My second novel bears an eerie resemblance to the current state of the world. This in itself is not surprising; I’m sure a great body of written work and other art will grow out of the COVID-19-induced situation, and literature, as everything else, will forever be shaped and colored by it.

But I was working on this book in 2019, when the word ‘pandemic’ was still largely the fodder of science fiction, and you were still physically next to me. As my only alpha-reader, you read most of the material that now lies dormant inside my bright orange flash drive, and I’m so grateful you did. You were the best alpha-reader I could’ve wished for: honest but sympathetic to my fragile writer’s ego and so supportive. No matter how busy you were, you always made the time to read my work and do it with your full attention. Lacking a literary background, your criticism was spot on.

Your death and all it entailed temporarily paralyzed my creativity and writing muscle. I became a functional zombie barely capable of going through the motions of daily life, so the novel and all my other writing were put on hold while the pain I felt wriggled its way out and grew into these letters. The inciting incident was a disaster that would become COVID-19, something about which I so desperately want to tell you. You were always the very first one I would talk to, even when it concerned our relationship (no one can accuse us of not communicating enough), and it is still so hard to stomach I can’t anymore. I have not found a substitute for you as a confidant and my preferred collocutor, and it’s highly doubtful I ever will.

If you were to miraculously come back, I could’ve told you that the story of my dystopian novel became a reality. I’d tell you how, in addition to my time suddenly being gobbled up by home schooling our two children (or rather, creating a space for them to attend online classes, and waiting on them), I had no idea how to handle my work-in-progress. What to do with a science fiction story that has turned into science reality? These strange days, what novelty is there in describing a world where all human beings are living in isolation, communicating with each other solely through digital means? Life had truly shown itself to be at least as strange as fiction.

Tom Wolfe, whose novel The Bonfire of the Vanities I only recently picked up to read, in his introduction talks about how he experienced this same phenomenon in 80’s New York and how it was a reason for many writers of that period to renounce the realistic novel and set out to create more experimental work. His analysis of that situation, and reading about how he was confused and frustrated when the fictional events he created were echoed by real ones immediately after, fortified my spirits and helped ease some of the doubts concerning my own imagination.

The world of my paused novel is not the same as the one we currently inhabit, but the similarities are disturbing ones, like growing division and the increasing amount of control the powers that be are allowed to exert over our bodies and privacy. And as time advances and the pandemic situation, regardless of the question whether it’s natural or manufactured, only barely releases its grip on our lives, animosity and polarization, especially in the Western world, are taking on grimmer hues. Blessedly unfamiliar with war, I believe I do descry some of its instigating mechanics.

What’s happening?

Well, fear of death, for one thing. Fear of losing control, which has been an ailment of Western society for a long time, is reaching an all time high. These two fears are closely related by the way, since death is the ultimate loss of control, as both you and I can attest to.

I realize how hard it is to lead a country when the killer virus that scientists have been anticipating for such a long time, prepping our minds to see it coming, has finally arrived. How do you deal with a pathogen we know nothing about and might just wipe out half of humanity? You freak out, of course.

So I understand the initial nervous decision of locking people up in their houses and making them wear face masks in public; a virus travels from one person to the next and is successful when it infects as many people as possible, a lesson we learned in biology class. However, another thing we learned from studying viruses is that they don’t benefit from killing their host, thereby limiting the scope of transmission.

It’s more than a year-and-a-half since the first bout of corona-panic passed over the world like the blast wave of a nuclear explosion. You’d think that by now, we would have created a sustainable, wise way of dealing with this fairly unfatal pathogen (you’d be hard pressed to find anyone that still calls COVID-19 a killer-virus anymore), but I’m sorry to tell you we haven’t. Governments still resort to isolating people, enforcing them to wear face masks while in public spaces and curtailing already disabled businesses, as the nth wave of the delta, omicron or any other damned letter of the Greek alphabet variant washes over the numbed populace.

Only one significant development can be discerned since the very first meeting with this virus-in-a-crown: a partially effective vaccine that is still in its experimental stage. And now this half-done instrument is held aloft as the ultimate and only solution out of this mess. At the same time, however, it functions as a crowbar, psychologically cleaving a humanity that’s already divided physically and whose overall situation is quite precarious anyway, largely of its own doing.   

I see many of our friends, intelligent people that I hold in high esteem, gripped by fear: fear of ending up on an ICU, fear of being turned away from ICU’s and not having access to medical resources, fear of death, fear of losing loved ones. In relation to this virus, it’s an irrational fear, since the overwhelming majority, if infected by it, only come down with a mild to moderate flu. On the other side of the divide is a much smaller but nonetheless significant group, the people who fear the loss of freedom and physical sovereignty.

Like the twin sister moons of Mars, Phobos and Deimos, fear and panic make many otherwise sensible people resort to unreasonable and polarized statements, and it’s suddenly very easy to relinquish basic and unalienable human rights. Name calling has become rampant: people who are pro-vaccination are called sheep and the ones against are called crazies or anti-vaxxers. We get a thorough glimpse of how thin the veneer of civilization really is.

My American friends have been so (understandably) traumatized by the past presidency of Mr Trump, some seem to have lost the ability to see nuances when it comes to corona, and with a heavy heart I see them resort to the same shaming and blaming they so loathed in this flagrant and destructive president. Ask any American about their political preference, and you know how they stand in the vaccination discussion. How can it be that simple? In Holland, the situation is less clear cut, but I see how the extreme right-wing parties that both you and I used to scoff at are now voicing some of my sentiments. Fortunately the party I’ve voted for the past years, the Partij voor de Dieren (Party for the Animals) tends to evade the tired and outworn division into left and right, and they too are opposed to enforced vaccination.  

