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Coronavirus Disease 2019
Shall We Reap What We Sow From the Pandemic?
This disaster is different from any we have survived.
Posted April 27, 2020
As the COVID-19 pandemic exacts its medical, psychological, and social toll, I find myself viewing the world ahead through a type of "time" telescope: The future's horizon appears closer, yet without clarity or resolution, the figurative edge of my Earth (perhaps yours too?), both uncertain and inescapable. Time feels more precious, as does the need for meaning and purpose, for greater human connection, attachment. Does it to you as well?
Rebecca Solnit, a non-fiction writer with great wisdom and faith in humankind, published (in 2009), A Paradise Built In Hell. Its subtitle is: "The Extraordinary Communities That Arise in Disaster." She uses as examples the abundance of humanity that rose in the wake of a collection of disasters, including 9/11; Katrina (2005); the earthquakes in San Francisco (1989) and Mexico City (1985); the London Blitz (1940, over 50 relentless days of Luftwaffe bombing); and many other catastrophic events in global history. Solnit makes plain that no disaster is ever welcome—and, indeed, some also foment division and stigma. But she tempers the havoc and destruction with her thesis, namely that when a disaster strikes, there is not just opportunity—but evidence—that we humans will find paths to "…a paradise entered through hell" (p.10).
The "paradise" that disaster can spawn, she explains, is a blooming of human solidarity, purpose, immediacy, and meaning.
But what about today's COVID-19 pandemic disaster? Will her thesis hold true this time? I wonder, because the coronavirus disaster, in my country and across the world, is different. In at least several ways.
First, unlike most disasters, this one is not time-limited. We don't know when its current infectious wave will wane, and we must expect it to recur in the U.S. (and everywhere) in the same or a variant form of its current, deadly RNA construction. Or perhaps we will be overcome by a different disease pandemic that burns through humanity like the catastrophic coronavirus wildfire now underway.
Human-made attacks devastate and upheave human trust, but they stop in time, as do wars; earthquakes may have aftershocks, but they pass; hurricanes and tornadoes suddenly appear, then disappear; heatwaves take countless lives, but the weather changes.
Second, the coronavirus is not localized, as are about all disasters (except the flu in 1918). During WWII, the attack against the U.S. was limited to Pearl Harbor (though, of course, U.S. troop deaths and casualties were massive in the Pacific and Europe). But COVID-19 is global. We live in a world where geographic boundaries are no longer the stuff of maps, but porous and dynamically interactive. While NYC (where I live) is the COVID epicenter, there are hardly any places on Earth that will elude the disease's horrific consequences.
But it is the third difference that gives me the most pause. Because with COVID-19, we must physically avoid one another, keep at a distance from each other to limit the disease's transmission. Community gatherings are anathema. Touching another person may carry danger, even breathing near another person.
Public settings have vast surface areas, where the virus remains alive for days, sometimes a week. Thus, a crucial means by which we achieve resilience is forbidden, foreclosed us—during and after a disaster. Namely, being with people who care about us and whom we care about, hugging, shaking hands, gathering in groups, sitting at dinner tables, and so on. Instead, we are to practice isolation and "social" distancing (better understood as physical distancing), which is (understandably) necessary.
Doing so, however, deprives us of the direct human contact our bodies and minds rely on for emotional sustenance (virtual connections notwithstanding). Touch and closeness release oxytocin, the brain neurotransmitter that sustains connection, attachment, and love (it is present in abundance, for example, among new moms and in enduring, loving relationships). Our needed, radical departure from a life of actual human touch and connection has no clear end in sight.
Hence, questions abound.
Will I and those I love survive? How will the exploding virtual communications and connections serve us (one day recently, Zoom had over two million downloads)—in what ways, and not? Can we trust what we see, hear, and read from the media? Who will lead (scientifically and medically, socially, politically, economically, and so on) our local, regional, and national communities and institutions? How will work and education change? How will our hope and faith be maintained, or will doubt gain hegemony? How will our resolve be tested, fostered, and sustained? How will the grief of so many losses find comfort and drive us towards a changed and revitalized future?
How will the economic hardships, already being felt, assault our coping skills and cooperation? Will anger at injustice and ineptitude arise, perhaps explode, and will it spread or abate? Will we be able to remain as collective members of a disaster community, or depict some as "the other"—competitors (and scapegoats) for resources, even threats to our safety? Shall we have some recalibration of our values, or turn back (fueled by deluding ourselves that the worst has passed) to the "same old" of vast social disparities?
Shall we see a continued acceleration of the kindness, respect, and (virtual) connection that COVID has spawned? How can we individually (and as groups) find "reset buttons"—the triggers we have within us about how we recovered in the face of past routs—or, perhaps, find undiscovered capabilities? Can and will meaning and purpose gain more of humanity's center stage? What innovations (of every stripe) will emerge from this crisis?
I hope Ms. Solnit is wondering about the very different disaster unleashed by the coronavirus. For sure, we are hard at work adapting and connecting. Trying to survive, as well, though that is much harder for those with few resources than others. But I do miss my family, their children and grandchildren, and friends, neighbors, co-workers, and local shopkeepers. I miss the tactile experience of being close to others, of shaking hands, giving hugs and kisses. I miss being outside of our apartment, witnessing the awe of everyday life. I wonder how I best can use the time ahead for me, as my mortal horizon draws all the closer.
What we sow in these months (and years) ahead shall be what we reap—individually and collectively. May we demonstrate, yet another time, that our humanity, our resilience, was tested and stood strong. May we again find the "paradise" of human recovery. We have endured because we are built to survive, to find solutions, to belong to communities, to care to others. Yet can we effectively do so now—with a disaster that shows little end in sight, whose economic consequences will be enormous and long-lasting, and when our hands and feet are, in effect, tied to our dwellings (even for all the right reasons)?
We shall see. There will be heartening stories to tell: tales of human kindness and sacrifice, of coming together to persevere, revive, and endure. History books of this pandemic will record what we sowed and what we reaped, for good or not. The COVID disaster reveals, writ large, the towering social changes needed (and overdue). But their achievement is uncommon, daunting, and usually highly resisted (or, at best, incrementally achieved). That said, tremendous social disruption may be the best "cure" for what is ailing us, medically and socially.
