Why Coronavirus Is Humanity’s Wake-Up Call

The rapid spread of novel coronavirus has prompted government, business, and civil society to take dramatic action—canceling events large and small, restricting travel, and shutting down major segments of the economy on which nearly all of us depend. It is a demonstration of our ability, when the imperative is clear, for deep and rapid global cooperation and change at a previously unimaginable speed and scale.

There is an obvious desire to protect ourselves and our loved ones. But we are also seeing something more as communities mobilize to address the crisis—a sense of mutual responsibility, born of a recognition that we are ultimately bound to a common fate. The speed of the resulting global shift is beyond any prior human experience.

At the same time, the crisis of the coronavirus pandemic focuses attention in the United States on the disastrous deficiencies of a profiteering health care system. Corporations are competing only to increase their take from health expenditures while minimizing the amount of money they spend on providing care. This system is reasonably proficient in providing boutique care for the very rich at exorbitant prices, but it is disastrously deficient in addressing the health care needs of ordinary people affordably. It is similarly deficient in anticipating, preparing for, and responding to public health emergencies such as the one we are in now.  

I sense that as our eyes open to this reality, we are seeing a simultaneous awakening to the imperative to deal with a host of other system failures that imperil our common future. For example:

• An economic system that values nature only for its market price, ignores Earth’s limits, and wantonly destroys the stability of its climate and the health and purity of its air, water, and soil. This directly imperils our survival and well-being.

• Military expenditures that consume more than half of all federal discretionary funding to prepare for conventional wars of the past and engage us in unwinnable conflicts born of environmental and social collapse. This represents wasted resources that would be better applied to addressing the underlying sources of current security threats.

• A financial system devoted to generating speculative profits for the richest without the burden of contributing to meaningful livelihoods and security for those who do useful work. Money must serve us, not enslave us.

•An education system that promotes maximizing personal financial returns as the highest moral obligation to society. Education should prepare us to transform a self-destructive system into one that will support our long-term future.

For far too long, we have ignored the failures of a system that reduces ever more people to homelessness, incarceration, refugee camps, permanent indebtedness, and servitude to institutions devoted to conflict and the generation of unearned financial returns. The challenges are monumental and are likely to be addressed only as we begin to understand that business as usual is simply not an option.

We need leaders committed to effective government of, by, and for the people.

This is humanity’s wake-up call. As we awaken to the truth of the profound failure of our existing institutions, we also awaken to the truth of our possibilities and interconnections with one another and with Earth. With that awakening comes a recognition that we must now learn to live lightly on the Earth, to war no more, and to dedicate ourselves to the well-being of all in an interdependent world.

We in the United States also face a special challenge. We have much that the world admires. But far from being a model for others to emulate, we represent an extreme example of what the world must now leave behind.

As a nation, we have for too long battled over simplistic political ideologies that limit our choices to granting ultimate power either to government or corporations, both of which are controlled by the richest among us. The coronavirus pandemic is a powerful reminder that effective government committed to the common good is essential to our well-being, and that there is no place in our common future for politicians committed to proving that government cannot work.

We need leaders committed to effective government of, by, and for the people. These leaders must simultaneously recognize that the collective well-being of all depends on institutions in all three sectors—government, business, and civil society—that are effective at, committed to, and accountable for serving the well-being of the communities that create them.

These are challenging and frightening times. As we respond to the coronavirus emergency and the immediate needs of the people and communities impacted by it, let us also keep in view the systemic needs and possibilities that crisis exposes. Despite the trauma all around us, let us embrace this moment as an opportunity to move forward to create a better world for all.

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David Korten is co-founder of YES! Media, president of the Living Economies Forum, a member of the Club of Rome, and the author of influential books, including “When Corporations Rule the World” and “Change the Story, Change the Future: A Living Economy for a Living Earth.” His work builds on lessons from the 21 years he and his wife, Fran, lived and worked in Africa, Asia, and Latin America on a quest to end global poverty.

