Explainers

On the eve of the Lunar New Year in 2026, many people noticed an unusual occurrence: there is no Day 30 this year. The twelfth month of the lunar calendar has only 29 days, and after Day 29, it directly transitions to Day 1 of the new year. This is not a calendrical error or a deliberate adjustment, but rather a natural consequence of astronomical movements. In fact, from 2025 to 2029, there will be five consecutive lunar years without a Day 30, with the next occurrence not expected until 2030.

To understand this phenomenon, one must first grasp the fundamentals of the lunar calendar. The lunar calendar is a lunisolar calendar. Months are determined by the waxing and waning of the moon, with each astronomical new moon, or ‘Shuo’, marking the first day of the lunar month. The average duration from one new moon to the next is approximately 29.53 days, known as a synodic month. Since calendar dates cannot be fractional, each month can only have either 29 or 30 days. If the interval between two new moons is less than 30 days, that month is a short month with 29 days; if it exceeds, it is a long month with 30 days.

When the twelfth month of the lunar calendar happens to be a short month, the last day of the year is Day 29, not Day 30. This entirely depends on the actual length of the synodic month. The year 2026 falls into this category, hence the absence of Day 30. Such arrangements are not uncommon; they are a natural result of the moon’s orbital cycle.

As for why the Lunar New Year does not have a fixed date in the Gregorian calendar, the key lies in the differing foundations of the two calendars. Twelve synodic months total about 354 days, which is approximately 11 days shorter than the Gregorian year of about 365 days. Without adjustments, the Lunar New Year would advance each year, eventually drifting away from its original seasonal alignment. To keep the calendar in sync with the seasons, the lunar calendar employs a leap month system. When specific conditions arise in the arrangement of solar terms and months, an extra leap month is added to compensate for the discrepancy with the solar year.

For this reason, the date of the Lunar New Year fluctuates between January 21 and February 20 in the Gregorian calendar. The first day of the lunar new year in 2026 falls on February 17, which is simply a result of astronomical calculations. The Gregorian calendar seeks consistency and regularity, while the lunar calendar reflects the actual rhythms of the moon and sun. The differing systems naturally lead to different expressions.

Once we understand this principle, we will not be confused by the absence of a ’30’. The arrangement of time is not arbitrarily decided; it is a manifestation of celestial movements on Earth. The variability of the lunar calendar is a testament to its respect for natural rhythms.

The film “Don’t Look Up” superficially presents itself as a black comedy or tragedy about an asteroid colliding with Earth. However, the true discomfort lies not in the celestial threat but in humanity’s response patterns when faced with clear crises. The film repeatedly reminds viewers that the issue is not one of ignorance, but rather the choice to disregard what is known.

Many have pointed out that the asteroid serves as a metaphor for climate change. Its trajectory is clear, the data has been repeatedly verified, and the timeline is already laid out in models, yet it is persistently delayed, downplayed, and politicized. Much like global warming, the problem has never been a lack of evidence but the stark reality of the costs associated with acknowledgment.

When the two astronomers first enter the White House and clearly outline the timeline and probability of the asteroid’s impact, there is no scientific controversy left. The data is consistent, the models align, and even uncertainties have been accounted for. Yet the first question from political figures is not how to respond, but whether discussing it will affect their electoral prospects. This scene is not exaggerated; it starkly presents a reality: within power structures, the severity of a crisis often must first be filtered through political costs. It is not a matter of misunderstanding but of inconvenient truths.

This distortion is further amplified in the media landscape. When scientific warnings are brought to morning talk shows, rational discourse is quickly consumed by the show’s rhythm. “Don’t be too heavy,” and “Viewers don’t want to hear this first thing in the morning,” lead to the end of the world being packaged as palatable entertainment. When a female scientist breaks down emotionally and cries out, the content of her message becomes secondary; what matters is that she has “lost her composure.” The film’s satire here is chillingly calm: in a media environment that prioritizes emotional management, the validity of facts is often overshadowed by whether the speaker is deemed “appropriate.”

