Over mijn blog
Ooit een 'Rocket Scientist' maar al heel snel gesnapt dat ik niet moet rekenen aan raketten (mijn enige praktijkervaring: Ariane 501 -nee, ik was het niet!). Andere mensen enthousiast maken zit me meer in het bloed.
Na negen jaar bij ESA ben ik nu geland bij mijn thuishaven, de TU Delft, als woordvoerder/communicatie adviseur.
Dit blog gaat soms over ruimtevaart, maar meestal over mijn ervaringen in het communicatievak. Persoonlijk vind ik dat journalisten en voorlichters wel wat opener mogen zijn over hun samenwerking. Daarom probeer ik hier inzicht te geven in de afwegingen en keuzes die ik maak. Dat kan niet altijd, maar vaak ook wel.
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Friday evening, at 22.30, I wanted to go to bed. I failed. I couldn’t let go off what was happening to a small box named Philae, standing somewhat clumsily on a comet far away, trying to do science with a battery that was steadily coming closer to giving in to the inevitable: shutting down. Staring at Twitter, I was clearly not the only one who couldn’t get himself to go to bed: thousands of people were following the faith of the small comet lander in real time. Right up to the moment the machine gave in and went into hibernation due to lack of power, at around 01.45 in the morning and only after delivering all its science data to its orbiter Rosetta high above. It might be the last we ever hear from Philae, and I witnessed it live and from the front row. Quite different from Wednesday, when I was ‘VIP’ at one of the official events, when it first touched down. That might sound more thrilling, but in the era of social media: no it isn’t.
I was in Space Expo, Noordwijk, last Wednesday. I hesitated to go, as these space events are now mostly a thing from the past. But Rosetta is different: I know that box, Philae, from very close-by. In my previous job, I have been within touching distance a few times, when Rosetta was tested in the Clean Rooms of ESTEC. In 2004, I spend three long nights in Space Expo, before it was finally launched to begin its long journey. So I went to see the landing, but I have to admit I mostly spend my time chatting with old friends. The landing event itself was fairly classic ‘old-style’ communications: a successful landing was announced, followed by at least nine very boring speeches of ‘important people’, not selected for their ability to thrill an audience, sadly.
Something is wrong
Worse: for the more experienced viewer, it was quickly clear that something was not right. There were too many puzzled looks in the background, not joining the cheering happiness. That’s when ESA started to investigate. And that’s no fun for an audience at an event, far away from the stories. Indoors, there must have been fears and hopes. At the event, there was drinks and waiting: two hours with hardly any information, except for the knowledge that this in itself is never good news. Ofcourse, landing a comet is an outstanding achievement. Nevertheless, at that event, to be honest, I would describe my state of mind as ‘mildly interested’.
But this Friday evening, when the mission team raced the clock to squeeze the precious science data out the lander, 500 million kilometres away on a distant comet, I sat on my couch with a good bottle of wine, opened twitter and really connected. I refused to go to bed.
Last Friday night was so very different. With all the big bosses gone again, the floor in ESOC (Germany) was just for the scientists and mission controllers, some communications officers and a few journalists that had decided to hang around (especially tweeps Emily Lakdawalla and Chris Lintott). Together they allowed us to follow events in real time. We shared their enormous relief when contact was reestablished around 22.40h: the lander was still alive. We saw the science coming in and witnessed the risky manoeuvre to reorient the craft. We shared hopes, fears, successes and failures with the scientist and mission controllers. And we witnessed the little machine finally give in to its inevitable fate and shut down, but not after delivering it’s very last drop of science just in time. We, the thousands of people staying up late, were looking directly over their shoulders. We were truly part of an adventure.
‘Just a box’
It’s amazing how one can connect to a box, when communications is done properly. Yes, it is a marvellous bit of engineering and it is far out in our solar system, but still: it’s a box the size of a small fridge made of metal, nuts and bolts. And of course, I know that behind the twitter accounts of Philae and Rosetta are people (I can probably even guess who), but the social media team had its act really together: it just worked like a charm. For the thousands of people following its faith over the shoulders of the mission controllers, it was a brave little machine fighting to its last little voltage to deliver us science.
On Wednesday, I was an interested bystander in a successful, but very classic PR event. That was ok. On Friday, on twitter, I really felt part of a story. And I connected to the many friends, colleagues and strangers sharing the adventure in the middle of the night. We loved it.
Thanks for that lesson, ESA.