THIS ARTICLE WAS ORGINALLY PUBLISHED ON YES!

Notes On When the World Makes You Feel Small

I WAS ON A BOAT in the Gulf of Mexico, fishing for mackerel and grouper. My Uncle Andy was a boat captain, and whenever we’d go down to Florida, he would take us out fishing. I was maybe 10, so I wasn’t partaking in the beers, but as the day wore on, my dad and my uncle started telling stories. The water was glass, which you almost never see in the Gulf of Mexico, and the gray clouds sat totally motionless above us in the heat.

I don’t remember which story Andy was telling. One time, when he went to drop a boat off in Cameroon, he was made to sit in port for 10 days, not allowed to disembark until he bribed a customs official. When he finally relented, the customs official boarded the boat and said, “Captain Hershberger, you will make me a cup of tea while I figure out the paperwork.”

Andy was pissed, so he decided to “give the tea a stir” before serving it to the customs official. But he didn’t stir the tea until after he’d heated the water to a boil, and, long story short, he had to explain to his company healthcare provider why they were paying for burns on his scrotum.

It may not have been this story in particular, but it was one like it, and it was exactly what a 10 year old wanted to hear from his dad and his uncle. And it was while the stories were being told that kingfish started leaping out of the water. Kingfish don’t really do that. So we watched a school of non-flying fish flew around us. And then we watched as a waterspout touched down a half a mile away. Then another, a little bit more to the north. Then a third, a fourth, and a fifth. We were surrounded by tornados on a totally placid sea.

Photo: Bram van de Sande

The pit of my stomach

There’s a feeling I used to get when I would go alone into the woods at the bottom of our street. I would see no people, hear no signs of human life, and I’d only see trees and creeks. A dense stone would lower into the bottom of my stomach, and I’d know I was alone in the world.

I’m married now. I have a job and I live in the New Jersey suburbs. There isn’t much time spent alone in the woods. A 30-year-old man stalking through patches of suburban wilderness is insanely creepy, so I don’t do it. But I still seek out the feeling in the pit of my stomach. It comes much less frequently, and only when the entire world clicks into place to make me feel small and lonely. That makes it sound bad — it’s not. It’s my favorite feeling in the world. It’s uncanny — my body, in these moments, does not feel autonomous, but rather a part of a much greater whole. I am moving because the universe moves. And while the raw material that makes up who I am may someday dissolve back into the universe, I know the universe will remain. In some sense, I cannot die.

The word that best describes the feeling is “wonder,” but like all words for the ineffable, it is incomplete, and it sounds too religion-y to me sometimes. “Wonder” doesn’t fit stories in which my uncle tells me about his burnt scrotum right before the universe shifts into something unspeakably weird. But it gets the point across fine.

The night sky

It’s 1997, maybe a year after the cyclones surrounded us in the Gulf. I’m in Hawaii, and I forgot to bring my inhaler. There’s mold in the bedroom of our Maui hotel, and I can’t lay down or I’ll start to suffocate. My dad hears me wheezing and takes me out to the beach and sits me up on a chair. We talk — I totally forget about what — and listen to the ocean. We’re away from cities and the hotel’s lights are mostly off, so the sky is more star than dark. I can actually see the Milky Way. I can make out the silhouette of the mountains of Molokai across the water in front of the stars. And the feeling drops into my stomach again.

Photo: Glacier NPS

This is where it happens the most — in the face of a clear night. I know people who can’t handle a clear night sky — it’s too frightening, too vast. For me, feeling small is a comfort. It’s a reminder that all of the stuff that feels huge — the horrifying politics of the world, the violence and abuse we heap on each other, the thick fogs of depression and apathy — is actually tiny and inconsequential.

I’d feel the night sky again in 2012, when I caught a plane from London to Iceland to watch the Northern Lights. When I came home, my friends told me you could see the aurora from the East End, but I didn’t regret spending on the trip. In the East End, there weren’t as many stars. They did not, as I did, wrap myself up in my warmest clothes (which still weren’t warm enough), arm myself with a big bottle of wine, and look up over Icelandic mountains as a line of neon green cut through the Milky Way. They didn’t feel the pit in the stomach.

