newyorker--2020-03-17--The Anguish and Solidarity of Paris Under Lockdown

The coronavirus pandemic is a global catastrophe with local peculiarities .
In France , it comes on the heels of anti-pension-reform strikes that shut down the country for much of the winter , which themselves came on the heels of the gilets jaunes protests that shut down the country for much of the winter before that .
Hibernation for springtime feels viscerally wrong anywhere .
But the concept of social distancing as civic duty has induced a special sort of fatigue , confusion , and even heartbreak here , where , in the wake of the terrorist attacks of 2015 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was showing up on a café terrace for a glass of wine .
The coronavirus arrived in France at the end of January , with two people who had recently visited China , and has now reached the exponential stage , with the number of infections , now more than six thousand , basically doubling every three days .
Sunday was gorgeous , for the first time in quite a while .
People went out to parks and squares—selfishly , but perhaps only half-comprehendingly , as they ’ d been told by the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ to do essential shopping or to do a little bit of exercise.
” On Monday morning , Le Monde reported that the government was considering putting the population under confinement , in view of the crowds that had materialized in such beauty spots as the banks of the Seine and the Luxembourg Gardens , and in markets such as the Twelfth Arrondissement ’ s marché d ’ Aligre , wanting to allow themselves “ one last moment of insouciance.
” Parisians with the luck or wealth to have accommodations in the countryside @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and to their older parents ’ houses—an exodus which can only exacerbate the problem .
With rumors of a total lockdown circulating , Macron addressed the nation on television Monday night .
“ We are at war , ” he said , simply , announcing that Europe would close its borders for thirty days and that , for at least the next fifteen , French people would be subject to strict confinement , enforced with fines of up to a hundred and thirty-five euros .
The speech was calmingly decisive , if @ @ @ @ @ @ @ meant for people outside of cities : cars , for example , did not come up .
For the moment , a quick , solo jog is still permissible in France , but the implication was that even that won ’ t be if the French don ’ t immediately get it together and hunker down .
Though Macron unhelpfully didn ’ t mention it , one will now need to reproduce and sign an attestation in order to leave the house .
( Those who don ’ t have a printer can @ @ @ @ @ @ @ download it , fill it out on Adobe , and e-mail it to themselves . )
There ’ s also schoolwork , and work work , to be done .
Who knew that printer manufacturers would be the big winners of coronavirus ?
“ Does anyone have a printer to sell ?
To loan during the confinement period ?
” someone wrote , early this morning , on a Facebook group for parents in my neighborhood .
Until now , the government had been sending mixed messages , which had led to disordered @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , in accordance with a staff vote ; signs in the Métro advised against hand-shaking , without mentioning the germ-spreading capacity of la bise .
On Thursday , the government announced that schools would be closed until further notice .
On Saturday , restaurants , cafés , and all other non-essential commerce bit the dust .
You couldn ’ t get a haircut , but , in his address to the nation that night , on the eve of municipal elections , President Emmanuel Macron was still urging his countrymen to get out @ @ @ @ @ @ @ d consulted scientific experts , who “ consider that there is nothing to prevent the French , even the most vulnerable , from going to the polls.
” The French voted on Sunday morning , in anemic numbers—at forty-five per cent , the turnout constituted a record low .
In his speech , Macron announced that the second round of voting , scheduled for March 22nd , will be postponed , likely until June .
For what it ’ s worth , the Green Party made considerable gains in cities like Bordeaux and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Socialist mayor Anne Hidalgo secured a commanding win , promising a “ fifteen-minute city , ” in which every Parisian would be able to procure every necessary good and service within a quarter hour ’ s walk or bike ride from chez elle .
Monday morning , on Twitter , instead of commenting on the election results , Bénedicte Pételle , a congresswoman from Macron ’ s L.R.E.M .
party , announced that her eighty-six-year-old father and eighty-year-old mother were both in the hospital with the coronavirus .
“ My father is ‘ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ doctors .
My mother , who is on a ventilator , won ’ t be able to tell him goodbye.
” She was urging people to stay in .
“ I don ’ t blame anyone , but today we must be disciplined , ” Pételle told Le Parisien .
Things are moving so fast , in France and elsewhere , that it seems somewhat futile to try to record them .
The best one can do is to try to capture a moving target in a meaningful moment or pose , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ burst ” mode .
As I walked around Paris these past few mornings , passing Pompeii-style tableaux of stacked bistro chairs and abandoned happy-hour menus ( maybe next year for that “ vin chaud au cognac , 7 € ” ) ; encountering a young Malaysian couple doing a photo shoot on the Pont des Arts in full wedding regalia ( they hadn ’ t heard a thing about the lockdown ) .
Trying to get a feel for things at a conscionable distance , my thoughts turned to “ solastalgia ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ philosopher Glenn Albrecht , and cited in a recent profile of Jenny Offill , by Parul Sehgal , which refers to the psychic pain of environmental devastation .
I was feeling something like this for the social fabric of my country , my city , and my neighborhood , whose current despoilation is , of course , not unrelated to the ecological crisis .
France is a high-contact society .
It has the second-biggest economy in the European Union , but , according to one measure in a 2018 report , it ranked @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , with less than seventy per cent of French people having purchased something online in the past year .
The relative feebleness of e-commerce in France can be annoying when you don ’ t feel like going out in the rain to find a kid ’ s bike , or carrying it up the stairs .
Unlike my friends in New York , nobody I know in Paris orders diapers from Amazon .
It ’ s usually easier to just walk down the street and get the thing yourself .
Right now , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ proportion to its precariousness .
Anne Hidalgo ’ s fifteen-minute city of forced pleasantries and minor schleps seems far preferable to the antiseptic immediacy of Deliveroo and Zoom .
It ’ s a noble instinct to try to think of the time of the coronavirus , however long it may be , as a period for reflection and regeneration , “ to invent new solidarities , ” as Macron said .
More than a thousand of us did , yesterday evening at six , joining in on Lili Barbery-Coulon ’ s live meditation @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to anyone , but , as far as I could tell , from comments popping up onscreen , it was filled with Parisians , and that felt good : proximity , even at a social distance .
“ À demain !
” commenter after commenter wrote .

