These In-Between Times

Since June 19th, Schuylkill County has entered the green phase. Restaurants and bars are open—to 50% capacity. If you’ve planned a wedding, a big party, the green phase is your green light—if no more than 250 guests are involved.

In France, since June 15th, restaurants and cafés have reopened as long as a distance of one meter is respected between tables (in pre-corona times, in Parisian restaurants, it was not uncommon to rub elbows with diners at the next table). There are no paper menus, though, and servers must wear masks.

On June 22nd, French theaters reopened, along with casinos and vacation centers. On July 11th, sports fans will be able return to stadiums. France’s national stadium, Stade de France, can hold over 81,000 spectators but will be limited to a maximum crowd of 5,000 until further notice.

On June 22nd, the number of known cases of covid-19 in Pennsylvania was 86,024; the number of deaths, 6,472. On that same date in France, there were 160,377 recorded cases and 29,640 deaths. In the world, cases are on the rise.

In both Pennsylvania and France, a timid “return to normal” is underway. But after months of quarantine, “normal” feels like a shoe that doesn’t fit, and nobody’s feeling sure-footed these days.

In mid-May, watching the French evening news, I was surprised to see the state capitol building in Harrisburg. Anti-lockdown protesters were out in force to contest the measures put in place by Governor Tom Wolf. I saw lots of angry people and even some floats, one proclaiming that Jesus was on the side of protestors fighting for “liberty.”

In France and, I imagine, even in Pennsylvania, few have that kind of faith. Without a vaccine, we’re condemned to living with an invisible enemy; and common sense dictates that it’s best to play it safe. The Golden Rule as well. Not only must I protect myself; I must look out for others—because that’s what I’d like them to do for me.

The Golden Rule has come under attack in our individualistic times. What I want may not be what you want. In my village in France, there are people who scoff at the virus and consider our long confinement a government conspiracy. These are the people who greet their friends with a kiss on both cheeks and refuse to wear masks except where one is required: in hospitals, public transportation, or a doctor’s waiting room.

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you? Some of those same villagers who doubt the existence of covid-19 want me to kiss them when we meet! Instead, I take a precautionary step back. This they interpret as a betrayal of friendship. In my mind, I’m being a good friend by protecting both myself and them.

In France, in pre-corona times, nothing was more natural than greeting others with a peck on each cheek. In the past, at social gatherings, I watched people circle a room to bestow kisses on the cheeks of every guest, even on the ones of total strangers. Poised between horror and admiration, I looked on. This is one French custom I’ve never mastered.

For the moment, the French feel bereft. They miss their kissing ritual. They need to touch. Avoid kissing! Avoid touching! We hear it all day long on radio and TV. It’s for our own good, public service announcements tell us, just like masks, handwashing, and sneezing or coughing into a raised elbow. But the French are not Americans. “Hi.” “Bye.” Those casual American greetings just don’t do it for them.

Every year on June 21st, since 1981—next year the 40th anniversary, the French celebrate “la Fête de la musique.” This year it was more virtual than real. In the past, there were giant concerts, all free, and bals populaires, street dances, with every kind of music under the sun. This year, there could be no more than ten dancers on the dance floor at any one time.

As for the impromptu concerts on street corners that used to make this night the noisiest of the year, amateur musicians were invited to stay home and celebrate on-line, following the example of electronic music pioneer Jean-Michel Jarre. At 9:30 in the evening French time, on June 21st, he presented a virtual concert “Seuls ensemble,” Alone Together, to fans around the world.

When will it again become possible to spill into the streets, celebrate cheek to cheek, hip to hip, as we dance the night away? Who wants to? Surely, the young, who are being deprived of the rituals of youth. In France, discothèques and clubs remain closed until September and even then, there will be strict rules to respect.

Yesterday, on the other side of a high stone wall that separates my garden from a neighbor’s, I could hear—and smell—celebration, the volleying of a birdie, an animated game of badminton, friends calling out, encouraging each other, the smell of meat on the grill. My neighbor has a big garden, you could almost call it a park. I was listening to an “in-between times” celebration, outside but in a confined space, among friends, on a perfect summer day.

