newyorker--2020-03-23--Giving Up Carbon for Lent

Giving Up Carbon for Lent

On a recent Monday evening , at an event called “ Doing Theology : Jesus and Carbon Neutrality , ” I sat in a circle around a large bowl of Cheez-Its with twelve parishioners from Circle of Hope , a progressive Anabaptist church in South Philadelphia .
The church occupies a former Italian funeral home that was featured on the show “ Mob Wives , ” and the room was hung with black netting to symbolize Lent , the Christian liturgical season that began on Ash Wednesday , in late February , and ends forty days later , on Easter @ @ @ @ @ @ @ atonement and reflection , and these people had come together to discuss the church ’ s carbon footprint , and their own .
“ I feel like I ’ ve woken up in the ocean and I ’ m trying not to get wet , ” Jeremy Avellino , a forty-four-year-old architect who was leading the discussion , said .
In 2010 , Avellino had learned that buildings were responsible for thirty-nine per cent of global carbon emissions , and considered leaving architecture completely , but God had told him not to .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ audibly say , ‘ Hey , man , you ’ ve got to stay in this and make it better , ’ ” he clarified , but he had had a brush with the Holy Spirit .
In 2011 , Avellino created Bright Common , an architecture studio that practices high-concept , low-carbon design .
( Recently , during the panic shopping brought on by the coronavirus outbreak , he bought a Tushy , a seventy-nine-dollar bidet , to reduce his use of toilet paper . )
Avellino finds solace in the energy-efficient @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ But sometimes , when I zoom out on Google Earth and see the millions of other homes built , I sometimes slip into despair , ” he said .
Sara Robbins , a thirty-three-year-old social worker who grew up in a conservative church , talked about trying to unlearn the idea that stories about humans damaging the planet , including through overpopulation , were fake news .
“ I grew up thinking that we had to have more children so that there were more Christians on the planet , ” she said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fewer single-use plastics .
“ I ’ m trying in the day to be more aware of how my actions have larger positive and negative impacts , ” she said .
Many Christians observe the period of Lent by giving something up , often in the name of self-improvement .
( Carbohydrates , say , or alcohol . )
Over the past several years , however , some left-leaning Christians have made the commitment to limit their consumption in service of the Earth , rather than themselves .
Last year , a group @ @ @ @ @ @ @ newsletter advising people on how to cut back on electricity usage during Lent .
This year , the young adults of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America , across the country , are fasting from single-use plastics , and other local sustainability practices .
“ It ’ s just way harder than I thought , ” Savanna Sullivan , the twenty-seven-year-old national director of young-adult ministries , told me .
“ Yogurt , for instance : it ’ s healthy , but it ’ s in plastic , so I ’ ve given @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the members of the University United Methodist Church are fasting from carbon .
They recently shared a forty-day calendar that offers directives for each day , advising followers , for example , to collect their food waste to see how much they create , and to keep it out of the garbage , where it produces greenhouse gases .
The Church of England has devoted its annual # livelent campaign to “ care for Creation , ” and has advised practitioners to , among other things , plant a tree , turn their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ The individual actions are easy , ” Jo Chamberlain , the national environmental officer for the Church , told me .
“ The ones that involve other people , like having my family eat more vegetables , are trickier.
” Curious how I might begin my own carbon fast for Lent , I texted my friend Carolyn Kissane , a fifty-one-year-old professor at the Center for Global Affairs at N.Y.U .
Since 2007 , Kissane has taught a grad-school course called “ Energy , the Environment , and Resource Security ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ assess the resources they expend .
She showed me a Web site that lists the costs associated with the kilowatt-hours of appliances : ceiling fans , air-conditioners , washing machines .
The students are often startled by what they learn .
For instance , although China emits more carbon than any other country , individually , Americans are the biggest carbon users , emitting , on average , seventeen tons of carbon per capita a year , compared with a global average of 4.8 tons per capita .
One of Kissane ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ transportation , and water-usage costs of high-end plant-based foods—say , avocados—is actually more damaging to the planet than certain meats .
Then there were the critical minerals in their phones and computers—the coltan , cobalt , and lithium—that are mined in Afghanistan and the Democratic Republic of the Congo .
“ Even if our energy is entirely green , ” she told me , “ there are still hidden costs , negative externalities , which somebody pays when we turn on the lights.
” Kissane makes her students do the math themselves , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ spoke to Caroline Bader , who lives in Germany and is the director of sustainable life styles for GreenFaith , a grassroots organization that mobilizes religious people across faiths for environmental causes .
“ Carbon fasting is becoming increasingly common during Lent , ” she told me .
Bader helps faith communities discern what choices really matter in limiting carbon usage and then to implement them .
She pointed me in the direction of several carbon calculators that help parse the numbers .
I clicked through questions about how often I travel , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ my home , what I eat , and how much garbage I create .
The questions became increasingly granular : Did I really never eat fish , or did I do it once or twice a week ?
When I ’ d completed the quiz , the results were dispiriting .
My carbon footprint was about 10.8 tons per year , more than double the global average .
“ If everyone lived like you , we would need 3.3 earths , ” the results said .
Bader then sent me a cheat sheet @ @ @ @ @ @ @ carbon I could save by , say , washing clothes in cold water .
“ Now decide on some changes , ” she said brightly .
“ Do the test again.
” The most effective means to cut down carbon usage is limiting flights ; avoiding one transatlantic fight saves more than 1.5 tons of carbon .
( The only two personal choices more effective in reducing carbon are living car-free , and having one fewer child . )
Going flightless was easy for me : the coronavirus outbreak had just prompted the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to take to France .
( Earlier this year , I ’ d also begun cancelling book-tour trips I couldn ’ t justify , including a trip to Australia , which would have been hard to feel good about since the book was about the negative impacts of fossil-fuel production . )
Nor did I mind cutting out the last animal products from my diet , another large source of carbon .
These changes , which amounted to twelve fewer hours on an airplane this year , and maybe fifty fewer servings of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tons , or , if everyone did them , about one-third of an Earth .
It seemed like a tiny improvement , more about “ feeling good ” than actually making meaningful change for the planet .
At the “ Jesus and Carbon ” conference , Jonny Rashid , a thirty-four-year-old pastor , had argued against just such an approach : to think that we , as individuals , can end the climate crisis by what we consume is a trap .
“ Although seventy per cent of America ’ s emissions come @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ re tricked into ordering the Impossible Burger , ” he said .
But , when I shared my results with Bader , she said , “ It ’ s not just about the numbers.
” She agreed that , by ourselves , the changes we can create are small , and that there ’ s a danger that they might lull us into a false sense that we are “ doing something , ” while distracting from the larger , systemic shifts that need to occur .
Yet Bader and her colleagues @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is essential .
“ How can we ask politicians and systems to change if we ’ re not willing to undergo personal transformation ?
” she asked .
Now that the COVID-19 quarantine has forced people around the world to stay at home , we are all suddenly on a carbon fast .
China , alone , has reduced its carbon emissions by nearly a quarter over the past month .
Most economic downturns come with momentary blips of reduced emissions that bounce back in the long term .
But maybe such a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ effects .
The Lenten activists believe that being willing to make personal sacrifices encourages us to conceive of ourselves in the context of the larger system that needs to change .
As they see it , changing our habits is less a plan for solving the climate crisis and more a reminder in our daily lives of our commitment to trying , the way a ritual reminds us of our faith .
“ We don ’ t think we ’ re going to save the earth through reducing reusable cups , ” Sullivan @ @ @ @ @ @ @ America , told me .
“ But , spiritually , it allows us to reflect on our call to care for Creation .
And when people have a personal commitment to an issue , it ’ s much easier to organize .
”

