I woke up this morning, opened the newspapers, and learned—courtesy of Minister of Interior Bernard Quintin—that due to the geopolitical situation and, of course, climate change, we must prepare to flee or take shelter with an emergency kit for 72 hours: cash money, candles, water, and enough toilet paper to survive both war and bureaucracy.
In a certain way, this is reassuring.
The war in Ukraine has already lasted longer than each of the previous world wars, yet we are advised to prepare for just 72 hours. Not 73. Not 96. Precisely 72. Apparently, catastrophe in Belgium operates on a tight administrative schedule.
On the other hand, if policymakers are quietly factoring in nuclear scenarios, 72 hours is already far too optimistic. In that case, the candles are less about lighting and more about symbolism.
Adding climate change to the messaging is supposed to soften the tone. It doesn’t. It only broadens the category of existential threats to include everything from geopolitical collapse to heavy rain in Antwerp.
The real question is: where exactly are we supposed to flee? And how? With fuel prices where they are, in the event of a real crisis, the first shortage will not be toilet paper—it will be gasoline.
Meanwhile, another Belgian paradox quietly continues in the background.
According to academic analysis from institutions such as UCLouvain, Belgium operates with 7 parliaments, 6 governments, 5 layers of power, and over 30,000 political mandates. One could argue this is not governance—it is a political ecosystem. Yet we are told the priority is preparedness.
Preparedness for what exactly? A crisis—or the coordination meeting to define which level of government is responsible for the crisis?
Criticizing politicians is fashionable, but the deeper issue is structural.
Belgium employs roughly 18–19% of its workforce in the public sector, according to OECD data. Nearly one in five workers depends directly on the state.
These workers benefit from pension systems that, as official Belgian data confirms, are structurally more favorable than those in the private sector. Meanwhile, the least protected category remains the independent worker—the very group expected to create economic value.
The narrative is always the same: public employees are compensated for lower salaries.
The unasked question is equally simple: what would those salaries be in the private sector—and would they exist at all?
Now to the core of the issue: the deficit.
Belgium is no longer merely running a deficit. It is institutionalizing it.
According to the European Commission’s latest projections, Belgium’s budget deficit is expected to reach approximately 5.5% of GDP in 2026.
Let that sink in.
Five point five percent.
Not during a financial crisis. Not during a pandemic. Not during an emergency. But during what is officially described as a “normal” economic period.
Debt is projected to approach nearly 110% of GDP by 2026.
At this level, Belgium is not managing public finances—it is rolling them forward.
Even more remarkable: without corrective measures, deficits are expected to continue rising beyond 2026, reaching even higher levels.
And yet, the citizen is told to prepare for 72 hours.
Then comes the most poetic element of the entire system.
The Belgian King, King Philippe of Belgium, recently undertook what is officially described as an “economic mission”—not abroad, but inside Belgium itself, between Flanders and Wallonia.
Traditionally, such missions are reserved for foreign countries.
Belgium, however, has innovated.
It now conducts diplomatic-economic missions within its own borders.
The symbolism is difficult to ignore: a country so structurally divided that it requires royal facilitation to function economically with itself.
So what exactly unites Belgium?
Not language. Not economic policy. Not fiscal discipline.
Certainly not deficit management.
What unites Belgium is something far more durable: a system that redistributes complexity, institutionalizes inefficiency, and rewards proximity to the state over contribution to it.
A system where:
- Citizens prepare emergency kits
- Governments prepare deficit forecasts
- And institutions prepare explanations
Yes, keep the candles.
Yes, keep the cash.
Yes, keep the toilet paper.
But perhaps Belgium’s real emergency kit should include something else entirely:
Fewer governments.
Fewer parliaments.
Fewer privileges.
And a fiscal strategy that lasts longer than 72 hours.
Because the real crisis is not coming.
It is already fully operational.
I was calmly eating my Belgian fries—perhaps one of Europe’s last undisputed contributions to world civilization—while watching the Flemish channel VTM. The sun was shining, the sky was clear, and that of course meant it was time for a national ritual: discussing climate change on television.
Because nothing pairs better with a warm, dry day than a panel of concerned experts explaining why everything is actually getting worse.
The news anchor, with the appropriate dose of mild existential concern, asked the question of the day: Why is Europe warming faster than other continents? A fair question. You would expect a complex answer about ocean currents, atmospheric dynamics, or perhaps decades of industrial legacy.
Instead, the explanation took a turn that nearly cost me my appetite.
According to the expert, Europe’s enthusiastic green policies may have… unintended side effects. Fewer emissions mean fewer particles in the air—particles that used to reflect sunlight and thus formed a kind of atmospheric “shield.” In other words: by cleaning the air, we may also be removing a protective layer against the sun.
At that moment, my fries became secondary. I was witnessing a philosophical paradox unfolding live on television: Europe, in its moral quest to save the planet, may be making itself more vulnerable to exactly what it is trying to combat.
You would almost expect a Nobel Prize for irony.
And so we naturally arrive at the thought experiment of the day. If fewer emissions reduce that protective layer, then the often-criticized “Drill Baby Drill” philosophy might deserve reconsideration—not as environmental damage, but as… climate management.
Absurd? Certainly. But no more absurd than pretending that complex systems respond linearly to idealistic policies.
After all, Nobel Prizes have been awarded for raising awareness about global warming. By that logic, one might almost expect that someone like Donald Trump would at least receive a nomination for proposing counterbalances—however controversial. When one side of the debate is treated as untouchable doctrine, the other side quickly begins to look like heresy… until reality asserts itself.
Because here lies the uncomfortable truth: nature does not follow ideology.
In life, and apparently also in the environment, everything revolves around balance. Push too far—whether toward unchecked industrialization or toward uncompromising green orthodoxy—and the system reacts. Not with applause, but with correction.
When policy becomes religion, nuance is the first casualty. And nature, unlike voters, does not negotiate. It restores equilibrium.
Perhaps that is the real lesson, somewhere between a portion of fries and a television debate: environmental policy is not about purity. Not about absolutism. Not about moral superiority.
It is about balance.
And balance, by definition, requires more than one force.
Which may well be the most uncomfortable conclusion of all.
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