Watch any toddler. It’s not easy to learn to walk. Nor is it easy to break in a new pair of shoes. Myself, I’m having a hard time learning to make my way in this post-quarantine world. I’m not ready to greet with a kiss. Even though cinemas are open, I won’t buy a ticket and go inside. I don’t even feel like going out to eat, one of my great pleasures in life.

A book, a glass of wine, and thou, to do a riff on the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. Add a walk through the woods, a nice homemade meal, I’d feel more than satisfied with that.

But “that” is not enough. We need people, crowds, gatherings in stadiums, auditoriums, music, concerts we share in the flesh. We need to feel the excitement, share the goosebumps. We need patience. Now is not the time.

These in-between times represent a disturbing challenge we all have to meet as we cautiously advance into a future unknown, as we remain at all times mindful of the welfare of all.

Coronavirus Time

While I was still teaching at Université Paris 8, located outside of Paris in the suburban town of Saint-Denis, at the end of class I’d day, “See you next week.” And I’d often add, “Inch Allah.”

In a town where today about 40% of the population is Muslim, this would make students smile. Yes, we’d see each other next week, God willing, but so much could happen between now and then! We could step into the street and get hit by a car, hop on a flight to Tahiti, or come down with the flu. But then, one week later, we were all back again.

That was 2019. In 2020, who knows what’s next? Since the beginning of this year, how many plans out the window, how many trips cancelled, how many tragedies, how many deaths?

Decidedly, the future is no longer the future, at least not in the pat way we used to think about it: We did the planning; the future conformed to us.

In France, we are gradually moving out of confinement. A week ago hotels reopened. On June 2nd, the French will once again be sitting at sidewalk cafés. Most businesses are open. Masks and dispensers of hand sanitizer are everywhere.

Yet—and this is a big yet—the future remains uncertain. Somehow we’ve been humbled, deprived of that illusory mastery of future events we took almost for granted when we used to look a day, a week, a year down the road.

Confinement has given me a lot of time to think about this and as it comes to an end, rather than rush out for a haircut or a new pair of shoes, I head to my garden. That’s where my new future is taking place.

At the end of March, when greenhouses and garden stores were closed, I went to the local supermarket and stocked up on seeds: tomato, cucumber, watermelon, zucchini, radish, pumpkin, eggplant, hot pepper, lettuce and red beet. I had a plan. I was going to take all the little plastic pots I’d saved from previous years when I bought young plants in a greenhouse and this year start my own.

I’d never done this before and I planted my seeds with great care, taking my time, doing things as best I knew how. Soon I had dozens of small pots, each one carefully marked with the name of the plant I hoped would grow.

The dining area in my kitchen, bright and warm, became my green house. The little courtyard outside, the daytime home to my pots. Each evening, after watering, I carried them back inside. And I watched and waited, ardently hoping for future plants I could put into the earth.

Lettuce came quickly, almost too quickly. I had sown the seeds in a planter and the young sprouts were battling for space and light. As temperatures rose in mid-April, I went ahead and separated the plants, transplanting nine of them to my strawberry bed. On a gardening site on-line, I’d read that strawberries and lettuce enjoy each other’s company. I also seeded rows of radishes to form a border around the strawberry plants.

Soon, they were covered with white flowers, future red sweet strawberries. Yes, the presence of lettuce did them good, and in a matter of days, the radishes were sprouting! Much sooner than I imagined, I’d be savoring the rewards of my hard work.

Then one morning I went outside and the lettuce plants were either wilted or gone, all nine of them. The radishes that had so quickly grown plump and red, were reduced to a thin strip of white. Gone, all gone, my plans for an early harvest down the drain.

At first I blamed slugs and snails, major enemies, but stepping gingerly among the strawberry plants, my foot sunk into the ground. A hole opened, an underground gallery. The enemy was neither snail nor slug. It was something else.

