COVID-1984
Part One: A Swedish dystopia.
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Last week, I finally got my first shot of the Pfizer vaccine. On my way to the vaccination centre, I kept repeating to myself: “don’t cry, please don’t cry, you will look like a fool…”. I did not cry. The organization at the Conventum Arena, Örebro, was flawless — 10 minutes and I got the shot. Which, in itself, took probably 3 seconds. I did not even have the time to realize what was happening, and I found myself sitting on a classic IKEA chair, together with dozens of other newly-vaccinated people, asked to wait for a few minutes before leaving the vaccination centre.
After a 10-minutes wait, I went out, unlocked my electric kickscooter, and headed home while listening to Electric Love by BØRNS. I know, I know you are not supposed to listen to music while riding. But today, I made an exception — and I really needed to calm down.
I was in the elevator when I finally broke down in tears. Uncontrollable, hysterical tears. I soaked my mask. It was not only the emotion of (hopefully) starting to see the light at the end of this damned pandemic tunnel. Rather, the elevator ride brought up so many, too many traumatic memories I still have to elaborate. For months, during the pandemic, some neighbour systematically spat on the mirror of my elevator. For months, I started and finished my day with a glimpse of my spat-covered reflection. When I posted about it on Twitter, most people were shocked. Others blamed me for not taking the stairs instead or not wearing a mask in the elevator. Many encouraged me to write to the renting company in order to report the anonymous untore. Untore is an old Italian word, which literally translates as ‘greaser’. I could not find a satisfactory English equivalent, sorry. Every Italian hear about them at some point in high school, when we study The Bethroted, one of the most famous historical novels written by Alessandro Manzoni, of which some excerpts are read aloud in class and memorized. Needless to say, students typically hate this part of the high school curriculum.
Untori were called those people who, during the plague of Milan in 1630, were suspected of spreading the contagion by anointing people and things (for example, the doors of houses, the benches of churches) with malefic ointments. The dictionary I consulted specifies that “popular anger was often unleashed against them, and judicial persecutions were also launched”. This was not the case. When my husband and I wrote an email to the rental company, they seemed to be very surprised — and we were surprised to find out that no other neighbour complained. They all either ignored the lingering passive-aggressiveness of the anonymous pandemic spitter — or decided to suffer in silence. Well, I think that the case of the untore in the elevator is a perfect analogy for the Swedish pandemic dystopia.
I already wrote extensively here about my experience, as well as about the general situation (especially in reference to the situation in Swedish schools). I tried not to make my Medium personality about my experience of a foreigner living in Sweden, but as much as I would like not to, what many others and I have been through since March 2020, will forever change me. It has been nothing short of traumatic, and it needs to be written. Many would argue that what I am writing is likely to equate to a professional suicide — but honestly, I don’t care. If this will be the case, it says everything about this country and my industry and nothing about me. Actually, it says something about me: that I spoke up when it mattered the most. I wouldn't go as far as considering myself brave: I would say that I am privileged. I do not have children that depend on me, I don’t have a mortgage to pay off, and I do not depend on funds (at least for now). I am sure that many people would take an open stance if they were not at the mercy of all these economic, social and political trade-offs. But here I am, motivated to start a series in which I will tell you about the Swedish pandemic dystopia.
However, I do not want this experience to be a burdensome one for the readers. Nonetheless, I hope to make you smile, sometimes, and to be able to tell you about a happy ending. I didn’t choose the title Covid-1984 merely because it is catchy. George Orwell’s dystopian novel is one of my favourite books — one of the few that I read over and over again. Sure, the main themes of totalitarianism, mass surveillance as well as repressive regimentation of people do not make it an easy read. However, one cannot deny that its futurism, and exploration of the role of truth and facts within politics and the ways in which they are manipulated, do indeed make it a captivating read. I hope you will feel the same about my story.
To cheer the reader up, after this intense (I know, sorry!) introduction, I want to conclude this first episode and inaugurate this series with something I have wanted forever to write about, but never had the time. Brace yourself because here it comes a compilation of the best of the worst of the Swedish pandemic arts and crafts, just to set the mood. An immense thank you to Edal, who kindly let me share her gallery of horrors with an international public! [note: Edal made this gallery around Christmas time]
Anders Tegnell, the Swedish State Epidemiologist, has de facto become an icon in the Kingdom of Sweden. He has been immortalized in many different ways. Here are some examples:
There are many more homages to the Swedish State Epidemiologist — more than I initially thought. Maybe I will share more in another article. In the meanwhile, I take my leave by sharing one of the allegedly dozens of songs that have been written in the honor of Sweden’s latest national hero.
I chose this one as it was broadcasted on national TV (the same TV4 where they had a tutorial for the aforementioned Christmas tree decoration…). The comments on YouTube are turned off. Well, after all even the Prime Minister deactivated the possibility to comment on his tweets during these pandemic times.
“Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood.” — George Orwell.
