Random thoughts on the medical trending topic

Fiction has never been so much surpassed by reality than at the present moment. The most brilliant mind in Hollywood could not have come up with a better script than the one History is writing for us, with the novel twist that for once the focus of disaster is not exclusively located in the United States, as the big screen has accustomed us all to see; on the contrary, thanks to globalisation, the whole world is involved in the lethal plot.

However, let’s not over-dramatise. This is in no way the end of humankind, nor a zombie apocalypse scenario, even though the pale skin from days of confinement and the brain numbness from watching too much Netflix might make us look like one. Our species has seen worse, this is just one more test to overcome, but one that may unite humanity in a common effort or, conversely, greatly accentuate the inequalities that separate us. It all depends on us. Whatever it may be, there is no denying that we are living interesting times in which the existing structures —political, economical, social— as we know them, may cease to exist. The current events are not only revealing fundamental deficiencies in the system, but may contribute to resetting the priorities on the political agendas worldwide (call me an optimist).

We are already seeing communist and capitalist governments alike implementing similar lockdown measures in order to contain the pandemic, with varying degrees of success. Seemingly, the collectivist culture of communist regimes —together with the tight control of the State— has proven more efficient in keeping people away from the streets, while, ironically, the individual freedom we hold so dear in the capitalist West has cost us a longer confinement period: minutes after the Prime Ministers of France or Spain had finished addressing the nation to announce the state of alarm, citizens of both countries could be seen occupying the terraces or calmly driving to their holiday domiciles. Far from siding myself with authoritarian regimes, these scenarios should spark a debate on social solidarity and the fine line between individualism and egoism. Our collective well-being relies, now more than ever, on our capacity to make decisions based on what is best for those around us.

With regards to the economy, it’s remarkable —but not in the least surprising— that pride neoliberals, in the opposite spectrum of public mediation, are now begging the states to intervene in order to safeguard the market. Multinational companies and well-to-do entrepreneurs, sometimes richer than entire countries, demand to be protected so as not to lose profit. All the while they let go of their employees, who increase the number of people filing for unemployment, therefore creating an even bigger strain on governments and a longer recovery period of their economies.

The economic system depending on State intervention is not unprecedented: less than a century ago, the Keynesian measures succeeded in reviving the US activity after the crash of 1929. Far from having learned our lesson, and despite the establishment of welfare states, we have allowed the economy to determine the global political programme, thus keeping the social needs unattended. Surely the current medical crisis will have a long-lasting toll on the economy, the severity of which is hard to predict, but it’s certain to hit harder in already depressed areas. Just like after 1929, this could be the perfect opportunity to try out a new system where social prosperity —and not money— is at the centre.

Never a believer of conspiracy theories, I want to think this is a timely disaster that will open up a path for renovation. What if the conspiracy has not been orchestrated by powerful governments or scientists in secret bacteriological labs, but by something much bigger and much more powerful? If you have seen the images of deserted cities where wildlife is slowly taking over, or the huge decrease in pollution levels registered since the beginning of this medical crisis, it is not so foolish to think that Nature is behind it all.

Scientists have been warning of the irreparable effects of human activity on the environment way before Greta Thunberg was around. Yet, only recently have individuals and governments alike began to really listen and implement some comprehensive measures. Entire species have been extinct, ecosystems destroyed, to make space for the oversized human race and our noxious consumerism habits. Our egocentrism knows no limits, and we have persevered in the exhaustion of the very resources that guarantee our existence, somehow convinced that we are endowed with a birthright to own the Earth and reign over every living organism.

But Nature knows best and has deployed its own self-protection mechanisms against the worst virus ever seen: us. It is no coincidence that the current malaise affects mainly the elderly and the weak (natural selection at its best), leaving the innocent infants of the species practically untouched. The virus seems to be freeing the Earth from some of the weight of overpopulation while indirectly serving as a reminder of the vulnerability of our human condition, a reminder that may in turn contribute to revalorise life above materialism. In a somewhat twisted way, the illness is blurring the categorisations we have created for ourselves and making us all equal, forcing us to look out for each other without distinction.

