This is why we need to start planning the Martian Health Service

Not a hospital in sight: Mars, as seen from the Mars Rover, 2015. Image: Getty.

In space, no one can hear you scream, as the poster for Alien helpfully reminded us. That’s bad enough in a movie, but worse if you’re a colonist on Mars, the thing you’re screaming is “Help, I think my leg is broken”, and the nearest hospital is some 34m miles away back on Earth. Without a phone network, you can’t even be put on hold to NHS Direct.

So with Elon Musk wanting to put human colonists on Mars as soon as 2024, we need to think about public services on the red planet; and this wqs the topic of a talk last week at FutureFest by Nesta’s Eddie Copeland. “It may be ridiculously premature, but unless you think these things through at the start you might end up with something we really don’t want,” he explained to me later. “Just copying and pasting Earth services feels a bit of a missed opportunity.”

Copeland explains that he'd spotted that, “There's a group of people who had been writing draft constitutions for Mars and they were saying 'what you want is the German electoral system, the US senate, British FPTP for some things' – all of them were dropping existing systems from Earth.” But, he argues, “The more interesting question is: if you're not constrained by all that historical precedent, could you do things fundamentally differently?”

Hold onto your hats, folks: he doesn’t just mean adopting the single transferable vote. “Government could shift from being the service deliverer to playing more of the role of a dating agency: it connects you with a certain set of needs with someone who could fulfil them,” he explains.

What he’s describing sounds suspiciously like the much-maligned gig economy. Is that better suited to small space communities than for the big cities into which its shoehorned here on Earth? We have, as Copeland notes, “The most efficient mechanisms in human history of revealing and then matching supply and demand.” Of course, on Earth the gig economy is exclusively for paid services: it’s hard to envisage us going back to Crassus’ ancient Roman fire service in which fees were negotiated as the building burned.

Having such a small number of early settlers both makes things easier and poses a problem. On the one hand, the planet is so sparsely populated that nimbyism won’t be a problem (build houses on the expansive red belt, go nuts). But on the other, finding someone qualified to help with your specific problem may be tricky, even with Martian Public Service Tinder at your fingertips.

In The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, a planet was doomed because it had too many telephone sanitisers and hairdressers, and not enough doctors and engineers. But depending on the level of public services you want, people from all backgrounds are necessary. “Maybe this will be done by robotics, but people will presumably need cleaners, cooks, childminders,” Copeland says.


“You start with a handful of people,” he goes on, “and there's talk of 200 people at a time potentially. For a while you can pretend that you're a giant cruise ship and everything you need is met by the company. How big do you have to get before that breaks?” Some sort of taxation, to Copeland, feels inevitable eventually, even if it takes decades. After all, eventually a second and third generation of colonists will be born – true Martians – and they won’t have signed a contract back on Earth.

At that point it’s just a question of what services are covered. “Do you say the baseline should also be basic education, or is that categorically different because you're only bothered about life threats?” Copeland asks. “Okay, so maybe it's just fire and health, in which case it's just emergency services, but that's a choice. If you're trying to build the most sophisticated human colony that's ever existed, would it not feel like a bit of a wasted effort unless you're designing your services to go up Maslow's hierarchy of needs to something a bit more ambitious?”

This all sounds suspiciously socialist for an endeavour whose most likely proponents are the supercapitalist giants of SpaceX or Amazon with its Blue Origin rocket. But then of course, there’s the chance that the Chinese government could get there first, and dictate its own brand of quasi-communist services as the default for life on Mars. If both take the challenge in a Space Race 2.0, we could end up with all the geopolitics of Earth mapped onto different sides of Mars in a spin off that precisely nobody asked for.

You’d hope for a more collegiate solution – but, as Copeland points out, you can trace European borders back to the original shared public services. “The only reason they became coherent countries with a coherent national identity is that the road networks connected them all together,” he explains. “Most of the symbols that we associate ourselves with as citizens of the UK are post boxes, telephone boxes, hospitals, police stations: they become icons that create our identity.” So why would we expect Martian life to be different? “I think you'd probably see similar traits if building a Martian community.”