The coronavirus pandemic is a global catastrophe with local peculiarities. In France, it comes on the heels of anti-pension-reform strikes that shut down the country for much of the winter, which themselves came on the heels of the gilets jaunes protests that shut down the country for much of the winter before that. Hibernation for springtime feels viscerally wrong anywhere. But the concept of social distancing as civic duty has induced a special sort of fatigue, confusion, and even heartbreak here, where, in the wake of the terrorist attacks of 2015 and 2016, the height of solidarity was showing up on a café terrace for a glass of wine.
The coronavirus arrived in France at the end of January, with two people who had recently visited China, and has now reached the exponential stage, with the number of infections, now more than six thousand, basically doubling every three days. Sunday was gorgeous, for the first time in quite a while. People went out to parks and squares—selfishly, but perhaps only half-comprehendingly, as they’d been told by the Prime Minister to stay home, except “to do essential shopping or to do a little bit of exercise.” On Monday morning, Le Monde reported that the government was considering putting the population under confinement, in view of the crowds that had materialized in such beauty spots as the banks of the Seine and the Luxembourg Gardens, and in markets such as the Twelfth Arrondissement’s marché d’Aligre, wanting to allow themselves “one last moment of insouciance.” Parisians with the luck or wealth to have accommodations in the countryside fled the city—many of them by train, and to their older parents’ houses—an exodus which can only exacerbate the problem.
With rumors of a total lockdown circulating, Macron addressed the nation on television Monday night. “We are at war,” he said, simply, announcing that Europe would close its borders for thirty days and that, for at least the next fifteen, French people would be subject to strict confinement, enforced with fines of up to a hundred and thirty-five euros. The speech was calmingly decisive, if oddly silent on what the new rules meant for people outside of cities: cars, for example, did not come up. For the moment, a quick, solo jog is still permissible in France, but the implication was that even that won’t be if the French don’t immediately get it together and hunker down. Though Macron unhelpfully didn’t mention it, one will now need to reproduce and sign an attestation in order to leave the house. (Those who don’t have a printer can copy the attestation by hand, or download it, fill it out on Adobe, and e-mail it to themselves.) There’s also schoolwork, and work work, to be done. Who knew that printer manufacturers would be the big winners of coronavirus? “Does anyone have a printer to sell? To loan during the confinement period?” someone wrote, early this morning, on a Facebook group for parents in my neighborhood.
Until now, the government had been sending mixed messages, which had led to disordered behavior. The Louvre closed and reopened, in accordance with a staff vote; signs in the Métro advised against hand-shaking, without mentioning the germ-spreading capacity of la bise. On Thursday, the government announced that schools would be closed until further notice. On Saturday, restaurants, cafés, and all other non-essential commerce bit the dust. You couldn’t get a haircut, but, in his address to the nation that night, on the eve of municipal elections, President Emmanuel Macron was still urging his countrymen to get out and vote, saying that he’d consulted scientific experts, who “consider that there is nothing to prevent the French, even the most vulnerable, from going to the polls.” The French voted on Sunday morning, in anemic numbers—at forty-five per cent, the turnout constituted a record low. In his speech, Macron announced that the second round of voting, scheduled for March 22nd, will be postponed, likely until June. For what it’s worth, the Green Party made considerable gains in cities like Bordeaux and Lyon. In Paris, the incumbent Socialist mayor Anne Hidalgo secured a commanding win, promising a “fifteen-minute city,” in which every Parisian would be able to procure every necessary good and service within a quarter hour’s walk or bike ride from chez elle. Monday morning, on Twitter, instead of commenting on the election results, Bénedicte Pételle, a congresswoman from Macron’s L.R.E.M. party, announced that her eighty-six-year-old father and eighty-year-old mother were both in the hospital with the coronavirus. “My father is ‘going gently,’ according to the doctors. My mother, who is on a ventilator, won’t be able to tell him goodbye.” She was urging people to stay in. “I don’t blame anyone, but today we must be disciplined,” Pételle told Le Parisien.
Things are moving so fast, in France and elsewhere, that it seems somewhat futile to try to record them. The best one can do is to try to capture a moving target in a meaningful moment or pose, a journalistic version of a smartphone’s “burst” mode. I walked around Paris these past few mornings, passing Pompeii-style tableaux of stacked bistro chairs and abandoned happy-hour menus (maybe next year for that “vin chaud au cognac, 7 €”); encountering a young Malaysian couple doing a photo shoot on the Pont des Arts in full wedding regalia (they hadn’t heard a thing about the lockdown); trying to get a feel for things at a conscionable distance. My thoughts turned to “solastalgia”—a word, invented by the Australian philosopher Glenn Albrecht, and cited in a recent profile of Jenny Offill, by Parul Sehgal, which refers to the psychic pain of environmental devastation. I was feeling something like this for the social fabric of my country, my city, and my neighborhood, whose current despoilation is, of course, not unrelated to the ecological crisis. France is a high-contact society. It has the second-biggest economy in the European Union, but, according to one measure in a 2018 report, it ranked eleventh in Internet use and online shopping, with less than seventy per cent of French people having purchased something online in the past year. The relative feebleness of e-commerce in France can be annoying when you don’t feel like going out in the rain to find a kid’s bike, or carrying it up the stairs. Unlike my friends in New York, nobody I know in Paris orders diapers from Amazon. It’s usually easier to just walk down the street and get the thing yourself.
Right now, that human contact feels precious in direct proportion to its precariousness. Anne Hidalgo’s fifteen-minute city of forced pleasantries and minor schleps seems far preferable to the antiseptic immediacy of Deliveroo and Zoom. It’s a noble instinct to try to think of the time of the coronavirus, however long it may be, as a period for reflection and regeneration, “to invent new solidarities,” as Macron said. More than a thousand of us did, yesterday evening at six, joining in on Lili Barbery-Coulon’s live meditation session on Instagram. It was open to anyone, but, as far as I could tell, from comments popping up onscreen, it was filled with Parisians, and that felt good: proximity, even at a social distance. “À demain!” commenter after commenter wrote.
But, even with breath of fire and showers of light, anxieties persist. Might this worldwide detox not really amount to a retox, or, in places that have until now privileged the I.R.L. over the URL, a forced taste of something dangerous? Isn’t social distancing an acceleration of what was already happening to many people in many places, by choice, before it was inflicted by fiat, everyone in their comfortable cells of capitalist convenience, fortified by everything they could ever wish for (or, more accurately, afford)? Macron promised to mobilize hotels and taxis for medical personnel. “The state will pay,” he said. (This, it must be said, was amazing meme material.) He announced the suspension of utility and rent bills for small businesses facing difficulty, but, even so, so many daily sites of human interaction likely won’t survive the shutdown. So many humans won’t. Since I sat down to write this, 1,233 new cases of coronavirus have been logged in France. The moment that Italian friends, ahead of us by about a week, have been begging us to prevent has nonetheless arrived. What’s it like in lockdown, friends outside of France want to know? Shitty and necessary. Americans, who are as unlikely to learn from the French as the French were from the Italians, will know the feeling, for the same and different reasons, sometime very soon.
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-03-17--Confronting Anti-Asian Discrimination During the Coronavirus Crisis

That evening , H. is sick , as predicted .
I go out for medicine , but things are picked over at Rite Aid .
Everything left feels a bit off-brand : chewable grape-flavored ibuprofen , a raspberry-flavored vitamin-C mix .
Moms with strollers crowd the aisles , all of us looking for things that aren ’ t there anymore .
H. running a fever .
Hope it ’ s just a cold .
I ’ d been planning to go to my office this week , to work on my unfinishable novel , but sick kid means I stay @ @ @ @ @ @ @ H. plays FIFA 20 on the Switch and watches soccer videos .
For lunch , I go to the corner deli and get him a bagel with cream cheese and a small Tropicana orange juice .
Vitamin C doesn ’ t do anything against the coronavirus , but maybe it will help with his regular cold .
We eat our lunch on the roof , and we talk in the sunshine .
He ’ s happy and I ’ m happy .
I take Y. , my older son , to hockey practice @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ d parked the car and walked him to the rink , then went to a coffee shop to work on the unfinishable novel .
Half an hour later , my phone rang .
I couldn ’ t recognize the distraught voice on the other end as my son .
The head of the program got on the line and told me to come to the rink at once .
Turned out that another kid ’ s father ( white ) had berated Y. during warmups , claiming he ’ d slashed his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ him off the ice , screamed and swore at him .
The various accounts are confusing .
At some point he said he would call the cops .
The coaches stepped in ; he was instructed to leave .
The dad was banned from the rink until the end of January .
At the beginning of February , I overhear someone at the rink saying in chummy tones , “ So you ’ re finally back.
” It ’ s another dad ( white ) talking to the guy who must be the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and send it to my wife , W. This is the guy who screamed at Y .
At the time , I kept thinking , Would he have treated a white kid that way ?
Now I think , Does the coronavirus outbreak make it seem O.K .
to shout at an Asian kid ?
Tonight I see the dad again , from afar .
In the past few months , I ’ ve played over scenarios in my head .
I should shake his hand , say , “ No hard feelings.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ move .
Watching him , I think , He doesn ’ t think he did anything wrong .
H. is better and back to school .
Spring break is coming up .
The Delaware tournament looms large in his mind .
He ’ ll be totally healthy by then .
My wife will drive him there , while I take Y. to his tournament in Philadelphia .
A divide-and-conquer sort of weekend .
W. ’ s birthday .
I draw her a card , a New York skyline with arrows pointing to the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the years .
The boys each write a little note , signing off , “ your favorite son.
” There ’ s an article about a staffer at a Brooklyn assemblywoman ’ s office who shared a message on Facebook advising people not to frequent Chinese businesses in the city , claiming that the proprietors could be carrying the virus from having gone to China for the Lunar New Year .
I can ’ t believe people sometimes .
I spend a few hours decluttering , in anticipation of finally moving to the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to Instagram , a series I call “ Marie Kondo vs. _____.
” Today ’ s possible victims : my Village Voice reporter ’ s notebooks , the sheet music to “ Sweet Child o ’ Mine , ” and a copy of an unpublished book I wrote twenty-two years ago—a manuscript that only exists as a printout , not on e-mail , in the cloud , anything but paper .
The posts get a hundred and twenty-four , forty-two , and a hundred and eighty-seven likes , respectively .
To judge from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ good number of Americans are positively inclined toward Marie Kondo ’ s “ The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up.
” In the American mind , then , Japanese are clean , and the Chinese , with their weird , disease-incubating wildlife markets , are dirty .
I don ’ t know where Koreans stand .
The sleek , androgynous K-pop groups like BTS scan as “ clean.
” Bong Joon-ho ’ s “ Parasite ” is a mix of the immaculate ( the Parks in their sleek modern house ) and grimy ( @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
When “ Parasite ” won the Best Picture Oscar , I screamed—never in my life would I have imagined a Korean filmmaker winning the prize , even someone as great as Bong Joon-ho .
That was less than a month ago .
Now South Korea was grappling with the largest coronavirus outbreak outside China , thanks in part to a secretive Christian cult , and it ’ s as if all that national pride has been replaced by panic and embarrassment .
Somehow “ parasite ” and “ virus ” feel related @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and her boyfriend—had planned on making a big pilgrimage to Korea at the end of June , when Y.
’ s school lets out .
It would have been the first time there for my wife and kids , and the first time in nearly forty years for my sister .
With my dad finally retiring , at eighty-four , the time seemed ripe .
The trip is looking less likely by the day .
My college alumni magazine arrives .
The cover story is “ Pizza !
Our undercover experts rate @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Instagram , I caption it “ Slow news month.
” It gets a hundred and two likes .
E-mail from the director of the day camp where H. will be for part of his spring break .
She says that they are excited , but also aware of coronavirus concerns .
There will be plenty of hand sanitizer .
Anyone who feels sick should stay home .
Sunshine .
Excited to meet some friends , L. and H. , for dinner .
L. suggested an Indian place in Harlem a few weeks back @ @ @ @ @ @ @ base , saying she has a slight cough , possibly caught from a colleague who attended a conference out of the country .
This is enough of an out for all of us .
When to reschedule ?
We look at April .
We look at May .
Everything will be O.K .
by then .
Y.
’ s last indoor soccer game at Chelsea Piers .
I drop him off , then go park the car .
When I enter the Field House , the guard at the turnstile tells me I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the computer .
I go to tell him my name and a ( white ) woman hisses , “ I ’ m in line.
” Get an e-mail that H. ’ s upcoming day camp is cancelled due to “ concerns over the COVID-19.
” H. ’ s school is cancelled for two days .
Moving to “ virtual learning ” on Wednesday .
What does that even mean for fourth graders ?
I ’ m anxious about the impending hockey tournaments in Pennsylvania and Delaware .
I look up state-by-state statistics on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has zero cases .
But the teams will be coming in from all over .
I wish the organizers would cancel .