Some Christians have made the Lenten commitment to limit their consumption in service of the Earth, rather than themselves. Photograph from Alamy
On a recent Monday evening, at an event called “Doing Theology: Jesus and Carbon Neutrality,” I sat in a circle around a large bowl of Cheez-Its with twelve parishioners from Circle of Hope, a progressive Anabaptist church in South Philadelphia. The church occupies a former Italian funeral home that was featured on the show “Mob Wives,” and the room was hung with black netting to symbolize Lent, the Christian liturgical season that began on Ash Wednesday, in late February, and ends forty days later, on Easter. Lent is historically a period of atonement and reflection, and these people had come together to discuss the church’s carbon footprint, and their own.
“I feel like I’ve woken up in the ocean and I’m trying not to get wet,” Jeremy Avellino, a forty-four-year-old architect who was leading the discussion, said. In 2010, Avellino had learned that buildings were responsible for thirty-nine per cent of global carbon emissions, and considered leaving architecture completely, but God had told him not to. “I didn’t hear God audibly say, ‘Hey, man, you’ve got to stay in this and make it better,’ ” he clarified, but he had had a brush with the Holy Spirit. In 2011, Avellino created Bright Common, an architecture studio that practices high-concept, low-carbon design. (Recently, during the panic shopping brought on by the coronavirus outbreak, he bought a Tushy, a seventy-nine-dollar bidet, to reduce his use of toilet paper.) Avellino finds solace in the energy-efficient houses and apartment buildings he builds. “But sometimes, when I zoom out on Google Earth and see the millions of other homes built, I sometimes slip into despair,” he said.
Sara Robbins, a thirty-three-year-old social worker who grew up in a conservative church, talked about trying to unlearn the idea that stories about humans damaging the planet, including through overpopulation, were fake news. “I grew up thinking that we had to have more children so that there were more Christians on the planet,” she said. She has started composting and using fewer single-use plastics. “I’m trying in the day to be more aware of how my actions have larger positive and negative impacts,” she said.
Many Christians observe the period of Lent by giving something up, often in the name of self-improvement. (Carbohydrates, say, or alcohol.) Over the past several years, however, some left-leaning Christians have made the commitment to limit their consumption in service of the Earth, rather than themselves. Last year, a group of nuns in Pennsylvania sent out a newsletter advising people on how to cut back on electricity usage during Lent. This year, the young adults of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, across the country, are fasting from single-use plastics, and other local sustainability practices. “It’s just way harder than I thought,” Savanna Sullivan, the twenty-seven-year-old national director of young-adult ministries, told me. “Yogurt, for instance: it’s healthy, but it’s in plastic, so I’ve given it up.” In St. Louis, the members of the University United Methodist Church are fasting from carbon. They recently shared a forty-day calendar that offers directives for each day, advising followers, for example, to collect their food waste to see how much they create, and to keep it out of the garbage, where it produces greenhouse gases. The Church of England has devoted its annual #livelent campaign to “care for Creation,” and has advised practitioners to, among other things, plant a tree, turn their thermostats down, and eat less meat. “The individual actions are easy,” Jo Chamberlain, the national environmental officer for the Church, told me. “The ones that involve other people, like having my family eat more vegetables, are trickier.”
Curious how I might begin my own carbon fast for Lent, I texted my friend Carolyn Kissane, a fifty-one-year-old professor at the Center for Global Affairs at N.Y.U. Since 2007, Kissane has taught a grad-school course called “Energy, the Environment, and Resource Security”; the first assignment requires students to assess the resources they expend. She showed me a Web site that lists the costs associated with the kilowatt-hours of appliances: ceiling fans, air-conditioners, washing machines. The students are often startled by what they learn. For instance, although China emits more carbon than any other country, individually, Americans are the biggest carbon users, emitting, on average, seventeen tons of carbon per capita a year, compared with a global average of 4.8 tons per capita. One of Kissane’s vegan students learned that the packaging, transportation, and water-usage costs of high-end plant-based foods—say, avocados—is actually more damaging to the planet than certain meats. Then there were the critical minerals in their phones and computers—the coltan, cobalt, and lithium—that are mined in Afghanistan and the Democratic Republic of the Congo. “Even if our energy is entirely green,” she told me, “there are still hidden costs, negative externalities, which somebody pays when we turn on the lights.”
Kissane makes her students do the math themselves, but I needed some help. I spoke to Caroline Bader, who lives in Germany and is the director of sustainable life styles for GreenFaith, a grassroots organization that mobilizes religious people across faiths for environmental causes. “Carbon fasting is becoming increasingly common during Lent,” she told me. Bader helps faith communities discern what choices really matter in limiting carbon usage and then to implement them. She pointed me in the direction of several carbon calculators that help parse the numbers. I clicked through questions about how often I travel, what kind of energy I use in my home, what I eat, and how much garbage I create. The questions became increasingly granular: Did I really never eat fish, or did I do it once or twice a week? When I’d completed the quiz, the results were dispiriting. My carbon footprint was about 10.8 tons per year, more than double the global average. “If everyone lived like you, we would need 3.3 earths,” the results said.
Bader then sent me a cheat sheet of sorts, listing the tonnage of carbon I could save by, say, washing clothes in cold water. “Now decide on some changes,” she said brightly. “Do the test again.” The most effective means to cut down carbon usage is limiting flights; avoiding one transatlantic fight saves more than 1.5 tons of carbon. (The only two personal choices more effective in reducing carbon are living car-free, and having one fewer child.) Going flightless was easy for me: the coronavirus outbreak had just prompted the cancellation of a trip I was planning to take to France. (Earlier this year, I’d also begun cancelling book-tour trips I couldn’t justify, including a trip to Australia, which would have been hard to feel good about since the book was about the negative impacts of fossil-fuel production.) Nor did I mind cutting out the last animal products from my diet, another large source of carbon. These changes, which amounted to twelve fewer hours on an airplane this year, and maybe fifty fewer servings of salmon, reduced my footprint by 1.3 tons, or, if everyone did them, about one-third of an Earth.
It seemed like a tiny improvement, more about “feeling good” than actually making meaningful change for the planet. At the “Jesus and Carbon” conference, Jonny Rashid, a thirty-four-year-old pastor, had argued against just such an approach: to think that we, as individuals, can end the climate crisis by what we consume is a trap. “Although seventy per cent of America’s emissions come from corporations and the military, you’re tricked into ordering the Impossible Burger,” he said. But, when I shared my results with Bader, she said, “It’s not just about the numbers.” She agreed that, by ourselves, the changes we can create are small, and that there’s a danger that they might lull us into a false sense that we are “doing something,” while distracting from the larger, systemic shifts that need to occur. Yet Bader and her colleagues at GreenFaith had decided that individual action is essential. “How can we ask politicians and systems to change if we’re not willing to undergo personal transformation?” she asked.
Now that the COVID-19 quarantine has forced people around the world to stay at home, we are all suddenly on a carbon fast. China, alone, has reduced its carbon emissions by nearly a quarter over the past month. Most economic downturns come with momentary blips of reduced emissions that bounce back in the long term. But maybe such a global renunciation of carbon will have longer-lasting effects. The Lenten activists believe that being willing to make personal sacrifices encourages us to conceive of ourselves in the context of the larger system that needs to change. As they see it, changing our habits is less a plan for solving the climate crisis and more a reminder in our daily lives of our commitment to trying, the way a ritual reminds us of our faith. “We don’t think we’re going to save the earth through reducing reusable cups,” Sullivan, from the Evangelical Lutheran Church of America, told me. “But, spiritually, it allows us to reflect on our call to care for Creation. And when people have a personal commitment to an issue, it’s much easier to organize.”
A previous version of this article misstated Sara Robbins’s profession.


newyorker--2020-03-23--Daily Cartoon: Monday, March 23rd

Daily Cartoon: Monday, March 23rd

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newyorker--2020-03-23--The Growing Chaos Inside New York’s Hospitals

Matthew Morrison is a thirty-six-year-old E.R .
doctor at BronxCare , a hospital in the South Bronx , which has a large Dominican population .
He speaks “ medical Spanish , ” he told me .
“ Fiebre .
Dolor .
Náusea .
Vómito.
” On Wednesday , he treated a woman in her mid-sixties with telltale signs of COVID-19 : fever , shortness of breath , coughing up blood .
She was terrified .
She told Morrison , with tears in her eyes , “ Doctor , no me siento bien.
” Before admitting her , Morrison gave her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ giving all his patients : “ You ’ ve come to the right place .
We ’ re here for you .
Unfortunately , we don ’ t have a specific treatment for COVID , but we ’ re able to offer all sorts of supportive care.
” People were anxious .
Another likely COVID-19 patient , an older African-American man , had taken a cocktail of medication—Percocet , Benadryl , an antibiotic—to treat his aches and fever , before arriving , disoriented , at the E.R .
New York City has become @ @ @ @ @ @ @ more than ninety-six hundred confirmed cases as of Sunday , and hospitals are struggling to keep pace .
BronxCare workers were in the process of setting up a separate triage tent , to manage COVID-19 patients .
Until then , the E.R.
’ s waiting room would be crowded with the “ worried well , ” or , in this case , the worried sick—people with coughs and flulike symptoms that might or might not be signs of COVID-19 , who ’ d come because they wanted to get tested .
Most were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ self-quarantine .
Tests were being reserved for people sick enough to be hospitalized .
“ It ’ s challenging , ” Morrison said .
“ Nobody has any experience with this at all , because there ’ s been nothing like this since 1918 .
We can all read the Wikipedia page on the Spanish flu , but that doesn ’ t show what it was like or describe the experience of people who had actual responsibility.
” He was avoiding news stories about health-care workers who ’ d died of the virus @ @ @ @ @ @ @ one in Seattle .
But it was hard not to think about them as he donned and doffed his personal protective equipment and pictured all the things that could go wrong , the ways he could inadvertently touch a mask or a glove and become exposed .
“ The biggest fear is realizing that you ’ re probably going to get coronavirus no matter what you do.
” Jessica van Voorhees , a forty-three-year-old E.R .
doctor at Methodist Hospital , in Park Slope , Brooklyn , found herself watching the disaster with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that ’ s sort of fascinating about watching a pandemic unfold in real time , and seeing the exponential curve , ” she said .
She was working night shifts on March 8th , 9th , and 10th , when the first patients started trickling in .
“ At first , it was a big deal .
Like , ‘ I think we just had a COVID patient !
’ Then we had three .
And every day it more than doubled.
” When I spoke to her on Thursday , the E.R @ @ @ @ @ @ @ coughs , fevers , and sore throats—most of whom just wanted to be tested for the virus .
As in the Bronx , they were being sent home , with orders to self-quarantine .
Testing had to be reserved for the very sick .
For that reason , van Voorhees had concluded that the official numbers are “ totally off .
Way off !
” She went on , “ I think we ’ re probably testing a small percentage of people who come in here and are clearly positive.
” They were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ people who came to the E.R .
with a mild illness and returned days later , having swiftly deteriorated .
A forty-two-year-old schoolteacher came in , with the usual symptoms : fever , body aches , sore throat , cough .
“ He was super fit , healthy , and worked out all the time .
Never smoked , ” van Voorhees said .
“ We said , ‘ Look , we think you have the virus .
Go home and self-quarantine.
’ ” The man returned three days later , weak and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and then fell out of his chair , ” van Voorhees said .
X-rays revealed a severe viral infection in both lungs .
He was hospitalized and put on oxygen .
“ It ’ s so weird to see these people who are basically healthy struck down by it , ” van Voorhees said .
And it was troubling to see sick patients getting worse .
“ Normally , when a patient has pneumonia , you hospitalize them and give them antibiotics .
As the antibiotics start to work , they get better @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s no direct therapy , just supportive care , so they get worse.
” Patients were often admitted to the hospital needing oxygen .
“ I check on them the next day , and they ’ re a lot worse .
The day after that , they ’ ve been intubated and moved to the I.C.U.
” E.R .
doctors pride themselves on being able to “ flex and surge , ” she said—to adapt to the rush of patients on holiday weekends , or during a normal flu and cold season @ @ @ @ @ @ @ had managed to adapt : the hospital had transformed an outpatient surgical clinic into a COVID unit , and built temporary walls in an exam area to create more private rooms .
But the makeshift facilities were starting to fill up .
And anxiety was building around the supply of personal protective equipment—masks , gowns , goggles .
Van Voorhees had started to think about the prospect of being overwhelmed .
“ What ’ s it going to feel like ?
” she wondered , as she contemplated running out of I.C.U .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ and which to let die .
She went on , “ The vibe at work is this feeling of impending doom.
” Health-care workers faced an additional threat : a looming shortage of personal protective equipment .
Last Thursday , the New York State Nurses Association wrote in a letter to Governor Andrew Cuomo that it was “ painfully obvious ” that their forty-two thousand nurses did not have the equipment necessary to protect themselves from the virus .
“ It goes without saying that if our nurses , physicians and other workers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ( because they are on quarantine or themselves sickened ) that the hospitals will cease to function , ” the letter reads .
At Montefiore Medical Center , in the Bronx , Michelle Gonzalez , a thirty-year-old intensive-care nurse , was monitoring several COVID-19 patients , who were critically ill and on ventilators .
The hospital has multiple I.C.U.s , and hers specializes in respiratory issues , making her unit a hot spot .
She was already feeling burned out .
“ When you sign up for nursing , you sign up for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ things—H.I.V.
, AIDS , a handful of bacterias and viruses .
But I never thought I ’ d signed up for a pandemic that we ’ re not prepared for , ” she said .
Hospital authorities hadn ’ t provided information about the supply of items like protective masks and gloves , but the gear was clearly being rationed .
“ If we don ’ t get the proper equipment soon , we ’ re going to get sick , ” she said .
Since the first week of March , when @ @ @ @ @ @ @ there had been “ confusion and chaos ” around safety protocols , she said .
At first , the hospital mandated that COVID-19 patients be put in “ negative-pressure ” rooms , which keep contaminated air from circulating .
Then word came down that regular rooms were O.K .
Nurses were told to use only N95 masks , which more efficiently filter out airborne particles .
“ Then they said on Sunday we no longer need N95 masks , ” Gonzalez said .
“ We ’ re going to switch to surgical masks @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t seem likely that the surgical masks had become safer overnight ; it was the hospital ’ s way of managing the equipment shortage .

