Key Takeaway:
The discovery of asteroid 2024 YR4 has reignited fears about cosmic threats, highlighting the need for a global planetary defense system. Political scientist Daniel Deudney warns that unchecked expansion into space, especially with geopolitical rivalries, could be a recipe for global disaster. The fear of space, its vastness, and existential indifference is deeply ingrained in our collective psyche. Ancient mythologies and modern anxieties reflect this entanglement, with fear of space often morphing into a fear of human deception. The fear of space is not always based on rational threat assessments but often reflects a psychological distance we maintain from the cosmos. The fear of space can also be used to make sense of terrestrial uncertainty, such as the COVID-19 pandemic. However, the way we talk about space reveals much about how we feel about ourselves.
At first glance, most of humanity’s pressing issues are homegrown—climate instability, resource wars, public health emergencies. Yet, every so often, our collective gaze shifts upwards, drawn by the unsettling possibility that danger could also be falling from the sky. The recent discovery of asteroid 2024 YR4, which carries a slim but non-zero chance of colliding with Earth in the coming decade, has reignited age-old fears about cosmic threats. Though the odds of impact now sit at just 0.001%, that brief period when they spiked over 1% was enough to stir the imagination—and unease—of people around the world.
This isn’t just science fiction or superstition. The truth is, sooner or later, a large object will strike the Earth unless we figure out how to stop it. The need for a global planetary defence system feels more real than ever. But the very tools that could be used to protect us also hold the potential to destroy us. As political scientist Daniel Deudney argues in Dark Skies, the same technologies that could steer asteroids away from Earth could, in theory, be weaponised to steer them towards us. He warns that unchecked expansion into space, especially with geopolitical rivalries in tow, could be a recipe for global disaster.
His proposal? Slow down. Step back. Reconsider. Humanity, he believes, is moving too quickly into the stars without first mastering the wisdom to manage such power responsibly. He suggests that most space activities should be paused or heavily regulated for centuries. While noble in theory, such a proposition seems unlikely. Space programs are booming, and political momentum isn’t slowing down.
Still, his warning resonates. The fear of space—its unknowable vastness, its existential indifference—taps into something deep in our collective psyche. It’s a fear we’ve carried for millennia. Ancient mythologies around the world include stories of celestial missteps that bring ruin to Earth. One such tale from the Sami people of Scandinavia warns that an errant arrow aimed at the stars could knock the pole star loose, collapsing the night sky. In that ancient narrative, human error and cosmic catastrophe are already entwined.
Modern anxieties reflect this same entanglement. Take the fixation on UFOs—not just as alien invaders, but as emblems of clandestine knowledge, secret pacts between governments and interstellar beings, or shadowy cover-ups by those in power. For some, it’s not just the idea of extraterrestrial visitors that’s frightening. It’s the idea that we’re being kept in the dark about them by our own institutions. The fear of space morphs into a fear of human deception.
Science fiction author Cixin Liu captured this chilling ambiguity when he likened space to a dark forest, where every civilisation is hiding from the others, hoping not to be noticed—because in such a place, to be seen is to risk annihilation. Space, in this metaphor, isn’t empty. It’s full of danger, and everyone is quietly waiting to strike.
But these fears are not always based on rational threat assessments. Often, they reflect a kind of psychological distance we maintain from the cosmos. We treat space as something fundamentally separate from us, as if it’s an external danger that must be kept at bay. This “ground bias” — the assumption that Earth is somehow apart from the broader universe — reinforces our sense of control and stability. But it’s an illusion. We are already entangled with space, reliant on it for communication, navigation, even timing. And increasingly, we’re shaping it, too—with satellites, telescopes, and debris.
At times, fear of space is used to make sense of terrestrial uncertainty. During the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic, a fringe theory gained traction among skeptics: that the virus didn’t emerge from animals or labs, but from space. Reviving an old hypothesis by astronomers Fred Hoyle and Chandra Wickramsinghe, believers claimed a meteor had exploded over China, releasing the virus into the atmosphere.
The science behind this theory is flimsy at best, but it reveals something about how we use space to externalise blame. Space becomes a scapegoat—an unfathomable source of disruption that conveniently absolves us of responsibility. And in a world where public trust in institutions is eroding, such stories become more seductive. If the cosmos is the culprit, then flawed governance, underfunded health systems, and poor global coordination are no longer to blame.
This dynamic plays out in other ways, too. Today’s billionaire space race—with rockets launched by tech titans and future plans for Mars colonies—is often framed not as pioneering, but as escapist. Critics argue these ventures embody the same logic that led to climate breakdown on Earth: extract, exploit, then abandon. In this light, space becomes a mirror reflecting back our worst instincts. For every gleaming spaceship, there’s a suspicion that the ultra-rich are preparing their exit strategy, leaving the rest of us behind.
So yes, the fear of what’s out there is real. But it’s also often a proxy for fear of what’s already here. Of mistrust. Of inequity. Of power without accountability.
This doesn’t mean we should abandon space exploration. On the contrary, the stars may offer knowledge, perspective, even hope. But we must also recognise that the way we talk about space—whether as saviour or threat—reveals much about how we feel about ourselves.
Asteroids are real. So are viruses, wars, and the creeping dread of environmental collapse. But the most dangerous force may be the narratives we construct about them—especially when they obscure the role we play in shaping our own destiny.
Perhaps, before we look to the heavens for danger, we should first examine the stories we tell when we gaze up at the sky.