Ironically, when there is already a viable plan with a high success rate to mitigate the crisis, the decision is easily rewritten by a tech billionaire. In his narrative, the asteroid is no longer a threat to be destroyed but rather an untapped source of immense wealth; risk is no longer a disaster to be avoided but a probability to be embraced in the innovation process. The original goal of “saving the planet” is suddenly transformed into a grand scheme of “making a fortune on the side.” As for what happens in the event of failure, it is cleverly obscured, as if simply not stating it clearly will prevent the consequences from occurring. The film mocks not only greed but also a profound arrogance that believes capital and technology can transcend risk itself—an attitude frequently observed in climate policy.

As time progresses, the asteroid becomes visible to the naked eye, no longer requiring telescopes, yet denial enters a new phase. “Don’t look up” becomes not just a slogan but a marker of political identity. As long as leaders say there is no need to look, supporters learn to avert their gaze. At this moment, the film’s focus transcends a single issue, pointing to a more universal phenomenon: when facts conflict with positions, people often choose to protect their stance rather than correct their understanding. It is not that the evidence is unclear; rather, clarity itself becomes unacceptable.

In the end, the world is not saved. There are no heroes to reverse the situation, no miracles to be found. All that remains is an ordinary dinner, where a group of people acknowledges their powerlessness and finally stops deceiving themselves. This scene is poignant precisely because it stands in stark contrast to all previous political performances, media noise, and technological fervor. When all grand narratives collapse, humanity briefly returns to honesty.

The sharpest satire of “Don’t Look Up” lies not in its depiction of a foolish world but in its portrayal of a reality where rationality is systematically suppressed. Here, people are not indifferent due to a lack of evidence; rather, they are paralyzed by the clarity of the evidence, which compels them to change their lives, challenge power, and bear the costs.

As the film concludes, the asteroid arrives as expected. This is not a conclusion but a question: when real-life “asteroids”—be they climate change or other imminent crises—repeatedly loom above us, do we truly not see them, or have we learned to choose not to look up under the guidance of power and money?

When measuring a country’s achievements, GDP is never the final destination. The true bottom line is how long people live. When examining this indicator, the United States’ performance is strikingly disproportionate to its wealth status.

First, let’s look at the numbers. The life expectancy at birth for American men is around 75 to 76 years; in contrast, men in other high-income countries such as the UK, Germany, France, and Japan generally live between 79 and 81 years. For women, the life expectancy in the U.S. is approximately 80 to 81 years, while Western Europe averages between 83 and 85 years, and Japan reaches 86 to 87 years. In both genders, the U.S. lags significantly behind its peers, with the gap for men being particularly pronounced, further dragging down the overall life expectancy.

This discrepancy is not due to insufficient healthcare spending. On the contrary, the U.S. boasts the highest healthcare expenditures among OECD countries. In recent years, American healthcare spending has accounted for about 17 to 18% of GDP, far exceeding the 9 to 12% typical of other developed nations. In other words, the proportion of GDP the U.S. allocates to healthcare is nearly double that of some countries, yet it fails to yield corresponding life expectancy outcomes.

The issue lies not in how much is spent, but in how it is spent. The U.S. still lacks a universal healthcare system, leaving tens of millions without any health insurance, while many more have only nominal coverage. Access to medical care depends on employment status and insurance terms. Under this system, illness is not merely a health issue but also a financial risk.

More critically, even with insurance, coverage does not guarantee security. Insurance denials are not uncommon in the U.S., with various technical reasons frequently cited. For the average person, the appeals process is complex and costly, often requiring time, expertise, and even legal support. Consequently, most individuals choose to forgo pursuing claims or are simply too afraid to seek medical help. Over time, the choice to ‘avoid getting sick’ becomes a rational decision.