The streets of London

The natural world is the best place to find wonder, but the next time I felt it was in the hipster section of London. This section had once been home to Jack the Ripper and “the worst street in the world.” It was grimy and dilapidated and working class. During the Blitz, it had been constantly pounded by German bombs. And while it’s gentrifying today, there’s still plenty of poverty and desperation.

I was on a walking tour through Shoreditch. It was a street art tour, and while we’d all hoped to catch a glimpse of a Banksy, we knew most of what we were going to see was tags and a few commissioned walls. Shoreditch and Spitalfields are covered in street art, most of it the illegal variety, but it wasn’t until we were in the middle of a busy zebra crossing that the feeling came again. The tour guide stopped us in the crosswalk and pointed down to a tiny piece of gum on the ground. It was a Kool-Aid blue, Bubblicious-type gum, and in it, two yellow painted stick figures danced.

Photo by author

I felt the stone settle in my stomach. A city can feel like a place that is not built for humans but for machines. We’re just crammed in with all of the cement and cranes gears and cars and trains which could all easily destroy our soft, frail little bodies. But here on the pavement was one person refusing to see the streets as off limits, refusing to see a sticky piece of expectorant as litter.

The pit in the stomach, I’ve decided, is a biological response to the moments when my mind briefly clicks into sync with the world. In these moments, I know who I am in relation to everything. It comes rarely — maybe twice a year, if I’m lucky, but sometimes years pass with nothing. Looking up at the stars, I click into sync and know I’m small. Looking at a splotch of humanity on an inhuman cityscape, I click into sync and know I’m huge.

THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MATADOR NETWORK.

MATT HERSHBERGER

Matt Hershberger is a writer and blogger who focuses on travel, culture, politics, and global citizenship. His hobbies include scotch consumption, profanity, and human rights activism. He lives in New Jersey with his wife and his Kindle. You can check out his work at the Matador Network, or over at his website.

MAURITANIA: Journey through the Sahara

For 700km, day and night, we slithered through the vast uninhabited Sahara desert, sleeping on top of Mauritania’s infamous iron ore train. Heading for the coast, we hoped to find a place of forgotten shipwrecks and unknown surf.

When I was young I would pore over National Geographic magazines and dream of adventures like this — train hopping through the Sahara Desert on one of the world’s longest trains.
I had dreamt of the oceans, of the sand, the loud clattering noises of the train, the cold, the wind, the scorching sun. The unknown smells and sounds of the desert, and all the discomfort that goes with it.

That visceral experience was exactly what we got as we slithered night and day through the vast uninhabited desert, sleeping on top of Mauritania’s infamous iron ore train. Our unconventional 700km journey took us right through the Sahara to reach the coast, where we were hoping to find a place of forgotten shipwrecks and unknown surf.

I have always been enthralled by the idea of train hopping and have a particular fascination with the Sahara Desert. As I began researching this unique country, I became even more intrigued. Not many people travel in this part of the world and even fewer have even heard of Mauritania — quite astounding considering that its territory is twice the size of France and takes up a large portion of north western Africa.

Our journey began in the capital of Nouakchott, from where I travelled north with a surfer to hop on the Mauritania Railway. We planned to ride the 2.5km long train from a small town called Choum, located south of the iron mine in Zouerat, toward the port of Nouadhibou on the Atlantic coast. My aim was to try and capture the spirit of adventure and exploration as we passed through this incredible desolate landscape.

For me, adventure is not about the destination, but about the challenges, hardship and inevitable beauty in the process of getting there.

From Nouakchott we worked our way through the interior, on what can barely be described as roads. On one particular day the weather conditions take a turn for the worse and a desert sandstorm begins to form on the horizon. I had stopped to take some photographs and before we knew it, the wind picked up considerably and it started to rain.

