Arundhati Roy: ‘The pandemic is a portal’

Who can use the term “gone viral” now without shuddering a little? Who


can look at anything any more — a door handle, a cardboard carton, a bag
of vegetables — without imagining it swarming with those unseeable,
undead, unliving blobs dotted with suction pads waiting to fasten
themselves on to our lungs?


Who can think of kissing a stranger, jumping on to a bus or sending
their child to school without feeling real fear? Who can think of
ordinary pleasure and not assess its risk? Who among us is not a quack
epidemiologist, virologist, statistician and prophet? Which scientist or
doctor is not secretly praying for a miracle? Which priest is not —
secretly, at least — submitting to science?


And even while the virus proliferates, who could not be thrilled by the
swell of birdsong in cities, peacocks dancing at traffic crossings and
the silence in the skies?


The number of cases worldwide this week crept over a million. More than
50,000 people have died already. Projections suggest that number will
swell to hundreds of thousands, perhaps more. The virus has moved freely
along the pathways of trade and international capital, and the terrible
illness it has brought in its wake has locked humans down in their
countries, their cities and their homes.


But unlike the flow of capital, this virus seeks proliferation, not
profit, and has, therefore, inadvertently, to some extent, reversed the
direction of the flow. It has mocked immigration controls, biometrics,
digital surveillance and every other kind of data analytics, and struck
hardest — thus far — in the richest, most powerful nations of the world,
bringing the engine of capitalism to a juddering halt. Temporarily
perhaps, but at least long enough for us to examine its parts, make an
assessment and decide whether we want to help fix it, or look for a
better engine.


The mandarins who are managing this pandemic are fond of speaking of
war. They don’t even use war as a metaphor, they use it literally. But
if it really were a war, then who would be better prepared than the US?
If it were not masks and gloves that its frontline soldiers needed, but
guns, smart bombs, bunker busters, submarines, fighter jets and nuclear
bombs, would there be a shortage?


Night after night, from halfway across the world, some of us watch the
New York governor’s press briefings with a fascination that is hard to
explain. We follow the statistics, and hear the stories of overwhelmed
hospitals in the US, of underpaid, overworked nurses having to make
masks out of garbage bin liners and old raincoats, risking everything to
bring succour to the sick. About states being forced to bid against each
other for ventilators, about doctors’ dilemmas over which patient should
get one and which left to die. And we think to ourselves, “My God! This
is America!”


The tragedy is immediate, real, epic and unfolding before our eyes. But
it isn’t new. It is the wreckage of a train that has been careening down
the track for years. Who doesn’t remember the videos of “patient
dumping” — sick people, still in their hospital gowns, butt naked, being
surreptitiously dumped on street corners? Hospital doors have too often
been closed to the less fortunate citizens of the US. It hasn’t mattered
how sick they’ve been, or how much they’ve suffered.


At least not until now — because now, in the era of the virus, a poor
person’s sickness can affect a wealthy society’s health. And yet, even
now, Bernie Sanders, the senator who has relentlessly campaigned for
healthcare for all, is considered an outlier in his bid for the White
House, even by his own party.


The tragedy is the wreckage of a train that has been careening down the
track for years


And what of my country, my poor-rich country, India, suspended somewhere
between feudalism and religious fundamentalism, caste and capitalism,
ruled by far-right Hindu nationalists?


In December, while China was fighting the outbreak of the virus in
Wuhan, the government of India was dealing with a mass uprising by
hundreds of thousands of its citizens protesting against the brazenly
discriminatory anti-Muslim citizenship law it had just passed in parliament.


The first case of Covid-19 was reported in India on January 30, only
days after the honourable chief guest of our Republic Day Parade, Amazon
forest-eater and Covid-denier Jair Bolsonaro, had left Delhi. But there
was too much to do in February for the virus to be accommodated in the
ruling party’s timetable. There was the official visit of President
Donald Trump scheduled for the last week of the month. He had been lured
by the promise of an audience of 1m people in a sports stadium in the
state of Gujarat. All that took money, and a great deal of time.


Then there were the Delhi Assembly elections that the Bharatiya Janata
Party was slated to lose unless it upped its game, which it did,
unleashing a vicious, no-holds-barred Hindu nationalist campaign,
replete with threats of physical violence and the shooting of “traitors”.


It lost anyway. So then there was punishment to be meted out to Delhi’s
Muslims, who were blamed for the humiliation. Armed mobs of Hindu
vigilantes, backed by the police, attacked Muslims in the working-class
neighbourhoods of north-east Delhi. Houses, shops, mosques and schools
were burnt. Muslims who had been expecting the attack fought back. More
than 50 people, Muslims and some Hindus, were killed.


