of food delivery, ride-hailing, and online shopping. 

China has the world’s biggest online commerce market. In 2020 alone, food delivery generated 1.6 million tons of plastic trash, accounting for 3% of China’s total municipal solid waste. Without doubt, the over 400 million customers of China’s food delivery industry are actively contributing to climate change, environmental pollution, and biodiversity loss through their daily consumption behaviors. But does that mean they are simply unconcerned about climate change?

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Or, as Jing reflects, when people are in “survival mode,” overwhelmed by immediate concerns, they don’t have additional bandwidth for climate change, even as this seemingly distant and abstract notion is already shaping their lives. Jing’s preoccupation was her father’s illness; for others, it could be financial strain, time poverty, or political depression.

The danger of short-term thinking and action is that we risk losing the critical window to break free from this vicious cycle. Armed conflicts, geopolitical turmoil, and amplified social inequality should not serve as excuses to delay climate action. Instead, efforts to preserve planetary health should be embraced as opportunities for building peace, fostering dialogue, and driving reform.

Jing Feng: Don’t Wait Until the ICU to Care About Your Health – Or Our Planet

A Shanghai sustainable living advocate reflects on planetary health after two months caring for her critically ill father during a scorching summer.

Written by Jing Feng 

Edited by Hongqiao Liu

July 21, 2024, Urumqi. At 7 a.m., my day began with the steady hum of breathing equipment from my father’s room. The care worker was carrying out a urine bottle while my mother, already up for some time, was in the kitchen preparing breakfast. I silenced my alarm and went straight to work, organizing my father’s dozens of daily pills.

The following three days turned out to be the hottest on record. Earlier that week, my father had been discharged from the ICU after a month fighting a severe lung infection whose cause doctors could not find. His diabetes, combined with lungs weakened by an earlier COVID-19 infection, left him critically vulnerable.

Before his return home, I scrambled to install an air conditioner. Built in the early 2000s, our apartment lacks proper insulation, and turns into an oven during heatwaves. His oxygen concentrator, running 24/7, only added to the oppressive heat. For my mother, cooking in the kitchen – the hottest corner of the house – was torture. But we weren’t the only family vying for precious installation slots. In Urumqi, a city farther from the cooling effect of the ocean than any other and where the summer temperature record stands at 42.6°C (108.7°F), air conditioners have become highly coveted. Securing one amid fierce demand felt like a small yet important victory not just for our comfort, but for my father’s survival.

2,500 kilometers away in Shanghai, where I’ve been living since 2013, I am a social entrepreneur, advocating for sustainable living. I also host “Road to Tomorrow,” a popular Chinese-language podcast where I discuss how people can change their everyday lives to help build a sustainable future. But my father’s condition forced me to confront the climate crisis on a deeply personal level.

At 63, he had become part of the population most vulnerable to its impacts. Today, his survival depends on a stable electricity supply. If the power went out – air conditioning overwhelming power generators is a seasonally recurring threat in China – he would quickly lose access to the oxygen that keeps him alive. To prepare for the worst, I bought a 40-liter oxygen tank. The tank, the largest I could find, cost 1,000 yuan ($140), and can keep him breathing for 40 hours in case of a blackout.

During those two months of caring for him, my life narrowed to focus solely on his survival. My usual preoccupation with environmental and climate issues faded. The constant stream of negative news – floods, wildfires, heatwaves – became overwhelming, and I instead distracted myself with funny videos. Still, in quiet moments, I couldn’t help but wonder: how many others were living on the edge, just one power outage away from tragedy?

My commitment to sustainable living collided with the harsh demands of caregiving. Usually championing reduced consumption and sustainable living, I found myself relying on cars, take-out, and online shopping more than I ever had before. I knew the environmental and social costs, but when survival was at stake, convenience took precedence. Every day became a battle to get through the immediate challenges.

I even started to try to put my mother, a frugal teacher, at ease as we watched the ICU bills eat into their modest retirement savings, telling her, “If money can fix it, then it’s not really a problem.” It was only half true. Fortunate to have been able to afford health insurance, and fortunate that I had not bought a Shanghai apartment for which I’d had to rely on their help, we could pay my father’s medical bills. But any future setbacks could break our budget, and, in any case, money alone wouldn’t make him better. It made me realize climate change is much the same, instead that the finances to fight that crisis are entirely inadequate.