Sunday, March 1st
At the rink at 6 A.M. for H.’s local hockey tournament. First game’s at seven, but Coach wants everyone there an hour before. 6 A.M. means I wake up at 5 A.M. The experts say that to keep your immune system strong, you need to get enough sleep. I’ve been washing my hands so much they look like driftwood. There’s no Purell to be found anywhere.
Awaiting the start, I check on the latest coronavirus news. Before Trump took office, when he was a bloviating candidate in a bloated Republican field, I found his ramblings both abhorrent and weirdly fascinating. I had a document where I cut-and-pasted his circumlocutions and obsessive repetitions. To read (rather than hear) them was to summon some garrulous Don DeLillo character. (I participated in a 2017 DeLillo symposium at the New School, in which a scholar noted their overlaps—to begin with: “They’re both named Donald.”) Today I read that Trump said, “Our country is prepared for any circumstance. We hope it’s not going to be a major circumstance, it’ll be a smaller circumstance. But whatever the circumstances, we’re prepared.”
That evening, H. is sick, as predicted. I go out for medicine, but things are picked over at Rite Aid. Everything left feels a bit off-brand: chewable grape-flavored ibuprofen, a raspberry-flavored vitamin-C mix. Moms with strollers crowd the aisles, all of us looking for things that aren’t there anymore.
Monday, March 2nd
H. running a fever. Hope it’s just a cold. I’d been planning to go to my office this week, to work on my unfinishable novel, but sick kid means I stay home. I reread a draft while H. plays FIFA 20 on the Switch and watches soccer videos. For lunch, I go to the corner deli and get him a bagel with cream cheese and a small Tropicana orange juice. Vitamin C doesn’t do anything against the coronavirus, but maybe it will help with his regular cold. We eat our lunch on the roof, and we talk in the sunshine. He’s happy and I’m happy.
Tuesday, March 3rd
I take Y., my older son, to hockey practice. One night in December, I’d parked the car and walked him to the rink, then went to a coffee shop to work on the unfinishable novel. Half an hour later, my phone rang. I couldn’t recognize the distraught voice on the other end as my son. The head of the program got on the line and told me to come to the rink at once. Turned out that another kid’s father (white) had berated Y. during warmups, claiming he’d slashed his son with his stick. He followed him off the ice, screamed and swore at him. The various accounts are confusing. At some point he said he would call the cops. The coaches stepped in; he was instructed to leave. The dad was banned from the rink until the end of January.
At the beginning of February, I overhear someone at the rink saying in chummy tones, “So you’re finally back.” It’s another dad (white) talking to the guy who must be the dad. I surreptitiously take a photo and send it to my wife, W. This is the guy who screamed at Y.
At the time, I kept thinking, Would he have treated a white kid that way?
Now I think, Does the coronavirus outbreak make it seem O.K. to shout at an Asian kid?
Tonight I see the dad again, from afar. In the past few months, I’ve played over scenarios in my head. I should shake his hand, say, “No hard feelings.” But no—let him make the first move. Watching him, I think, He doesn’t think he did anything wrong.
Wednesday, March 4th
H. is better and back to school. Spring break is coming up. The Delaware tournament looms large in his mind. He’ll be totally healthy by then. My wife will drive him there, while I take Y. to his tournament in Philadelphia. A divide-and-conquer sort of weekend.
Thursday, March 5th
W.’s birthday. I draw her a card, a New York skyline with arrows pointing to the various places we’ve lived over the years. The boys each write a little note, signing off, “your favorite son.”
There’s an article about a staffer at a Brooklyn assemblywoman’s office who shared a message on Facebook advising people not to frequent Chinese businesses in the city, claiming that the proprietors could be carrying the virus from having gone to China for the Lunar New Year. I can’t believe people sometimes.
I spend a few hours decluttering, in anticipation of finally moving to the new apartment. I post four times to Instagram, a series I call “Marie Kondo vs. _____.” Today’s possible victims: my Village Voice reporter’s notebooks, the sheet music to “Sweet Child o’ Mine,” and a copy of an unpublished book I wrote twenty-two years ago—a manuscript that only exists as a printout, not on e-mail, in the cloud, anything but paper. The posts get a hundred and twenty-four, forty-two, and a hundred and eighty-seven likes, respectively.
To judge from Netflix and best-seller lists, clearly a good number of Americans are positively inclined toward Marie Kondo’s “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up.” In the American mind, then, Japanese are clean, and the Chinese, with their weird, disease-incubating wildlife markets, are dirty. I don’t know where Koreans stand. The sleek, androgynous K-pop groups like BTS scan as “clean.” Bong Joon-ho’s “Parasite” is a mix of the immaculate (the Parks in their sleek modern house) and grimy (the Kims in their fumigated hovel). When “Parasite” won the Best Picture Oscar, I screamed—never in my life would I have imagined a Korean filmmaker winning the prize, even someone as great as Bong Joon-ho. That was less than a month ago. Now South Korea was grappling with the largest coronavirus outbreak outside China, thanks in part to a secretive Christian cult, and it’s as if all that national pride has been replaced by panic and embarrassment. Somehow “parasite” and “virus” feel related.


newyorker--2020-03-17--The Diary of a Grand Princess Crew Member as the Coronavirus Spread on the Ship

On the night of March 3rd , before going to bed , a crew member aboard the Grand Princess—a cruise ship owned by Carnival , the largest cruise operator in the world—sat down to write in her diary .
“ What a rough day at sea !
” she wrote .
The weather hadn ’ t been good since the ship left the port of Hilo , in Hawaii , about a week earlier , bound for the Mexican port of Ensenada , carrying some thirty five hundred people , nearly a third of them crew .
Passengers , whom @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the day , were “ wobbling about the ship , ” and the loud banging of the waves and the movement of passengers made sleep unlikely .
In the course of the next week , the crew member , whom I ’ ll call Margaret , took regular notes , as the days passed with increasing frustration and fear .
( She asked me not to identify her , fearing retribution from Carnival . )
A crew member on a cruise is more clear-eyed than the average vacationing passenger about the potential @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of people are floating together in the middle of the ocean .
And Margaret had already heard about the Diamond Princess , another Carnival ship , which was quarantined off the coast of Japan for two weeks , in February , because people on board had been infected with something called the coronavirus .
( More than seven hundred people on board were infected , and at least eight died from the illness . )
Even so , her diary captures the uncertainty and fear brought about by confronting the virus firsthand , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ information about the outbreak was delivered and received , not only aboard the ship but elsewhere .
It also reflects how differently the virus has affected those with the liberties and resources to get out of its way , or get treated , and those without .
“ Received a notice today to all crew , ” Margaret wrote , on March 4th .
Crew-to-passenger contact would be kept to a minimum .
Food and drink service for passengers wouldn ’ t change , but “ crew should remain below deck unless performing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reason given as to why .
The ship would divert directly to San Francisco rather than continue on to Mexico .
The passengers had not yet been made aware of this change .
Sanitation protocols would now be at “ the maximum level , ” Margaret noted ; hand washing was “ more important than ever.
” Later in the day , another message arrived : all nonessential duties on the Grand Princess would be cancelled , because some guests who had sailed on the ship ’ s previous cruise had tested positive @ @ @ @ @ @ @ d disembarked .
Crew “ are now working around the clock , ” Margaret wrote , on March 5th .
Guests had been told to stay in their staterooms , which put a burden on room service .
A helicopter landed on the ship as Margaret anxiously ate her lunch .
“ Moments later we all saw it on the TV that the helicopter had dropped off testing kits for people on board who were showing symptoms similar to flu , ” she wrote .
Entertainment for the crew—games , movies , dancing—was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bar now sold only water and cigarettes .
( The tap water on the ship isn ’ t good to drink , Margaret told me .
There are beverages at meals , but otherwise you need to buy bottled water—you can buy two bottles a day , for fifty-five cents each . )
The crew shop offered little more than potato chips and pretzels .
“ Crew seem to be panic-buying whatever they can in fear that they may not be off this ship for a long time , ” Margaret wrote .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
And the next cruise had been cancelled .
On the afternoon of March 6th , in the canteen , Margaret heard that some crew had tested positive for the coronavirus .
“ I didn ’ t believe it , but moments later , Mike Pence was speaking live on BBC World News , ” she wrote .
Pence said that twenty-one of the forty-six people who were tested were positive , nineteen of them crew .
Pence also confirmed the reports about infections on the ship ’ s previous cruise , in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to note that the Grand Princess actually was on its second tour and we know of coronavirus infections from the first tour as well with very , very difficult results , ” he said .
He added , “ The American people can be confident that there will be no erosion in our preventative measures and efforts to keep the coronavirus from spreading throughout the country.
” Margaret wrote , “ As I looked around the ship and realized this virus could have been spreading since 11th Feb I became anxious .
Nervous @ @ @ @ @ @ @ idea.
” The onboard medical center was soon overwhelmed with calls and visits , particularly once the captain confirmed that what Pence had said on TV was accurate .
“ He seemed upset that he had apparently not been notified before the media , ” Margaret wrote of the captain .
“ I think many of us were surprised to [ sic ] and felt like may be we were being kept in the dark about possible and potential cases.
” From a box on a table in the lounging deck , she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ there were some in the medical center but that they were running low—and gloves , since there had been “ no talk about isolating the crew.
” She was sharing a cabin with another crew member and a bathroom with two more .
The crew had been hoping to dock in San Francisco on March 7th .
Instead , they were told that the ship would sail in circles , near the coast .
It seemed that passengers would get off first when the ship eventually docked .
“ We are working in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ try and keep the passengers fed and happy , ” Margaret wrote .
Crew delivered gift bags , food , and drinks to rooms .
Stewards were no longer cleaning cabins or linen .
“ The ship is like a ghost ship in the corridors , except for crew areas , ” Margaret wrote .
The crew smoking room was “ busy as usual , ” and Margaret wondered “ if this would be spreading more of the virus.
” She heard that some infected crew members were being isolated , but there @ @ @ @ @ @ @ spare cabins to isolate all of the crew who were experiencing symptoms .
“ Not all crew are wearing masks or gloves and we are sitting and sharing tables and conversation as if nothing is happening , ” she wrote .
“ Going down in the elevator to my cabin I realized how many crew were sharing the elevator space .
Was this going to be all ok ?
” Work continued , often for twelve hours a day .
Margaret rose at five to fold napkins , after less than six hours @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t docked ; it was going to be sent across the bay , to a port in Oakland .
“ Passengers are becoming irritable , ” Margaret wrote , on March 8th .
She didn ’ t eat that night , because she was too tired .
On March 9th , around lunchtime , the boat arrived in Oakland .
Passengers from California , and those who were considered most vulnerable to health problems , disembarked .
Canadian passengers were also able to leave : after the U.S. government asked Canada for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ government arranged for a plane to fly them to a military base in Ontario .
Helicopters circled the ship , and Margaret watched as crew members escorted passengers to the open deck to watch .
“ There were people dancing , ” she wrote .
“ I think maybe this was to get some good footage for the media to make the situation seem better than it is .
”