Matthew Morrison is a thirty-six-year-old E.R. doctor at BronxCare, a hospital in the South Bronx, which has a large Dominican population. He speaks “medical Spanish,” he told me. “Fiebre. Dolor. Náusea. Vómito.” On Wednesday, he treated a woman in her mid-sixties with telltale signs of COVID-19: fever, shortness of breath, coughing up blood. She was terrified. She told Morrison, with tears in her eyes, “Doctor, no me siento bien.” Before admitting her, Morrison gave her the same speech he’d been giving all his patients: “You’ve come to the right place. We’re here for you. Unfortunately, we don’t have a specific treatment for COVID, but we’re able to offer all sorts of supportive care.” People were anxious. Another likely COVID-19 patient, an older African-American man, had taken a cocktail of medication—Percocet, Benadryl, an antibiotic—to treat his aches and fever, before arriving, disoriented, at the E.R.
New York City has become an epicenter of the crisis, with more than ninety-six hundred confirmed cases as of Sunday, and hospitals are struggling to keep pace. BronxCare workers were in the process of setting up a separate triage tent, to manage COVID-19 patients. Until then, the E.R.’s waiting room would be crowded with the “worried well,” or, in this case, the worried sick—people with coughs and flulike symptoms that might or might not be signs of COVID-19, who’d come because they wanted to get tested. Most were sent back home, with orders to self-quarantine. Tests were being reserved for people sick enough to be hospitalized.
“It’s challenging,” Morrison said. “Nobody has any experience with this at all, because there’s been nothing like this since 1918. We can all read the Wikipedia page on the Spanish flu, but that doesn’t show what it was like or describe the experience of people who had actual responsibility.” He was avoiding news stories about health-care workers who’d died of the virus: the doctor in Wuhan, the one in Seattle. But it was hard not to think about them as he donned and doffed his personal protective equipment and pictured all the things that could go wrong, the ways he could inadvertently touch a mask or a glove and become exposed. “The biggest fear is realizing that you’re probably going to get coronavirus no matter what you do.”
Jessica van Voorhees, a forty-three-year-old E.R. doctor at Methodist Hospital, in Park Slope, Brooklyn, found herself watching the disaster with morbid curiosity. “There is something that’s sort of fascinating about watching a pandemic unfold in real time, and seeing the exponential curve,” she said. She was working night shifts on March 8th, 9th, and 10th, when the first patients started trickling in. “At first, it was a big deal. Like, ‘I think we just had a COVID patient!’ Then we had three. And every day it more than doubled.” When I spoke to her on Thursday, the E.R. was getting hundreds of patients with coughs, fevers, and sore throats—most of whom just wanted to be tested for the virus. As in the Bronx, they were being sent home, with orders to self-quarantine. Testing had to be reserved for the very sick. For that reason, van Voorhees had concluded that the official numbers are “totally off. Way off!” She went on, “I think we’re probably testing a small percentage of people who come in here and are clearly positive.”
They were starting to see “bounce-backs”: people who came to the E.R. with a mild illness and returned days later, having swiftly deteriorated. A forty-two-year-old schoolteacher came in, with the usual symptoms: fever, body aches, sore throat, cough. “He was super fit, healthy, and worked out all the time. Never smoked,” van Voorhees said. “We said, ‘Look, we think you have the virus. Go home and self-quarantine.’ ” The man returned three days later, weak and disoriented. “He walked into triage and then fell out of his chair,” van Voorhees said. X-rays revealed a severe viral infection in both lungs. He was hospitalized and put on oxygen. “It’s so weird to see these people who are basically healthy struck down by it,” van Voorhees said.
And it was troubling to see sick patients getting worse. “Normally, when a patient has pneumonia, you hospitalize them and give them antibiotics. As the antibiotics start to work, they get better. But, with COVID-19, there’s no direct therapy, just supportive care, so they get worse.” Patients were often admitted to the hospital needing oxygen. “I check on them the next day, and they’re a lot worse. The day after that, they’ve been intubated and moved to the I.C.U.”
E.R. doctors pride themselves on being able to “flex and surge,” she said—to adapt to the rush of patients on holiday weekends, or during a normal flu and cold season. So far, the emergency room had managed to adapt: the hospital had transformed an outpatient surgical clinic into a COVID unit, and built temporary walls in an exam area to create more private rooms. But the makeshift facilities were starting to fill up. And anxiety was building around the supply of personal protective equipment—masks, gowns, goggles. Van Voorhees had started to think about the prospect of being overwhelmed. “What’s it going to feel like?” she wondered, as she contemplated running out of I.C.U. beds, choosing which patient to intubate and which to let die. She went on, “The vibe at work is this feeling of impending doom.”
Health-care workers faced an additional threat: a looming shortage of personal protective equipment. Last Thursday, the New York State Nurses Association wrote in a letter to Governor Andrew Cuomo that it was “painfully obvious” that their forty-two thousand nurses did not have the equipment necessary to protect themselves from the virus. “It goes without saying that if our nurses, physicians and other workers are exposed and taken out of commission (because they are on quarantine or themselves sickened) that the hospitals will cease to function,” the letter reads. At Montefiore Medical Center, in the Bronx, Michelle Gonzalez, a thirty-year-old intensive-care nurse, was monitoring several COVID-19 patients, who were critically ill and on ventilators. The hospital has multiple I.C.U.s, and hers specializes in respiratory issues, making her unit a hot spot. She was already feeling burned out. “When you sign up for nursing, you sign up for the possibility of being exposed to certain things—H.I.V., AIDS, a handful of bacterias and viruses. But I never thought I’d signed up for a pandemic that we’re not prepared for,” she said. Hospital authorities hadn’t provided information about the supply of items like protective masks and gloves, but the gear was clearly being rationed. “If we don’t get the proper equipment soon, we’re going to get sick,” she said.
Since the first week of March, when the virus arrived in the city, there had been “confusion and chaos” around safety protocols, she said. At first, the hospital mandated that COVID-19 patients be put in “negative-pressure” rooms, which keep contaminated air from circulating. Then word came down that regular rooms were O.K. Nurses were told to use only N95 masks, which more efficiently filter out airborne particles. “Then they said on Sunday we no longer need N95 masks,” Gonzalez said. “We’re going to switch to surgical masks and a face shield.” It didn’t seem likely that the surgical masks had become safer overnight; it was the hospital’s way of managing the equipment shortage.
In a “donning and doffing” class, in which nurses were shown how to put on personal protective equipment, an instructor introduced a new rule: store your used mask in a plastic bag, so you can reuse it later. Gonzalez pushed back. “I said, ‘What kind of infection control is this? Isn’t that just incubating germs?’ ” The instructor seemed embarrassed. “He said, ‘Listen, I’m only telling you what the hospital is recommending.’ And he added, kind of under his breath, ‘Doesn’t mean I agree with it.’ ”
Gonzalez was scared. “My manager told me, ‘Michelle, you’re fine—you’re thirty. You don’t have anything to worry about.’ But I live with my ninety-year-old grandmother, and my dad, who is sixty-two, diabetic, and immunocompromised. I want to be able to go home and sleep at night, knowing I didn’t give it to them.” She decided to take matters into her own hands, along with her fellow I.C.U. nurses. “I started organizing us early,” she said. They obtained a stash of N95 masks and devised a system of working in pairs, so that they could better conserve them. She began to acquire a reputation. “Medical doctors from different specialties, and my own doctors, keep coming by and asking me for protective gear, because they have nowhere else to get it.”


