The Trouble with Colonising Mars: Big Dreams, Bigger Dust Storms
Somewhere between Elon Musk’s Twitter feed and a 1970s science‑fiction paperback, colonising Mars stopped being a fantasy and started feeling like a property venture. The red planet became humanity’s backup drive: if we mess up Earth, we’ll just pack our space boots, hop on a rocket, and start again somewhere drier, dustier, and dramatically less forgiving. It’s a charming idea, in the same way that moving into a cave during a thunderstorm sounds cosy—until you remember the bears.
Still, the dream persists. A generation raised on Star Trek, climate anxiety and overconfidence in technology loves the notion of being an interplanetary species. It sounds heroic. It looks great in press photos. And, it makes billionaires feel like pioneers rather than men playing with expensive toys. But when you look closer, the idea of colonising Mars starts to look like the ultimate mix of romance, risk, and really bad Wi‑Fi.
Mars has always had the good fortune of being just close enough to tease us. A few robotic scouts have already trundled across its surface, sending back photos that look like Arizona after an apocalypse. Scientists point to the dried‑up riverbeds and ancient lakebeds and whisper, “It used to have water.” Which is the cosmic equivalent of a real‑estate agent saying, “It has potential.”
The optimists, those brave souls with PowerPoint decks and an allergy to doubt, say that Mars is our destiny. They talk about multi‑planetary survival, because apparently one planet just isn’t enough anymore. If Earth takes a catastrophic hit—a nuclear war, a viral outbreak, an asteroid with poor aim—then Mars could serve as our insurance policy. It’s the survival bunker of the Solar System, only slightly more complicated than building one in the Cotswolds.
Then there’s the science angle. The clever people at the European Space Agency like to remind us that Mars is the perfect laboratory for studying planetary evolution. It’s old, it’s scarred, it’s atmospheric (barely), and it probably holds secrets about how worlds begin and die. You can’t exactly do that kind of fieldwork in Surrey. The idea is that sending humans to Mars will turbo‑charge research, because a human geologist can make quick decisions, spot anomalies, and collect samples faster than any robot. In other words, the dream is that human curiosity will finally outrun its own fragility.
For others, it’s not about science at all. It’s about the story. Every civilisation needs its frontier, its challenge, its blank map. Mars plays that role beautifully. There’s something primal about wanting to step where no one has stepped before. Maybe we can’t climb Everest without GPS anymore or sail into uncharted oceans, but we can still look up at a red speck and say, “Let’s build a greenhouse there.”
The late Robert Zubrin, who wrote the gospel of Mars colonisation, called it the best target for self‑sufficiency beyond Earth. He believed we could mine the ice, suck oxygen from the air, grow crops in Martian soil (after some generous chemistry), and ultimately build a second home. You can see the appeal: a world where humanity starts again, no traffic, no taxes, no reality TV. A place for a new civilisation, one that might even learn from Earth’s mistakes—assuming humans are capable of that kind of miracle.
But while some people are sketching blueprints for Martian cities, others are quietly pointing out the little things. Like the fact that Mars has a paper‑thin atmosphere, no magnetic field, lethal radiation, toxic dust, and temperatures that make Antarctica look tropical. It’s not exactly a fixer‑upper; it’s more of a condemned building with great views.
Critics like to ask why we should spend trillions building domes on Mars when we could just build better roofs on Earth. It’s a fair point. Our planet is currently having a nervous breakdown—melting ice caps, rising seas, political theatre on loop—and yet some of the brightest minds are thinking about how to terraform another one. It’s as if your house is on fire and you’re busy browsing estate listings in another galaxy.
The contamination question also looms large. If we send humans to Mars, we bring microbes—billions of them. Those little stowaways could ruin whatever pristine biology might exist there. Imagine discovering alien life only to realise it’s just your sneeze from last Tuesday. The scientists call it planetary protection, but it’s really about cosmic manners. Are we the sort of species that tramples into a new world without wiping our feet?
Even if you get past the ethics, there’s the small matter of cost. Building a functioning base on Mars isn’t like setting up a tent at Glastonbury. Everything—oxygen, water, shelter, heat, Wi‑Fi—needs to be engineered from scratch. The logistics make Brexit negotiations look simple. And yet, some people seem unfazed by the price tag. Maybe that’s because they’re not the ones footing the bill. For every sceptic who says, “Spend that money fixing climate change,” there’s an optimist replying, “We can do both.” The optimists, to be fair, usually own the rockets.