On the night of March 3rd, before going to bed, a crew member aboard the Grand Princess—a cruise ship owned by Carnival, the largest cruise operator in the world—sat down to write in her diary. “What a rough day at sea!” she wrote. The weather hadn’t been good since the ship left the port of Hilo, in Hawaii, about a week earlier, bound for the Mexican port of Ensenada, carrying some thirty five hundred people, nearly a third of them crew. Passengers, whom she’d watched line-dancing happily earlier in the day, were “wobbling about the ship,” and the loud banging of the waves and the movement of passengers made sleep unlikely.
In the course of the next week, the crew member, whom I’ll call Margaret, took regular notes, as the days passed with increasing frustration and fear. (She asked me not to identify her, fearing retribution from Carnival.) A crew member on a cruise is more clear-eyed than the average vacationing passenger about the potential for things to go wrong when thousands of people are floating together in the middle of the ocean. And Margaret had already heard about the Diamond Princess, another Carnival ship, which was quarantined off the coast of Japan for two weeks, in February, because people on board had been infected with something called the coronavirus. (More than seven hundred people on board were infected, and at least eight died from the illness.) Even so, her diary captures the uncertainty and fear brought about by confronting the virus firsthand, and the halting and uneven way that information about the outbreak was delivered and received, not only aboard the ship but elsewhere. It also reflects how differently the virus has affected those with the liberties and resources to get out of its way, or get treated, and those without.
“Received a notice today to all crew,” Margaret wrote, on March 4th. Crew-to-passenger contact would be kept to a minimum. Food and drink service for passengers wouldn’t change, but “crew should remain below deck unless performing their regular duties.” There was no reason given as to why. The ship would divert directly to San Francisco rather than continue on to Mexico. The passengers had not yet been made aware of this change. Sanitation protocols would now be at “the maximum level,” Margaret noted; hand washing was “more important than ever.” Later in the day, another message arrived: all nonessential duties on the Grand Princess would be cancelled, because some guests who had sailed on the ship’s previous cruise had tested positive for the coronavirus, after they’d disembarked.
Crew “are now working around the clock,” Margaret wrote, on March 5th. Guests had been told to stay in their staterooms, which put a burden on room service. A helicopter landed on the ship as Margaret anxiously ate her lunch. “Moments later we all saw it on the TV that the helicopter had dropped off testing kits for people on board who were showing symptoms similar to flu,” she wrote. Entertainment for the crew—games, movies, dancing—was shut down or curtailed. The crew bar now sold only water and cigarettes. (The tap water on the ship isn’t good to drink, Margaret told me. There are beverages at meals, but otherwise you need to buy bottled water—you can buy two bottles a day, for fifty-five cents each.) The crew shop offered little more than potato chips and pretzels. “Crew seem to be panic-buying whatever they can in fear that they may not be off this ship for a long time,” Margaret wrote. The weather, meanwhile, had improved. And the next cruise had been cancelled.
On the afternoon of March 6th, in the canteen, Margaret heard that some crew had tested positive for the coronavirus. “I didn’t believe it, but moments later, Mike Pence was speaking live on BBC World News,” she wrote. Pence said that twenty-one of the forty-six people who were tested were positive, nineteen of them crew. Pence also confirmed the reports about infections on the ship’s previous cruise, in February. “It’s important to note that the Grand Princess actually was on its second tour and we know of coronavirus infections from the first tour as well with very, very difficult results,” he said. He added, “The American people can be confident that there will be no erosion in our preventative measures and efforts to keep the coronavirus from spreading throughout the country.” Margaret wrote, “As I looked around the ship and realized this virus could have been spreading since 11th Feb I became anxious. Nervous for passengers and crew who had no idea.”
The onboard medical center was soon overwhelmed with calls and visits, particularly once the captain confirmed that what Pence had said on TV was accurate. “He seemed upset that he had apparently not been notified before the media,” Margaret wrote of the captain. “I think many of us were surprised to [sic] and felt like may be we were being kept in the dark about possible and potential cases.” From a box on a table in the lounging deck, she grabbed two surgical masks—she’d heard there were some in the medical center but that they were running low—and gloves, since there had been “no talk about isolating the crew.” She was sharing a cabin with another crew member and a bathroom with two more.
The crew had been hoping to dock in San Francisco on March 7th. Instead, they were told that the ship would sail in circles, near the coast. It seemed that passengers would get off first when the ship eventually docked. “We are working in different shifts 24 hours per day to try and keep the passengers fed and happy,” Margaret wrote. Crew delivered gift bags, food, and drinks to rooms. Stewards were no longer cleaning cabins or linen. “The ship is like a ghost ship in the corridors, except for crew areas,” Margaret wrote. The crew smoking room was “busy as usual,” and Margaret wondered “if this would be spreading more of the virus.” She heard that some infected crew members were being isolated, but there didn’t seem to be enough spare cabins to isolate all of the crew who were experiencing symptoms. “Not all crew are wearing masks or gloves and we are sitting and sharing tables and conversation as if nothing is happening,” she wrote. “Going down in the elevator to my cabin I realized how many crew were sharing the elevator space. Was this going to be all ok?”
Work continued, often for twelve hours a day. Margaret rose at five to fold napkins, after less than six hours of sleep. The ship still hadn’t docked; it was going to be sent across the bay, to a port in Oakland. “Passengers are becoming irritable,” Margaret wrote, on March 8th. She didn’t eat that night, because she was too tired.
On March 9th, around lunchtime, the boat arrived in Oakland. Passengers from California, and those who were considered most vulnerable to health problems, disembarked. Canadian passengers were also able to leave: after the U.S. government asked Canada for help repatriating its citizens, the Canadian government arranged for a plane to fly them to a military base in Ontario. Helicopters circled the ship, and Margaret watched as crew members escorted passengers to the open deck to watch. “There were people dancing,” she wrote. “I think maybe this was to get some good footage for the media to make the situation seem better than it is.”
Back down below, passengers were complaining about not being able to go outside, or smoke, or have a drink, but Margaret didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t eaten or gone outside all day, either. “They are running out of medications, fresh clothes,” she wrote of the passengers. “Some have no windows or balconies and are feeling trapped and isolated.” Food was improving, at least, probably due to fresh rations. “Crew have started trading,” she wrote. “It’s starting to feel like a floating prison. I have some wine in my cabin that I have traded for some chips and chocolate this evening. People are trading laundry detergent for shampoo, beers for dollars.” The air in her windowless cabin felt thick. She and her roommate felt unwell. The medical center was only able to accommodate emergencies. Everyone else was instructed to call a phone number.
On March 10th, Margaret wrote her last diary entry aboard the ship. She had begun to feel paranoid. “I am washing my hands every chance I get, carrying around hand sanitizer,” she wrote. “Some crew are acting like security guards almost, restricting the passengers.” She added, “A lot of passengers are calling this the Bug Boat, Corona Cruise, or Diamond 2.”
“I fear we will get left behind, kept out at sea,” she went on. “My heart is worried, my family are so far away and are worried. And I am paying for bottled water still.” Passengers had been notified about refunds and complimentary future cruises, but crew members still didn’t know whether they’d be fully paid for their contracts. “I honestly feel like I am in some kind of nightmare,” the entry concludes.
That day, a Florida couple on board filed a lawsuit against Princess Cruise Lines, seeking more than a million dollars in damages, for gross negligence. They accuse the ship of sailing despite “knowing that the ship was infected from two previous passengers who came down with symptoms of COVID-19, and had sixty-two passengers on board.” Princess Cruises issued a statement in response to this claim, insisting, “Our response throughout this process has focused on the well-being of our guests and crew within the parameters mandated on us by the government agencies involved and the evolving medical understanding of this new illness.”