newyorker--2020-03-24--Daily Coronavirus Quarantine Schedule

Daily Coronavirus Quarantine Schedule

In times of confusion and anxiety , it can be useful to have a fixed daily schedule to maintain consistency in your life .
5:12 A.M. : Wake up in a sweaty panic three hours after finally dozing off .
Glance at clock and realize you don ’ t need to be up for .
.
.
well , at any point , really , since you are lucky enough that “ working from home ” just means spending the day fucking up an easy recipe for cookies .
5:13 A.M. : Despite inner voice telling you not to , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Spend three minutes scrolling .
Clock resting heart rate at a hundred and twenty-eight beats per minute .
Go deep into coronavirus Reddit thread .
Furiously e-mail friends and family with “ useful ” “ tips ” found on dark Web .
8:00 A.M. : Sanitize all door knobs , despite not having left home in a week .
Re-sanitize one more time for safety .
Watch partner lift hand to scratch nose as if watching a car wreck in slow motion .
Dive forward and slap hand away from partner ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the day .
8:30 A.M. : Open laptop to see if news on computer Twitter is different from news on phone Twitter .
Despite apparent similarity , spend next two hours confirming .
10:15 A.M. : Wash hands for thirty seconds , for safety .
Apply too much hand cream .
Rub extra cream on protesting partner ’ s hands .
10:16 A.M. : Immediately start typing on laptop , getting hand cream everywhere , and rendering keyboard useless .
10:35 A.M. : Wash hands for length of time it takes to sing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ cream .
Try , unsuccessfully this time , to rub extra cream on partner .
Chase partner around house in futile attempt to rub extra cream on back of his neck .
10:39 A.M. : Get to work on those cookies .
Open recipe on phone , now covered in hand cream .
Come to realization that you ’ re missing three of nine ingredients .
Decide desperate times call for desperate measures and swap out baking soda for baking powder , one large egg for some mayonnaise , and chocolate chips for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , out of curiosity .
11:00 A.M. : FaceTime with parents .
Yell at them about how they fall into an “ at-risk ” group .
Also try to keep them calm by reminding them that as long as they stay home forever , the C.D.C .
says they might not die .
11:30 A.M. : Stare at wall and wonder how all this could have happened .
2:48 P.M. : Spend thirty minutes reviewing online grocery-delivery order .
Learn no lessons from cookie incident and add two cannisters of Pringles and a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to cart .
Hit “ order ” and select “ soonest delivery ” —mid-April , 2021 .
3:18 P.M. : Suddenly remember to take cookies out of oven .
Soak cookies in water to free charred remains from cookie sheet .
Dry with blow-dryer .
3:30 P.M. : Dial into daily all-hands conference call with colleagues .
When boss asks for update , re : what you ’ ve been working on , make something up .
4:00 P.M. : Reward self for successfully deceiving boss about sustained commitment to job by spending @ @ @ @ @ @ @ recorded coronavirus cases .
4:30 P.M. : Draw picture of sun in sunglasses on side of an unpaid bill .
Post photo of picture to Instagram with self-congratulatory comment about how you put your phone down to do something creative .
Wonder if this is a close as you 'll ever get to the sun again .
4:38 P.M. : Go back to that world map and study it until dinnertime .
6:30 P.M. : Pour chickpeas into cup and eat with spoon in front of “ Love Is Blind.
” When partner @ @ @ @ @ @ @ eat everything that ’ s about to expire .
8:30 P.M.. : Force partner to eat lovingly baked cookies .
Cry loud and hard when he questions the breadcrumb/chocolate-chip swap .
Selflessly refrain from eating any of the cookies so there are more for him .
*Spend next five hours refreshing world map , from bed .

In times of confusion and anxiety, it can be useful to have a fixed daily schedule to maintain consistency in your life.
5:12 A.M.: Wake up in a sweaty panic three hours after finally dozing off. Glance at clock and realize you don’t need to be up for . . . well, at any point, really, since you are lucky enough that “working from home” just means spending the day fucking up an easy recipe for cookies.
5:13 A.M.: Despite inner voice telling you not to, reach for phone and open Twitter. Spend three minutes scrolling. Clock resting heart rate at a hundred and twenty-eight beats per minute. Go deep into coronavirus Reddit thread. Furiously e-mail friends and family with “useful” “tips” found on dark Web.
8:00 A.M.: Sanitize all door knobs, despite not having left home in a week. Re-sanitize one more time for safety. Watch partner lift hand to scratch nose as if watching a car wreck in slow motion. Dive forward and slap hand away from partner’s face. Log dive as exercise for the day.
8:30 A.M.: Open laptop to see if news on computer Twitter is different from news on phone Twitter. Despite apparent similarity, spend next two hours confirming.
10:15 A.M.: Wash hands for thirty seconds, for safety. Apply too much hand cream. Rub extra cream on protesting partner’s hands.
10:16 A.M.: Immediately start typing on laptop, getting hand cream everywhere, and rendering keyboard useless.
10:35 A.M.: Wash hands for length of time it takes to sing “American Pie.” Apply more hand cream. Try, unsuccessfully this time, to rub extra cream on partner. Chase partner around house in futile attempt to rub extra cream on back of his neck.
10:39 A.M.: Get to work on those cookies. Open recipe on phone, now covered in hand cream. Come to realization that you’re missing three of nine ingredients. Decide desperate times call for desperate measures and swap out baking soda for baking powder, one large egg for some mayonnaise, and chocolate chips for expired breadcrumbs. Add spoonful of gochujang, out of curiosity.
11:00 A.M.: FaceTime with parents. Yell at them about how they fall into an “at-risk” group. Also try to keep them calm by reminding them that as long as they stay home forever, the C.D.C. says they might not die.
11:30 A.M.: Stare at wall and wonder how all this could have happened.
2:48 P.M.: Spend thirty minutes reviewing online grocery-delivery order. Learn no lessons from cookie incident and add two cannisters of Pringles and a hundred containers of Cup O’ Noodles to cart. Hit “order” and select “soonest delivery”—mid-April, 2021.
3:18 P.M.: Suddenly remember to take cookies out of oven. Soak cookies in water to free charred remains from cookie sheet. Dry with blow-dryer.
3:30 P.M.: Dial into daily all-hands conference call with colleagues. When boss asks for update, re: what you’ve been working on, make something up.
4:00 P.M.: Reward self for successfully deceiving boss about sustained commitment to job by spending thirty minutes refreshing a world map of recorded coronavirus cases.
4:30 P.M.: Draw picture of sun in sunglasses on side of an unpaid bill. Post photo of picture to Instagram with self-congratulatory comment about how you put your phone down to do something creative. Wonder if this is a close as you'll ever get to the sun again.
4:38 P.M.: Go back to that world map and study it until dinnertime.
6:30 P.M.: Pour chickpeas into cup and eat with spoon in front of “Love Is Blind.” When partner asks about dinner, encourage him to eat everything that’s about to expire.
8:30 P.M..: Force partner to eat lovingly baked cookies. Cry loud and hard when he questions the breadcrumb/chocolate-chip swap. Selflessly refrain from eating any of the cookies so there are more for him.
10:00 P.M.: Go to “sleep.”*
*Spend next five hours refreshing world map, from bed.


newyorker--2020-03-24--Han Ong Reads “Futures”

Han Ong Reads “Futures”

Han Ong reads his story from the March 30 , 2020 , issue of the magazine .
Ong , the @ @ @ @ @ and the Berlin Prize , is the author of more than a dozen plays and @ @ @ @ @ Chao ” and “ The Disinherited .
”

Photograph Courtesy Han Ong
Han Ong reads his story from the March 30, 2020, issue of the magazine. Ong, the recipient of a MacArthur Fellowship and the Berlin Prize, is the author of more than a dozen plays and two novels, “Fixer Chao” and “The Disinherited.”


newyorker--2020-03-24--COVID-19 Is a Threat to the 2020 Games. The I.O.C. Is a Threat to the Olympic Project

