In answering the climate crisis by designing a better future, we often neglect the influence of comfort and habit on the present. Small acts speak in quieter registers than the grand declarations about how we should live tomorrow that we often hear from podiums. However, as Ramona Dima suggests, perhaps habits begin to change in the cupboard, not the auditorium.
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A white, cis man stands in front of a fairly full auditorium. This is not an unusual image. During the lecture, the white, cis man feels compelled to state his position as a white, cis man several times. It would be unfortunate to not acknowledge this, especially there. The script keeps running habitually. I hear, or more specifically, I paraphrase the sounds as they enter my mind: how can we stop the climate disaster? in what way could we envision the future? what are the possibilities for a sustainable way of living while sharing the planet? Time and time again. I start thinking about the comfort of doing the minimum work with maximum visibility. Empty denominators sometimes ping-pong their way in spaces where ideas are exchanged: be it in academia, here in the “Pluriverse of Peace” series, or in daily life. These abstract conversations feel detached from daily gestures and habits that might already contain the seeds of change.
This is an ordinary, anti-intellectual text about possible answers to these questions. The answers are so obvious that further engagement is insulting. The answers are too mundane for such large, complex, and timely questions about the world’s course. Yet, perhaps the banal can illuminate what macro frameworks overlook: the ways people quietly negotiate sustainability through habit.
A plastic bag filled with plastic bags
I’ll start with one of those banal things: a plastic bag filled with plastic bags. We sometimes joke with our Eastern European friends about this symbol of thrift, and we owe this way of saving to our elders. I have a bag like this, filled with small plastic bags picked up from shops, which I reuse several times until they tear. My partner prefers paper bags. This cultural habit of saving is not, however, limited to Eastern Europe.
Mottainai is a Japanese concept referring to regret about something going to waste, while still usable. It also captures a pragmatic view of physical things and how finite resources were already used to create an object, so why not try to extend its lifespan? Buen Vivir is a similar concept originating from Quechua peoples in the Andes which is tied to conviviality, in both social and environmental regards, also emphasizing critiques of consumerism. I recall the uneasy feeling we had when we decided to replace the fifty years old cooking machine, which still partially worked and had been kept in great shape by the previous owners.
Respect for other beings and resources is also included in Safuu, a concept drawn from the philosophy of the Oromo people. It is a holistic moral outlook in which the well-being of all creatures, both human and nonhuman, is of equal importance. In this philosophy, humans are seen as integral parts of the world, not separate from it (Kenea 2020). These concepts, drawn from different cultural paradigms, highlight a shared sensitivity toward material limits and relational ethics, which are often obscured by Western thought.
Reuse instead of disposal
But what can we make of these principles in the West? On a declarative level, quite a lot. After all, the eco-industry has gained momentum over the past few decades. But what about ‘small consumers,’ as they are called? If conserving resources can be done at the micro level (such as reusing plastic bags), why do people still consume large quantities? Activities that require extra time and effort, such as collecting and cleaning plastic bags for reuse instead of disposing of them immediately, might be inconvenient. Richer societies strive for and seek to maintain comfort.
Several incentives can be effective. For example, the tax on plastic bags in Sweden had a positive effect; many people began reusing plastic bags due to the economic argument. According to Klimatgranskaren (2024), the number of plastic bags purchased per person per year decreased from 83 in 2017 to 14 in 2021. However, the right-wing government abolished the tax in 2024. Did this contribute to changing the habits of the Swedish population? Perhaps, as it may be a good strategy to find incentives that work, since the environmental argument does not always persuade people. People have different motivations for conserving resources, and they may not always be related to saving the planet. And that is OK.
I think of ‘communist’ Eastern European households that treasured plastic bags since they were scarce (Valtin-Erwin 2021). I also think of the recycling system in those times and the joy of no longer having that type of scarcity and control, since all ‘communist’ habits were frowned upon after the fall of the Berlin Wall. This led to Romanians being buried in trash, with 74% of waste ending up in landfills and only a 12% recycling rate (European Environment Agency 2025). Meanwhile, capitalism has also made recycling and scarcity trendy again as part of an effort to dispose of its own waste – of its unwanted yet perfectly reusable things. The West continues to dominate discussions, activism, research, and industries related to the environment and ecology. It acts as a bottleneck between older ways of living and thinking about waste and saving, as well as habits related to these topics, that come from outside the North American and Western European paradigm. Western academia, NGOs, and eco-industries script the language of sustainability this way, turning diverse local wisdoms into marketable global narratives.
The logic of saving (food)
The logic of saving extends even to the most basic necessity: food. The habit of not wasting food emerged from scarcity. I remember the pressure to eat everything on my plate so nothing would go to waste: “It’s a pity to throw away food.” Pity. Some of these habits of older generations persisted even after the fall of the communist regimes. While it makes sense to not waste food or other resources, it is convenient to simply not save leftovers for another meal. The extra effort of putting leftovers in the fridge and reheating them later might be too much.