newyorker--2020-03-17--March 17th Primary Election 2020: Live Results, Maps, and Analysis

Delegates in the Democratic primary are awarded on an ongoing basis , as different states and territories vote , with @ @ @ @ @ delegates up for grabs .
To win outright—and to avoid a brokered Convention—a candidate will @ @ @ @ @ 1,991 delegates during the 2020 primary voting season .
On March 17th , there are @ @ @ @ @ Arizona , Florida , and Illinois .
The New Yorker will be tracking the results @ @ @ @ @ of our Election 2020 campaign coverage .
Follow our delegate counter for the over-all delegate @ @

Delegates in the Democratic primary are awarded on an ongoing basis, as different states and territories vote, with a total of 3,979 pledged delegates up for grabs. To win outright—and to avoid a brokered Convention—a candidate will need to claim at least 1,991 delegates during the 2020 primary voting season. On March 17th, there are 441 delegates at stake across Arizona, Florida, and Illinois. The New Yorker will be tracking the results below, alongside the rest of our Election 2020 campaign coverage. Follow our delegate counter for the over-all delegate tally.
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newyorker--2020-03-17--Florida Primary Election 2020: Live Results, Maps, and Analysis

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newyorker--2020-03-17--Arizona Primary Election 2020: Live Results, Maps, and Analysis

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newyorker--2020-03-18--How I Wish to Receive Notifications

How I Wish to Receive Notifications

If I am reaching the limit on my credit card , I would like to be notified by a series of increasingly frantic phone calls , not from my mother but from someone who sounds remarkably similar to her .
If I exceed my limit , I would like to be sent a small , sad-eyed child , who will stare at me reproachfully until I get it together and make the minimum payment .
If my phone bill is due , I would like to be texted a picture of a cute puppy .
No need to tell me @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on my paying this bill .
I already know .
Oh , God , do I know .
Please inform me that my flight will be departing on time by sending me the sound of an air horn and a GIF of an old man dancing with joy .
Not the Six Flags guy ( ugh ) .
If my flight is delayed , please let me know by delivering a half-dozen doughnuts straight to the Lyft I ’ m in because I thought that I had to be at the airport at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of cream-filled and glazed , please , no jelly , and for heaven ’ s sake no chocolate glazed .
Why are those such trash ?
Speaking of Lyft , just have the driver honk his horn furiously when he ’ s outside , like the old car services used to do .
I ’ m at the age where you start getting nostalgic about the weirdest things .
I would prefer to receive notifications from my child ’ s school in the form of a gnawing feeling that something is very , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ need to be notified that anything is happening on my Instagram account .
That ’ s what the goddam app is for .
Please remind me that I have an upcoming dentist ’ s appointment in the way that God intended—in a garbled voice mail from the receptionist two hours before the appointment , which I had forgotten about completely , but now I guess I have to put on pants ?
Note to iOS developers : Install a preference that allows news notifications to be prefaced with “ I ’ m very @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
.
.
” Please remind me that my cable bill is due by having my husband wonder aloud , for the fiftieth time , if we shouldn ’ t just cut the cord already—I mean , look at all these streaming services we ’ re paying for .
I would like to be alerted to unusual activity on my credit card via ghosts that come to me in a dream , but also send a text .
I ’ m happy that , as my health-care provider , you offer so many @ @ @ @ @ @ @ phone , but , instead of sending me cheery reminders to drink water and eat vegetables , please just spend more than five minutes talking to me when I come in with what looks to me like a very dodgy mole .
I know that my library book is overdue , and I knew that it would be the minute I checked it out .
I am a garbage human , and you ’ re right to be mad .
These increasingly angry letters—first from you , and then from a collection agency—are @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I probably deserve a visit from the Library Police , just like in that Stephen King story I read ( ironically , in an overdue library book ) .
Yelp : Leave me the hell alone , Yelp .

If I am reaching the limit on my credit card, I would like to be notified by a series of increasingly frantic phone calls, not from my mother but from someone who sounds remarkably similar to her. If I exceed my limit, I would like to be sent a small, sad-eyed child, who will stare at me reproachfully until I get it together and make the minimum payment.
If my phone bill is due, I would like to be texted a picture of a cute puppy. No need to tell me that the puppy’s life depends on my paying this bill. I already know. Oh, God, do I know.
Please inform me that my flight will be departing on time by sending me the sound of an air horn and a GIF of an old man dancing with joy. Not the Six Flags guy (ugh). If my flight is delayed, please let me know by delivering a half-dozen doughnuts straight to the Lyft I’m in because I thought that I had to be at the airport at 8 A.M.—ahem, Delta. A mix of cream-filled and glazed, please, no jelly, and for heaven’s sake no chocolate glazed. Why are those such trash?
Speaking of Lyft, just have the driver honk his horn furiously when he’s outside, like the old car services used to do. I’m at the age where you start getting nostalgic about the weirdest things.
I would prefer to receive notifications from my child’s school in the form of a gnawing feeling that something is very, very wrong.
I don’t need to be notified that anything is happening on my Instagram account. That’s what the goddam app is for.
Please remind me that I have an upcoming dentist’s appointment in the way that God intended—in a garbled voice mail from the receptionist two hours before the appointment, which I had forgotten about completely, but now I guess I have to put on pants?
Note to iOS developers: Install a preference that allows news notifications to be prefaced with “I’m very sorry to tell you this, but . . . ”
Please remind me that my cable bill is due by having my husband wonder aloud, for the fiftieth time, if we shouldn’t just cut the cord already—I mean, look at all these streaming services we’re paying for.
I would like to be alerted to unusual activity on my credit card via ghosts that come to me in a dream, but also send a text.
I’m happy that, as my health-care provider, you offer so many ways to provide said health care by phone, but, instead of sending me cheery reminders to drink water and eat vegetables, please just spend more than five minutes talking to me when I come in with what looks to me like a very dodgy mole.
I know that my library book is overdue, and I knew that it would be the minute I checked it out. I am a garbage human, and you’re right to be mad. These increasingly angry letters—first from you, and then from a collection agency—are what I deserve. In fact, I probably deserve a visit from the Library Police, just like in that Stephen King story I read (ironically, in an overdue library book).
Yelp: Leave me the hell alone, Yelp.


