Don’t worry, be happy

I apologise for stating the obvious, but I’ll say it anyway: it’s okay to be happy. In fact, I’ll go one step further; being miserable doesn’t make you a better person.

Last weekend, United States Vice-President JD Vance took his family to Disneyland. By all accounts, they had a lovely time. The sun was shining, the lines were long, and the churros overpriced, exactly as they should be.

But when California Governor Gavin Newsom caught wind of it, he jumped onto X – Twitter, for those still pretending it isn’t – and posted this gem: “Hope you enjoy your family time, @JDVance. The families you’re tearing apart certainly won’t.”

According to Newsom, Vance, his wife, and his children had no right to enjoy themselves. Not while there were policy disagreements. Not while injustice existed. Not while anything, anywhere, was less than perfect.

Apparently, happiness is now a moral crime. A selfish indulgence. A political offence.

Sadness and tragedy are all around us, that’s true. But we are complex, magnificent creatures. Capable of holding sorrow in one hand and joy in the other. We can care deeply about suffering while still laughing, dancing, and booking that weekend away.

And yet, somehow, we’ve arrived at a place where happiness is treated like a betrayal. A luxury item. A weakness.

On 4 July, I interviewed two Americans, one a Republican, one a Democrat. The Republican spoke of freedom and pride. The Democrat spoke of raids by United States Immigration and Customs Enforcement, and the collapse of democracy. One saw the day as a celebration. The other saw it as a national funeral with fireworks.

I imagine the Republican had a decent barbecue. The Democrat … probably journalled sadly near a compost bin.

This isn’t about America. I use their example because it’s far enough away to observe with a little distance, but let’s be honest, we do the same thing here.

We’ve developed a strange tendency to wear guilt like a badge of honour. We’ve become addicted to outrage, to doom, to our own grim sense of virtue. If something terrible is happening anywhere in the world, we dim our own lights and cancel our joy, all while basking in the glow of our self-righteous gloom.

But here’s the thing: joy isn’t a betrayal. It’s an act of resistance. And it’s necessary. It doesn’t mean you’re ignoring suffering, it means you’re refusing to be swallowed by it.

If you want a masterclass in this, look to the Israelis. We saw them singing in bomb shelters while Iranian missiles flew overhead. Anyone who’s ever been to a wedding in Israel knows that there’s an unspoken agreement: “We will celebrate the hell out of today.” After 7 October 2023, when everything changed and grief flooded the country, they said, “We will dance again.”

And they have.

We are capable of outrage and empathy, and still enjoying a braai. We can grieve and still laugh. We can be glued to the news, and still go to the theatre. We can hold multiple truths at once. That’s the beauty of being human.

Joy doesn’t mean indifference. It means we’re still alive.

So take the photo. Laugh at the African National Congress and the Republicans and Democrats. Laugh with them. Eat the dessert. Book the holiday. Say yes to the concert. And if anyone wants to shame you for smiling, offer them a churro, and move along.

Because guilt has never healed a broken world. But joy? Joy just might.