This is directly reflected in mortality statistics. Numerous studies indicate a significant proportion of avoidable deaths in the U.S.: people do not die from medical impossibilities but rather due to delayed treatment, chronic diseases that cannot be managed over the long term, or the fear of bills that prevents them from visiting emergency rooms during crises. During the pandemic, the mortality rate among uninsured populations was significantly higher, a trend that is not incidental but rather a systemic inevitability.

Even in the absence of immediate death, the healthcare system continues to erode life expectancy. Chronic diseases such as cardiovascular disease, diabetes, and kidney disease, which require stable follow-up, typically imply long-term coexistence in countries with universal healthcare. In the U.S., however, these conditions often spiral out of control due to insurance lapses, denials, or prohibitively high out-of-pocket costs, ultimately leading to premature death.

Ironically, the U.S. does not lack cutting-edge medical technology. It leads the world in advanced treatments, drug development, and specialized medicine. However, longevity is never achieved through the most expensive technologies; it is built on accessible, stable, and affordable basic healthcare. A system that invests substantial resources upstream while imposing heavy barriers at the entry point is destined to be inefficient.

The lag in life expectancy indicates that the issue is not that America is insufficiently wealthy, but rather that there is a fundamental imbalance in institutional choices. When healthcare spending approaches one-fifth of GDP yet still allows people to die prematurely due to insurance issues, denials, and bills, the societal cost incurred far exceeds what any fiscal numbers can explain.

When discussing wind power, critics often point to the same scenario: strong winds but stationary turbines, leading to electricity being ‘wasted’. Consequently, some conclude that this reflects a failure of the system, a misallocation of investment, or even that no further wind turbines should be built. This perspective, while seemingly intuitive, overlooks the fundamental logic of energy transition.

Let us first lay the facts on the table. The so-called curtailment of wind power does not mean that the electricity is unwanted; rather, it occurs when generation exceeds the immediate transmission capacity of the grid, necessitating a limitation on output. In the context of the UK in 2025, the curtailed wind power is expected to account for about 10% of the total potential wind generation for the year. In other words, nearly 90% of wind power will still be successfully delivered to the grid and utilized. To base the success or failure of energy policy on this transitional 10% is to miss the point entirely.

Understanding this issue is not difficult. Imagine the energy system as akin to constructing a building. Many large residential projects often begin with road construction, laying pipes, and pulling cables, even before the houses are built. In the short term, the roads may be empty and the lines underutilized, but no one would accuse this of being wasteful. Without these preparatory works, the houses could not possibly come into existence.

The relationship between the grid and wind power is similar. Wind turbines can be constructed quickly, while grid upgrades progress more slowly; thus, the two cannot be perfectly synchronized in timing. As the penetration of renewable energy begins to rise, transmission bottlenecks will inevitably emerge first. This is not an error but rather a structural friction that arises once the transition reaches a certain scale.

More importantly, wind power curtailment is a transitional issue. The limitations seen today along the North Sea coast or in certain areas of Scotland are not the norm for the system; they are highly concentrated in specific locations and times. With the strengthening of transmission lines, enhanced inter-regional transport capacity, and the gradual maturation of energy storage and demand management, these bottlenecks will be systematically resolved. Looking back a decade from now, today’s curtailment will merely be an inconvenience during a construction phase, not a long-term loss.

Some have thus argued: since curtailment occurs, we should not build more wind turbines. This reasoning completely reverses the causal relationship. Without a sufficient amount of wind power, there is no economic value in upgrading the grid. Investments in the grid often run into billions of pounds and cannot occur in a vacuum; they require clear and sustained demand signals. If the scale of wind power is insufficient, grid expansion will only become an idle asset, yielding no returns and making it difficult to achieve political and social consensus.

The true logic should be: wind power must come first, making grid upgrades worthwhile. When both wind power and the grid are gradually perfected, cheap, stable, and zero-fuel-cost renewable energy will transition from being a ‘supplementary option’ to the norm of the system. To demand zero curtailment before the grid is adequately established is, in itself, an unrealistic expectation.

