First things first: radio off! – It's easier to think without the news. In the mornings, with my first coffee, even before the day has really begun, I usually like to have the world explained to me; these days, however, I prefer to switch it off. The news tumbles over me so quickly that I can't keep up: tariffs, threats, Greenland, summits, Merz in Brussels, Trump at some press conference. I sip my coffee and look out the window. Outside, there's snow on the roofs; the world looks peaceful, almost a little too peaceful for what's happening – or not happening, who really knows?
Later, the walk. It's cold, but not unpleasant; the air has that clarity that only comes in January, when your breath forms little clouds and you catch yourself observing them as if they were something significant. I walk through the streets and think about that word that hasn't left my head for days: threat. A curious word, when you look at it more closely. It contains the element of threat, of course, but also something suspended, something unfulfilled. A threat isn't yet an action; it's a promise of something unpleasant that might happen—or might not. It thrives on possibility, not on reality.
I turn the corner, past the newsagent. The headlines scream at me, even through the shop window: Trade war, escalation, Europe under pressure. I pause for a moment and think of the past, of history lessons at school, of tariffs and trade routes, of things that seemed so dusty and distant back then, so far removed from anything that concerned me. Now they're in the newspaper, as if they'd never been gone.
An older gentleman approaches me, dog on a leash, cap pulled low over his face. We exchange a nod, as one does among walkers, and I wonder if he's also thinking about Greenland, or if his mind is elsewhere entirely—perhaps on lunch, or on the cold that just won't go away. That's the strange thing about these major global political upheavals: they happen somewhere out there, in Brussels and Washington, in press conferences and summits, and at the same time, we're here going about our business, buying bread rolls, walking dogs, carrying on with our little lives as if nothing were amiss.
I continue walking, my hands buried in my pockets. Threat, I think again. The word has something theatrical about it, something of a puffed-up gesture. One threatens with a raised index finger, with narrowed eyes, with a voice that sounds deeper than usual. But what comes after? Either the action—or the backpedaling, the meek concession, the "that's not what I meant at all" excuse. And perhaps that's precisely the problem: We've become so accustomed to the threats that we no longer know when they're meant seriously and when they're just empty rhetoric.
Once home, I turn the radio back on. The tariffs are off the table—for now, they say. Relief in Brussels. I pour myself a second cup of coffee and think: For now. Another word. It promises a reprieve, not a solution. It says: Not today, but maybe tomorrow. It says: Take a deep breath, but stay vigilant.
I drink my coffee and look out the window again. The snow has melted; the roofs glisten damply in the winter sun. Somewhere out there, threats and negotiations continue, tariffs are threatened and withdrawn, borders I considered immutable are being questioned. But here, in this moment, it's quiet. And I think: Perhaps this is also a form of resistance – this silence, this continuing to walk, this not letting oneself be driven crazy. Actually.
S.
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