The first time I heard it, I damn near cried.
It started with a series of pops that could have been confused for gunfire. Instead of cries of agony or mourning, though, what followed was something equally visceral. It was a symphony of whistling, yelling and pot-banging, a collective cry of gratitude to those who brave new hazards.
If this is a war, as so many say, we’ve attacked COVID-19 with an unprecedented blitz.
On March 7, travellers from around the world flooded the Parq Casino in Vancouver for the Rugby Sevens tournament with no concerns on their mind beyond their winnings and losses at the roulette table. Mere days later, events were cancelled en masse, grocery stores were cleaned out, playgrounds and schools were closed, international travel was locked down, large gatherings were banned, office employees began working from home, and friends and family stopped visiting.
We’ve been bombarded with talk of mass unemployment and irrevocable economic damage resulting from these measures. We’ve paddled through currents of provincial, federal and global data on livestreams that feel more like rapids, navigable only with a lifejacket and a good tour guide.
Our response certainly hasn’t been perfect. But many of us have charged headlong into uncharted territory nevertheless, knowing full well what we could be sacrificing – our jobs, our businesses, our mental health – but not knowing whether our efforts would be fruitful.
It’s a helpless feeling. For the first time in any of our lives, we have to fight this battle by staying home. It feels so wrong, when, for millennia, medals of bravery have been reserved for those who went out and risked their lives – for those who did something.
Normalcy, whatever that is at the end of this, likely won’t fully return for well over a year. And hearing that after seemingly an eternity of physical distancing – at least, the first wave of it – brings with it an awfully lonely feeling.
In dark times, we need each other more than ever, and we are certainly in the dark. But this time, we can’t hug our friends and families. We no longer have the therapy of meeting at pubs and bars on Fridays to shake off the weight of work life, even as our collective stressors multiply.
But the human spirit yearns for the presence of others, so we find new ways. With social interaction largely rationed to phone calls, group chats and video conferences, we make feasts of scraps to feed the soul.
We find new forums for solidarity – every day at 7 p.m., it comes like a festival. Here in New Westminster, it began with the loud cracks of fireworks. Something swelled inside of us, and in defiance of the quiet that’s consumed our physically distant cities, we erupted into celebration.
In the face of an existential fear, we cheer for our lives. From the quarantine of our homes, we bang pots and pans for those who continue to go out and risk their own health for that of the community. All our cooped-up energy and angst come together and give rise to what’s likely one of the most unifying prime-time activities in a decade.
The 7 o’clock cheer is foremost for health-care workers on the front lines of the pandemic, but it’s also a spirit-lifting practice for the rest of us. Indeed, if we’re fighting a war, then this is our battle cry.