newyorker--2020-03-18--The Coronavirus and the Climate Movement

Subscribers to The Climate Crisis newsletter received this piece in their in-boxes .
Sign up to receive future installments .
My daughter—full grown and accomplished , but still my daughter—asked me the other day , “ Do you think we ’ re going to go on having crises like this my whole life ?
” Probably not quite like the coronavirus ( pandemics are fairly unique among disasters , in that they attack the whole world at the same time ) , but I ’ ve long feared that the result of heating the Earth will be an ongoing , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ our ability to cope .
The pace of those events has been increasing in recent years , and our ability to keep them at something like a manageable level depends , above all , on the speed with which we transition off of gas , oil , and coal .
That ’ s why , for me , one frustration of the coronavirus pandemic is that it ’ s temporarily interrupting the movement-building that is necessary to beat the fossil-fuel industry .
Just as basketball and Broadway have had to take a break @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Greta Thunberg asked school-strikers to go digital for a while : “ We young people are the least affected by this virus but it ’ s essential that we act in solidarity with the most vulnerable and that we act in the best interest of our common society , ” she told her four million Twitter followers .
The Sunrise Movement—the inspiring young people who made the Green New Deal into a cause célèbre—asked organizers “ to avoid mass physical gatherings , ” saying , “ as a generation shaped by the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s time to innovate , esp .
digitally.
” When not writing this newsletter , I ’ ve been volunteering as an organizer for Stop the Money Pipeline , which has been trying to persuade banks , insurance companies , and asset managers to cease their funding of the fossil-fuel industry .
( My interest grew out of a piece that I wrote for The New Yorker last fall . )
Some of us went to jail , in January , to launch the campaign , which was going to crest with a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with the occupation of hundreds , or thousands , of Chase Bank branches , on April 23rd , the day after Earth Day ’ s fiftieth anniversary .
( JPMorgan Chase is the world ’ s single biggest funder of fossil fuels . )
But now we can ’ t—as soon as the potential for community spread of COVID-19 became clear , so did the cruelty of perhaps introducing it into the correctional system .
I ’ ve spent just enough time in jails to know that they ’ re usually dirty , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ many of whom do not need to be there ) in constant motion between holding cells , prisons , and the courts .
It ’ s going to be hard enough to keep inmates healthy without additional germs making their way inside from unknowing protesters .
And people really should not be gathering in numbers now , anyway .
Digital activism is rarely as effective as in-the-flesh nonviolent action , but , for the time being , that is what people can engage in .
On Monday , Paul Engler , one of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wrote that “ we should draw both on the possibilities of new technology that allow for decentralized action and some time-honored lessons from past social movements.
” And when the pandemic passes ?
Here is how Extinction Rebellion U.K. put it : “ Nothing will feel the same and we need to be ready ” —ready for resuming civil disobedience “ when the time is right.
” In case you ’ re wondering why activists are so enraged at banks , read this report from the California-based N.G.O .
Amazon Watch , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the “ dirty five ” financial institutions enmeshed in oil drilling in the Amazon rain forest .
Someday , people may look back in wonder at a moment when bankers thought it proper to profit from damaging what the report calls “ part of the Earth ’ s natural ‘ thermostat ’ ” in order to extract hydrocarbons that would wreck the climate system .
A paper published last week by the journal Nature Communications found that large ecosystems , including the Amazon , tend to collapse “ disproportionately faster ” than smaller @ @ @ @ @ @ @ shifts in Earth ecosystems occur over ‘ human ’ timescales of years and decades , meaning the collapse of large vulnerable ecosystems , such as the Amazon rainforest and Caribbean coral reefs , may take only a few decades once triggered , ” it said .
As the lead researcher , John Dearing , of the University of Southampton , in the United Kingdom , told reporters , “ the messages here are stark.
” Although it was mostly lost amid the news of the escalating pandemic , the Senate Democrats ’ Special @ @ @ @ @ @ @ important hearing last week on the risks that global warming poses to financial markets and the energy transition required to avert them .
The testimony of Sarah Bloom Raskin , a former member of the Federal Reserve ’ s board of governors , was particularly powerful , an American version of the warning that Mark Carney—who was , from 2013 until earlier this month , the governor of the Bank of England—has been providing for the past half decade .
Raskin said that , while financial-industry exposure to the fossil-fuel industry risks turmoil @ @ @ @ @ @ @ gas implies “ a sweeping reallocation of resources and technological revolution ” —a reallocation that “ would generate new , creative investment at a pace , by some estimates , of roughly quadruple the present rate.
” Tara Houska is Couchiching First Nation Anishinaabe , from Minnesota , an attorney who works on indigenous land issues , and the founder of the Giniw Collective , which describes itself as an “ indigenous womxn-led frontline resistance to protect our Mother , defend the sacred and live in balance.
” You ’ ve been engaged @ @ @ @ @ @ @ long time now .
Remind us of the basics of that struggle , and why it ’ s so important to indigenous communities .
Line 3 is a massive tar-sands pipeline proposed from Alberta to the shores of Lake Superior .
Just that single line is a ten-per-cent expansion of Canada ’ s oil production .
Expanding tar sands , in the face of the climate crisis—it ’ s total madness .
Minnesotans and tribal nations have been fighting tooth and nail in the system for years , but we ’ ve reached @ @ @ @ @ @ @ state .
I 've been living in a pipeline-resistance camp in the forest for nearly two years , keeping tabs on the ground movement and land .
The bulldozers are here .
For the Anishinaabe territory that the proposed route passes through , Line 3 could eradicate the heart of our culture : wild rice .
Wild rice is of such importance to our people .
It is the only grain mentioned in any treaty ever made between Native nations and the United States .
Pipeline construction through wetlands—through more than two hundred @ @ @ @ @ @ @ beds—irrevocably harms the water quality and ecosystems that wild rice needs .
Upstream and downstream , Line 3 is a continuation of violating the rights of indigenous peoples and the rights of future generations to have a world that can sustain human life .
Indigenous leaders have been at the forefront of the climate fight in recent years .
What are they bringing to this work that makes their presence so important ?

Subscribers to The Climate Crisis newsletter received this piece in their in-boxes. Sign up to receive future installments.
My daughter—full grown and accomplished, but still my daughter—asked me the other day, “Do you think we’re going to go on having crises like this my whole life?” Probably not quite like the coronavirus (pandemics are fairly unique among disasters, in that they attack the whole world at the same time), but I’ve long feared that the result of heating the Earth will be an ongoing, accelerating series of disasters, eventually overwhelming our ability to cope. The pace of those events has been increasing in recent years, and our ability to keep them at something like a manageable level depends, above all, on the speed with which we transition off of gas, oil, and coal.
That’s why, for me, one frustration of the coronavirus pandemic is that it’s temporarily interrupting the movement-building that is necessary to beat the fossil-fuel industry. Just as basketball and Broadway have had to take a break, so have some forms of protest. Greta Thunberg asked school-strikers to go digital for a while: “We young people are the least affected by this virus but it’s essential that we act in solidarity with the most vulnerable and that we act in the best interest of our common society,” she told her four million Twitter followers. The Sunrise Movement—the inspiring young people who made the Green New Deal into a cause célèbre—asked organizers “to avoid mass physical gatherings,” saying, “as a generation shaped by the Internet and social media, it’s time to innovate, esp. digitally.”
When not writing this newsletter, I’ve been volunteering as an organizer for Stop the Money Pipeline, which has been trying to persuade banks, insurance companies, and asset managers to cease their funding of the fossil-fuel industry. (My interest grew out of a piece that I wrote for The New Yorker last fall.) Some of us went to jail, in January, to launch the campaign, which was going to crest with a wave of acts of nonviolent civil disobedience with the occupation of hundreds, or thousands, of Chase Bank branches, on April 23rd, the day after Earth Day’s fiftieth anniversary. (JPMorgan Chase is the world’s single biggest funder of fossil fuels.) But now we can’t—as soon as the potential for community spread of COVID-19 became clear, so did the cruelty of perhaps introducing it into the correctional system. I’ve spent just enough time in jails to know that they’re usually dirty, overcrowded, and full of people (many of whom do not need to be there) in constant motion between holding cells, prisons, and the courts. It’s going to be hard enough to keep inmates healthy without additional germs making their way inside from unknowing protesters. And people really should not be gathering in numbers now, anyway.
Digital activism is rarely as effective as in-the-flesh nonviolent action, but, for the time being, that is what people can engage in. On Monday, Paul Engler, one of the best strategists of nonviolent action, wrote that “we should draw both on the possibilities of new technology that allow for decentralized action and some time-honored lessons from past social movements.” And when the pandemic passes? Here is how Extinction Rebellion U.K. put it: “Nothing will feel the same and we need to be ready”—ready for resuming civil disobedience “when the time is right.”
Climate School
In case you’re wondering why activists are so enraged at banks, read this report from the California-based N.G.O. Amazon Watch, a nonprofit organization based in Oakland, about the “dirty five” financial institutions enmeshed in oil drilling in the Amazon rain forest. Someday, people may look back in wonder at a moment when bankers thought it proper to profit from damaging what the report calls “part of the Earth’s natural ‘thermostat’ ” in order to extract hydrocarbons that would wreck the climate system.
A paper published last week by the journal Nature Communications found that large ecosystems, including the Amazon, tend to collapse “disproportionately faster” than smaller ones. “The findings imply that shifts in Earth ecosystems occur over ‘human’ timescales of years and decades, meaning the collapse of large vulnerable ecosystems, such as the Amazon rainforest and Caribbean coral reefs, may take only a few decades once triggered,” it said. As the lead researcher, John Dearing, of the University of Southampton, in the United Kingdom, told reporters, “the messages here are stark.”
Although it was mostly lost amid the news of the escalating pandemic, the Senate Democrats’ Special Committee on the Climate Crisis held an important hearing last week on the risks that global warming poses to financial markets and the energy transition required to avert them. The testimony of Sarah Bloom Raskin, a former member of the Federal Reserve’s board of governors, was particularly powerful, an American version of the warning that Mark Carney—who was, from 2013 until earlier this month, the governor of the Bank of England—has been providing for the past half decade. Raskin said that, while financial-industry exposure to the fossil-fuel industry risks turmoil, a turn away from oil and gas implies “a sweeping reallocation of resources and technological revolution”—a reallocation that “would generate new, creative investment at a pace, by some estimates, of roughly quadruple the present rate.”
Passing the Mic
Tara Houska is Couchiching First Nation Anishinaabe, from Minnesota, an attorney who works on indigenous land issues, and the founder of the Giniw Collective, which describes itself as an “indigenous womxn-led frontline resistance to protect our Mother, defend the sacred and live in balance.”
You’ve been engaged in the Line 3 fight for a long time now. Remind us of the basics of that struggle, and why it’s so important to indigenous communities.
Line 3 is a massive tar-sands pipeline proposed from Alberta to the shores of Lake Superior. Just that single line is a ten-per-cent expansion of Canada’s oil production. Expanding tar sands, in the face of the climate crisis—it’s total madness. Minnesotans and tribal nations have been fighting tooth and nail in the system for years, but we’ve reached the point of final permitting by the state. I’ve been living in a pipeline-resistance camp in the forest for nearly two years, keeping tabs on the ground movement and land. The bulldozers are here.
For the Anishinaabe territory that the proposed route passes through, Line 3 could eradicate the heart of our culture: wild rice. Wild rice is of such importance to our people. It is the only grain mentioned in any treaty ever made between Native nations and the United States. Pipeline construction through wetlands—through more than two hundred bodies of water and watersheds into wild-rice beds—irrevocably harms the water quality and ecosystems that wild rice needs. Upstream and downstream, Line 3 is a continuation of violating the rights of indigenous peoples and the rights of future generations to have a world that can sustain human life.
Indigenous leaders have been at the forefront of the climate fight in recent years. What are they bringing to this work that makes their presence so important?
Native folks aren’t new to defending land—it’s what we’ve done since colonization showed up at our doorstep. But the rise of independent and social media has brought new light to our narratives and fights for justice. Indigenous peoples are just five per cent of the global population, holding eighty per cent of the world’s biodiversity. Indigenous peoples have other ways of living, other value systems, that hold the basic knowledge that too many human beings have forgotten and need to remember. We cannot drink money. We are supposed to live in balance, as caretakers.