On Sunday , as ambulance sirens wailed through eerily empty streets in New York , and military vehicles carted bodies from ad-hoc hospitals in Italy , and countries on multiple continents ordered heavy fines and jail time for those who broke quarantine restrictions , the president of the International Olympic Committee , Thomas Bach , wrote a letter to Olympic athletes .
“ In this unprecedented crisis we are all united , ” he began .
That was a dubious claim—the first of many .
Federations were divided over what to do .
Athletes were angry .
Few appeared to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ health and best interests at heart .
For weeks , they had been told not to worry , to train “ full steam ” ahead .
The Olympics were in July , and athletes said they were told that , by July , everything might be fine .
Suspension was not being considered ; cancellation was not on the table .
And so , as training facilities closed , swimmers went looking for pools in empty back yards .
Some , in California , put on wetsuits and dove into the Pacific , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Olympic Training Center , in Colorado , closed ; the athletes who lived there had to leave , and now had nowhere safe to train .
It was that way all over the globe .
Norway called for the Games to be postponed .
So did U.S.A. Track & Field and U.S.A .
Swimming .
In Germany , congregations of more than two people had been banned—if a coach were present , even wrestling exceeded the limit .
And who had enough hand sanitizer , anyway , for that ?
“ Human @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the staging of the Games , ” Bach wrote .
No one would dispute that—but there was no question that human lives were not the reason that organizers were hesitating .
Some companies had spent a hundred million dollars to partner with the I.O.C .
Broadcast payments from the Summer Games in 2016 had totalled a hundred and sixty-nine million dollars—and broadcast payments are delivered after the Games end .
Billions of dollars were at stake , and no insurance policy , no matter how large , could begin to recoup it all @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , that cancelling or suspending the Games would be a logistical nightmare .
Venues had been secured , and some had been purpose-built , years in advance .
The Olympic Village , for one , had already been sold as apartments to be filled after the Games were done .
Television schedules had been set and cleared .
This was not like cancelling March Madness ; there is nothing else like the Olympics .
By refusing to entertain the possibility of cancelling , by pushing athletes to put themselves in compromising and even @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the I.O.C .
had made its priorities plain .
That wasn ’ t surprising—many large institutions are having to make excruciating decisions with far-reaching consequences .
What was more indefensible was the justification that the I.O.C .
put forward .
In his letter on Sunday , Bach emphasized the “ tremendous uncertainty ” of it all .
And , indeed , there is uncertainty from epidemiologists and public-health experts on many issues , such as just how long extreme social-distancing measures will need to be in effect , what the mortality rate will @ @ @ @ @ @ @ or won ’ t work , and so on .
But that wasn ’ t the uncertainty that Bach seemed to be speaking of .
The I.O.C .
seemed to see uncertainty as an opening : in a few months , the organization has implied , it might be just fine to bring eleven thousand athletes from all over the world together in a tiny village , where they will bunk and dine and drink together , and share beds , and compete against one another , body to body , with all @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , family members , and support staff , not to mention thousands of workers staffing venues and dining halls and residences .
Perhaps it would be fine to invite hundreds of thousands of people from all over the world to jam into stands .
Perhaps it would be reasonable to send camera crews and reporters and research departments—NBC alone had planned to send more than two thousand people—and to encourage sponsors to wine and dine clients .
Who knew ?
It was all so uncertain !
It was uncertainty , not the disease @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Bach suggested .
“ This uncertainty rocks our nerves and raises or strengthens doubts about a positive future ; it destroys hope.
” Never mind that it was really the I.O.C.
’ s insistence that the Games would go on that left athletes in a state of uncertainty .
You could see where this was headed .
It has long been easy to be cynical about the Olympics .
There have been too many bribery scandals , too many doping scandals , too many leaders who hid behind the idealism of sport to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the ideals survive .
What was most disturbing about Bach ’ s position was the way he framed the Committee ’ s waiting as a matter of virtue .
“ As successful athletes , you know that we should never give up , ” he wrote , “ even if the chance to succeed appears to be very small.
” He appealed to the athletes ’ resolve and suggested that contrary views were a form of weakness .
“ I know that this unprecedented situation leaves many of your questions open , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that this rational approach may not be in line with the emotions many of you have to go through.
” The rational approach .
As recently as Thursday , Bach had been waving away suggestions that the Games should be rescheduled .
On Sunday , he gave organizers four weeks to make a decision as to whether to reschedule them .
By Monday , that position had also crumbled .
Shortly after he released the letter , the Canadian Olympic Committee announced that it would not be sending athletes to Tokyo this summer @ @ @ @ @ @ @ similar statement .
In an address to Japan ’ s parliament , the Japanese Prime Minister , Shinzo Abe , said that the Games may need to be postponed .
FIBA , the international basketball association , told players to stay inside .
In “ no circumstance should our passion to play basketball surpass the importance of following the instructions of the public authorities , ” the FIBA president , Hamane Niang , and secretary-general , Andreas Zagklis , said .
On Monday afternoon , the I.O.C .
member Dick Pound confirmed to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Olympics would be delayed .
The next four weeks would be used to determine when they would take place , not whether it would be this summer .
At least the uncertainty was over .
Now the question is whether the Olympics can become , again , a symbol of hope and idealism , rather than of greed and delusion .
• How to practice social distancing , from responding to a sick housemate to the pros and cons of ordering food .
• How people cope and create new customs amid @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to contain and mitigate the coronavirus outbreak .
• How much of the world is likely to be quarantined ?
• Donald Trump in the time of coronavirus .
• The coronavirus is likely to spread for more than a year before a vaccine could be widely available .
• We are all irrational panic shoppers .
• The strange terror of watching the coronavirus take Rome .

On Sunday, as ambulance sirens wailed through eerily empty streets in New York, and military vehicles carted bodies from ad-hoc hospitals in Italy, and countries on multiple continents ordered heavy fines and jail time for those who broke quarantine restrictions, the president of the International Olympic Committee, Thomas Bach, wrote a letter to Olympic athletes. “In this unprecedented crisis we are all united,” he began.
That was a dubious claim—the first of many. Federations were divided over what to do. Athletes were angry. Few appeared to believe that the I.O.C. had their health and best interests at heart. For weeks, they had been told not to worry, to train “full steam” ahead. The Olympics were in July, and athletes said they were told that, by July, everything might be fine. Suspension was not being considered; cancellation was not on the table. And so, as training facilities closed, swimmers went looking for pools in empty back yards. Some, in California, put on wetsuits and dove into the Pacific, sharks be damned. Last week, the Olympic Training Center, in Colorado, closed; the athletes who lived there had to leave, and now had nowhere safe to train. It was that way all over the globe. Norway called for the Games to be postponed. So did U.S.A. Track & Field and U.S.A. Swimming. In Germany, congregations of more than two people had been banned—if a coach were present, even wrestling exceeded the limit. And who had enough hand sanitizer, anyway, for that?
“Human lives take precedence over everything, including the staging of the Games,” Bach wrote. No one would dispute that—but there was no question that human lives were not the reason that organizers were hesitating. Some companies had spent a hundred million dollars to partner with the I.O.C. Broadcast payments from the Summer Games in 2016 had totalled a hundred and sixty-nine million dollars—and broadcast payments are delivered after the Games end. Billions of dollars were at stake, and no insurance policy, no matter how large, could begin to recoup it all. It was true, of course, that cancelling or suspending the Games would be a logistical nightmare. Venues had been secured, and some had been purpose-built, years in advance. The Olympic Village, for one, had already been sold as apartments to be filled after the Games were done. Television schedules had been set and cleared. This was not like cancelling March Madness; there is nothing else like the Olympics. By refusing to entertain the possibility of cancelling, by pushing athletes to put themselves in compromising and even dangerous situations by continuing to train, the I.O.C. had made its priorities plain.
That wasn’t surprising—many large institutions are having to make excruciating decisions with far-reaching consequences. What was more indefensible was the justification that the I.O.C. put forward. In his letter on Sunday, Bach emphasized the “tremendous uncertainty” of it all. And, indeed, there is uncertainty from epidemiologists and public-health experts on many issues, such as just how long extreme social-distancing measures will need to be in effect, what the mortality rate will ultimately be, how herd immunity will or won’t work, and so on. But that wasn’t the uncertainty that Bach seemed to be speaking of. The I.O.C. seemed to see uncertainty as an opening: in a few months, the organization has implied, it might be just fine to bring eleven thousand athletes from all over the world together in a tiny village, where they will bunk and dine and drink together, and share beds, and compete against one another, body to body, with all of this supported by thousands of coaches, family members, and support staff, not to mention thousands of workers staffing venues and dining halls and residences. Perhaps it would be fine to invite hundreds of thousands of people from all over the world to jam into stands. Perhaps it would be reasonable to send camera crews and reporters and research departments—NBC alone had planned to send more than two thousand people—and to encourage sponsors to wine and dine clients. Who knew? It was all so uncertain! It was uncertainty, not the disease itself, that made people afraid, Bach suggested. “This uncertainty rocks our nerves and raises or strengthens doubts about a positive future; it destroys hope.” Never mind that it was really the I.O.C.’s insistence that the Games would go on that left athletes in a state of uncertainty. You could see where this was headed.
It has long been easy to be cynical about the Olympics. There have been too many bribery scandals, too many doping scandals, too many leaders who hid behind the idealism of sport to justify nationalism and racism. Still, the ideals survive. What was most disturbing about Bach’s position was the way he framed the Committee’s waiting as a matter of virtue. “As successful athletes, you know that we should never give up,” he wrote, “even if the chance to succeed appears to be very small.” He appealed to the athletes’ resolve and suggested that contrary views were a form of weakness. “I know that this unprecedented situation leaves many of your questions open,” Bach wrote. “I also know that this rational approach may not be in line with the emotions many of you have to go through.” The rational approach.
As recently as Thursday, Bach had been waving away suggestions that the Games should be rescheduled. On Sunday, he gave organizers four weeks to make a decision as to whether to reschedule them. By Monday, that position had also crumbled. Shortly after he released the letter, the Canadian Olympic Committee announced that it would not be sending athletes to Tokyo this summer. The Australian Olympic Committee issued a similar statement. In an address to Japan’s parliament, the Japanese Prime Minister, Shinzo Abe, said that the Games may need to be postponed. FIBA, the international basketball association, told players to stay inside. In “no circumstance should our passion to play basketball surpass the importance of following the instructions of the public authorities,” the FIBA president, Hamane Niang, and secretary-general, Andreas Zagklis, said.
On Monday afternoon, the I.O.C. member Dick Pound confirmed to USA Today what everyone already knew: the Olympics would be delayed. The next four weeks would be used to determine when they would take place, not whether it would be this summer. At least the uncertainty was over. Now the question is whether the Olympics can become, again, a symbol of hope and idealism, rather than of greed and delusion.
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-03-24--A Neighborhood Restaurant Struggles to Stay Afloat in the Coronavirus Crisis