From a broader perspective, the benefits brought by wind power have long surpassed the approximately 10% of curtailed output. It lowers overall generation costs, reduces reliance on fossil fuels, and provides a clear and credible investment direction for future grid upgrades. Focusing solely on curtailment while ignoring the nearly 90% of stable power supply is neither rational nor honest.

The real waste is not the temporarily unused wind, but rather the fear and misunderstanding that halt the progress that should continue.

Many people harbor reservations about microwaves; the mere mention of “radiation” evokes feelings of insecurity. There are frequent claims that microwaves alter food quality and that prolonged use is detrimental to health, leading some to prefer traditional cooking methods over microwave ovens. However, this fear largely stems from a misunderstanding of “radiation.”

Let us clarify a fundamental fact: microwaves do emit radiation, but it is non-ionizing radiation, distinct from the ionizing radiation of X-rays and gamma rays that can damage DNA. Microwaves operate at approximately 2.45 GHz, causing water molecules within food to vibrate, generating heat without altering molecular structure or affecting genes. When the power is turned off, microwaves dissipate immediately and do not linger in food.

How does a microwave heat food? The process is quite straightforward, as it delivers energy directly into the food. Consequently, foods with high water content heat up particularly quickly, while drier items or those requiring browning or crisping are less effective. This characteristic leads to a practical question: is using a microwave a cost-saving measure or a waste of money?

The answer is clear: in most everyday situations, microwaves are indeed cost-effective. Many people see the power rating of microwaves, which ranges from 800 to 1000 W, and assume they consume a lot of electricity. However, electricity consumption is not solely determined by power rating; duration of use is also crucial. Reheating a dish or a bowl of soup typically takes 2 to 3 minutes, consuming about 0.03 to 0.05 kilowatt-hours. In contrast, ovens or stovetops not only need to heat the food but also preheat the entire oven cavity, cookware, and air, often taking 20 to 30 minutes, resulting in electricity consumption that can be several times or even ten times that of a microwave. While the difference may not be apparent after one or two uses, over time, the disparity in electricity costs becomes significant.

Thus, knowing how to use a microwave effectively is essential. It excels at reheating leftovers, quickly defrosting, heating ready-to-eat meals, and simple steaming of small portions. In these scenarios, the microwave efficiently converts most of its energy into heat for the food, with minimal waste into the environment.

However, it is equally important to recognize its limitations. Microwaves are unsuitable for baking, frying, or browning, and they are not ideal for cooking large quantities of food at once. Bread will not crisp, and meat will not brown—not due to any deficiency in the microwave, but because its heating method cannot achieve these effects. Attempting to replace an oven with a microwave will not only yield poor results but will also negate any energy-saving benefits.

Another often overlooked point is that microwaves do not significantly raise kitchen temperatures. Ovens or open flames can increase indoor temperatures during summer, indirectly increasing the electricity consumption of fans or air conditioning. This “hidden energy consumption” is virtually nonexistent with microwaves.

Regarding safety, as long as the product is certified and used correctly, microwave leakage is minimal. The metal mesh on the oven door is designed to block microwave leakage, and typically, standing next to a microwave while it heats food exposes one to less energy than using a mobile phone. What should truly be avoided are damaged devices, loose door hinges, or placing metal containers inside the oven—these are basic electrical safety issues, not radiation concerns.

In summary, microwaves are not a panacea, but they are not a trap either. When used appropriately, they are safe and energy-efficient; when misused, they will naturally yield poor results. The issue has never been the microwave itself, but rather whether we understand its principles and limitations.

South Korea’s democratization is often simplified to a single year: 1987. However, focusing solely on that pivotal moment would lead one to mistakenly believe that democracy was a gift bestowed by reform. In reality, South Korea’s democracy emerged as a result of a long-term struggle, driven by societal pressure rather than negotiations at the bargaining table.

