Snowdrifts, black ice, fallen trees, traffic chaos – winter storm "Elli" had Germany firmly in its grip in recent days. At least, that's what countless live tickers, snow blogs, and newsfeeds conveyed, reporting on events in detail and, above all, around the clock. As if there were literally no tomorrow. The hard facts, at least here in Oldenburg, read much more soberly: around ten centimeters of fresh snow, plus wind gusts of about 65 km/h. This corresponds to wind force 8, a stormy wind that is not unusual in northern Germany. And even if snow has become rarer in winter due to climate change, one thing still holds true: it's cold in winter. When the temperature drops below zero, rain turns into snow.
At the risk of sounding like my grandmother, I know from personal experience what a true snow disaster looks like. In the winter of 1978/79, the North literally disappeared under snow. This was preceded by a massive drop in temperature to as low as minus 30 degrees. I remember a bouquet of violets I received for my birthday then – it didn't survive the short journey from the car to our front door and fell victim to the icy wind. After significant snowfall from New Year's Eve onwards, a state of emergency followed in mid-February: blizzards and heavy snowdrifts caused meter-high snow mountains in many places. Farms, entire villages, and the North Sea islands were cut off from the outside world; many people had neither electricity nor water. Even here in the city, almost nothing was moving. And yet, I remember one thing above all: a remarkable composure.
Nobody spoke of a crisis, hardly anyone was truly in disaster mode. People coped, shoveling meter-high snowdrifts, helping each other, and making the best of it. Even in small ways. Within the city, no buses ran, and private cars were banned. After a few days, I heard on the radio that there was supposed to be a train to Bad Zwischenahn, about 20 kilometers away, where my boyfriend at the time lived. So I walked to the bus stop and waited – although, of course, no bus came. A police car stopped, two officers promptly took me along and dropped me off at the train station. For me, this snow winter was an extraordinary event – but not a personal catastrophe. More like an adventure. And many who experienced that winter still report this today.
So when is an event actually a catastrophe? It is undisputed that a catastrophe is a catastrophe when people are concretely harmed. When they lose relatives, their health, their livelihood, or their safety. When something happens that cannot be undone and leaves deep, personal ruptures. This form of catastrophe does not need dramatization. It is real, palpable, and irreversible. In addition to this, however, a second form has established itself – less tangible, but omnipresent: the communicatively generated catastrophe. It does not arise primarily from the event itself, but from its permanent media coverage. Through live tickers, push notifications, warning colors, breaking news, and repetitions. Through language that escalates even before it can be foreseen what will actually happen.
A key difference from earlier times lies in the media infrastructure. At the end of the 1970s, there was radio and television with a few news broadcasts per day on just three channels. Today, permanent news operations have become the norm. Information runs around the clock, accompanied by breaking news inserts, real-time updates, and special broadcasts. Countless news programs compete for attention, and attention can be most reliably generated with relatable concern and emotional intensity. Dramatization becomes the most effective instrument. What is often underestimated is the effect of this constant media intensification. A permanent state of alarm changes perception. It creates the feeling of constantly having to react without knowing exactly how. Fear becomes diffuse because it lacks a clearly defined counterpart. The line between real danger and preventive excitement begins to blur – and creates mental stress.
The weather, however, has not fundamentally changed in recent decades. While the number of hot days above 30 degrees Celsius has increased, and the number of icy days has significantly decreased, it can still snow in winter and get hot in summer. What has changed, however, is our view of individual phenomena. What used to be a temporary state of emergency is now evaluated in real-time, intensified, and emotionally charged. Stagnation becomes chaos, delay becomes a crisis. A sudden onset of winter becomes a weather catastrophe, 33 degrees in summer becomes a heatwave. Composure seems to have little place in this dramaturgy. Perhaps this is precisely the real problem: not in the weather, but in our decreasing tolerance for uncertainties. In the difficulty of enduring things that cannot be optimized, accelerated, or controlled. Like snow, which slows down, delays, forces detours, and obstructs – unavoidable and precisely for that reason difficult to bear. Numerous winters were objectively harder, colder, and more existential than much of what is declared a crisis today. And yet, for many, they were not a state of permanent fear, but a phase of adjustment, improvisation, sometimes even coming together. Not because they were naive – but because they knew that not everything can be solved immediately and that much simply has to be endured. Perhaps we just need to learn to look out the window now and then, instead of constantly staring at our phones, to recognize and feel again what is normal and what is dangerous.
Hardly has storm "Elli" moved on, and the weather competence centers are already announcing the next challenge: impending black ice chaos. The weather changes, unfortunately, the media dramaturgy does not. By the way, our snow and ice fragrances, which you see in the photo, are certainly not a catastrophe.
