BY JO ST LEON
“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 prejudices 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” – Arundhati Roy
The states of Australia are beginning to contemplate the easing of COVID-19 restrictions. From Friday, Queenslanders will be allowed to go for picnics, but only with company from within their own households. Those like me, who live alone, may go with one friend. In New South Wales people will be allowed to swim in the sea, but only within strict guidelines. Woohoo! Light at the end of the tunnel, perhaps. I haven’t heard of any easing in Tasmania yet, but where the mainland goes, we will surely follow.
When I was a child, I loved the Narnia books. The idea that a person could walk into a wardrobe and emerge in a new world was fascinating, and so appealing. In 2020, the coronavirus is our wardrobe. I find myself looking forward, with both excitement and a certain amount of trepidation, to what comes next. Who will I be in this new post-COVID-19 world? How will I fit in to our new society? Will I have a contribution to make? Or am I too old for that? Or – worst of all – will I emerge into a world in which nothing has changed?
I look through the wardrobe door with hope, but also with dread. Have we learnt anything? As our clearer skies, fresher air and trimmed-down lifestyles attest, our previous normal was destructive, unnecessary, and unkind – to our planet, our wildlife, and many of our citizens. Pollution, poverty, and cruelty abounded as we worshipped at the shrine of the twin gods of wealth and economic growth.
In that old world, youth was glorified, whilst old age was synonymous with the scrap heap. As a musician and concertgoer, I am lucky – this was not the way the Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra saw the world. I felt valued then; I feel valued now despite the silencing of the music; I am fairly certain that when the music starts again, I will still have a place. I think back to the beginning of my career in London: although we young musicians didn’t always respect the playing of the elderly, we did respect the experience and the musicianship; we felt a camaraderie that crossed generations.
As I contemplate walking through that wardrobe door, I hope I will find respect on the other side: for our planet, for our animals, and for each other. One of the things I have loved about isolation has been the lightness of my footprint. I have supported local businesses, and created meals from the sometimes limited contents of my pantry. I have sponsored a retired greyhound – retired from an industry that glorified those twin gods, with scant regard for kindness or animal welfare.
In C.S. Lewis’ Narnia, every animal – big or small – had a place, a contribution to make. They had a value of their own, independent of what they could do for us. But when the Pevensey children first walked through that wardrobe portal, they entered a world of suffering, where it was always winter and never Christmas; a world in which no-one could be trusted. It was ruled by a queen whose wickedness, greed, and cruelty was destroying a wondrous land. The overthrow of her regime had to be fought for.
And so it will be for the re-opening of our world. We will have choices. Those twin gods will not lie quietly down to die. Our new reality will be shaped, perhaps, by each of us. By the choices we make and the actions we take. I hope we can leave our prejudices, hatred, dead ideas and avarice behind us. I hope those who have hoarded toilet paper can begin to see that we live in a land of plenty. I hope we can build a world in which every person counts.
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