After its establishment in 1948, South Korea quickly descended into authoritarian rule. In 1961, Park Chung-hee staged a military coup, establishing a dictatorship under the guise of anti-communism and economic development. While this regime did promote industrialization, it simultaneously repressed political freedoms. Presidential power was highly concentrated, speech was controlled, and opposition figures were monitored, arrested, or even disappeared. Although elections and a parliament existed on the surface, the source of power was not the people, but the military and security apparatus.

Following Park Chung-hee’s assassination in 1979, democracy did not materialize. Chun Doo-hwan seized power, imposed martial law, and violently suppressed the Gwangju uprising in 1980. The military opened fire on civilians, with the official death toll exceeding 200, while civilian estimates suggest over 600 fatalities. The Gwangju incident shattered the illusion that authoritarianism could be gently reformed and made society acutely aware that without sacrifice, the system would not loosen its grip.

Key figures gradually emerged during this tumultuous period. Kim Dae-jung, a long-time opponent of the military government, was repeatedly arrested, placed under house arrest, and even sentenced to death by a military court in 1980. Kim Young-sam faced long-term deprivation of political rights, including the revocation of his parliamentary seat. Though neither was perfect, their willingness to take personal risks in an era of closed systems represented a form of political action. More importantly, they symbolized two factions within the opposition that had yet to unite.

The true turning point came in 1987. Park Jong-chul, a student in Seoul, died from torture while in police custody, and the authorities’ attempts to cover up the truth ignited nationwide outrage. In June, millions took to the streets demanding the abolition of the authoritarian regime and the implementation of direct presidential elections. Faced with the risk of losing control, the military government was compelled to concede and agreed to constitutional amendments.

On December 16 of that year, South Korea held its first-ever presidential election by popular vote. However, the victor was Roh Tae-woo, a former military figure. This outcome was not due to public support for authoritarianism, but rather the opposition’s failure to unify. Kim Dae-jung and Kim Young-sam both ran for office, leading to a split in votes that allowed Roh to win with a relative minority. This election clearly illustrated that while the system could be opened, the maturation of democratic politics would still require time and consolidation.

Nevertheless, this step was irreversible. From that point on, power had to be obtained through the ballot box, rather than through guns, martial law, or backroom deals. Democracy is not achieved overnight; it takes root in an imperfect reality and gradually expands its boundaries.

Today, discussions about South Korea often focus on K-pop, Korean dramas, technology industries, and the so-called ‘economic miracle.’ Yet, without democracy, none of this would be possible. Creative freedom, information flow, capital confidence, and institutional stability are all extensions of political transformation. While authoritarianism can concentrate resources, it cannot foster long-term creativity.

South Korea’s democracy is the result of countless individuals who have fought tirelessly. Some fell in Gwangju, some were imprisoned, and others were blacklisted for life until the system changed and they regained their names. It serves as a reminder that democracy has never been a natural progression in history, but rather a choice made by society at critical moments to no longer retreat.

The tipping culture in the United States has long been framed as a social custom of “thoughtfulness” and “respect for service workers.” However, when one strips away the emotional aspect and examines the system itself, it becomes apparent that it is a mechanism that shifts the employer’s responsibility onto the customer. Moreover, this arrangement is quite unique among developed economies.

In the U.S., many restaurant workers, despite meeting the legal minimum wage, still earn relatively low actual wages, and the minimum wage has not been raised in years, failing to keep pace with the cost of living. As a result, tips have evolved from being merely a reward for service to a necessary supplement for basic living expenses. This is not solely a matter of custom but rather a structural issue supported by labor laws and industry practices.

The crux of the problem is that tipping has never been truly “voluntary.” When the bill presents preset options of 18%, 20%, or even 25%, the customer is not faced with a genuine choice regarding rewarding service but rather a clear social pressure. Failing to tip or tipping less is often interpreted not as a judgment on the service but as a sign of being “rude” or “ill-mannered.” Consequently, customers are compelled to subsidize the wages of someone they did not hire, which should be the employer’s responsibility.

