When the first Covid-19 lockdown rolled into my city of Toronto, I tried to convince myself that I supported the measure. I even posted a “stay home, save lives” banner under my Facebook cover photo. But I wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all myself. The banner came down a few hours later.
Like Rachel Johnson, sister of former UK prime minister Boris Johnson, I recoiled against the lockdowns and the culture that sprang up around them on a cellular level. Nothing about this strange new world — the shaming, the snitching, the runaway panic — seemed right or strong or true.
In the months and years since that bleak time, I’ve often asked myself why I had such a visceral aversion to the lockdowns, social distancing circles, masks, and the rest of it. After all, I was 63 when the pandemic hit — not a grandma, but certainly old enough to be one. Why didn’t I, like so many of my age-mates, cheer for policies ostensibly designed to keep me safe?
The online warriors would have me believe my misgivings sprang from selfishness, but I knew that wasn’t it. I had a solid marriage and had been working from home as a medical writer for 28 years. The lockdowns hardly caused a ripple in my material circumstances. It’s just my soul that was hurting.
Slowly, as I devoured articles by intellectuals all over the world who shared my discomfiture — scientists, doctors, bioethicists, philosophers, novelists, economists, and others — I began to understand what was troubling me. Giorgio Agamben, the illustrious Italian philosopher known for his work on biopolitics, spoke directly to me when he decried the separation of “bare life” from meaningful living. Lionel Shriver, the spirited UK novelist of We Need to Talk About Kevin fame, spoke eloquently about the value of freedom and the steep cost of throwing it away. I considered their insights at least as important as what epidemiologists had to say, and it occurred to me that it might be valuable to gather them all in one place.