So having given it plenty of thought, would Copeland be on the first ship to Mars? “Oh, not the first ship,” he replies. “Give it a decade for all the existential things to get sorted and then I'd be there.” It’s a fair response, but he shouldn’t wait too long: if you missed out on the London property boom, you don’t want to make the same mistake with Martian pods.

 
 
 
 

Canada’s gay neighbourhoods are struggling. Can queer pop-ups plug the gap?

Vancouver. Image: Getty.

Queer life was highly visible in Western Canada last year. In May, Vancouver declared 2018 the “Year of the Queer,” celebrating decades of service that the city’s cultural organisations have provided for lesbian, bisexual, gay, transgender, queer and two-spirit (LGBTQ/2S) people across the region.

Yet 2018 also saw the loss of multiple queer venues and gay bars. While economic forces, such as rapacious gentrification are part of the story and struggle, our research shows that something creative and generative is happening in the city as well.

In the face of changing urban landscapes, economic hardships, and more straights moving into historically gay neighbourhoods, queer pop-ups — ephemeral gathering spaces whose impact lingers among revellers long after the night is over — now play a large role in the fight for LGBTQ/2S equality.

Scattered gay places became neighbourhoods

Queer life germinated in “scattered gay places” across cities in North America from the late 1800s to the Second World War. Inside cabarets, bars, theatres or outside in public parks, washrooms and city streets, queers found spaces which could hold and celebrate transgressive sexual connections while also providing respite from daily experiences of discrimination and social exclusion.

After the Second World War, scattered gay places congealed into permanent gay bars and residential “gaybourhoods” in a period anthropologist Kath Weston calls “the great gay migration.” Queer people flocked to urban centres and sexual subcultures flourished in cities like New York, Chicago, San Francisco, Los Angeles and Toronto.

The formation of queer community spaces has always been controversial. Cultural and legal backlashes marred early developments. A host of laws and regulations tried to suppress and contain homosexuality in North America by limiting its presence in the public sphere.

These measures resulted in frequent hostilities, police raids and violence. Queers congregated together not just to find love or community, but to protect themselves, to protect one another and to find refuge. Pride parades, now celebrated worldwide, commemorate these early turf wars.

Pop-ups revitalise queer spaces

Researchers have written a great deal on the cultural and political importance of gay districts in urban centres, and they have grappled with concerns that these areas, along with the establishments they house, are fading.

But innovative urban forms challenge arguments about the death and demise of queer spaces in the city. Our research suggests that queer pop-ups, or temporary cultural gathering spaces, cater to diverse and often marginalised queers.

Some gaybourhoods are dwindling in their residential concentration and gay bars are dropping like flies. But new queer place-making efforts are emerging.

Two of the authors at the queer pop-up in 2018 at East Side Studios in Vancouver. Ryan is on the far left, back row, Adriana is on the far right of the back row. Image: author provided.

Unlike gaybourhoods and gay bars, pop-ups are intentional in how they address persistent, intersectional forms of inequality. Queer pop-ups offer patrons a space to explore non-binary forms of gender and sexual identities, and especially a place to experience collective effervescence among queer people of colour, and femme lesbians.

Some pop-ups create environments that are explicitly trans-inclusive, consent-focused, and sex-positive. Pop-ups are not panaceas for queer life. Pop-ups can also be places where issues around socioeconomic status, gender identity and expression, and racial inequality are called out.

Yet these spaces directly and indirectly encourage dialogue on inequalities within the queer community, conversations that help produce safer spaces for marginalised queers to find each other and forge enduring queer consciousnesses.

Turf wars

Queer pop-ups show similar trajectories of infighting and compromise that the LGBT social movement encountered from the late 1970s through the early 2000s when trying to forge a collective consciousness, gain social visibility and win legal rights.

These turf wars, expressed as contests over space and inclusion, are generally sparked over three perennial concerns: privilege, race and gender. One interviewee, a 20-year-old self-identified queer, trans person of colour (QTPoC), who spoke about Vancouver’s gay district told us:

“I tend to avoid the gay bars on Davie [because] a lot of the gay bars there have now been taken over by cis-gender, heterosexual people. I’ve [also] heard from a lot of QTPoC friends that they are often uncomfortable going to gay bars on Davie, because it’s usually very dominated by cis-gender, white gay men.”