This awkward role reversal has long been exposed by popular culture. In one scene from “Friends,” Ross dines with Rachel’s father, Dr. Green. After Dr. Green leaves a low tip, Ross feels compelled to add more money discreetly. The outcome is not one of mutual satisfaction but rather displeasure from Dr. Green, who perceives Ross’s action as a denial of his judgment. This scene is poignant because it reveals the essence of tipping culture: customers are neither employers nor free from moral responsibility for insufficient wages; any remedial action is interpreted as a moral judgment on others.

When comparing the U.S. to international standards, the uniqueness of this system becomes even more apparent. In Europe, most countries do not expect customers to tip beyond the bill, as restaurant prices clearly include labor costs. In the UK, tipping culture is relatively restrained; customers are not obliged to add extra money. Some restaurants may include a service charge of about 10% in the bill, but this is a clearly stated price arrangement rather than an after-the-fact moral pressure. In Japan, the situation is even clearer, as service is viewed as a professional duty, and employees may even refuse tips, believing they are not deserved.

Proponents of the tipping system often argue that tips incentivize better service. However, this assertion overlooks a fundamental fact: the quality of service primarily depends on training, management, and working conditions, rather than the customer’s immediate subjective feelings. When a server’s income is heavily reliant on tips, their focus often shifts from merely performing their job well to pleasing the customer. This not only distorts professional relationships but also fosters inequity. Numerous studies have shown that tip amounts are highly correlated with factors such as appearance, gender, and race, yet do not necessarily correlate with the professionalism of the service itself.

Even more unreasonable is that the risks are almost entirely borne by the most vulnerable party. During slow business, when customers are frugal, or in an economic downturn, it is not the restaurant owner who bears the brunt but the frontline employees. With income highly volatile yet requiring high-intensity labor, such a system is difficult to label as fair.

Some argue that classifying tips as tax-exempt income could help lower-income workers. However, this is not a viable solution. Designating tips as tax-exempt may appear to assist the working class, but it would actually provide employers with an incentive to further replace wages with tips, exacerbating systemic loopholes rather than addressing the root problem.

The tipping culture in the U.S. ultimately protects not the workers but a cost-cutting business model. It allows restaurants to attract customers with seemingly low prices while hiding the true costs behind psychological pressure at the checkout. On the surface, it appears to be “up to you how much to give,” but in reality, not tipping is viewed as a moral failing.

A healthy labor system should place the responsibility of paying fair wages on employers, not rely on social shame to maintain a façade. When a system requires constant moral pressure to function, it is inherently unsustainable. Tipping should not be a substitute for wages, nor should it serve as a tool for employers to evade responsibility. The real question should not be whether customers tip, but why this responsibility is so readily transferred.

The last coal-fired power plant in the UK will officially retire in September 2024. This is not merely a symbolic gesture but a consequence of market logic: as the costs of renewable energy and flexible power sources decline rapidly, coal power has become increasingly untenable, making its exit merely a matter of time.

In this context, however, the United States is moving against the tide. The political faction associated with Trump has invoked emergency powers from the Department of Energy to keep aging coal plants, originally slated for retirement, operational, citing grid stability and energy security. Yet, most of these units are outdated and inefficient, driven not by market demand but by administrative intervention. From the perspective of the power system, coal power, even when regarded as a ‘dispatchable source’, lacks the flexibility required by modern grids. Natural gas peaker plants can start up within minutes to meet peak loads, while coal plants often require hours to ramp up and stabilize output, exhibiting poor regulation capabilities and incurring high costs for labor, maintenance, fuel storage, and environmental compliance, resulting in a slow and expensive process.