I know about moles. I live with them. My garden is mined by them and I’ve come to appreciate the soil they turn up while burrowing. Every time I see a molehill, I attack it with a trowel, removing the topsoil and transferring it to my vegetable patch. I know those moles are destructive, but I let them work for me. And I know how to distinguish between a molehill and…something else.

Then one evening, looking from my bedroom window into the courtyard where, because of a nighttime rise in temperatures, my plants were “sleeping” outside, everything having sprouted according to plan, all doing well, I saw a little creature, brown, furry, and cute. It looked like a cross between a mouse and a hamster. It was a campagnol. I looked up its name in English: a vole. The word meant nothing to me, but the definition sent chills down my spine: a field mouse, highly destructive to crops.

Nine heads of lettuce, my radishes, not bad for one night’s work.

I next set about trying to find means to combat it. Mine is an organic garden. I wanted no poison and I feel queasy about traps. I found a solution, on-line once again. I put long metal poles in the ground each time I came across a hole. On top of the pole, I placed an empty bottle of mineral water. The critters have very sensitive ears. The wind shakes the bottles and the clatter resonates in the ground. This is enough to make them move somewhere else.

They also can’t stand the smell of elder. I scoured the countryside for elderberry bushes and brought some branches home, along with bags of ferns—to keep away the snails.

Today the pots are no longer in my courtyard. The plants are in the ground! All those seeds I bought two months ago have “grown up.” I have 17 tomato plants and for the moment, they are doing very well.

The eggplant and hot peppers are in wooden planters in the courtyard—they would not appreciate the east wind that sweeps across the garden. Only one (so far) of my potimarron, a French pumpkin with a chestnut taste, has been eaten by a campagnol. And my strawberries are red and delicious—the fern branches spread around the plants seem to keep snails and slugs away.

At the end of summer, will I have a harvest? Inch Allah! Coronavirus and my garden have humbled me. I’ll keep working hard. As for the future, who knows?

Out of Lockdown: On se déconfine

My favorite poet is Emily Dickinson and confinement has made me feel closer to her. She was a recluse, never leaving her father’s home, where she lived till her death. She gardened, wrote, walked her dog at night, and baked bread and cakes. Except for the dog part, it sounds a lot like the life I’ve led these past two months. In many ways, it’s been a good life, contemplative and relaxed. I’ve followed an inner rhythm and lived at a slower pace, which can only be good for a hyperactive person like me.

But I’m one of the fortunate ones. I have not lost my job, I never go hungry, my French health insurance never lets me down. Though I live modestly, I sit on a cushion of security that most Americans lack. It is not hard to understand why many are ready to get back to work—while risking their lives.

Which brings me to the heart of the matter: on May 11th, lockdown came to an end in France. After 55 days of restricted freedom and more than 26,000 deaths, the French are going back to work and school and discovering that ending confinement may be even harder than putting it into place.

At the time I write, Schuylkill Countians have not yet attained the degree of freedom that today is mine. You are still under a stay-at-home order. Schools are closed; strict social distancing is required (though, some county residents tell me, too many people are taking their cue from President Trump, refusing to wear a mask). Governor Wolf has put in place a three-color system, red, yellow, and green. Residents of northwestern Pennsylvania can move around more freely because their region has been declared “yellow.” No county has yet been given the “green light” to fully lift the stay-at-home order.

Even as confinement comes to an end, the map of France is splashed with green and red. In red regions, such as Paris and its suburbs or large parts of eastern France, parks remain closed though many retail stores have reopened. In the Paris region, affidavits are required to use public transportation at rush hour: you must be able to prove you are on your way to work. Otherwise, commuters risk a 135 € fine.

In green regions such as mine, we no longer fill out an affidavit each time we step outside, but that does not mean we are free to come and go as we please. We can travel 100 kilometers (62 miles) from home, but if we go further, we must have a good reason: a medical or family emergency. Even those of us who might want to go for a 100-km ride just to see a bit of countryside must carry some proof, such as an electrical bill, of where we live. Otherwise, we’ll end up with one of those 135 € fines.

