Maybe the only way we can reverse the ongoing apocalypse is by sincerely attempting to do one thing that challenges the status quo, causes a dent in the system, or kills the joy of patriarchy daily
It is the nature of capitalism to make us all invariably complicit in the oppression of others, to be so distracted by the circumstances of our own oppression that we cannot quite comprehend the sufferings of others or feel like we are helpless in the face of such suffering. Representation Pic/iStock
I’m feeling nostalgia for every month of June I have known since I moved to the Italian Alps, when it felt almost a bit too fresh to spend the day at the public swimming pool, when the mountain water was even too chilly, so you would take a dip and then quickly get out and sunbathe. This year, swimming feels like a coping mechanism against the oppressive heat. You can imagine how dire our climatic conditions are when, in a landscape that is supposed to be cooler, the temperature this week might inch closer to 40 degrees. Fans and air conditioning systems are alien to local household architecture, so you end up counting the hours until the ‘Ora’ winds blow from Lake Garda in the south through the Etsch valley, offering much-needed respite.
Even though I spend the night sweating profusely — I have gotten so used to sleeping without a fan, I cannot fathom the idea of air blowing artificially on my body — there’s a part of me that wants Europeans to suffer a little. It’s sadistic, I’m aware. But I wonder if, when their idea of a vacation gets compromised because of these extremities, will they finally step up to mobilise against the ongoing crises in West Asia, the casual nature of bombings over multiple regions, the callous disregard for the preciousness of human life amid this surge of neo-imperialism.
When I returned to work after our brief vacation in Chioggia, I shared with my work colleagues how strange and bizarre it felt to go on holiday at a moment when it felt like the world is on fire. Since the post-pandemic reset, it would seem like we have been steering ourselves headlong into the apocalypse. Forest fires, floods, droughts, human-engineered famine, and now even the word ‘war’ has come to be used so casually in everyday parlance, except, we still think of it as an inconvenience to our lifestyles and summer plans… we consider only how the closing of air spaces affects our travel itineraries, and don’t lobby enough on behalf of all the people whose lives are the inevitable casualties of egomaniacal politics — the military industrial complex that pits ‘grievable’ lives against those not worthy of even being mourned, that creates hierarchies among human beings, grounding our mundane in unequal living conditions. Even while I soaked in the spectacular sight of the sun slipping into the Adriatic, my view punctuated by sailboats docked at the marina outside our balcony window, I found myself in tears after reading reports of the destruction being engineered in so many parts of the world. As a mother, I mourn in secret, because I have not yet mastered the vocabulary to communicate to our toddler the immensity of all this loss… I don’t know how to tell him how all of this is preventable.
I allow myself to believe wholly that radical parenting is a form of protest. By raising a child to be able to regulate his emotions, to be able to perceive the needs of others and intervene through the prism of consent, I am offering the world an iota of hope. There are days when I feel exhausted by the heat, which feels compounded by the knowledge that the state we’re in is because of old men who cannot see past their own greed, who seem hell-bent on offering future generations nothing by way of natural resources. I feel disconnected from my own reality because I see people around me living their lives as if everything that is happening is happening remotely and doesn’t affect them, doesn’t alter their lives in the slightest bit. If it does, it is not obvious in any way. There is no activism where I live. All the people who might have cared enough to organise are probably living elsewhere. I’m not even sure what that activism might look like. I live in a tourist town, so each day I access the news, then I go downstairs with the stroller so our littlest can take a nap, and I see tourists on their rented e-bikes happily navigating the valley and the mountains, drinking Aperol Spritzes at cafes and soaking in the mountain air before their return back in their fancy cars to their lives in Germany.
I doubt I am the only one living through such a disconnect. It is the nature of capitalism to make us all invariably complicit in the oppression of others, to be so distracted by the circumstances of our own oppression that we cannot quite comprehend the sufferings of others or feel like we are helpless in the face of such suffering. This is why resistance needs to become an act we do daily. Every day, we need to do at least one thing that challenges the status quo, that causes a dent in the system, that kills the joy of patriarchy. Maybe this is how we can possibly reverse-engineer the apocalypse.
Deliberating on the life and times of every woman, Rosalyn D’Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She posts @rosad1985 on Instagram
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The views expressed in this column are the individual’s and don’t represent those of the paper.
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