Cost figures further elucidate the issue. Recent mainstream estimates indicate that the Levelized Cost of Energy (LCOE) for coal power ranges from $71 to $173 per MWh; for natural gas combined cycle, it is about $48 to $109 per MWh; and large-scale wind and solar have largely fallen between $50 and $80 per MWh. In this context, forcibly prolonging the lifespan of coal power will merely shift higher costs onto electricity prices. Various studies estimate that such policies will impose an additional annual cost of approximately $3.1 billion on American consumers, with retail price increases in some states potentially reaching several percentage points.

The core issue in the United States is the ‘use of high-cost power sources’, while China has opted for ‘massive new construction of erroneous power sources’. In recent years, China has continued to approve new coal power projects and heavily relies on public resources, including local government financing support, policy bank loans, and various subsidies. Official narratives often cite energy security as the rationale, but the reality is that, amid the rapid expansion of wind, solar, and energy storage, the utilization rate of coal power has been low and is still declining. Increasingly, newly constructed units operate only as backups or at low loads, yet they must bear high capital costs, making it economically challenging to recoup investments within their designed lifespan. In other words, these coal plants are on a trajectory to become stranded assets from the moment they are completed, consuming public funds and emission allowances without generating corresponding value in electricity generation.

In both the United States and China, the underlying logic of policy is not long-term efficiency but rather short-term political risk management. Power outages represent an immediate, visible risk with high political costs; high costs or stranded assets are chronic, diffuse issues that can be deferred. Thus, the choice tends to lean towards ‘first avoiding power outages, and we will deal with the rest later’. The UK has simply accepted the reality earlier: coal power has been eliminated by rational economic logic. This path is one that other countries will ultimately be unable to avoid.

For the past century, ski resorts have symbolized winter stability, nature’s generosity, and the lifeblood of mountain economies. Today, they have become the most visible and brutal victims of global warming. In the European Alps, an increasing number of ski resorts are quietly closing, not due to mismanagement, but because the absence of snow has become the norm. The disappearance of white slopes has not led to successful transformations, but rather to abandoned ‘ghost towns.’

The low-altitude ski resorts in the French Alps were the first to fall. Historic small resorts like Céüze, once the economic heart of local communities, provided jobs and income for entire valleys during winter. Now, as the snow line rises year by year and natural snowfall becomes increasingly unreliable, even artificial snowmaking often fails due to insufficiently low temperatures. Snowmaking equipment requires electricity and water, which are costly, while returns are becoming more uncertain. Consequently, local governments have ceased subsidies, operators choose to stem losses, and ski lifts stop running, leading to the closure of restaurants and hotels.

This is not an isolated incident but a structural collapse. The economic model of ski resorts is predicated on the assumption that ‘winter will always be cold.’ When this premise fails, the entire industry chain breaks down. Unemployment first strikes the grassroots level: ski lift operators, slope maintenance workers, and seasonal instructors; next, it affects hotels, guesthouses, restaurants, and equipment rental shops. Mountain economies are highly singular, and once winter tourism disappears, alternative industries are often non-existent, making population outflow nearly inevitable.

Some may think this is merely a European issue, with Asia still having room to maneuver. However, experiences from Japan and South Korea are shattering this illusion. Japan, renowned for its ‘powder snow,’ attracts a large number of overseas ski tourists, but in recent years, frequent warm winters have delayed the start of the season and led to inconsistent snow conditions, becoming a well-known concern in the industry. Some low-altitude ski resorts have had to shorten their operating periods or even close for the entire year. For rural areas reliant on winter tourism, this is not just a decline in tourism revenue but a destabilization of local finances and employment structures.

The situation in South Korea is equally severe. Many ski resorts are located at lower latitudes and altitudes, making them heavily dependent on artificial snow. With climate change, the ‘cold windows’ suitable for snowmaking have shortened, while electricity and water costs continue to rise. Some ski resorts require government support just to barely survive; otherwise, they face closure. These closures often do not make international headlines, but their impact on local communities is no less significant than that in the Alps.

