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JOURNAL of the PLAGUE YEAR, 2020
AFTER DANIEL DEFOE, 1722 by Writers and Artists Worldwide
Italy The subject of masks, medical face masks, had been on everyone's lips in Italy for quite a few weeks, ever since that poor patient zero had been infected by the Covid-19 mid-Feb. In a town in northern Italy near Milan, a city I'd lived in and around for 20 years before moving south 9 years ago where my Italian husband is from. I'm from Minneapolis. We live in the countryside where my painting studio is. I work as a translator and singer-songwriter in an alt rock/post-punk band. My husband, prod. manager for an Italian contemporary classic pianist had just been on tour in Australia and Singapore, seemingly outrunning the virus by coming back to Italy. We were dead wrong. 7 weeks of lockdown later: 100,943.00 people have been infected. We're already living isolated in nature. We're lucky. Georgeanne Kalweit
Panama City, Panama It’s Day 15 of the government-imposed quarantine. The streets are quiet at 6:30pm. The usual bumper to bumper traffic and cacophony on Calle Cincuenta is reduced to the sound of crows cawing and the occasional car barreling down the hill. We are only allowed out for 2 hours a day based on the last number of your ID and your gender. Women are allowed to go out on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Men on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. If your ID number ends in 9 like mine, you’re allowed to go out from 8:30-10:30. As the body count rises, more people are taking the virus seriously. Ten days ago, you’d see people stocking up on food, toilet paper, bleach, hand sanitizer and rubbing alcohol. Unbeknownst to them, for most, it would be their last paycheck. Fear has gripped this city, the fear is no longer based on the dead count caused by the virus. The fear is caused by the certainty of violence. You can feel it in the quiet night, a seething, bubbling thing, a thing you can’t put your finger on, but you can feel it. The poor do not fear the virus. They fear hunger. They fear that we have bought all the toilet paper and we have a stash of masks. They bang pans and pots in the distance as a warning of coming violence. Cops rush in and ignore the looting of the little store and focus their efforts on the one supermarket in the area. The supermarket owners arrive with boards and nails and start covering their doors and windows. Onlookers on the balconies of the buildings across the street scream that the minute the cops leave they’re going to storm the store. Nothing has happened yet, but it’s going to. The feeling is electric. Our president has ordered 15 million US dollars in bullets. He has ordered 50 million dollars to be distributed amongst the population of 4 million people, about $12.50 per person. The poor do not fear the virus. Their motto is "the virus is God’s punishment on the rich and we are protected by the blood of Christ." The air is thick with the smell of sweet mangoes and jasmine. In the distance a few pots are rattling, and occasional shouts are heard from far away. This is the feeling the plantation owners must have had when they knew the slaves were restless. Businessmen have armed themselves and their employees with Israeli submachine guns and have unspoken orders to shoot anyone who looks poor. The good neighborhoods have hired armed guards. Our inherited colonial outlook will force us to force those people back to their place, back to their margins, and will force them to loot for food and supplies. This is Central America, and we have a history of shooting our rioters without impunity. We will soak our streets and our marble tiled and gold gilded lobbies in blood to prevent the encroachment of the poor and needy. The rich and the middle class are angry and on edge because of the certainty of these riots. The word 'savages' has crept into their vocabulary. Once this word is used, it gives them the moral obligation to put the savages in their cages. To hurt and beat the savages back to where they belong. I hope this does not happen. We’ve not even peaked in our number of plague cases. The economic reverberations of this plague will be felt for years, and the scars from these riots won’t heal. Nicolas (aka Dimitri) Vorvolakos
OPEN CALL: WRITERS + ARTISTS! Our Journal of the Plague Year 2020 Invites You To Submit Your Words to Be Presented Worldwide. Submission Information: Click Here
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