“ I hope you are in good spirit , ” Beatrice Tosti di Valminuta , a co-proprietor of the East Village restaurant and wine bar Il Posto Accanto , told her customers , via a Facebook video last week .
“ Because whatever it is , being in bad spirit is not going to solve anything.
” During past times of bad spirits , Il Posto Accanto had mostly continued operating .
The restaurant continued serving in the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks and only paused momentarily to let Hurricane Sandy pass ; Tosti di Valminuta and her husband , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ operation continuously since 1999 .
The coronavirus , as we have all discovered , is another beast entirely .
At eight o ’ clock on Monday , March 16th , all dine-in restaurants , eating establishments , and bars in the state of New York were ordered closed owing to COVID-19 , by decree of Governor Andrew Cuomo .
The mandated closure came on suddenly , and Il Posto Accanto had no platform to accommodate mobile orders , delivery , or takeout .
It was time to improvise .
Apps and startups typically @ @ @ @ @ @ @ order , sometimes up to thirty per cent .
One option , DoorDash , a business that arranges delivery by contractors , had a free trial period the restaurant could take advantage of as a workaround .
The owners say that they have seen a tremendous response from their neighborhood , but , even so , revenue from deliveries and pickup will hardly cover costs for even reduced staff , let alone the landlord , sales tax , or the owners themselves .
Four days after the closure , an e-mail landed in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , a dining collective that includes the fine Italian dining powerhouses Lilia and Misi .
“ When we did the unimaginable , telling the people who mean the most to us that their wellbeing was no longer safe inside of our doors for the foreseeable future , our hearts were broken , ” the message said .
“ Because we knew that their financial security would no longer be assured.
” Near the end of the essay was a link to the crowdsourcing request for a quarter million dollars in contributions to support @ @ @ @ @ @ @ line “ Missy Robbins is organizing this fundraiser ” had a strange effect .
Robbins is a Michelin-star-earning celebrity chef : it was as if Taylor Swift had been forced to turn to subway busking .
If the superstars are out of luck , what hope is there for the smaller neighborhood joints ?
A quick , socially distant walk around the boroughs shows the damage—blocks of shuttered restaurants , cafés , and bars .
They closed in a flash , and it seems reasonable to assume many simply will not open again @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” Tosti di Valminuta suggests .
“ Today , we ’ re open and we ’ re serving food .
Tomorrow , Inshallah , hopefully we ’ re going to be open and serving food .
And that ’ s all we can do , and that ’ s all we know .
And then let ’ s see what happens , you know ?
Are we going to be here ?
We don ’ t know .
We hope so.
” “ We want to be here.
” • How to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a sick housemate to the pros and cons of ordering food .
• How people cope and create new customs amid a pandemic .
• What it means to contain and mitigate the coronavirus outbreak .
• How much of the world is likely to be quarantined ?
• Donald Trump in the time of coronavirus .
• The coronavirus is likely to spread for more than a year before a vaccine could be widely available .
• We are all irrational panic shoppers .
• The strange terror of watching the coronavirus @ @ @

“I hope you are in good spirit,” Beatrice Tosti di Valminuta, a co-proprietor of the East Village restaurant and wine bar Il Posto Accanto, told her customers, via a Facebook video last week. “Because whatever it is, being in bad spirit is not going to solve anything.” During past times of bad spirits, Il Posto Accanto had mostly continued operating. The restaurant continued serving in the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks and only paused momentarily to let Hurricane Sandy pass; Tosti di Valminuta and her husband, Julio Pena, have otherwise run the operation continuously since 1999.
The coronavirus, as we have all discovered, is another beast entirely. At eight o’clock on Monday, March 16th, all dine-in restaurants, eating establishments, and bars in the state of New York were ordered closed owing to COVID-19, by decree of Governor Andrew Cuomo. The mandated closure came on suddenly, and Il Posto Accanto had no platform to accommodate mobile orders, delivery, or takeout. It was time to improvise. Apps and startups typically take a portion of revenue from each order, sometimes up to thirty per cent. One option, DoorDash, a business that arranges delivery by contractors, had a free trial period the restaurant could take advantage of as a workaround. The owners say that they have seen a tremendous response from their neighborhood, but, even so, revenue from deliveries and pickup will hardly cover costs for even reduced staff, let alone the landlord, sales tax, or the owners themselves.
Four days after the closure, an e-mail landed in my in-box from the purveyors of Grovehouse, a dining collective that includes the powerhouse Italian eateries Lilia and Misi. “When we did the unimaginable, telling the people who mean the most to us that their wellbeing was no longer safe inside of our doors for the foreseeable future, our hearts were broken,” the message said. “Because we knew that their financial security would no longer be assured.” Near the end of the essay was a link to a crowdsourcing request for a quarter million dollars in contributions to support the restaurants’ staff. Seeing the line “Missy Robbins is organizing this fundraiser” had a strange effect. Robbins is a Michelin-star-earning celebrity chef: it was as if Taylor Swift had been forced to turn to subway busking. If the superstars are out of luck, what hope is there for the smaller neighborhood joints?
A quick, socially distant walk around the boroughs shows the damage—blocks of shuttered restaurants, cafés, and bars. They closed in a flash, and it seems reasonable to assume many simply will not open again. “One day at a time,” Tosti di Valminuta suggests. “Today, we’re open and we’re serving food. Tomorrow, Inshallah, hopefully we’re going to be open and serving food. And that’s all we can do, and that’s all we know. And then let’s see what happens, you know? Are we going to be here? We don’t know. We hope so.”
“We want to be here.”
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-03-24--Trump’s Reckless Rush to Reopen

Trump’s Reckless Rush to Reopen

COVID-19 presents a test of leadership but also—because it preys most fiercely on the vulnerable—a test of values , and President Donald Trump , in his press briefing on Monday , showed that he has failed on both counts .
Closures had barely been put in place in much of the country ; the curtains were still being drawn .
But he is tired of it .
“ Our country wasn ’ t built to be shut down , ” he said , noting the disruption .
“ We ’ re not going to let the cure be worse than @ @ @ @ @ @ @ put it in a tweet in which he announced that he would soon be reassessing the federal government ’ s guidance for radical social distancing , “ WE CAN NOT LET THE CURE BE WORSE THAN THE PROBLEM ITSELF.
” The “ problem , ” in case anyone missed it , is a novel coronavirus rapidly spreading through a population that has no resistance to it .
One model shows that it could leave more than two million Americans dead .
On Tuesday , on Fox News , Trump said that he wanted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ just raring to go ” by Easter—nineteen days from now .
Is it the disease or the cure that Trump doesn ’ t understand ?
In his briefing , he said that one of his motivations for rushing to reopen the country is new research into the mortality rate—this is “ a big factor ” for him .
And he doesn ’ t think that the numbers on the table are that big .
There had been talk that the rate might be three , four , or five per cent ; now @ @ @ @ @ @ @ per cent , or a little less .
He might do the math on what one per cent amounts to in a country of more than three hundred million .
Think of whatever group of a hundred or more you like—your office , your school , your wedding-invitation or holiday-card list—and now imagine yourself or someone you love as the one .
And that number may not even be right , not even in ideal conditions of limitless medical resources .
There is a lot that we don ’ t know ; widespread @ @ @ @ @ @ @ which changes the numbers .
But one per cent is certainly not likely to be accurate when hospitals are overwhelmed , and people who could be saved die .
As Peter Hessler notes in this week ’ s magazine , according to a report from China , the death rate in much of that country seems to have been about 0.7 per cent , and could be even lower .
In Wuhan , which was overwhelmed , it was 5.8 per cent .
The statistics show that deaths skew older and toward those @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , one hears , is to “ the elderly ” and those who are “ already sick.
” There are multiple problems with this assessment .
One is that younger people are able to spread the virus , which presents an ethical hazard that one wishes would be as frightening as the danger to one ’ s health .
Another is that Americans are neither as young nor as healthy as they imagine themselves .
In New York State , the age at which the deaths begin to rack up has been forty—and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to run out of equipment .
( Read Lizzie Widdicombe ’ s dispatch on New York hospitals that are already rationing masks . )
Risk factors include things like diabetes , obesity , and heart disease , as well as respiratory ailments , which , not incidentally , are often accompanied or exacerbated by poverty .
It ’ s said that one reason certain social programs don ’ t get the support they deserve is that every American imagines that he or she is part of the middle class .
With the pandemic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ too many can ’ t conceive of themselves as old or ill .
The shock among senators when they heard that one of their colleagues , Rand Paul , had tested positive for COVID-19 , and that , while he was awaiting his test results , he was seen in the still-open Senate gym , is revealing .
The list of rules that many senators think they are exempt from apparently includes the germ theory of disease .
The ethical hazard should be enough , of course .
The most crystalline expression of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ came from Dan Patrick , the lieutenant governor of Texas , who told Tucker Carlson , of Fox News , that his “ heart was lifted ” by what Trump said .
Patrick , who is about to turn seventy , said , “ No one reached out to me and said , as a senior citizen , ‘ Are you willing to take a chance on your survival in exchange for keeping the America that all America loves for your children and grandchildren ?
’ ” —that is , the country should @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reopen in short order , which would allow the disease to spread , and accept that they might die as a result , with a ready , grandparently spirit .
( He did say that some could “ shelter in place.
” ) If that was the choice , he was “ all in ” and thought that “ lots of grandparents ” would be , too .
He spoke of letting everybody else “ get back to living ” as a “ gift ” that older people could give the country .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ the old ( let alone the old with grandchildren ) wouldn ’ t be the only ones asked to be ready to die in order to get commerce humming again .
What he was suggesting is not decent ; it is not too strong a word to say that it is barbaric .
It is the bullying instinct of Trumpism taken to its extreme .
Such an approach would cost the country something that , unlike restaurant sales , could never be regained .
That such a plan could even be mooted reflects @ @ @ @ @ @ @ does not understand the cure .
The idea of stay-at-home orders and closures is to move two different kinds of lines in the flatten-the-curve chart .
One is the rate at which cases accelerate ; the other is the capacity of the hospital systems , which is not fixed .
The time that is bought has to be used to expand hospital capacity .
China didn ’ t just isolate Wuhan and wait for the epidemic to play out there ; it furiously built hospitals .
This is why Governor Andrew Cuomo , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ leader in this crisis—has spurred construction of field hospitals in places such as State University of New York campuses and the Javits Center , New York City ’ s cavernous convention hall .
( On Tuesday , Cuomo said that cases in the state were doubling every three days ; the curve , he said , wasn ’ t flattening yet . )
That needs to be done in many more places ; crucially , the manufacturing of ventilators has to ramp up , too , so that those hospitals can be effective @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and closures can also be used to develop something else that is lacking now : vaccines and treatments .
We have those for the flu ; we don ’ t for COVID-19 .
The federal government has the power to get working on all those fronts , and yet Trump , for all his supposed entrepreneurial construction experience , has been inert in this regard .
He complains that America was not “ built ” to be shut down ; in fact , the country must build if it wants to stay open @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , which encompasses both flattening the curve and reopening for business , is testing .
As Aaron E. Carroll , a professor at the Indiana University School of Medicine , and Ashish Jha , a professor of global health at Harvard , laid out in a strong piece for The Atlantic on Monday that called for continued social-distancing measures across the country—what the authors termed a “ true national pause ” —reopening before a mass testing regime is in place would be catastrophic .
( “ We still aren ’ t taking this @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Jha write . )
This , and not some vague , culturally defined perception of who is vulnerable and who is not , is the only way to really make sure that cities and towns can begin to come back to life .
Indeed , testing is what has allowed South Korea to have more targeted closures .
Reopening can happen relatively quickly on these terms , in theory : the problem is that those are not yet the terms on which this country is operating .
On Tuesday , the Trump Administration @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to order the manufacture of sixty thousand test kits .
That is a pathetically small number , but it ’ s a start .
Now the President should use the D.P.A .
to get more ventilators .