It is worth noting that this crisis did not arrive suddenly. The scientific community has long pointed out that as global average temperatures rise, winter snowfall will exhibit ‘less and more unstable’ characteristics, particularly in mid- to low-altitude regions. The question is not whether it will happen, but when and how quickly it will occur. The closures of ski resorts today are, in fact, a delayed reckoning of years of ignored risks.

Ironically, artificial snowmaking itself is not a long-term solution. It is energy- and water-intensive, deepening reliance on cold climates and creating a vicious cycle. Once temperatures surpass a certain threshold, technology will be powerless. By then, the so-called ‘transformation’ will be nothing more than a slogan, leaving behind only sunk costs and shattered communities.

The closures of ski resorts remind us that global warming is not an abstract statistic or a distant future, but an ongoing economic and social event. It first strikes marginal areas, taking away seasonal jobs, hollowing out local economies, and ultimately rewriting demographic maps. Today, it is the slopes that disappear; tomorrow, it could be entire industries.

If there is one question worth pondering, it is this: when climate change has already begun to reshape landscapes and livelihoods, do we still pretend that this is merely the ‘individual misfortune’ of certain industries? The fate of ski resorts may be a preview of what awaits other industries reliant on stable climates.

In 2020, the shipping industry implemented a comprehensive ban on high-sulfur fuel, leading to a curious reversal in climate discussions. Recent studies suggest that this policy, originally aimed at improving air quality, could result in an additional global warming of 0.05°C in the short term. The reason is not mysterious: the sulfate aerosols produced from burning high-sulfur fuel reflect solar radiation and enhance the brightness of low clouds over the ocean, creating a cooling mask that has persisted for years. When this mask is rapidly removed on a global scale, the warming already locked in by carbon dioxide becomes more pronounced.

However, this does not imply that decision-makers are ignoring science. The core rationale for the sulfur ban has never been climate-related but rather focused on public health. The fine particulate matter and acid pollution emitted from high-sulfur fuel have direct and clear detrimental effects on the respiratory and cardiovascular health of port cities and coastal communities. These impacts can be quantified and immediately mitigated through policy. In contrast, the 0.05°C increase is an indirect consequence at the level of the overall climate system, making it difficult to justify the retention of pollution. Consequently, the governing rules are not dictated by the climate sector but by the shipping regulatory framework grounded in safety and health, such as the International Maritime Organization.

Given that the short-term warming effect of the sulfur ban is more apparent, a seemingly compromise suggestion has emerged in recent years: should high-sulfur fuel only be banned in nearshore and port waters while allowing ships to continue using it in the open ocean to retain some cooling effects while alleviating health impacts along the coast? This concept appears reasonable on paper, but it fails both physically and institutionally. Sulfate aerosols do not remain offshore; they diffuse to coastal areas and even inland within days due to atmospheric circulation. Moreover, sulfur ultimately returns to the surface through deposition, causing acid rain and ocean surface acidification, which harm ecosystems. Pollution does not respect coastal boundaries; simply increasing sulfur emissions offshore is merely a fantasy.

A deeper issue lies in the temporal structure of climate governance. The cooling effect of sulfur is a typical flow effect that requires continuous emissions to exist; in contrast, carbon dioxide is a stock problem that can accumulate in the atmosphere for hundreds of years once emitted. Intentionally retaining high-sulfur fuel as a climate buffer would only establish system stability on a form of pollution that will eventually be phased out, laying the groundwork for a more severe warming rebound in the future. From this perspective, that 0.05°C is not new warming caused by the sulfur ban but rather a reality that has long existed, merely obscured in the past.

Therefore, the ban on high-sulfur fuel is not a result of scientific ignorance but rather a choice grounded in clear value judgments. It rejects the extension of a fragile climate illusion at the expense of health and the environment, compelling society to confront the real challenge: when the mask is removed, the only sustainable path to cooling is to reduce greenhouse gas emissions more quickly and thoroughly, rather than seeking gray areas of pollution between nearshore and offshore.