Facebook and other social media are only aggravating this process of division. Instead of offering a platform for nuanced discussion, something it never was, of course, it has become the equivalent of a town square where people go for a brawl, to vent their anger and frustration and hang out with other like-minded individuals to unite against people who have differing opinions. It also turned into a big brother-like instrument where every post containing the word “COVID-19” or “corona” is followed by a warning.

Not only US friends are prone to polarization, some of our Dutch friends suddenly seem to hold far-reaching views when it comes to people who choose not to be vaccinated against COVID-19. One of them posted on FB, his words dripping with anger: “it’s real simple. If you don’t take the vaccine, you’re the last to receive medical care.” Some years ago, this particular friend fell off his bicycle and smashed up his face, landing him in the ER. A serious drinker, he happened to be plastered when the curb had suddenly seemed way too close for comfort. Clearly, the accident was a result of his own irresponsibility, but he received medical attention, just like everyone else in that ER. The fact is, many people who refuse the vaccine take very good care of themselves, accepting full responsibility for their own health. So, I wonder, should a heavy smoker who’s fully vaccinated get priority over a non-smoker who’s not? This sounds wrong to me, and I know you would agree. The whole discussion about whether anyone should get priority when it comes to medical attention is a tricky one, of course, as it has always been.

The argument used ad nauseam by the government and the largest part of the population, that you take the vaccine to protect others, doesn’t hold water, as the jab has proven not to prevent transmission. Our daughters and me, we have done PCR tests until we were blue in the face, and every single test came up negative. After a visit to our fully vaccinated family, the next day they called to warn us that one of them had fallen ill with COVID-19 and that we should watch for symptoms or do a test. The girls and me, we remained clear, but it just added to the feeling of backwardness of it all.

Spain is about to regard COVID-19 as a regular flu, meaning they stop monitoring the number of infections, and I believe it’s about time, but it’s still one of the very few countries to have the guts to take this step. I don’t understand why governments massively disregard the psychological and economic damage inflicted by the lockdowns; a damage sustained by everyone, but substantially more by the less affluent in this world. Large companies, often having a very strong online presence, don’t suffer nearly as much as the smaller businesses and the creative industry (I sometimes wonder, will there be any theater, dance performances, concerts, left when the people in power finally decide to end it?) and the combination of online classes with work from home is infinitely more stressful for families with limited means.

The use of facemasks, a seemingly innocent but at the same time ridiculously ineffective measure, has already developed into a new environmental disaster, since we humans tend to put ourselves first, no matter what, forgetting that earth is our habitat and we are the environment. Children, forced to wear these masks in class, have trouble concentrating. A cashier I met the other day was complaining about nausea caused by the obligatory face cover she was to wear all day, impeding her vision and causing disorientation. Yet another way humanity pollutes this planet, the masks can be found in parking lots, in forests and in the ocean; and how about the brand-new garbage pile created by the many millions of disposable corona-tests?

Contrary to what people might expect, in Ibiza, the majority of permanent residents lead healthy lives. Many of them don’t see the need to ‘get the jab’. Island life is more relaxed, especially in winter, when it gently forces one to slow down. This relaxation was visible in you as well, when it was still the four of us residing here. Corona isn’t front page news anymore, and people go about their lives almost like they did before. Here, I feel less alone in my reluctance to get vaccinated, less cornered, although the influence of an 85 % vaccinated Holland can be felt in messages from family and friends. Robin’s Dutch teenage friends are all vaccinated and they burden her with tales of guilt and downsized freedom. If it weren’t for her Ibiza friends, many of whom remain unvaccinated, she might have insisted on getting it, not out of conviction but out of opportunism. And to me, that feels wrong, especially with a technology that’s so new.

I’d like to speak to you about how it’s possible that people are still so dead set upon everyone getting the vaccine, blaming the unvaccinated for the overflowing ICU’s, a notion that has proven to be false. When I see the Dutch secretary of Health Hugo de Jonge appear on a late night talk show lustily stirring up the furnace of disharmony, I understand. He’s joined by old and crabby Johan Derksen. A mere soccer commentator, I’m not sure what made Derksen turn into a COVID-19 authority all of a sudden, but he can’t wait to get his filthy, cigar-stained hands on those nasty anti-vaxxers. “I think we are way too kind to these people”, he whines on national television. Of course, this man has always been the personification of discord.

As with the inadequacy of the vaccine, the fact that ICU’s have been overtaxed every single winter simply doesn’t seem to register. I discuss this with people, but it gets old. Corona or the vaccine or the next wave are not exactly inspiring conversational topics and people get antsy, as do I. Some even get angry or downright abusive when I voice my doubts about this new mRNA technology and it’s a topic I tend to avoid. There is no one I can talk to like I did to you; you were willing to see my way while adhering to your own viewpoints. With you, I lost my touchstone, my haven, where I could safely utter and investigate and develop my ideas before tossing them out into the world. My letters to you should be read by you first (if not by you alone), before I make them public, but now, they face the world naked and imperfectly pristine, possibly containing faulty or hurtful elements.

Our final exchange (oh had I but known that it was, I’d have poured out my heart and soul to you all night, saying everything I wanted you to hear) about a restaurant for New Year’s Eve and the insomnia of our daughter, was over two years ago. In order to take away the worry I saw in you, I told you I was sure your heart was fine. Once in a while, I still ask you forgiveness for that lie born out of ignorance, but you never reply.