newyorker--2020-03-18--The Coming Coronavirus Critical-Care Emergency

As the crisis has escalated , Eric Toner has tried to work out how many more breathing machines are available nationally .
There is a federal stockpile of ventilators , for use in emergencies , which Anthony Fauci , the director of the National Institute for Allergy and Infectious Diseases , has put at twelve thousand and seven hundred .
When President Donald Trump told a group of governors , on a conference call on Monday , “ Respirators , ventilators , all the equipment—try getting it yourselves , ” he was presumably holding this stockpile in reserve .
Anesthesia @ @ @ @ @ @ @ can provide some similar functions to ventilators , though using one for a patient with pneumonia would mean that it could not be used for a surgery .
Transport ventilators often used in ambulances could , in theory , be repurposed to be useful for some less severe I.C.U .
patients .
“ A very ballpark number : maybe you could get up to a hundred and fifty thousand ventilators , ” Toner told me on Monday .
“ That would mean cancelling almost all surgeries and all procedures , and taking very @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a great deal of difficulty .
I think that is the absolute limit , and I ’ m not sure we could get to that number.
” Toner , Li , and their co-authors had estimated that , in cities with major COVID-19 outbreaks , between 2.1 and 4.9 ventilators would be needed per every ten thousand people .
I asked Toner what those numbers would mean for American cities .
“ Those cities and hospitals that are on the low end of that spectrum , they will be extraordinarily stressed , like @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” Toner said .
“ On the upper end , that would be something like they ’ ve never imagined before , where , no matter what we do , we don ’ t have enough mechanical ventilators for everyone who needs them , and we will need to make allocation decisions—rationing decisions.
” So far , the pressure of this outbreak has been on public-health systems and administrators to “ dig under the couch cushions , ” as Hick put it , to try to increase their capacity as best they @ @ @ @ @ @ @ beginning to think about what might happen if there is not enough capacity .
In Italy , as pressures stemming from the coronavirus rose , guidance published by that country ’ s national association of critical-care doctors suggested that , if rationing was needed , ventilators should be reserved for patients with “ the greatest life expectancy.
” The practical problems—finding more breathing machines—lead directly to ethical ones about what to do if there are not enough ventilators and care has to be rationed , with some patients chosen over others .
Those @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , in some general way , but to doctors , and in particular the pulmonologists running the I.C.U.s .
My wife , Heather Parsons , is an oncologist who works at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute , on the western edge of Boston .
Several other large hospitals ( Brigham and Women ’ s , Beth Israel Deaconess , Boston Children ’ s ) are situated within a few blocks , as is Harvard Medical School , with which all of these institutions are affiliated .
We live about fifteen blocks away from the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ neighborhood of Brookline , in what must be one of the world ’ s densest concentrations of doctors and medical scientists , talent drawn from all over the planet .
They are impressive people , and they are perhaps especially impressive to one another—no one wants to be the weak link .
In my experience , doctors think about their patients but also about their fellow-doctors and nurses and medical staff—about the vast , collaborative , intricately organized enterprise of professionals of which they are part .
“ Everyone tries so hard , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she was in medical school and starting to work in hospitals , and she has said it hundreds of times in the years since .
Everyone is always trying so hard .
This past week , everyone has been trying even harder .
Each time I dropped our son off at the medical-faculty day care , it was awash in weighty new rumors .
Certain surgeries , less acute ones , were said to be postponed .
Some doctors were said to be quarantined at home for fourteen days , uneasy and anxious @ @ @ @ @ @ @ State Public Health Lab was certified to test for COVID-19 , which made it all but impossible to have a suspected case confirmed .
Doctors were having to make decisions about what precautions to take without knowing for sure who had the virus .
Even the mundane workings of the hospital , such as the waiting rooms and elevators , carried new risks , and so decisions that had been easy—say , about whether to have a patient in for a follow-up—became hard .
Many of Heather ’ s patients , people with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and are particularly vulnerable .
These decisions had little to do with the limits on ventilator capacity , but they shared the same sharpening realization of trade-offs .
A friend of mine suggested that I meet a colleague of his , Emmy Rubin , an attending intensive-care pulmonologist at Massachusetts General and the co-chair of the hospital ’ s Optimum Care Committee , which she described as the “ ethics committee.
” We arranged to meet on Friday afternoon , in a pub across the street from Mass General , and though @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was already there—a small woman in a green raincoat , with short brown hair , Tina Fey glasses , and an intense and worried look—with the punctuality I ’ ve come to expect from doctors .
Rubin has been involved in planning for the response to the outbreak .
When I met her , she was also preparing for a scheduled two-week rotation running one of Mass General ’ s medical I.C.U.s , beginning on Wednesday , and was trying to weigh what she would do if the I.C.U.s became overwhelmed .
Rubin @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ways , she was “ totally unprepared.
” She said , “ Should I be , like , writing letters to everyone I care about ?
I mean , I guess it can ’ t hurt , but on the other hand am I realistically going to do that , like , this weekend ?
” In the Mass General I.C.U.s—the best-resourced units in one of the very best-resourced hospitals in the best-resourced country in the history of the world—the general American assumption of infinite possibility reaches something like an apogee .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is that people who want critical care generally receive it , ” Rubin said .
“ So the idea of not being able to offer it , or saying there are certain people we can not offer it to , is very new , and a huge departure.
” As the stories of strict age limits that were being recommended for ventilator allocation in Italy spread , Rubin had been thinking through the ways in which various ethical frameworks might be applied to rationing care .
A strict age cutoff had the advantage @ @ @ @ @ @ @ doctor ’ s decision , she said , but it also seemed a little hard to defend , because not all people are equally healthy or equally likely to live a long life .
She also raised the idea that some people , based on their professions , might receive preferential treatment , such as “ health-care workers or other people who could help save lives or provide a valuable social good that contributes to solving these problems in the future.
” In the abstract , it is easy enough to say that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ought to be prioritized over a sick one .
But when a doctor is confronted with two charts of people whom she has never met , it is not easy to quickly make a call .
Within the community of medical ethicists , Rubin said , there had been some efforts to define categories of patients—those with malignant metastatic cancer , for instance—who might receive lower priority .
But even that seemed too crude : with modern immunotherapy , Rubin pointed out , you could have patients with metastatic breast cancer who would @ @ @ @ @ @ @ you try to come up with categories , you really recognize the limitations of those categories and the difficulty of lumping people together who are not all the same , ” she said .
“ Anything but a strict cutoff is going to be extremely subjective.
” But extremely subjective measures are still , she said , “ probably the best tool .
”