Thousands moved into refugee camps in local graveyards. Mutilated bodies
were still being pulled out of the network of filthy, stinking drains
when government officials had their first meeting about Covid-19 and
most Indians first began to hear about the existence of something called
hand sanitiser.


March was busy too. The first two weeks were devoted to toppling the
Congress government in the central Indian state of Madhya Pradesh and
installing a BJP government in its place. On March 11 the World Health
Organization declared that Covid-19 was a pandemic. Two days later, on
March 13, the health ministry said that corona “is not a health emergency”.


Finally, on March 19, the Indian prime minister addressed the nation. He
hadn’t done much homework. He borrowed the playbook from France and
Italy. He told us of the need for “social distancing” (easy to
understand for a society so steeped in the practice of caste) and called
for a day of “people’s curfew” on March 22. He said nothing about what
his government was going to do in the crisis, but he asked people to
come out on their balconies, and ring bells and bang their pots and pans
to salute health workers.


He didn’t mention that, until that very moment, India had been exporting
protective gear and respiratory equipment, instead of keeping it for
Indian health workers and hospitals.


Not surprisingly, Narendra Modi’s request was met with great enthusiasm.
There were pot-banging marches, community dances and processions. Not
much social distancing. In the days that followed, men jumped into
barrels of sacred cow dung, and BJP supporters threw cow-urine drinking
parties. Not to be outdone, many Muslim organisations declared that the
Almighty was the answer to the virus and called for the faithful to
gather in mosques in numbers.


On March 24, at 8pm, Modi appeared on TV again to announce that, from
midnight onwards, all of India would be under lockdown. Markets would be
closed. All transport, public as well as private, would be disallowed.


He said he was taking this decision not just as a prime minister, but as
our family elder. Who else can decide, without consulting the state
governments that would have to deal with the fallout of this decision,
that a nation of 1.38bn people should be locked down with zero
preparation and with four hours’ notice? His methods definitely give the
impression that India’s prime minister thinks of citizens as a hostile
force that needs to be ambushed, taken by surprise, but never trusted.


Locked down we were. Many health professionals and epidemiologists have
applauded this move. Perhaps they are right in theory. But surely none
of them can support the calamitous lack of planning or preparedness that
turned the world’s biggest, most punitive lockdown into the exact
opposite of what it was meant to achieve.


The man who loves spectacles created the mother of all spectacles.


As an appalled world watched, India revealed herself in all her shame —
her brutal, structural, social and economic inequality, her callous
indifference to suffering.


The lockdown worked like a chemical experiment that suddenly illuminated
hidden things. As shops, restaurants, factories and the construction
industry shut down, as the wealthy and the middle classes enclosed
themselves in gated colonies, our towns and megacities began to extrude
their working-class citizens — their migrant workers — like so much
unwanted accrual.


Many driven out by their employers and landlords, millions of
impoverished, hungry, thirsty people, young and old, men, women,
children, sick people, blind people, disabled people, with nowhere else
to go, with no public transport in sight, began a long march home to
their villages. They walked for days, towards Badaun, Agra, Azamgarh,
Aligarh, Lucknow, Gorakhpur — hundreds of kilometres away. Some died on
the way.


They knew they were going home potentially to slow starvation. Perhaps
they even knew they could be carrying the virus with them, and would
infect their families, their parents and grandparents back home, but
they desperately needed a shred of familiarity, shelter and dignity, as
well as food, if not love.


As they walked, some were beaten brutally and humiliated by the police,
who were charged with strictly enforcing the curfew. Young men were made
to crouch and frog jump down the highway. Outside the town of Bareilly,
one group was herded together and hosed down with chemical spray.


A few days later, worried that the fleeing population would spread the
virus to villages, the government sealed state borders even for walkers.
People who had been walking for days were stopped and forced to return
to camps in the cities they had just been forced to leave.


Among older people it evoked memories of the population transfer of
1947, when India was divided and Pakistan was born. Except that this
current exodus was driven by class divisions, not religion. Even still,
these were not India’s poorest people. These were people who had (at
least until now) work in the city and homes to return to. The jobless,
the homeless and the despairing remained where they were, in the cities
as well as the countryside, where deep distress was growing long before
this tragedy occurred. All through these horrible days, the home affairs
minister Amit Shah remained absent from public view.


     When the walking began in Delhi, I used a press pass from a
magazine I frequently write for to drive to Ghazipur, on the border
between Delhi and Uttar Pradesh.


The scene was biblical. Or perhaps not. The Bible could not have known
numbers such as these. The lockdown to enforce physical distancing had
resulted in the opposite — physical compression on an unthinkable scale.
This is true even within India’s towns and cities. The main roads might
be empty, but the poor are sealed into cramped quarters in slums and
shanties.


