Life on Lockdown: The Coronavirus Diaries Ep. II
Keeping our heads on.
The Piazza Vittorio underground stop in Rome is connected to the surface via a very long escalator, so long that looking up at the top gives you the illusion of a vertical ascent. Whenever I change there, I find myself challenging to climb that escalator, instead of just riding it. I have found that my chances of getting to the top in one go and with less effort are higher if I never, ever look up to see how long I have to go.
That’s how I’m approaching the coming weeks: one day at a time. Never looking up. Because if I do — and I see how far the end is, and how long we might have to go, and how many events will be cancelled or postponed because of the carelessness that other European countries are showing towards the pandemic — I’m not sure I can make it out with my sanity intact.
Truth is, some people are already going mad with boredom. Like the random guy who stumbled into my Instagram livestream from yesterday, where I did what I usually do on Instagram, i.e. discuss feminism. I call it the “Feminist E.R.”, a name that feels bitterly ironic now given the nature of our confinement. As an experiment, I decided to switch the format from written answers on Instagram stories to a more entertaining (and more compact) approach.
I have no idea how Random Guy got to my feed. As a woman, I often find male logic mystifying. I suspect he was bored, like all of us, possibly full of pent-up frustration and actively looking for someone who could make a good target. Or, also quite possibly, he was looking for free porn. Anyway, there he was in my DMs, calling me “thick”, “ignorant”, “crazy” and “a feminist dilettante”.
I’ve been in the game long enough to know that this is by no means an unlikely occurrence. It happens literally all the time. But these are no ordinary times: one would expect everyone, even this particular brand of garden-variety misogynist, to have other things on their mind than bother semi-obscure women who chat with people online.
Looking up, now. Another 21 days to go, and that is if we’re good and disciplined and stay indoors and wash our hands whenever we go shopping or pick up parcels left by couriers. It could be longer than that if we don’t. If this guy is so mad now, how’s he going to make it to the end of the month? Does he live alone? Are there women in his vicinity, and if so, could they be in danger?
Maybe this is just some random idiot who needs to blow off steam and has none of his mates around to do that gross locker-room thing that men do at the expense of women (we’re on to you, guys). But there’s plenty of abusive men out there, men whose wives, girlfriends, children and partners are forced to toe the line daily to prevent the next violent outburst. Women who find that keeping out of these men’s way is the best defence. Women who were planning their escape, who had already visited a women’s shelter and made arrangements to move into temporary accommodation. All their plans are thwarted now, and they’re stuck indoors with their abusers. It’s a horrifying thought.
More horrifying thoughts: what’s going to happen to homeless people who may have contracted the virus and are unable to self-quarantine? Who will take care of them, now that volunteers are forbidden to venture outside unless it’s for “reasons of necessity”? Yesterday there was news of a homeless person who was reported by the police for failing to state their domicile on the form provided by the authorities that we all have to carry whenever we leave the house. This is madness.
Going now, I need to start making lunch. There’s buzz of a flashmob later today, we’re supposed to open our windows and start singing. Can’t imagine what a racket it would be.