The two-month caregiving experience in Urumqi pushed me out of my comfort zone and made me question the accessibility of sustainable living. I started to see it as a privilege reserved for the middle class – those with the financial means to choose it. Sustainable choices require a safety net, something not everyone has, especially those who are still fighting to survive.

Health and climate vulnerabilities are deeply intertwined. The UN reports that heat-related deaths among people over 65 have increased by 85% over the past 20 years. In China, studies have shown that during heatwaves, respiratory infections rise by 30%. Globally, more than 70% of the workforce is exposed to extreme heat risks, including the delivery workers who have become essential, especially during health crises.

As WHO Director-General Tedros Ghebreyesus has stated, “The climate crisis is also a health crisis.” Yet, like my family did, most people only grasp the severity of a crisis when it’s too late. Whether it’s human health or planetary health, we can’t afford to wait until we’re in the ICU.

I fear that by the time the climate crisis reaches its tipping points – and we’ve already surpassed many – we’ll be forced into survival mode, turning to controversial solutions like geoengineering or nuclear energy as desperate fixes rather than addressing the root causes when we still have the chance.

Just as we all understand that it’s important to prevent diseases, we must take care of the planet before the damage is irreparable. While individuals can make sustainable lifestyle changes to reduce their environmental footprint, society as a whole must invest in disaster preparedness, climate mitigation, and adaptation.

This summer, my father came so close to death. A month after leaving the ICU, he’s only just starting to walk again. Even a minor illness – or a short power outage – could set back his fragile recovery.

Our planet is just as vulnerable. The actions humanity is taking today are not sufficient to halt global warming, let alone reverse its damage. I hope that my father continues to heal, and that I can live healthily on a flourishing planet.

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I hope you enjoy this newsletter. Share your thoughts in the comments. If you’d like to write for Shuang Tan, republish our articles, or submit a testimonial, email us at contact@shuangtan.me.

We will soon start accepting submissions. Stay tuned for our pitch guide! 

For feedback, inquiries, and funding opportunities, please write to contact@shuangtan.me.

Until next week,

Hongqiao

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In this heartfelt essay, Faye highlights the challenges of reporting on climate in China. While extreme disasters are becoming more frequent, newsrooms are struggling with understaffing, underfunding, and constant censorship pressure. Journalists often fight for access to disaster sites, only to find that, once they get it, the frontline of the catastrophic weather event has already moved. Even when they manage to file reports, their stories may go “404” at any time, while readers, fatigued by repetitive “negative energy,” are losing interest. This creates a vicious cycle: vital information fails to reach vulnerable communities in climate-sensitive areas, leaving them uninformed, unprepared, and unable to build resilience.

Faye describes covering China’s climate crisis as “a Sisyphean task.” Anyone who practiced journalism in China would share this sentiment, caught between censorship, financial strain in the news industry, and reader disengagement, relying only on willpower and idealism – a “Quixotic act” – to continue their work.

In this constant tug-of-war, burnout is almost inevitable. It’s unsurprising that many in the industry face severe mental health crises. Ten years ago, when I worked as a journalist in China, nearly half the reporters in my news department suffered from depression, anxiety, or bipolar disorder. One colleague, hospitalized with severe depression, turned to public education on mental health but eventually took his life just before the zero-COVID policy was lifted.

Frontline reporters covering disasters and crises like climate change urgently need systemic support. When I covered the record-breaking rainfall in Beijing in 2012, there were no protections, emergency plans, or mental health support – even when our scoop exposed how “low-end” workers living beneath manhole covers suffocated to death, how a middle-class man drowned when his car got stuck in a flooded underpass in central Beijing, and how flash floods swept away dozens in their sleep who were never acknowledged in official records.

Unfortunately, the situation has not improved much – if anything, it has only deteriorated.  Discussions on Chinese journalism still revolve around the same buzzwords: “censorship,” “propaganda,” and the operational challenges media organizations face. The well-being of individual reporters, these issues’ collateral damage, is rarely addressed. Meanwhile, many in the climate community tend to see journalists and media outlets as mere vehicles for their strategic messaging. Independent initiatives like Shuang Tan continue to struggle while sustaining our important and impactful work.

