So, there we were in the desert waiting to enter the land of Israel, when the spies returned from their reconnaissance mission. They had news which we didn’t like. And, because we complained, G-d, who wasn’t having a particularly good day, decided that for the next while, we would be destined to wander. And while we did that, said G-d, who wasn’t happy at all, the older generation would die out and only then would He allow us to enter the promised land.
There is something biblical about the COVID-19 pandemic. Something unnatural and suggestive of a plague from another realm. It has felt even more like this over the past few weeks with the older members of the community being particularly hard hit. Day after day, we are assailed by news of the passing of friends and their parents and each time, the shock seems to be less but the weariness a lot greater. With each death, our spirits sink lower, and we wonder what our world will look like on the other side of this.
A Facebook advert posted by one of the kosher restaurants in Johannesburg as follows: “Winter Warmer. Ready to eat meal – serves 3-4 (also great for shiva house meal or family in isolation/quarantine)” reflects the gravity of the situation. No doubt more than it intended to. Whether the post was in good, bad, or no taste at all, is irrelevant, but it does indicate the need and the demand. We’re a community that’s alternating between quarantine and shiva. And we need to eat.
The situation in Gauteng is grave. Hospitals are on divert, beds are scarce, and schools are trying the best as they can to remain open. Netcare has announced the suspension of visitors to protect patients, and educators are forced to decide daily which grades and classes need to be quarantined so as to protect the environment. Daily shul services are now filled with those saying kaddish for lost parents, and it’s hard to keep track of the bereavements.
As a friend put it, “G-d isn’t playing around.”
I write this having returned from yet another COVID-19 funeral. Yet another passing of a person who seemed to be in their prime, who had children, who although adults, are too young to be mourning. And a wife far too young to be a widow. My fingers are tired and my heart is weary from sending WhatsApps to people asking if they would prefer me not to attend a service because of the numbers and regulations. And although I might process the world through words, I find that I have none that can be any comfort.
Not to the bereaved and not to myself.
The list of names that I include in my prayers is too long. And then just like that, it’s too short. We’re living through a time that is infused with loss and punctuated with sorrow. We’re seeing those a few years older than us disappear before our eyes. And we seem unable to stop it.
The only thing that we can do is to be as cautious and careful as possible. We have tested the alternative, and the results speak for themselves. We might not understand why this is happening and why our generation has been chosen to live through it. But I do know that we need to introspect, reconnect with faith, and accept that we don’t control this world.
G-d, it seems, isn’t playing around.