The 100-km limit was partly chosen to keep Parisians close to home. Like New York City in the United States, Paris has been the epicenter of the coronavirus pandemic in France. On what used to be a “normal” workday commuters streamed into the city from as far as 100 kilometers away. Now that we are no longer under a stay-at-home order, workers can return to the city, but Parisians cannot leave it to escape to beaches, mountains or the open countryside, much further away.

In all of France, at the supermarket, in the retails stores that opened this week, at the hairdresser, customers are not required to wear a mask—though it is highly recommended. Employees, hairdressers, store-owners will be wearing one themselves. The problem is, there are simply not enough masks to go around. The Parisian metro system and the national rail company SNCF, however, do require them: no mask, no ride.

In hopes of buying a box of 50 disposable surgical masks for 25 € at the local supermarket, residents of my region must first register online. They will receive an email when the masks are available and they must reconfirm their order. Then they will be given a pick-up time. If they miss it, their masks will be sold to someone else and they’ll have to start the process all over again.

I myself have opted for cloth masks. A woman in my village makes and sells them for 5 € a piece. Across France, some municipalities distribute free disposable masks; others hand out a cloth mask, one per person. For the moment, free masks are being distributed in the underground corridors of the Parisian metro. From May 13th onwards, those without one will receive—yes—a 135€ fine.

Masks, masks, masks! They are now part of our lives, as are hand-sanitizer and social distancing, not always easy to respect. This morning I went to the local recycling center, open for the past week. I had packed my car with a winter’s worth of yard debris, including the branches of a very prickly rose bush. Emptying my bags into a deep bin, I dropped one. To get it out (no bags allowed in the bin!), I got pretty intimate with the man standing next to me. I was wearing a mask. He was not.

Here in France, we’re stepping out after a period of highly restricted freedom of movement. It feels strange, in some ways good, some ways bad. It feels good to no longer fill out a paper each time I go outside. Yet, on the downside, the invisible predator is still lurking everywhere. We have almost daily examples of new “virus clusters” (the French have adopted the English word) in places where people have let down their guard.

Cafés and restaurants remain closed at least until June 2nd. In Paris, outside gatherings that involve alcohol have been banned. We are all called upon to be cautious because a second wave of the virus may be just around the corner and health workers have hardly recovered from the first. It has now become our duty to protect them by protecting ourselves as we “déconfine,” a new word in French, invented especially for the occasion.

In a couple of weeks, we’ll know more. Readers, I’ve had a head start on you and I’ll soon let you know how my “déconfinement” is going.

Coronavirus, Grandparents, and Nursing Homes

My grandmother was picture-perfect. She looked like a grandmother from a story book. Her hair was white, held back in a bun, and she wore wire-rimmed spectacles. That was her word. Whenever she misplaced them, she said, “Now where are my spectacles.” She wore cotton dresses with a floral print, that zipped up the front. On her feet, she wore what we called “old-lady shoes,” round-toed black oxfords with a heel.

I have few memories of my grandmother walking. Mostly she sat, to hold us or watch TV. She liked wrestling and her favorite wrestler was “Haystack Calhoun.” When she offered us candy, she gave us chalky mint lozenges or horehound drops. Both were a disappointment, but we enjoyed seeing her go to the server, open a cupboard, and then take out her glass candy dish.

My grandfather dressed the part of an elderly gentleman. When he walked from Greenwood Hill to the liquor store in downtown Pottsville, located at that time on North Centre Street, besides wearing wire-rimmed spectacles, he put on a suit and tie and on his head, a bowler hat. At the liquor store, which in those days was little more than a counter where customers placed their order, choosing from a fixed-price catalogue, he bought a gallon of Manischewitz Concord Grape.

He carried it home and into the kitchen, where he sat at the table and drank his wine from a Cheez Wiz glass. When my grandmother complained he was overdoing it, he had his set reply: “Christ too was a winebibber.” If it was good enough for the Lord, then no one, not even my grandmother, had the right to criticize.

My grandparents lived with us, or rather, we all shared an apartment house, my family on the ground floor, my grandparents upstairs. My father bought that house in 1960 so we could all be together under one roof.

