I always thought we had an environmental problem, but I hadn't

Vivienne Westwood, the fiery spirit of fashion and rebellion, once spoke with a trembling urgency: “I always thought we had an environmental problem, but I hadn’t realized how urgent it was. James Lovelock writes that by the end of this century there will be one billion people left.” Her words strike like thunder across the heart, a reminder that what we once thought of as distant or abstract has become immediate, pressing, and perilous. She takes the voice of a witness who has moved from vague awareness to terrible clarity: that the earth’s wounds deepen, and time itself is narrowing.

The phrase environmental problem once seemed manageable, like smoke to be cleared or rivers to be cleaned. Yet Westwood confesses that she had not known how urgent the matter truly was. Here lies the awakening of the modern soul: to realize that the earth is not infinite, that its balance can shatter, and that human hands themselves have hastened the breaking. This awakening is not gentle, but fierce, for it shifts the mind from comfort to crisis, from complacency to responsibility.

In invoking the prophet-scientist James Lovelock, Westwood anchors her cry in the Gaia hypothesis—that the earth is not a mere rock, but a living system, capable of nurturing and capable of collapse. Lovelock warns that by the end of this century, should current paths remain unchanged, humanity may be reduced to a remnant, a mere one billion souls clinging to survival. It is a vision not of gradual decline but of cataclysm, a collapse of abundance into scarcity. Westwood, echoing his words, takes upon herself the role of messenger, urging us to see what lies ahead if we remain blind.

History offers us grim parallels. Consider the fall of Easter Island, once lush with forests, later stripped bare by the very people who relied upon it. Their statues still stand, silent witnesses to a society that consumed beyond its means and fell into ruin. Multiply this by the scale of the earth, and Westwood’s fear becomes clear: the fate of a small island is now the fate of the entire planet. What was once local devastation may become universal.

Yet her words are not only doom but also fire to awaken courage. The ancients, too, often framed warnings in stark visions: the prophets of Israel, the oracles of Delphi, the seers of many nations. They did so not to paralyze, but to rouse. By naming the terrible consequence—that only one billion may endure—Westwood shakes us from our slumber, reminding us that the choices of today carve the fate of tomorrow. The urgency is a gift, for it cuts through illusion and demands action.

The lesson is plain: we must not see the environmental problem as tomorrow’s burden but as today’s command. Each person, each community, each nation must rise to stewardship. Reduce waste, honor resources, guard forests, cleanse waters, support technologies and policies that heal rather than harm. The problem is vast, but so too is human ingenuity—if only it is turned toward balance and not destruction.

So let us take these words as both warning and vow: to live as guardians, not exploiters, of the living earth. Do not say, “It is too late,” for that is the language of despair. Instead, say, “It is urgent,” for that is the language of action. If we choose rightly, perhaps the prophecy of one billion need not come to pass. But if we delay, Westwood’s alarm will echo as the epitaph of a civilization that knew the truth and did not act. Let us instead be remembered as the generation that turned back from the brink, that honored the earth, and that gave life to centuries yet unborn.