COVID-19 presents a test of leadership but also—because it preys most fiercely on the vulnerable—a test of values, and President Donald Trump, in his press briefing on Monday, showed that he has failed on both counts. Closures had barely been put in place in much of the country; the curtains were still being drawn. But he is tired of it. “Our country wasn’t built to be shut down,” he said, noting the disruption. “We’re not going to let the cure be worse than the problem.” Or, as he put it in a tweet in which he announced that he would soon be reassessing the federal government’s guidance for radical social distancing, “WE CANNOT LET THE CURE BE WORSE THAN THE PROBLEM ITSELF.” The “problem,” in case anyone missed it, is a novel coronavirus rapidly spreading through a population that has no resistance to it. One model shows that it could leave more than two million Americans dead. On Tuesday, on Fox News, Trump said that he wanted the country opened back up and “just raring to go” by Easter—nineteen days from now.
Is it the disease or the cure that Trump doesn’t understand? In his briefing, he said that one of his motivations for rushing to reopen the country is new research into the mortality rate—this is “a big factor” for him. And he doesn’t think that the numbers on the table are that big. There had been talk that the rate might be three, four, or five per cent; now it looked like it might be one per cent, or a little less. He might do the math on what one per cent amounts to in a country of more than three hundred million. Think of whatever group of a hundred or more you like—your office, your school, your wedding-invitation or holiday-card list—and now imagine yourself or someone you love as the one. And that number may not even be right, not even in ideal conditions of limitless medical resources. There is a lot that we don’t know; widespread testing catches presymptomatic and asymptomatic people, which changes the numbers. But one per cent is certainly not likely to be accurate when hospitals are overwhelmed, and people who could be saved die. As Peter Hessler notes in this week’s magazine, according to a report from China, the death rate in much of that country seems to have been about 0.7 per cent, and could be even lower. In Wuhan, which was overwhelmed, it was 5.8 per cent.
The statistics show that deaths skew older and toward those with other medical issues. The danger, one hears, is to “the elderly” and those who are “already sick.” There are multiple problems with this assessment. One is that younger people are able to spread the virus, which presents an ethical hazard that one wishes would be as frightening as the danger to one’s health. Another is that Americans are neither as young nor as healthy as they imagine themselves. In New York State, the age at which the deaths begin to rack up has been forty—and that is before the hospitals really start to run out of equipment. (Read Lizzie Widdicombe’s dispatch on New York hospitals that are already rationing masks.) Risk factors include things like diabetes, obesity, and heart disease, as well as respiratory ailments, which, not incidentally, are often accompanied or exacerbated by poverty. It’s said that one reason certain social programs don’t get the support they deserve is that every American imagines that he or she is part of the middle class. With the pandemic, perhaps, the problem is that too many can’t conceive of themselves as old or ill. The shock among senators when they heard that one of their colleagues, Rand Paul, had tested positive for COVID-19, and that, while he was awaiting his test results, he was seen in the still-open Senate gym, is revealing. The list of rules that many senators think they are exempt from apparently includes the germ theory of disease.
The ethical hazard should be enough, of course. The most crystalline expression of what Trump was actually asking on Monday came from Dan Patrick, the lieutenant governor of Texas, who told Tucker Carlson, of Fox News, that his “heart was lifted” by what Trump said. Patrick, who is about to turn seventy, said, “No one reached out to me and said, as a senior citizen, ‘Are you willing to take a chance on your survival in exchange for keeping the America that all America loves for your children and grandchildren?’ ”—that is, the country should be asking older people to let everything reopen in short order, which would allow the disease to spread, and accept that they might die as a result, with a ready, grandparently spirit. (He did say that some could “shelter in place.”) If that was the choice, he was “all in” and thought that “lots of grandparents” would be, too. He spoke of letting everybody else “get back to living” as a “gift” that older people could give the country. It doesn’t even matter that the old (let alone the old with grandchildren) wouldn’t be the only ones asked to be ready to die in order to get commerce humming again. What he was suggesting is not decent; it is not too strong a word to say that it is barbaric. It is the bullying instinct of Trumpism taken to its extreme. Such an approach would cost the country something that, unlike restaurant sales, could never be regained.
That such a plan could even be mooted reflects the fact that, again, Trump does not understand the cure. The idea of stay-at-home orders and closures is to move two different kinds of lines in the flatten-the-curve chart. One is the rate at which cases accelerate; the other is the capacity of the hospital systems, which is not fixed. The time that is bought has to be used to expand hospital capacity. China didn’t just isolate Wuhan and wait for the epidemic to play out there; it furiously built hospitals. This is why Governor Andrew Cuomo, of New York—who has been an exceptional leader in this crisis—has spurred construction of field hospitals in places such as State University of New York campuses and the Javits Center, New York City’s cavernous convention hall. (On Tuesday, Cuomo said that cases in the state were doubling every three days; the curve, he said, wasn’t flattening yet.) That needs to be done in many more places; crucially, the manufacturing of ventilators has to ramp up, too, so that those hospitals can be effective. The time bought with social distancing and closures can also be used to develop something else that is lacking now: vaccines and treatments. We have those for the flu; we don’t for COVID-19. The federal government has the power to get working on all those fronts, and yet Trump, for all his supposed entrepreneurial construction experience, has been inert in this regard. He complains that America was not “built” to be shut down; in fact, the country must build if it wants to stay open.
The other part of the cure, which encompasses both flattening the curve and reopening for business, is testing. As Aaron E. Carroll, a professor at the Indiana University School of Medicine, and Ashish Jha, a professor of global health at Harvard, laid out in a strong piece for The Atlantic on Monday that called for continued social-distancing measures across the country—what the authors termed a “true national pause”—reopening before a mass testing regime is in place would be catastrophic. (“We still aren’t taking this virus seriously enough,” Carroll and Jha write.) This, and not some vague, culturally defined perception of who is vulnerable and who is not, is the only way to really make sure that cities and towns can begin to come back to life. Indeed, testing is what has allowed South Korea to have more targeted closures. Reopening can happen relatively quickly on these terms, in theory: the problem is that those are not yet the terms on which this country is operating. On Tuesday, the Trump Administration finally implemented the Defense Production Act, to order the manufacture of sixty thousand test kits. That is a pathetically small number, but it’s a start. Now the President should use the D.P.A. to get more ventilators.
It may be that Trump conceives “the problem” to be not COVID-19 but the Dow Jones Industrial Average. His approach wouldn’t succeed even on those meretricious terms, in part because it almost guarantees a piecemeal response. Some local officials are likely to veer from denialism to belated panic as hospital beds suddenly fill up. This will extend the medical and, thus, the economic crisis. One irony here is that Trump, in briefings and in a call with governors over the past few days, punted control to states and local governments, telling them that, although the federal government would be “backing you,” they should largely act on their own. That includes competing with one another for medical supplies. This is a distorted, sophomoric conception of American federalism, which, in its true form, demands firm central action precisely amid crises like these. The federal government also needs to be there as an economic safety net, as people in all parts of the country aren’t able to work. This burden can be shared.


newyorker--2020-03-24--Why Estonia Was Poised to Handle How a Pandemic Would Change Everything