My grandfather died at home a year after we moved in. He was “senile” as we said in those days and his hobby was hammering nails into anything made of wood, doorframes, doors, his bed, his dresser, a chest of drawers, anything! We children watched. He took his work seriously, but we laughed behind his back.

When my grandmother died in 1964, for the first time, I saw my father cry.

My picture-perfect paternal grandparents died at a time when, in Schuylkill County, there were no assisted-living facilities or nursing homes. The closest thing we had was Rest Haven, two old buildings sitting atop a hill in Schuylkill Haven. It was for poor people. It was not for people like us.

I never knew my maternal grandparents. My mother was raised by her grandmother and aunt. Of her grandmother, my mother exclaimed, “She was a tartar!” Without knowing exactly what the word meant, we understood no one stepped on our great-grandmother’s toes.

No one stepped on our mother’s either. She too was a tartar, a person given to a violent temper, who could prove to be unexpectedly formidable—that’s what Merriam Webster has to say.

By the time my mother was up in years and starting to go downhill, Schuylkill County had its fair share of nursing homes and assisted living facilities, a term that first came into use in 1966, two years after my grandmother died at home. Our mother wanted nothing to do with assisted living. She wanted to stay in her home, but she did not want to share. No one was going to get a foot in her door, unless of course it was one of her three daughters.

In 2010, when my mother started falling and forgetting on a regular basis, I lived in France and my two sisters were raising their families while working full-time. We were not ready to move back home, but we found alternate solutions, other people ready and willing to live with her. My mother’s response: If it’s not one of you, the answer is “no.”

In the fall of 2010, she moved into Providence Place, located on the other side of the woods behind her home. In 2012, she died in Rest Haven. I was at her side.

This is a painful story, one that stirs up doubt and guilt, and I stick to the bare facts. My sisters and I did our best, but we wish we would have known how to do better.

I evoke this story today because of what is happening in nursing homes all over Europe and the United States. Covid-19 is spreading rapidly within these closed and often poorly equipped communities. Betsy McCaughey, a former lieutenant governor of New York, claims the virus has transformed nursing homes into “death pits.” Horror stories abound on both sides of the Atlantic.

In France, where we are living under a strict lockdown regime, deaths in nursing homes account for nearly half the victims of Covid-19, and nursing home residents have been dying alone, cut off from their families. As they approach death, they cannot be accompanied by their loved ones nor by priest, pastor, imam or rabbi. Funerals are postponed till a “later date.” The dead go alone to the grave.

Lockdown or “confinement” began in France on March 17th. On April 20th, visits to healthy family members in nursing homes were once again authorized. On May 11th, we will begin to gradually emerge from lockdown. In two short months, France will have changed. Practices as old as civilization itself will have been disrupted: accompanying the dying, accompanying the dead.

Today I imagine the pain and utter despair of all those whose parents or loved ones have died of Covid-19 in nursing homes. “Death pits,” “slaughterhouses,” how can anyone be at peace hearing such words? How can the families of victims come to terms with the death of a loved one?

Like me, many were simply trying to do their best. How could they imagine what is happening now? Who could have helped them to “do better”?

Once again, coronavirus has turned the world upside-down, downside-up. We live in a society that idolizes the young and the new. The old we prefer to forget, and we’re all too ready to overlook the underpaid workers who take care of them.

After the pandemic, there will be no “getting back to normal.” “Normal” as we knew it is dead. In the post-pandemic world, one thing is certain: we’ll sure have a lot to think about.

The Three Musketeers in These Coronavirus Times

In March 1844, readers of a French newspaper called “Le Siècle,” The Century, discovered the first episode of a serialized novel that went on to become a blockbuster worldwide. In the first chapter they met a young nobleman named d’Artagnan whose ancient but impoverished family lived in a crumbling castle in Gascogne, closer to Spain than to the faraway capital of the Kingdom of France.

