When I moved to Australia two years ago, I didn’t expect that soon it would be virtually impossible to leave the island. I certainly didn’t expect to watch my US acquaintances travel for recreation to Morocco, Russia and Europe, while I wouldn’t be able to visit my family for months, then a year, now indefinitely.
My family still struggles to understand that even interstate travel has been extremely difficult since the beginning of lockdowns in 2020. International travel came to a halt, and even air mail to some countries (i.e. Lithuania) has ceased.
It was all quite tolerable in the beginning. We simply put on masks in the stores and churches, limited indoor gatherings and postponed our international flights.
For several summer months, life even seemed normal. But from May 2021, Sydney has sunk deeper and deeper into lockdown.
The current rules include: one hour of unmasked exercise outside (softened slightly last Friday). People in much of Sydney cannot go beyond 5 km from home. Groups of over 2 cannot gather outside, even if they are from one household. Strictly no visiting inside (“illegal family visits” being often blamed for the spread).
Only grocery stores, pharmacies and bottle shops are open. Churches are open only to “essential workers” for livestreaming services. QR codes are required for entrance into any establishment (if the store you visit is in the mall, you are expected to first sign in at the mall entrance, and then at each store’s entrance). Fines for infractions range from 3,000-5000$ on the spot. There is a curfew from 9pm to 5 am.
The compliance (including my own) is astounding. But that’s not what I want to write about. Rather, I want to write about the exhaustion that comes after months of this warped existence.
My daughter, who was born and has now turned one in a world shaped by COVID, has reached the age when she aches for play with others of her own age. When she sees other children out on their one-hour walk, she lights up and runs towards the gate, garbling excitedly.
Often, people stop, and we talk through the gates. Sometimes, when it’s our friends, I hand my baby over the fence so that she can touch other cheeks, soft like her own, regulations be damned.
During these conversations, we usually wear masks and keep a distance, even though there have been no known cases of outdoor transmission in the state. Stopping to chat outside, however, has been “advised against” and could easily be reported. As a poster in our playground recommends:
“For everyone’s safety, let’s DO THE RIGHT THING. Follow Covid-19 Restrictions and call CrimeStoppers if you see people who don’t” (picture available upon request).
We, luckily, have a yard and can spend lots of time outside. We know the minor birds and magpies and crows. We know at what time which neighbour takes a walk. We watch for the mailman every evening. To everyone who will stop, we talk through the fence.
At home, we live in a world of mirrors. Your spouse, who knows you so well, your baby, who repeats more and more of your behaviours, and yourself. There doesn’t seem to be much point in writing about reality, which is the same as it was yesterday. On the radio, the same exact reruns: how many people got sick, how many died, how many were vaccinated, now sometimes Afghanistan.
I raged initially, but this new state of tiredness is characterised by indifference. It is characterised by finding yourself ask with dead seriousness the following nonsensical questions: if day-care is still allowed, are two moms permitted to meet for their kids to socialise at least a bit (answer: no.)? Are you allowed to visit a store that’s one street outside of your council district but still within the 5 km radius? If you’re on an empty street, can you take your mask off?
You find yourself sincerely grateful for the extra hours of exercise the government gifts you.
Of course, there have been benefits to lockdown, spiritual and otherwise. There has been magic in gardening, family evenings and the opportunity to work from home.
But I wonder sometimes, as I watch things begin to slide and collide in my own head, how long people can last. I wonder how many have already passed their breaking point. I wonder how the children who are sitting in apartments will respond when they are released into a live, speaking crowd. Will they laugh and thrill or cower and cry? How about the adults?
Yesterday, I went to the mall for groceries, where I yet again encountered police at the entrance (buying Korean fried chicken and ensuring everyone is masked up). On the way, an unknown lady started walking alongside me.
She began by telling me that she would be very quick “because we aren’t allowed to talk outside anymore and everything is haywire” and proceeded to tell me an elaborate story about how she had to single-handedly hold an elevator open for a mother and a baby. Everyone yelled at her but she held those doors with her old hands.
Then she told me about her home in India, then about her US relatives, then about her Malaysian husband’s annoying refusal to move to India. Then I heard about her lunch and how she was trying to walk it off–so she could be slim like me. When we reached the end of the block, we said goodbye, but I heard her still talking to me after she went round the corner.