A 28-year-old white, cisgender, queer male found pop-ups more politically and culturally radical than gay bars. He put it this way:

“It’s very rare that we’ll ever have a conversation about politics [in gay bars]. It’s just about partying and things that we kind of see as very stereotypical portrayals of gay culture: like going out, dancing, drinking, fucking.”

Historically, gaybourhoods have served an important role in the fight for LGBT rights, but they have also developed to cater to a specific cis-gender, white, middle-class, male sensibility. One 30-year-old, white, trans DJ put it bluntly, “the mainstream scene is just not welcoming to trans people, in my experience,” adding that verbal transphobic harassment is common in the streets of Vancouver’s gaybourhood.

At Vancouver Pride this year we were reminded of this schism at a local pop-up event. “Gay men won’t come here, it’s too trashy,” shouted a white Australian lesbian playfully to friends over loud music. We were at Eastside Studios, a large warehouse turned into the newest collaborative queer venue in Vancouver.


The comment was striking because it highlights the visible bifurcation occurring in queer life and queer consumption in Vancouver. Many gay men tend to patronise businesses and events in the West End, Vancouver’s official gaybourhood; whereas, other members of the LGBTQ community are scattered across the city at events and venues that are far less permanent. Eastside Studios attempts to break through the homonormative bent some gay bars perpetuate. It is a space that generously houses some of the struggling pop up events who lost space to gentrification in Vancouver’s out of control rental market.

Historically, pop-ups arose as the first signs of urban sexual transgression. They continue to emerge as spatial innovations which nurture transgressive queer diversities that do not have space or representation in the gaybourhood. Weekly social media blasts via Facebook or Instagram and word-of-mouth dissemination play an important role in linking queers around the city to these events. Pop-ups take different tones and establish different vibes among patrons. Collectively, pop-ups highlight the many important projects local queers are undertaking to increase the plurality of what queer life looks like and how it is expressed.

Struggles for equality

Marriage is the leading story in many headlines these days, but queer struggles for equality were never only about relationship recognition or acceptance into the mainstream.

Queer struggles are also fights to resist oppressive normativity, to end racial inequality and white supremacy, to end sexualised violence, to reconcile generational traumas associated with colonialism.

Continuing these fights is perhaps what makes queer pop-ups unique. Organisers of these events are intentional and responsive to such concerns. They seek to create new worlds that soften the impact of inequalities, both in gaybourhoods and in other parts of Canadian cities as well.

Pop-ups nourish queer lives; they emerge as temporary meeting grounds where diverse, oftentimes marginalised, queers flock for community and collective, momentary release. Here an image from a Man Up pop-up event in Vancouver. Image: Shot by Steph/Facebook/The Conversation.

Many of these spaces are an opportunity for patrons to travel in a re-imagined world, even if only for the night. While not all pop-ups that appear survive, the ones that do matter, fundamentally, because they create spaces that resist heteronormative culture and homonormativity, address intersecting inequalities, assert and anchor queer cultural and political identities, and promote well-being for a wider portion of the community in ways that gaybourhoods used to and have always had the potential to.

Pop-ups nourish queer lives in ways that gaybourhoods and gay bars historically had. They emerge as temporary meeting grounds where diverse, oftentimes marginalised, queers flock for community and collective, momentary release. They allow patrons to dance and comfortably explore the implications of their gender and sexual identities around like-minded individuals. At times they are more than friendly social gatherings, becoming sites where the moral arch of the community is shaped through demonstrations on urgent issues impacting queer lives and the surrounding community.

Queer pop-ups are vibrant locations that work to push forward the unfinished projects of social justice first envisioned during gay liberation.

The Conversation

Ryan Stillwagon, Ph.D. Student, Sociology, University of British Columbia; Adriana Brodyn, Ph.D. Candidate, University of British Columbia; Amin Ghaziani, Associate Professor of Sociology and Canada Research Chair in Sexuality and Urban Studies, University of British Columbia, and D. Kyle Sutherland, PhD Student, Department of Sociology, University of British Columbia.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.