The psychological hurdles might be even worse. Imagine living years away from Earth, in a windowless dome, surrounded by a handful of other humans you can’t avoid. It’s Big Brother meets The Martian, with added radiation poisoning. Astronauts already deal with isolation and cabin fever in low‑Earth orbit; Mars would be another level. Some scientists suggest that Martian settlers might become a distinct human subculture, shaped by confinement, scarcity and red dust. You can almost picture the first Martian pub arguments: “You Earth‑borns just don’t understand.”
And what about the children born there? They won’t have chosen a life on Mars. Their bones might grow differently in low gravity; their immune systems might behave unpredictably. Do they get to move back to Earth later, or will their bodies refuse the return trip? These questions linger in the air, as heavy as Martian dust.
Meanwhile, there’s the thorny legal issue: who exactly owns Mars? The Outer Space Treaty says no one can claim it, but humans love loopholes almost as much as they love flags. Companies are already thinking about mineral rights and intellectual property beyond Earth. It’s only a matter of time before someone opens a “Mars Real Estate” website promising plots with a view of Olympus Mons. Perhaps the first Martian war will be fought over water ice rather than ideology.
In the middle of all this noise sit the pragmatists. They don’t mock the dream, but they don’t romanticise it either. They think Mars might be a long‑term goal, but first we should build sustainable bases on the Moon, or giant habitats orbiting Earth. Mars isn’t going anywhere; it can wait until we stop dying of exposure in test runs.
These middle‑ground thinkers often point out that the first real Mars missions will look less like cities and more like Antarctic research stations. Small crews, limited durations, constant resupply from Earth. Think “extreme Airbnb” rather than “new world order.” They imagine decades of testing life‑support systems, experimenting with in‑situ resource use—extracting water from ice, making fuel from the atmosphere, recycling everything down to the last molecule. It’s not glamorous, but it’s necessary.
If all goes well, maybe by the late 21st century we’ll see a handful of permanent habitats, still heavily reliant on Earth but capable of surviving on their own for a few years at a time. The first true Martians will be scientists, engineers, and the kind of people who consider danger a form of therapy. They’ll farm algae, recycle their breath, and tweet carefully because every word will travel 20 minutes late.
And what if it fails? That’s possible too. A major accident, an economic downturn, or simple public boredom could pull the plug on Mars colonisation. The 2040s could easily end with headlines like “Last Mars Base Shuts Down, Crew Returns Home.” Space dreams are expensive, and patience is short. Just ask anyone still waiting for flying cars.
Even if the effort continues, we’ll have to rethink what life means away from Earth. Martian society would need its own rules, its own ethics, its own sense of belonging. How do you build democracy in a bubble? How do you raise children who’ve never seen an ocean or a tree? And what happens when Earth and Mars disagree about taxes or independence? You can already imagine the first Martian referendum: “Leave or Remain (in orbit)?”
For all the talk of engineering, the hardest part might be psychological. Humans thrive on beauty—on skies, seasons, smells, the mess of nature. Mars offers none of that. Every sunrise looks like a dusty postcard, every meal comes in packets, and every walk outside requires a spacesuit. The romance might fade quickly once the reality sets in. But perhaps that’s the price of progress: comfort traded for possibility.
Still, it’s hard not to root for the dreamers. They remind us of something essential about humanity—the refusal to stay put. From the first migrations out of Africa to the ships that crossed oceans, humans have always been slightly mad and endlessly curious. Mars just happens to be the next horizon. It might take a century, it might take ten, but sooner or later someone will plant a flag—not out of conquest, but out of wonder.
And maybe, just maybe, the point isn’t to escape Earth. Maybe it’s to look back at our blue planet from millions of miles away and realise how rare it is. That pale dot in the distance will remind the colonists of everything they left behind: rain, wind, forests, oceans, messy politics, and the strange warmth of gravity. In chasing Mars, we might finally learn how to appreciate Earth.
Until then, the debate will rage on. The visionaries will keep drawing cities under glass domes; the cynics will keep tweeting about hubris; and the rest of us will keep staring at the sky, wondering whether we should cheer or sigh. Perhaps that’s the magic of the whole idea—it forces us to think big, argue louder, and dream in red.
So maybe colonising Mars isn’t about survival or science or even curiosity. Maybe it’s a mirror, showing us who we are: brilliant, flawed, reckless, hopeful. A species that can’t sit still, even when sitting still might be the smartest thing to do. If we ever get there, we’ll find a barren planet waiting patiently for our madness. And when we set foot on that red dust, the first words might not be, “We made it.” They might just be, “Now what?”