When the coronavirus outbreak first began, in December, in Wuhan, China, Ruoran Li, a doctoral student in epidemiology at Harvard, paid particular attention. Li’s research has focussed on tuberculosis, but she is originally from Shenzhen, a city of more than thirteen million people on the southern shore of mainland China, bordering Hong Kong. She gave an online seminar on the epidemiology of the outbreak in February, arranged by a Harvard student organization, and began to closely follow the social-media accounts of people in Wuhan. Li noticed that the stories of suffering she saw often had a particular pattern. There were reports of people trying to get emergency care, or a bed at the hospital, and, in one case, she said, dying before doctors could reach their car. Other reports indicated that patients needing dialysis were being turned away and were dying at home. The issue seemed to be capacity: the hospitals in Wuhan simply did not have enough beds or doctors (or enough of the right kinds of beds or doctors) to treat all of the sick. One day, Li was watching the live WeChat feed of a wealthy, anonymous man in Wuhan who was giving his followers advice on how to access a hospital in the middle of the outbreak, in case they had relatives who needed care. “In China, usually if you have some connections—you know someone at the hospital, or you know a doctor—there wouldn’t be trouble getting in,” Li said. “It was a shock to me, because even those who have a very high social status couldn’t get in. It was just maxed out.”
The possibility that this pandemic might max out the hospitals—that there is a hard limit to the number of patients that they can treat at once, and that the number of COVID-19 patients will exceed it—is the preoccupation of everyone working in medicine in the United States. It is the nightmare scenario, and it has led to a shutdown of public life across the country, as a last-ditch effort to “flatten the curve”—to slow the rate at which people contract the virus, in order to slow the rate at which patients are admitted to hospitals. Since the virus first appeared in the U.S., public-health officials have issued warnings about possible shortages of basic medical supplies, including masks and gloves to protect health-care workers from the virus—in large part because much of that equipment is manufactured in China. (This week, BuzzFeed News reported that Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center, in New York City, one of the preëminent treatment centers in the country, has only a week’s supply of masks left. Three patients and at least five staff members have been diagnosed with COVID-19, though not all of them were infected at the hospital.) On Tuesday, the New York Times and ProPublica both published an analysis of hospital beds from the Harvard Global Health Institute; per the Times, the data found that, in a “moderate” scenario, hospitals in forty per cent of American hospital markets “would not be able to make enough room for all the patients who became ill with Covid-19, even if they could empty their beds of other patients.” But, as an increasing number of Americans have become critically ill with the virus, public-health experts have raised alarms about what may be the hardest limit on hospitals’ ability to care for such patients: the availability of ventilators, the assisted-breathing devices that are the main tools of intervention in intensive-care units. Some patients who develop pneumonia as a result of COVID-19 need ventilators to breathe for them when they can no longer do so on their own; the assistance gives their immune systems time to develop antibodies and fight off the virus. Run out of ventilators and those patients run out of time.
Li found that the Chinese government had created an online database of cases in both Wuhan and the surrounding Hubei Province. She began to plot that data, day by day, so that she could determine how many infected people became sick enough to require hospitalization and how many became so sick that they needed ventilators. During the peak of the epidemic in Wuhan, in mid- to late February, Li calculated that two thousand and eighty-seven COVID-19 patients required intensive care every day, usually including ventilator support. That meant that Wuhan’s medical-care centers needed about 2.6 intensive-care beds for every ten thousand adults in the city.
Li took her results to one of her advisers, Marc Lipsitch, who put her in touch with other epidemiologists, among them Eric Toner, at Johns Hopkins, who specializes in studying hospital capacity. Together, in a paper released on March 10th, Li, Toner, and four co-authors, all from Harvard and Hopkins, worked to apply the rates of bed need in intensive-care units from Wuhan to major American cities. According to a 2010 report that they cite, there are 2.8 critical-care hospital beds for every ten thousand American adults, and a separate study, from 2015, suggests that those beds generally have a sixty-five-per-cent occupancy rate. That means a Wuhan-like event in the U.S. would stretch, and perhaps overwhelm, many American I.C.U.s. As they worked through the details, they found good reason to think that the American outbreak could be worse than Wuhan’s. Fourteen per cent of Wuhan’s population is over the age of sixty-five, compared with fifteen per cent in the United States, and the rates of crucial comorbidities, such as hypertension, are higher in the U.S. Li and her colleagues calculated that, in an American city, the outbreak could require 2.6 I.C.U. beds for every ten thousand adults, as it did in Wuhan, but when I spoke to her last Friday she told me that now they believe that figure represents a better-case scenario. The upper bound, they calculated, would be 4.9 critically ill people per every ten thousand. In the paper, Li and her co-authors wrote, “If a Wuhan-like outbreak were to take place in a US city, even with strong social distancing and contact tracing protocols as strict as the Wuhan lockdown, hospitalization and ICU needs from COVID-19 patients alone may exceed current capacity.”
The Chinese government placed Wuhan on lockdown on January 23rd and rapidly built two new hospitals in the city; one began operating on February 3rd, the other less than a week later. The outbreak in China was still largely concentrated in Wuhan, which gave medical authorities more options. Qi Tan, one of Li’s co-authors, is a postdoctoral fellow at Harvard and, until two years ago, was a pulmonologist working at a hospital in Nanjing, a city of eight million not far from Shanghai. She told me, “There are thirty or more doctors in the I.C.U. at my home hospital, and ventilators, and in early February all of it”—including the doctors—“went to Wuhan, to Hubei Province.” Chinese officials have said that ten per cent of the country’s critical-care capacity was sent to Wuhan to fight the outbreak. In the United States, the outbreak is already diffuse, which makes any similar reallocation unlikely. (Ventilators will probably not be sent from Boston to New York, because they are needed in Boston.) John Hick, the medical director for emergency preparedness at Hennepin Healthcare, in Minnesota, has been studying how ventilator capacity might be increased during a pandemic since 2002, when he participated in a disaster-planning exercise that simulated a “very bad disease” outbreak in Minneapolis. “We realized very quickly that there is just a really hard stop on the number of ventilators we have in a city,” Hick said. “There just isn’t a lot of slack in the system.”
As the crisis has escalated, Eric Toner has tried to work out how many more breathing machines are available nationally. There is a federal stockpile of ventilators, for use in emergencies, which Anthony Fauci, the director of the National Institute for Allergy and Infectious Diseases, has put at twelve thousand and seven hundred. When President Donald Trump told a group of governors, on a conference call on Monday, “Respirators, ventilators, all the equipment—try getting it yourselves,” he was presumably holding this stockpile in reserve. Anesthesia machines, normally used in surgeries, can provide some similar functions to ventilators, though using one for a patient with pneumonia would mean that it could not be used for a surgery. Transport ventilators often used in ambulances could, in theory, be repurposed to be useful for some less severe I.C.U. patients. “A very ballpark number: maybe you could get up to a hundred and fifty thousand ventilators,” Toner told me on Monday. “That would mean cancelling almost all surgeries and all procedures, and taking very dramatic and drastic steps that would create a great deal of difficulty. I think that is the absolute limit, and I’m not sure we could get to that number.”
Toner, Li, and their co-authors had estimated that, in cities with major COVID-19 outbreaks, between 2.1 and 4.9 ventilators would be needed per every ten thousand people. I asked Toner what those numbers would mean for American cities. “Those cities and hospitals that are on the low end of that spectrum, they will be extraordinarily stressed, like they’ve never been stressed before,” Toner said. “On the upper end, that would be something like they’ve never imagined before, where, no matter what we do, we don’t have enough mechanical ventilators for everyone who needs them, and we will need to make allocation decisions—rationing decisions.”
So far, the pressure of this outbreak has been on public-health systems and administrators to “dig under the couch cushions,” as Hick put it, to try to increase their capacity as best they can. But some doctors are also beginning to think about what might happen if there is not enough capacity. In Italy, as pressures stemming from the coronavirus rose, guidance published by that country’s national association of critical-care doctors suggested that, if rationing was needed, ventilators should be reserved for patients with “the greatest life expectancy.” The practical problems—finding more breathing machines—lead directly to ethical ones about what to do if there are not enough ventilators and care has to be rationed, with some patients chosen over others. Those decisions would belong not to the system, in some general way, but to doctors, and in particular the pulmonologists running the I.C.U.s.
My wife, Heather Parsons, is an oncologist who works at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, on the western edge of Boston. Several other large hospitals (Brigham and Women’s, Beth Israel Deaconess, Boston Children’s) are situated within a few blocks, as is Harvard Medical School, with which all of these institutions are affiliated. We live about fifteen blocks away from the medical campus, in the Coolidge Corner neighborhood of Brookline, in what must be one of the world’s densest concentrations of doctors and medical scientists, talent drawn from all over the planet. They are impressive people, and they are perhaps especially impressive to one another—no one wants to be the weak link. In my experience, doctors think about their patients but also about their fellow-doctors and nurses and medical staff—about the vast, collaborative, intricately organized enterprise of professionals of which they are part. “Everyone tries so hard,” Heather told me once, when she was in medical school and starting to work in hospitals, and she has said it hundreds of times in the years since. Everyone is always trying so hard.
This past week, everyone has been trying even harder. Each time I dropped our son off at the medical-faculty day care, it was awash in weighty new rumors. Certain surgeries, less acute ones, were said to be postponed. Some doctors were said to be quarantined at home for fourteen days, uneasy and anxious at being sidelined. Only the Massachusetts State Public Health Lab was certified to test for COVID-19, which made it all but impossible to have a suspected case confirmed. Doctors were having to make decisions about what precautions to take without knowing for sure who had the virus. Even the mundane workings of the hospital, such as the waiting rooms and elevators, carried new risks, and so decisions that had been easy—say, about whether to have a patient in for a follow-up—became hard. Many of Heather’s patients, people with breast cancer, are on immunosuppressive drugs, and are particularly vulnerable. These decisions had little to do with the limits on ventilator capacity, but they shared the same sharpening realization of trade-offs.
A friend of mine suggested that I meet a colleague of his, Emmy Rubin, an attending intensive-care pulmonologist at Massachusetts General and the co-chair of the hospital’s Optimum Care Committee, which she described as the “ethics committee.” We arranged to meet on Friday afternoon, in a pub across the street from Mass General, and though I showed up fifteen minutes early she was already there—a small woman in a green raincoat, with short brown hair, Tina Fey glasses, and an intense and worried look—with the punctuality I’ve come to expect from doctors. Rubin has been involved in planning for the response to the outbreak. When I met her, she was also preparing for a scheduled two-week rotation running one of Mass General’s medical I.C.U.s, beginning on Wednesday, and was trying to weigh what she would do if the I.C.U.s became overwhelmed. Rubin told me that, in some personal ways, she was “totally unprepared.” She said, “Should I be, like, writing letters to everyone I care about? I mean, I guess it can’t hurt, but on the other hand am I realistically going to do that, like, this weekend?”