April in Lockdown

The end of April marks the first full month in lockdown for several parts of Europe; particularly those that were slower to react to the pandemic. This sombre milestone has brought with it much psychological drain and I am sure I am not the only one.

Holy Week provides a respite from the gloom. Christians find parallels of suffering in the life and Passion of Christ; God amongst us. I come across a number of positive reflections of faith in mainstream media. In the context of COVID-19, there’s not the same wariness and cynicism that might accompany these op-eds.

In the lead up to Easter, there’s an inevitable increase in demand for goods. I end up making two trips, not having had the presence of mind to bring forward my shopping schedule. The supermarket queues are intimidatingly long and stock runs out early. I am also still awaiting a package from the UK that has been re-routed. After a long and futile wait at La Poste (still yet to arrive), I head to the closest supermarket. It’s another long queue in the unusually warm spring sun.

Inside, I see my former boss Lucia from The Human Rights Organisation. She’s one of the last people I’d expect -or want- to come across. It doesn’t help that I’m still in professional limbo.

We don’t make direct eye contact. I decide that I’ll make polite conversation if we do. If nothing else, I'm genuinely concerned for her family in Italy under lockdown. At the same time, I’m too tired and dehydrated to go out of my way to talk. I don’t know whether it’s the ‘right’ Christian response. I can say that it’s sincere.

Easter/Resurrection Weekend is an oasis of hope and spiritual introspection. Having gone vegetarian for Lent, I treat myself to a mixed meat grill; still with a healthy portion of veg. Not long after the holiday, my choir HRGS release their video for the medley demo we recorded late last year. I forward it to family and friends. Sis comments on the timeliness of the upbeat message. None of us could have planned it.

Easter Monday evening, President Macron announces a provisional date to relax some of the lockdown measures; Monday 11 May. If that infamous curve is sufficiently flattened, resumption will still only be tentative. Schools might open but tertiary academic institutions would remain closed, as would cafés, restaurants, bars and clubs.

During the Easter season, I’ve given myself a rare weekend off. Ish. The real world hits the Tuesday morning after.  The return to some sort of routine brings with it fresh anxiety over what lies ahead. The carpet of pink around cherry blossom trees outside my flat signal the end of one of my favourite seasonal transitions. It adds to the melancholy. Sigh.

Later that week, I meet some church sisters online for a cyber aperitif. They rather glibly speak of the possibility that internal borders in Europe will remain closed until autumn. They are, for some reason, surprised at my horrified reaction. I was aware that southern European borders might be closed for that length of time. That's understandable given the severity of the crisis in Spain, Italy and yes France. I’d hoped there might eventually be freer circulation in North Western Europe. Both from a personal and professional perspective, the idea of not being able to move beyond the French frontier for most of the year fills me with some dread.

After the call I pray. I phone my mother, in need of her stoicism. My mood nevertheless goes on a downward spiral. I feel more cut off geographically and psychologically as weeks go by. Cleaning my guest bathroom has become an act of faith. I don’t know if and when I’ll next have someone round to stay before I have to move on from Strasbourg. Whenever that might be.

The prolonged locked down is having contradictory effects on my psyche. On one hand, I feel the isolation more acutely and recognise my need for human contact in whatever form. And yet I find myself reluctant to speak on the phone.

When I do bump into people from my Strasbourg network, I feel caught off guard. One sunny Saturday afternoon, stepping out for my daily ramble before night fall, I run into a neighbour and then a member of my choir within the space of a short jaunt. It triggers a neurotic crisis over my French. I’m gabbling. I’m dressed in any old thing. I'm feeling less confident without make-up. Or rather, more exposed. I refuse to be a slave to cosmetics during lockdown. It seems pointless to apply make-up when my only trips are to the shops or a walk around the neighbourhood. I’ve all but abandoned it. However, judging from my (over)reaction on that particular occasion, I’m not as liberated as I thought.

(courtesy of Le Monde)

Out in the wider world, some are putting their faith in #11Mai. The population is growing restive, particularly in neighbourhoods where the majority don't have the luxury of working from home and/or live in cramped conditions. There are pockets of civil unrest, following an incident in which a policeman allegedly caused a motorcyclist to collide with his patrol car on purpose. Meanwhile, others scrutinise France’s own mismanagement of the crisis; namely the lack of responsiveness since at least the early January pandemic warnings. During his Easter Monday speech Macron positions himself with the public; somewhat indignant about the shortage of PPE. As if the country’s lack of preparedness for the crisis was a policy decision with which he had nothing to do with.

There are nonetheless those who are relieved to have a focal point on their calendar for deconfinement. On entering a newsagents, having gone through the meticulous social distancing requirements, I overhear presenters on a radio show prematurely celebrating an ‘end in sight’.  Guests interviewed on talk shows from their homes are already being asked what their post-11 May plans are.

They’re not the only ones counting their chickens. I note a number of non-essential businesses have re-opened. In France, wine shops and cheese makers might be considered 'essential'; a part of the national heritage. It's however more difficult to justify when such products can be acquired at the supermarket. I spot a (masked) optician, welcoming an (also masked) client into their empty and darkened premises. I note a café I used to visit on occasion has converted itself, rather dubiously, to get around current restrictions. Whether Turkish pastries count as indispensable at this time would be harder to defend, if some French patisseries weren't also circumventing the lockdown.  Other arguably essential services that opted to close up early on in the lockdown are cautiously opening their doors again, albeit for fewer hours.

(courtesy of HansLucas.com)

Whilst my French church are prudent in announcing a possible return to services offline in the summer, the main protestant church in my vicinity organises unofficial nightly services. I come across one such during an early evening walk. I plan to spend some time of quiet contemplation, alone in the pews. Should the urge to sing overtake me, as it has before, the acoustics are fantastic. To my slight dismay I see a handful of parishioners scattered around the premises. The vicar is in full regalia. I hover, wondering whether to enter. Curiosity gets the better of me. I slip into the back; half-expecting the authorities to shut down proceedings at any moment. A song is raised in Latin. Four-part acappella harmonies ricochet off the walls. In that blissful moment, my apprehension is suspended. I ask myself if this has been rehearsed. It’s rare in any setting to find that kind of spontaneous but accomplished musicality.

After grace, my quick exit is interrupted when the pastor gingerly heads towards the door. I can't resist asking him why he’s holding a service, considering the current prohibition.

After ironically making a great show of keeping a safe distance, he explains how he’s getting around the restrictions by way of a technicality.

Places of worship can still remain open, he reasons. There are of course people like yourself who might wander in. It’s an informal moment of prayer...

As much as I've benefited from this illicit gathering,  I won't take the risk of attending any more.

I hear some are growing weary of cyber-activity. I am not one of them. As I discover speaking to a few of my UK church family, some of us are welcoming the break from the usual, often hectic, Sunday routine.

Between the tears and mild panic attacks, there are plenty of informative webinars and online fellowship to keep my mind and soul occupied. I don’t mess with the daily devotionals, online prayer meetings or weekly socialist campaign updates. These are lifelines without which, I am convinced, soundness of mind would have gone out the window.

Soundtrack: Alewa by Santrofi, It Is What It Is by Thundercat.