In that first chapter, d’Artagnan sets off on a cob horse for Paris, hoping to make his fortune as a musketeer of King Louis XIII. By the time he reaches the outskirts of the capital, he is on foot, with only enough money to rent a room in a garret not far from the Latin Quarter. The first time he steps outside, he literally bumps into the three musketeers. Young d’Artagnan begins by challenging them to a swordfight. Before it’s over, Athos, Porthos and Aramis, the three musketeers, and d’Artagnan have vowed to remain friends for life.

“All for one and one for all!” We all know the line and in one form or another, we know the story. Since 1844, The Three Musketeers by French novelist Alexandre Dumas has been translated throughout the world and adapted to stage and screen right into the 21st century.

“All for one and one for all!” Now there’s a motto that resonates in these coronavirus times. Another motto that comes to mind is E pluribus unum, “Out of many, one.” It dates back to the first days of American independence and appropriately, this 13-letter motto engraved on the first great seal of the United States expressed faith in the new nation born of the original 13 colonies.

In 1831, while on a mission to the United States to study the American prison system, Alexis de Toqueville, a French philosopher and political thinker, devoted most of his time to observing American society instead. The result was the two-volume study Democracy in America. One of his observations was “there’s nothing less independent than a free citizen.”

That may sound strange to the ears of a people who fought a war for independence in order to become free citizens of the United States. Yet, if we reflect upon de Tocqueville’s words, we understand that freedom is synonymous with responsibility. “All for one and one for all,” as the three musketeers would say. We’re only as strong as the weakest among us and we are responsible for each other’s care.

As the number of cases of coronavirus rises throughout the United States, as in France, health workers fight not only the virus but their own exhaustion after weeks on the job, the time may have come to think about what it means to exercise our freedom collectively.

This is what we do when we respect the rules of social distancing. We protect ourselves and most importantly, we protect others. In France, every evening at 8PM, many open their windows to applaud doctors and nurses working to save lives. Those same doctors and nurses would like their fellow citizens to applaud less and respect “confinement” more. With warm spring days upon us, too many forget and step outside, crowding city streets.

And while some of us stay home, others are at work. At the end of an interview with a doctor in a Parisian hospital overflowing with cases of Covid-19, just as the newscaster was about to sign off, the doctor asked if he could say a word more. He wanted to thank the cleaning staff of his hospital. Every day they were on the job, working in a dangerous environment with little protection. Without them work in the hospital could not go on.

Nor could we do our shopping for food without the checkers and grocery stockers working in supermarkets. Right now, more than ever we need the drivers of delivery trucks, the behind-the-scenes workers filling on-line orders, farmers producing our food and all those working in factories so we can procure the basic necessities of daily life.

All of them are free citizens working collectively, exposing themselves to danger, and doing it for us.

With the arrival of coronavirus, we’ve entered a new world and what awaits us on the other side of the pandemic, nobody can say for sure. Yet societies in Western Europe and the United States have somehow been turned upside down—and especially downside up.

Not so very long ago, French President Emmanuel Macron was calling for a “startup nation,” a nation of independent entrepreneurs with little need of government in their lives. He turned a deaf ear to the demands of the nation’s public hospital system and to its underpaid staff. Now, that public hospital system has become the backbone of the nation. Doctors, nurses and aids work tirelessly, and without them France would fall apart.

France is a highly centralized country, where the president makes decisions for the nation. The United States is a federation, where states retain certain rights. In times of crisis, however, governors look to the President for guidance. At this time, the President of the United States seems to be looking out for Number-One—not the nation, but himself.

“All for one and one for all!” Captain Brett Crozier, the former captain of the aircraft carrier "Theodore Roosevelt," understood those words when coronavirus swept through his ship and his first thoughts were for his men. For that, he lost his job. As did last Friday, April 3rd, Michael Atkinson, the inspector general of the intelligence community, who told Congress about the Ukraine whistle-blower complaint that lead to the impeachment hearings of President Trump. Mr. Atkinson’s main concerns were the common good and the truth.

