Covid-19 has provoked anger and despair. What we need is detachment

The announcement that the lockdown is to last at least another three weeks in the UK will have elicited very mixed reactions across the land, ranging from relief to rage. Covid-19 is a cruel and merciless foe: it does not merely kill us (at the latest count, almost 150,000 worldwide), but divides us, too. In Longfellow’s words: “Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad.”

The media have focused on the financial and political impact of coronavirus, as well as its virological and epidemiological aspects. Much less attention has been paid to the psychology of the pandemic. Yet our reaction to the measures taken in response to the virus is just as important as the measures themselves. In addition, we must contend with the underlying existential threat to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Though nobody is exempt from our predicament, not everyone is handling it well.  

There are doubtless some people who are actually enjoying the enforced leisure, but they are a minority. For most people, the lockdown is something to be at best endured; at worst, it is unendurable. The more sociable you are, the more difficult it is to cope with social distancing. For the old and frail, especially, family time is their lifeline, without which they are lost.

Three main types of reaction stand out: anger, despair and detachment. The angry refuse to accept the situation at all. They are also the most likely ones to look for someone to blame: the Government, the scientists, the media, the Chinese, Donald Trump, Boris Johnson, or whoever they dislike anyway. Their anger is not entirely irrational, but it is essentially a coping strategy. It is driven by a deep-seated refusal to accept what is happening to them. The loss of relatives and friends, or of jobs and money, is only made bearable by raging against the incompetence and mendacity of those in authority.

The arguments of the angry are often persuasive, but only if one accepts their premises. They are invariably subject to confirmation bias: they only consider data that fits their indictment of the authorities and ignore any that does not. And they revel in hindsight: the consequences of decisions that were taken are known, unlike those of the path not taken.

Anger makes us feel better in the short run, but over time it becomes self-destructive. When it is combined with mortal fear and dread, it may turn into desperation and despair. By now, many people will undoubtedly in a state of despair. There can be many reasons for this. They may have been fragile even before the crisis, which has tipped them over the edge. Perhaps they lack the moral compass that can be provided by faith or philosophy. And they are probably lonely, even if they are not living alone. One does not need to be in self-isolation to miss the love and fellowship of society. Those who lead a solitary life may even be better equipped to deal with such isolation. Despair can afflict even those surrounded by family, friends and carers. In the face of death, we are all alone.

Finally, there is detachment. This differs from anger and despair in one particular way: it allows us to rise above the present moment and contemplate our predicament sub specie aeternitatis, under the aspect of eternity. Every civilisation has cultivated its own form of detachment, but in the West the man who first described the concept was the medieval German mystic known as Meister Eckhart. In his tractate on detachment, this Dominican friar taught that we should keep ourselves detached from all humanity, emptying ourselves to make room for God. One of his sayings is especially apposite in our present plight: “God is at home. It is we who have gone out for a walk.”

In the absence of the usual sources of spiritual comfort, with churches, mosques, synagogues and temples closed, we are thrown back on our own resources. Detachment is the attitude that wards off anger and despair. If we are detached, we can consider the politics of the pandemic in a disinterested way, judging less harshly those who bear much heavier responsibilities than we do. But detachment does not mean doing nothing. One of Eckhart’s sayings is: “The price of inaction is far greater than the cost of making a mistake.” Our leaders have undoubtedly all made mistakes, but in a democracy we who elected them must take our share of responsibility too. In such an unprecedented crisis, in the pandemonium of the pandemic, we have all had to improvise. We criticised ministers for being slow to impose a lockdown; now we are criticising them for being slow to unlock it.

“No man is happier than he who has the greatest detachment,” writes Meister Eckhart. Many people are finding prayer difficult or impossible at the moment; for them, detachment removes the need to pray, “for whoever prays wants God to grant him something, or else wants God to take something from him. But a detached heart desires nothing at all, nor has it anything it wants to get rid of.” Without following the master into the paradoxes of mysticism, we can all of us, believers and atheists, find comfort and courage in detachment. We need comfort to survive our solitary struggles with anger and despair; and we need courage to confront death.