Everyone has skeletons in their closet; some have more bones than others.
I pinched my fingers on the screen, zooming into Germany on Google Maps. My body craved a long run, and I wanted to find a nature path to follow. Near my location —the small town of Korschenbroich— stood rural fields, some trails, and, among all that green, a potato-brown plop of land, its length spanning across four towns. The satellite image showed bumpy contour, drawn in rows too neat for an act of nature. Still, I assumed that’s what it was.
I ran 11 miles to reach the site, through landscapes switching between suburbs and farmland. Eyeing the quality of homes, roads, and shops, I looked for signs of gentrification between towns. I didn’t notice any, at least not in this stretch of Western Germany, at least not as dramatic as what I see on runs in Seattle. However, only 800 meters from the site, the air suddenly changed. A light filter of gray, an industrial odor, just 800 meters away, but surrounding me is a cute town looking just like the rest: neat homes, green lawns, shops, cafes, no potholes. I kept glancing at my GPS, as it led me to a gravel trail passing through people’s backyards. Following it, I couldn’t tell if it was the overcast or my imagination, but the sky slightly darkened. There were no more houses; just wild bushes on either side of me. The trail ended; a road began. On it, I ran alongside 6-wheeled, bright orange haul trucks, lugging open-air containers too high to reveal whether empty or full, and if full, of what.
“You have reached your location,” announced the GPS. I stopped on the road that would’ve kept going, walked over to the railing on my left. The railing was distinct, cleared of bushes, as if marking a scenic lookout common in national parks. Except this was the literal opposite of a nature preserve.
It was a massive pit, in length, width, and depth. The land was patched with gray, black, and brown parcels; lines of the same colors stretched like strata. A few skinny roads zig-zagged through the dents, so far away, I had to squint to see haul-trucks driving up and down. In the middle stood something that looked like a crane. It was astonishingly giant; the same haul-trucks that drove past me looked like tiny toys beside it. An excavator, I later learned. This was Hambach, Germany’s largest open-pit lignite mine. Hambach is the formal name. I think of it as an ironic, industrialized version of the Grand Canyon.
In Germany’s most populated region, the Hambach mine crosses 9,000 hectares of land, a total of 17 miles. Operating since 1978, it’s now digging at the estimated 1,772 million tons of lignite still available. Lignite is the most pollutant fossil fuel, producing twice more carbon emissions than natural gas. However, it produces 90% of the European Union’s electricity and heat because a) it’s cheaper than importing fossil fuels and b) it decreases energy dependency on outside countries. As of 2020, Germany is responsible for 46% of Europe’s total lignite production.
Though lignite production decreased by 400 million tons in the last 30 years, it still composes 22.5% of Germany’s total power generation. Researchers state that the mine will operate until 2045. This conflicts the government’s goal to eliminate fossil fuel dependency by 2040. Comparing Germany’s environmental image against its mining activities causes a dissonance I can’t fully articulate. I’m confused by this contrast, a dirty secret hiding behind press conferences and international meetings. My judgement doesn’t stop with Germany; I’m thinking about myself too. How do my personal decisions add to this bigger picture? I drive a car, fly on planes, use an iPhone, wear clothes manufactured abroad.
Perhaps everyone has skeletons in their closets; some have more bones than others. But we all must be held accountable for our choices and their impacts.