Every one of the walking people I spoke to was worried about the virus.
But it was less real, less present in their lives than looming
unemployment, starvation and the violence of the police. Of all the
people I spoke to that day, including a group of Muslim tailors who had
only weeks ago survived the anti-Muslim attacks, one man’s words
especially troubled me. He was a carpenter called Ramjeet, who planned
to walk all the way to Gorakhpur near the Nepal border.


“Maybe when Modiji decided to do this, nobody told him about us. Maybe
he doesn’t know about us”, he said.


“Us” means approximately 460m people.


State governments in India (as in the US) have showed more heart and
understanding in the crisis. Trade unions, private citizens and other
collectives are distributing food and emergency rations. The central
government has been slow to respond to their desperate appeals for
funds. It turns out that the prime minister’s National Relief Fund has
no ready cash available. Instead, money from well-wishers is pouring
into the somewhat mysterious new PM-CARES fund. Pre-packaged meals with
Modi’s face on them have begun to appear.


In addition to this, the prime minister has shared his yoga nidra
videos, in which a morphed, animated Modi with a dream body demonstrates
yoga asanas to help people deal with the stress of self-isolation.


The narcissism is deeply troubling. Perhaps one of the asanas could be a
request-asana in which Modi requests the French prime minister to allow
us to renege on the very troublesome Rafale fighter jet deal and use
that €7.8bn for desperately needed emergency measures to support a few
million hungry people. Surely the French will understand.


     As the lockdown enters its second week, supply chains have broken,
medicines and essential supplies are running low. Thousands of truck
drivers are still marooned on the highways, with little food and water.
Standing crops, ready to be harvested, are slowly rotting.


The economic crisis is here. The political crisis is ongoing. The
mainstream media has incorporated the Covid story into its 24/7 toxic
anti-Muslim campaign. An organisation called the Tablighi Jamaat, which
held a meeting in Delhi before the lockdown was announced, has turned
out to be a “super spreader”. That is being used to stigmatise and
demonise Muslims. The overall tone suggests that Muslims invented the
virus and have deliberately spread it as a form of jihad.


The Covid crisis is still to come. Or not. We don’t know. If and when it
does, we can be sure it will be dealt with, with all the prevailing
prejudices of religion, caste and class completely in place.


Today (April 2) in India, there are almost 2,000 confirmed cases and 58
deaths. These are surely unreliable numbers, based on woefully few
tests. Expert opinion varies wildly. Some predict millions of cases.
Others think the toll will be far less. We may never know the real
contours of the crisis, even when it hits us. All we know is that the
run on hospitals has not yet begun.


India’s public hospitals and clinics — which are unable to cope with the
almost 1m children who die of diarrhoea, malnutrition and other health
issues every year, with the hundreds of thousands of tuberculosis
patients (a quarter of the world’s cases), with a vast anaemic and
malnourished population vulnerable to any number of minor illnesses that
prove fatal for them — will not be able to cope with a crisis that is
like what Europe and the US are dealing with now.


All healthcare is more or less on hold as hospitals have been turned
over to the service of the virus. The trauma centre of the legendary All
India Institute of Medical Sciences in Delhi is closed, the hundreds of
cancer patients known as cancer refugees who live on the roads outside
that huge hospital driven away like cattle.


     People will fall sick and die at home. We may never know their
stories. They may not even become statistics. We can only hope that the
studies that say the virus likes cold weather are correct (though other
researchers have cast doubt on this). Never have a people longed so
irrationally and so much for a burning, punishing Indian summer.


What is this thing that has happened to us? It’s a virus, yes. In and of
itself it holds no moral brief. But it is definitely more than a virus.
Some believe it’s God’s way of bringing us to our senses. Others that
it’s a Chinese conspiracy to take over the world.


Whatever it is, coronavirus has made the mighty kneel and brought the
world to a halt like nothing else could. Our minds are still racing back
and forth, longing for a return to “normality”, trying to stitch our
future to our past and refusing to acknowledge the rupture. But the
rupture exists. And in the midst of this terrible despair, it offers us
a chance to rethink the doomsday machine we have built for ourselves.
Nothing could be worse than a return to normality.


Historically, pandemics have forced humans to break with the past and
imagine their world anew. This one is no different. It is a portal, a
gateway between one world and the next.


We can choose to walk through it, dragging the carcasses of our
prejudice and hatred, our avarice, our data banks and dead ideas, our
dead rivers and smoky skies behind us. Or we can walk through lightly,
with little luggage, ready to imagine another world. And ready to fight
for it.


Copyright © Arundhati Roy 2020


Published by the Finlancial Times