Within minutes, the sky darkens and the winds increase to what we guess is around 150km/hr. The stinging and blowing of the sand act as sandpaper and is so intense that I feel like my exposed skin is starting to come off.

We quickly find ourselves pinned to the side of our truck, as we try to find some shelter and reprieve. When the wind dies down and we are finally able to climb back inside the truck there are pieces of shattered glass everywhere. Our back window has completely imploded and the interior is soaked. Our guide, who had been waiting for us in the back seat, has cuts all over his body from the glass. As the storm settles we resumed our journey north through the desert, anxious to find the next unexpected turn of events. 

When we finally reach Choum, we are told that the train usually passes through sometime in the late afternoon. As we settle in and wait in the dirt by the tracks, a few families showed up with their goats and boxes of various goods. The kids run around while the parents make dinner and tea on small fires. As the light of the day descends and the sun dips below the horizon we resolved to try to get some sleep. When the train finally arrives, it is six hours late and long after midnight. We grab our gear and wait for the train to slow but it doesn’t actually stop. We run alongside the cars carrying the iron ore, illuminating the ground ahead with our headlamps.

We have no idea how much time we have to get on so we quickly pick a car and climbed up one of the ladders, throwing our gear and ourselves into it as fast as possible. With no warning the train picks up speed again.

We try to get a sense of our surroundings but end up creating a makeshift bed to try and get some sleep on the heaped mounds of jagged iron ore that fill our car. During the night, the desert temperatures drop dramatically and I put on all the clothes I have to try and get a little sleep. Any kind of rest is difficult not only because the train is incredibly loud, but because its huge length means that whenever it increases or decreases speed the cars hammer together violently.

Dawn brings with it the realization that the dust from the iron ore has seeped into all of our clothing, staining everything a rusty red hue. The abrasive dust gets everywhere, so we wear ski goggles to protect our eyes and wrap scarves around our heads to prevent us from breathing it in.

As the sun gives us warmth, we look out across the vast Sahara desert taking in the endless sand and arid plains. Relentless winds have endlessly recast the undulating dunes of the interior leaving a stark beauty.

The Mauritania Railway serves not only as the sole connection between remote locations and the country’s only major shipping port, Nouadhibou, but as free transport for locals seeking to travel from isolated communities to the coast. The hours pass slowly and the temperatures rise inexorably to become a blistering, sweltering heat. In some ways, there is little to see along the way except a few very small homes and dead camels wasting away beside the tracks.

Eventually we reach the coast and pull into Nouadhibou station, where we head out in search of unknown surf and a huge cemetery of lost shipwrecks. There are land mines peppering the landscape here, so access to the coast is a delicate task. In recent years, many of the shipwrecks have been dismantled and sold for their metal but there are still some fascinating rusting ship skeletons to be found.
 

From the shipwreck graveyards my curiosity leads me to spend time with the Imraguen fishermen in Banc d’Arguin National Park. It is a world heritage site because of its natural resources and fisheries. The Imraguen people have maintained their age-old lifestyles, based almost exclusively on harvesting the migratory fish populations using traditional sailboats. 

The Imraguen fishermen still use traditional techniques that are unchanged since they were first recorded by 15th century Portuguese explorers.

One thing that shocks me is that the fishermen cannot swim. The night I arrive in their village, locals tell me that one of fishermen has fallen from his boat and is believed to have drowned. The next day we help the community look for his body but it is never found. It seems incredible to me that these people live their whole lives by the sea and spend every day fishing, yet still do not know how to swim, almost as though cultural superstition prevents them from wanting to learn.

As my journey comes to an end I reflect on our experiences. I realize that this adventure has been one of those rare times in life when the expectations of your dreams and reality converge, and your adventures play out even better than you imagined.
 

THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED ON MAPTIA.

JODY MACDONALD

Jody MacDonald is an adventure sport, expedition and documentary-style photographer searching for adventure in the remote corners of the planet.