Depending on the angle one looks at this from, food waste becomes both invisible and someone else’s problem when eating out at a restaurant. Often, people receive full plates and order several courses, only to consume a small portion. Diligent waiters clean up the leftovers. Let’s take a look at what this waste of money and resources means. I remember my friend who, while we were working in a Swedish restaurant, used to weigh over 100 kg of food collected from guests’ plates each evening. I envision a time and place where people can take home their leftovers or order smaller portions according to their needs and appetite at an appropriate price.
Food habits reveal how comfort and moral reasoning intertwine. People sometimes ask me why I am a vegetarian. A progressive answer would involve caring for the environment and the ethical treatment of animals. But my real answer is this: One day, I decided to stop eating meat, and it was easy. Then I thought, ‘Maybe it’s a good idea to avoid eating dead animals after all.’ That’s it. No higher morals were involved; I simply found out that my comfort did not depend on eating meat. Changing this habit did not require extensive effort, remorse, or relapses, unlike what some people apologetically share about their ‘failures’ in becoming vegetarians. How do we feel about comfort and habit in relation to others, including other beings?
Questioning habits
Sometimes, habits are created out of necessity. However, it’s also clear that sometimes the need isn’t there. I once saw a Swedish family exit an expensive SUV carrying plastic bags filled with metal cans and plastic bottles. They passed by a person asking for money by the shop entrance. We are used to leaving our empty containers near bins so that people can collect them. While in London, however, a friend stopped me, saying that this was littering and unlawful. The Swedish family headed to the recycling machine, emptied their bags, and went inside to continue shopping. They used the paper receipt that gave them money back at the register. Then, they returned to the car and left. Was this an example of a conscious, environmentally friendly decision that had nothing to do with the incentive of getting money in return? Is the accumulation of capital and objects really a need for everyone?
Take a moment to think about which objects you donated last month, which ones you use most frequently, and which ones you haven’t touched in a while. Some people avoid clutter and things they find useless. I think of older people who accumulate stuff because they lived in times of scarcity, when acquiring a desired object required a lot of work and struggle. Money, energy, and pity converge when one needs to clear out such homes after a death. Why is accumulation still the norm nowadays in richer parts of the world? It might be worth thinking about ownership and utility the way we think about time: how to use it most fittingly for our lifestyles.
Alternative hedonism
Although Buen Vivir translates to ‘the good life,’ the philosophical principles behind these two concepts do not always align. In the Western, Anglophone world, the good life is tied to having and consuming in the present moment. In a conversation on alternative hedonism, philosopher Kate Soper argues for finding incentives, personal motivations, and gains for changing behaviors. These incentives do not always have to be linked to the greater peril of climate developments. Furthermore, enjoyment plays a key role. Some of us might enjoy taking the train to the office for hours instead of flying for various reasons: we might work better on the train; it might be more comfortable and social; we can keep in touch with friends and loved ones; we can run errands; and we don’t have to stress about missing other trains or buses from the airport, not to mention security times and other possible delays.
Next, I turn to a quick fix for deciding if a habit is more feasible than an alternative. First, find the incentive, such as gaining time, money, or having space to think. Then, calculate the give-and-takes and compare the alternatives. For example, consider living in a place with easy access to public transportation. A trip to work takes less time by bus or train than driving, not to mention the time it takes to find a parking spot. Yet, many still find it worthwhile to drive, losing time and money for an illusory sense of comfort. Of course, not everyone can easily use public transportation because disparities in accessibility vary across the world. I dread rainy mornings when I need to order a taxi for my disabled mother, who lives in a different country, when she has a doctor’s appointment or errands in the city.
‘Don’t waste public transportation!’
On rainy days, I find myself envying the hordes of young, able-bodied professionals rushing to work and keeping taxi apps busy after exhausting gig-economy options. Sometimes, it takes me forever to find an available taxi, and I rejoice at each success. Now, picture a million city inhabitants rushing to their cars at once to face the rain and angrily watching the windshield wipers move back and forth for an hour in infernal traffic. Now, picture the alternative: nine hundred thousand of these people leaving the roads free for those who really need them – ambulances, taxis carrying elderly disabled individuals, and buses. Now, picture megacities such as Hong Kong, Tokyo, Mumbai, Dhaka, and Seoul. According to an interactive map showing commuting patterns for over 850 million people, less than 14% of the population of these cities commutes to work by car. The incentives there are complex and efficient. I imagine that Mottainai is one of them: Don’t waste public transportation! Imagine how these cities would look if the percentages were reversed.
Perhaps, then, the question is less about designing the future and more about how comfort and habit influence the present. Small acts speak in quieter registers than the grand declarations we often hear from podiums. Returning to our initial speaker, I wonder if he has a bag of plastic bags in his cupboard. Maybe that’s where habits start to change: in the cupboard, not the auditorium.