Curating and editing Faye’s essay over the past two months has been a painful and triggering experience for me – and undoubtedly for Faye. At one point, we had to pause the editing process and considered abandoning the piece altogether. Like many of my peers, I, too, went through years of therapy before I could finally see my experience as an investigative journalist in China as an asset instead of the source of persistent disappointment, despair, and defeat.

I hope you enjoy this newsletter. Share your thoughts in the comments. If you’d like to write for Shuang Tan, republish our articles, or submit a testimonial, email us at contact@shuangtan.me.

Until next week,

Hongqiao

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Essay: Can Journalism or Art Best Document China’s Climate Emergency?

A former award-winning photojournalist reflects on her experience covering extreme weather’s impact while navigating censorship and budget cuts.

by Faye Liang

In June 2022, after heavy rain had flooded Qingyuan, in Guangdong province, a local farmer showed me around his submerged land on a rubber dinghy. The smell of dead pigs penetrated my nostrils as their inflated bodies drifted alongside the boat. Ducks, the farm’s only survivors, had found refuge on top of a shed. I saw a mouse paddle through the water as fast as its little limbs would allow. Just as the farmer, and perhaps all of us, it had no idea where it could find safety.

More than 3,300 local farmers filed insurance claims worth some 329 million yuan. Others, who couldn’t or wouldn’t pay for insurance, could only count on next year’s earnings.

It was one of many climate disasters I’d documented over the past seven years while working as a photojournalist in China. I believed that my work had purpose – most of all, that it could help the public prepare for future extreme weather. Every reporting trip taught me something new, until they became so repetitive that I started to doubt what I was doing.

In 2016, while covering a temporary settlement site for people affected by flooding of the Yangtze River, I first realized how climate change exacerbates China’s existing social issues. In a small village near Wuhan, evacuees – mostly seniors told to leave their homes overnight – shared with me their biggest concern was losing their livestock and crops, which they depended on to bolster their meager pensions.

Four years later, while covering another extreme rainfall event in a small town near Poyang Lake whose reservoir had overflowed, I learned just how resilient people can be. Despite a lack of experience and equipment, the local community displayed remarkable ingenuity. They crafted rafts from plastic buckets and wooden planks torn from submerged houses. These improvised vessels became lifelines, enabling them to transport essential supplies like food, clean water, and fuel.

I saw how extreme weather can take everything from someone – and then do it again. During a severe flood in Guangdong, in 2022, I met rural entrepreneur Mr. Huang. He had lost almost all his property overnight – floodwaters had drowned 80,000 pigeons in their tiny cages. Despite suffering a loss of 3 million yuan ($420,000), Huang was determined to rebuild his business. Sadly, this summer, his farm flooded once again.

Witnessing so many climate-related disasters up-close has given me a firsthand understanding of climate change and its social impacts. But covering the same tragedies again and again made me question the meaning of photojournalism. Was I truly making a difference? 

A cloud of guilt enveloped me. My reporting hardly brought the changes that survivors hoped for, be that financial aid or environmental improvement; and sometimes, my coverage even seemed to worsen their situation. Though I now understand it’s not my fault, I still struggle to find peace with this cruel reality.

As global warming worsens, visual documentation of extreme weather disasters – with photos, videos, and illustrations – has only become more vital to make the public aware of and prepared for climate change. As Lu Guang’s award-winning work on environmental pollution and human suffering demonstrates, a well-crafted photo essay can have profound social impact, even in China.

However, high-quality photo reports have become scarce in China. Today, the country’s photojournalists face three major obstacles: the authorities’ tightening censorship, the public’s growing caution and distrust, and media companies’ diminishing willingness and ability to pay the high costs of covering extreme weather events.

My friend D, a veteran photojournalist, has spent the last six years documenting catastrophes across China. Increasingly, he feels overwhelmed: keeping pace with the growing frequency of extreme weather events has become a Sisyphean task. This April, after a historic town was devastated by floods and mudslides, it took him a week to secure approval from editors before he could start his difficult journey into the disaster zone. By the time he reached the scene, the extreme rainfall had already shifted north, causing floods elsewhere in other regions.

His photos also didn’t pass censorship. The public never saw them. Media were instead made to publish positive reports celebrating the triumph of disaster relief.