Panic , dismay , anger , defiance , fear , despair , doubt , and occasional portions of denial : all of these have been common notes of communication lately , from the news media to private texts .
But some of the messages coming out of Estonia , a tiny country on the Baltic Sea , sound discordantly confident .
Estonians seem to think they ’ ve got this : they are not only handling the coronavirus pandemic but also facing the world in which we will live after it ’ s over .
In many ways , Estonia @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that of most European nations .
The country has closed its borders , shuttered its schools , and banned entertainment and leisure businesses from operating .
The government has pledged to cover the bulk of personal income lost because of the pandemic ; it has also been criticized for lacking a coherent strategy for addressing the crisis , including not having a clear and consistent approach to testing for covid-19 .
Still , with a relatively high rate of infection among European nations—it ’ s in ninth place as of today , with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ million people—Estonia appears to have one of the lowest levels of panic .
Politico is keeping track of panic levels , ranking them on a ten-point scale based on media coverage , panic buying , and other indicators .
Estonia ’ s level of panic is ranked three out of ten ( compared to seven in France , which is just above Estonia in the number of known cases per capita ; and five in Denmark , whose case number is just below Estonia ’ s ) .
Estonia may be the nation @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pandemic , both economically and socially .
As my colleague Nathan Heller has written , its economy is bound to tech , its government is digital , and most services in the country either are or can be provided electronically—in fact , it ’ s nearly impossible to overstate the extent of Estonian digitization .
People vote online and use digital prescriptions ; a single piece of I.D .
securely stores each Estonian ’ s personal information , including health , tax , and police records ; one can even establish residency and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ immigrating online .
Estonians say that only three kinds of interaction with the state require a person ’ s physical presence : marriage , the transfer of property , and divorce .
In some cases , births had to be registered in person , but this requirement has been suspended because of the coronavirus pandemic .
Ninety-nine per cent of households have broadband Internet connections , and the education system is a world leader in developing and using electronic technologies .
In other words , the prospect of having to work , study @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the sort of readjustment in Estonia as many people face elsewhere .
The story of how Estonia went digital has been told before .
A central role in it belongs to the former President Toomas Hendrik Ilves , who learned to code when he was a tenth-grader at a high school in New Jersey .
Ilves was born in Sweden , grew up in the United States , worked as a psychologist , educator , and journalist , and was asked by the president of Estonia to become the Ambassador to the United @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the country ended , in 1992 .
As a diplomat , Parliament member , and , later , President , Ilves promoted the introduction of computer classes in schools in the nineteen-nineties , the creation of public Internet-access centers throughout the country , and the idea that technological “ innovation was possible in a remote backwater of northeast Europe , ” as he put it to me when I reached him by direct message and phone last week .
( Ilves , whose last Presidential term ended in 2016 , is currently @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in place along with other Californians when I reached him . )
Skype , an Estonian invention , served as the ultimate proof of concept .
Estonia declared a state of emergency on March 12th .
The next night , two companies , in coöperation with the government , launched a forty-eight-hour idea-collection session , called Hack the Crisis .
Five of the ideas would receive startup funds of up to five thousand euros , for immediate execution .
“ Do not stop at anything , ” the organizers wrote .
“ Think @ @ @ @ @ @ @ needs different regulation.
” At least two participants proposed writing apps that would connect volunteers with people in need of help during the state of emergency .
Another proposal was for an app for wearable devices that would react to risky gestures , such as face-touching .
Still another was for a program for “ rotating or swapping workforce between companies ” —for example , enabling tourism-industry workers to shift to working in e-commerce .
The proposal included legislative changes and an online platform for organizing the swaps .
Next month , another @ @ @ @ @ @ @ European Commission and a Singaporean organization , is launching an online accelerator for projects for the crisis and post-crisis world .
This one is headlined by the current President of Estonia , Kersti Kaljulaid , the first woman and the youngest person ever to hold the job .
These programs , explicitly tied to Estonia ’ s identity as a startup nation , are exercises of the imagination , not merely in reacting to the present crisis but in shaping the future .
Estonians have a sort of tradition of imaginative undertakings .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ dissidents were exchanging policy briefs on a post-occupation future before the Soviet Union actually collapsed .
What seemed unimaginable to the Soviet regime and many Western observers alike was practically a foregone conclusion for these dissidents .
I asked Ilves what created the room for imagination in Estonia .
He suggested that it was Finnish television .
During the period of Soviet occupation from 1944 to 1991 , many Estonians were able to rig up receivers to watch broadcasts from their next-door neighbors , which remained unoccupied , albeit terrorized , by the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mutually intelligible , and this meant that Estonians could watch Finnish news .
This wasn ’ t all , though , Ilves pointed out : they could also watch “ Dallas , ” “ Dynasty , ” “ Knight Rider , ” and other American shows , in English with Finnish subtitles .
( This was also a great way to learn English . )
Ilves is no fan of American television shows from the nineteen-eighties , but he appreciates what they symbolized for the people watching them behind the Iron Curtain .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ was possible .
Estonians , it seems , still know that , and this spurs the imagination .
• How to practice social distancing , from responding to a sick housemate to the pros and cons of ordering food .
• How people cope and create new customs amid a pandemic .
• What it means to contain and mitigate the coronavirus outbreak .
• How much of the world is likely to be quarantined ?
• Donald Trump in the time of coronavirus .
• The coronavirus is likely to spread for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ could be widely available .
• We are all irrational panic shoppers .
• The strange terror of watching the coronavirus take Rome .

Panic, dismay, anger, defiance, fear, despair, doubt, and occasional portions of denial: all of these have been common notes of communication lately, from the news media to private texts. But some of the messages coming out of Estonia, a tiny country on the Baltic Sea, sound discordantly confident. Estonians seem to think they’ve got this: they are not only handling the coronavirus pandemic but also facing the world in which we will live after it’s over.
In many ways, Estonia’s response has looked indistinguishable from that of most European nations. The country has closed its borders, shuttered its schools, and banned entertainment and leisure businesses from operating. The government has pledged to cover the bulk of personal income lost because of the pandemic; it has also been criticized for lacking a coherent strategy for addressing the crisis, including not having a clear and consistent approach to testing for covid-19. Still, with a relatively high rate of infection among European nations—it’s in ninth place as of today, with two hundred and thirty-one known infections per million people—Estonia appears to have one of the lowest levels of panic. Politico is keeping track of panic levels, ranking them on a ten-point scale based on media coverage, panic buying, and other indicators. Estonia’s level of panic is ranked three out of ten (compared to seven in France, which is just above Estonia in the number of known cases per capita; and five in Denmark, whose case number is just below Estonia’s).
Estonia may be the nation best prepared for the consequences of the pandemic, both economically and socially. As my colleague Nathan Heller has written, its economy is bound to tech, its government is digital, and most services in the country either are or can be provided electronically—in fact, it’s nearly impossible to overstate the extent of Estonian digitization. People vote online and use digital prescriptions; a single piece of I.D. securely stores each Estonian’s personal information, including health, tax, and police records; one can even establish residency and begin paying taxes in the country digitally—effectively immigrating online. Estonians say that only three kinds of interaction with the state require a person’s physical presence: marriage, the transfer of property, and divorce. In some cases, births had to be registered in person, but this requirement has been suspended because of the coronavirus pandemic. Ninety-nine per cent of households have broadband Internet connections, and the education system is a world leader in developing and using electronic technologies. In other words, the prospect of having to work, study, and shop online may not require the sort of readjustment in Estonia as many people face elsewhere.
The story of how Estonia went digital has been told before. A central role in it belongs to the former President Toomas Hendrik Ilves, who learned to code when he was a tenth-grader at a high school in New Jersey. Ilves was born in Sweden, grew up in the United States, worked as a psychologist, educator, and journalist, and was asked by the president of Estonia to become the Ambassador to the United States a year after the Soviet occupation of the country ended, in 1992. As a diplomat, Parliament member, and, later, President, Ilves promoted the introduction of computer classes in schools in the nineteen-nineties, the creation of public Internet-access centers throughout the country, and the idea that technological “innovation was possible in a remote backwater of northeast Europe,” as he put it to me when I reached him by direct message and phone last week. (Ilves, whose last Presidential term ended in 2016, is currently at Stanford, where he was sheltering in place along with other Californians when I reached him.) Skype, an Estonian invention, served as the ultimate proof of concept.
Estonia declared a state of emergency on March 12th. The next night, two companies, in coöperation with the government, launched a forty-eight-hour idea-collection session, called Hack the Crisis. Five of the ideas would receive startup funds of up to five thousand euros, for immediate execution. “Do not stop at anything,” the organizers wrote. “Think of moonshots. Think of stuff that needs different regulation.” At least two participants proposed writing apps that would connect volunteers with people in need of help during the state of emergency. Another proposal was for an app for wearable devices that would react to risky gestures, such as face-touching. Still another was for a program for “rotating or swapping workforce between companies”—for example, enabling tourism-industry workers to shift to working in e-commerce. The proposal included legislative changes and an online platform for organizing the swaps.
Next month, another private/public consortium, in coöperation with the European Commission and a Singaporean organization, is launching an online accelerator for projects for the crisis and post-crisis world. This one is headlined by the current President of Estonia, Kersti Kaljulaid, the first woman and the youngest person ever to hold the job.
These programs, explicitly tied to Estonia’s identity as a startup nation, are exercises of the imagination, not merely in reacting to the present crisis but in shaping the future. Estonians have a sort of tradition of imaginative undertakings. In 1989–91, for example, Estonian dissidents were exchanging policy briefs on a post-occupation future before the Soviet Union actually collapsed. What seemed unimaginable to the Soviet regime and many Western observers alike was practically a foregone conclusion for these dissidents.
I asked Ilves what created the room for imagination in Estonia. He suggested that it was Finnish television. During the period of Soviet occupation from 1944 to 1991, many Estonians were able to rig up receivers to watch broadcasts from their next-door neighbors, which remained unoccupied, albeit terrorized, by the Soviets. Finnish and Estonian languages are mutually intelligible, and this meant that Estonians could watch Finnish news. This wasn’t all, though, Ilves pointed out: they could also watch “Dallas,” “Dynasty,” “Knight Rider,” and other American shows, in English with Finnish subtitles. (This was also a great way to learn English.) Ilves is no fan of American television shows from the nineteen-eighties, but he appreciates what they symbolized for the people watching them behind the Iron Curtain. They meant that an entirely different world was possible. Estonians, it seems, still know that, and this spurs the imagination.
A Guide to the Coronavirus