How the world will look like when all this maelstrom is over can only be speculated. All the outcomes remain possible. In my mind, I want to believe that something good will come out of this, that we will emerge humbler, with some lessons learned, and the opportunity to create a new, fairer order of things in our hands.

Why my words matter

Who am I to write a blog?, you may be wondering. Why would anyone bother to read a piece of someone else’s life? After all, everyone has their own story to tell. What makes mine special?

Nothing, would be the answer. Nothing, and everything.

My story of a middle-class*, educated, white European girl is no different from most other girls’s out there, nor more (nor less) extraordinary. Many similar stories to mine have been written, and many more surely will. The only argument I can put forward in favour of this one is that it is entirely mine, based on my personal experiences, knowledge and reflections, and therefore, unique. Because there are not two lives that are equal.

As you might have guessed, considering the categories I have listed above, my situation is a quite comfortable one. I can count myself among the privileged part of the world, my only difficulties stemming from having been born a woman —a concept that, throughout this blog, I will attempt to dissect. I should almost be grateful that this is the sole discrimination I suffer from, although not one to be disregarded in the least: my experincing the world as a woman has had a tremendous impact in the building of my identity. Yet, it remains also true that women are half of the world’s population and that, thanks to the feminist movement, an increasing number of women are finally telling their stories in every possible way they are able to, which includes writing.

If that is so, what value can I add with my content?

While this blog may appear unoriginal (particularly if we consider how easy it is to create one) I can argue in my defence that I’m no stranger to writing: I have been keeping a diary for as far back as my memory stretches. Should anyone be interested, I could probably write a full autobiography, from what I used to eat at the age of six, whom I had a fit with when I was ten, or how cute I found the new boy in class at fifteen. But my diaries do not stay on the surface of everyday events, they dive deep down into feelings, fears and insecurities, unanswered questions, hopes. They also include some fictional stories every now and then.

What this means is that writing, to me, is as natural as breathing. It is through words that I better make sense of the inner and outer realities, it is to writing I resort every time I need advice, comfort or a refuge to my feelings. In the process of putting pen to paper, I create a bridge between conscious and subconscious that allows me to find my truth.

There was a time, growing up, when I lost my voice, as no one seemed to be paying attention to it. I became small and too afraid of external judgment. I close myself off to the world. That was the moment I started writing. I guess, regardless of how hard society tries to shut you out, you always find your way to self-expression, a rebellion of sorts to assert your existence. It would take many years and a lot of inner work to learn to acknowledge that my voice does matter as much as anyone else’s.

It happened mainly through social interaction. My long-lasting silence has allowed me to become a curious observer of life, slowly shaping me into an empathetic soul with good listening skills. Those around me often feel encouraged to raise their voice. My sole presence often suffices for friends and casual strangers alike to feel comfortable to open up and share. Most of the times I simply listen. Other times, I give my humble advice too. And they usually appreciate it.

Being confided in is a beautiful and flattering experience, and it was through these exchanges that I started to question the value of my own voice, silenced for way too long. Cogito, ergo sum. I think, therefore I exist. And if I exist, I figured, I have a right to be heard, just like everybody else.

My words have helped others before, my life experiences have been of interest to some, and my critical views of society have sparked agitated debates on several occasions. I started to feel that I have things to say and that perhaps there were ears eager to listen. Accordingly, if I was ready to share with the world, I might as well do it in the most natural way to me, that is, in writing.

But finding one’s voice after so long is never easy. I might get lost and entangled at times; as much as I would like to have a clear mind about everything, the truth is that I am an imperfect being who keeps learning every day. It could also happen that I lack clarity or make some mistakes, after all, English is not my mother tongue. Yet, these are no reasons to hold on my words, now that I know they need to be said. It does not matter who is on the other end to read them. Someone, I should hope.

As long as my words resonate with just one person, they are worth writing.


*The concept of middle-class in our current societies has become so diluted that people from many different walks of life consider themselves as belonging to this category. As a sort of multipurpose label applied without criteria, it has lost its original meaning and intention. I will come back to this in a later post.