The increasing frequency of such challenges has intensified the sense of futility felt by many of my peers. We are often unsure whether our work will have any impact. Could my photo essays shift public perception of climate change? Would widely shared pictures of catastrophic scenes raise awareness and improve preparedness for future events? Might concerned citizens pressure authorities to implement more effective climate crisis mitigation and adaptation measures?

I firmly believe that climate coverage deserves more newsroom resources. We need not just photographers whose works can capture attention and evoke compassion, but also photo editors and curators who can place these works in the right contexts. As writer Mark Feldman has stated, environmental photography must be paired with facts and narratives to serve as an effective form of advocacy.

But in China, journalism might no longer be the best avenue for engaging the public on climate change. Last year, after being forced to leave a disaster scene once again, I left Caixin Media, a renowned Chinese media group, to explore artistic storytelling. Art offers more diverse creative and aesthetic expressions and facilitates public engagement. For instance, displaying climate images across various platforms, from fine art galleries to neighborhood billboards, can help reach new audiences.

In 2023, I spent three months in Monthey, a small town in southern Switzerland, participating in an art residency that allowed me to create a series of works centered on glacial retreat. Twelve years earlier, it had been the photo exhibition “COAL + ICE,” a photo exhibition presenting the impacts of fossil fuels on glaciers and coal miners, that prompted me to become a photojournalist.

However, unlike its curators, Susan Meiselas and Jeroen de Vries, who transformed the project into an ongoing effort that documents experiences of vulnerable communities worldwide, I had very limited time – and resources – to present this urgent but relatively slow environmental process accelerated by climate change. Cultural and linguistic differences also challenged me to step out of my comfort zone to explore new perspectives in visual storytelling.

Inspired by Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung’s theories on myths and the collective unconscious, my multimedia works created a contemporary myth that depicts civilization’s vulnerability in facing climate change. I also combined scientific data, family photos, and landscape imagery to visualize the slow collapse of nature. 

I was struck by Monthey’s vibrant cultural scene and the strong sense of awareness and activism on climate change among its residents. From young to old, numerous strangers have offered me resources and inspiration that I couldn’t have imagined accessing as a journalist in China. For instance, the local theater offered accommodation and exhibition space; a writers’ association organized a workshop that brought locals together to share their memories of glacial experiences; and mountain guides and residents generously contributed their memories, family albums, and concerns about the glaciers.

This project has unfolded as an open process, incorporating diverse narrations, archives, and second-hand materials from many individuals. It is also sustainable, as it can continue to grow by inviting more contributions from various communities. It’s the kind of art project that the restrictions of photojournalism would never allow: it has allowed me to shift the power of narrative from my camera to the hands of those directly experiencing the impact of climate change – a method I intend to carry forward in my future artistic explorations.

In China, many independent artists are also working on projects related to the environment and climate. Among them, the best known is perhaps Nut Brother, a performance artist who has curated series projects to draw public attention to environmental pollution and social issues. However, without a developing support system – such as art funds, exhibitions, and publications dedicated to environmental issues – it’s challenging to attract broader engagement. Nevertheless, my experiences in Monthey have inspired me to envision the potential of art projects focused on climate change, a topic that remains largely unexplored in China.

Support Shuang Tan

Shuang Tan is an independent initiative dedicated to tracking China’s energy transition and decarbonization. The newsletter is curated, written, and edited by Hongqiao Liu. 

🎉 Shuang Tan has just become a partner of Covering Climate Now, a journalism collaboration project dedicated to improving the caliber and prominence of climate journalism.

🗞 We have also introduced a syndication offer for global news media outlets. China’s leading independent media group Caixin recently featured our coverage on its Chinese and English sites.

👀 In case you missed it: Please check out our new About and Testimonial pages and consider subscribing to ‘双碳精选’ for our best picks in Chinese.

💪 As a reader-supported publication, we rely on your help to grow. Each newsletter takes dozens of hours of dedicated work to transform complex, niche, and jargon-heavy essays into clear, balanced, and accessible articles. Upgrade your subscription to support us!

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We will soon start accepting submissions. Stay tuned for our pitch guide! 

For feedback, inquiries, and funding opportunities, please write to contact@shuangtan.me.

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