It’s not about you, Mr. President. It’s not about me. It’s about us all, free citizens who, in a time of deep worldwide crisis, must learn that our freedom is dependent on the wellbeing of each and every one of us: “All for one and one for all!”

Listening to Mother Teresa during Lockdown in France and the USA

Because of the coronavirus pandemic, I am sitting at home, in “confinement,” the term employed by the French. It’s been almost two weeks and I’ll admit staying inside does not weigh heavy on me. I have a garden; I spend time there each day. I’d like to go for a long walk, but walking outside for pleasure, initially authorized, has been scratched off the list of things we can do. Too many people were rushing to parks and woodland paths. The crowded beaches of Brittany and the Riviera made it look like France was on holiday. The government put a stop to that.

Now we are limited to shopping for food or medicine, helping family members in distress and going to work if we have a certificate from our employer. We can also walk or exercise outside for an hour each day, remaining within a one-kilometer perimeter from home. Day by day, the physical boundaries of our lives shrink a bit more. At the time I write, there is serious talk of extending our “confinement” to 60 days.

As for journalism, all over the world, the corona virus, like a greedy pacman, has gobbled up all other topics, an unfortunate side effect of the disease.

But I think I’ve found a way to tell you about my recent trip to Calcutta (Kolkata), India. While in that teeming, vibrant city, my friend Sarah and I visited the mother house of the Missionaries of Charity, founded by Mother Teresa, at 54A A. J. Bose Road, a building that would look like a warehouse if it were not for the shutters on the windows to keep out the heat. From our hotel, Sarah and I walked there along Ripon Street through a busy Muslim neighborhood bustling with street vendors.

The mother house is spartan and clean. Visitors can view the simple room where Mother Teresa slept or enter the chapel, home to her tomb. There I sat among the sisters and other visitors in relative silence. Outside, the city roared.

Many readers remember, I’m sure, the 1995 visit of Mother Teresa to the convent of the Missionaries of Charity in Mahanoy City. When Pope Francis declared her a saint in 2016, Saint Joseph’s Church, where Mother Teresa attended mass, became the parish of Saint Teresa of Calcutta.

In Calcutta and elsewhere, Mother Teresa is a controversial figure. Some feel she gave too much importance to death over life, not providing adequate medical care to those she and her missionaries found lying in Calcutta’s streets. In her day, Indian relief organizations felt she stole the spotlight, diverting attention from their dedicated work among the poor. Still others believed one of her goals was to seek converts, turning Hindus away from their faith.

Yet, she and her missionaries gave themselves wholeheartedly to the words of Christ: I was hungry and you gave me food, thirsty and you gave me drink, homeless and you took me in. And some of the words of Mother Teresa herself could serve as stepping-stones to guide us through the current worldwide health crisis:

“Discipline is the bridge between goals and accomplishments.”

At this time, the goal is to limit the spread of Covid-19. We can only do that if we are disciplined and take lockdown seriously. We all saw the images of college students frolicking on the beaches of Florida because the governor of that state refused to close them. If politicians are not doing their jobs, then individual citizens must discipline themselves to take the steps necessary to stop the virus’s spread. Healthcare workers, cashiers in supermarkets and all those who must go to work will thank us. A great site for guidelines is provided by Johns Hopkins University: https://coronavirus.jhu.edu/

“Do not wait for leaders; do it alone, person to person.”

Currently, we are required to practice a strange kind of charity. We’re giving the most when we stay away from others, keeping a safe distance from neighbors, strangers and even family members if we ourselves are contaminated by the virus. Here in France, where Covid-19 struck earlier and peak contamination is expected in the coming week, I cannot emphasize enough how important “doing it alone” is.

Nor can we wait for leaders. In Europe, in the USA, they have reacted instead of acting. And some have profited. After a briefing on the virus on January 24th, aware of the dangers to come, some US Senators sold off stocks as President Trump told the American people, “It will all work out well.” At that time, he knew, they knew, a whole lot more than us.

“Everybody today seems to be in such a terrible rush, anxious for development and greater riches.., so that children have very little time for their parents. Parents have very little time for each other, and in the home begins the disruption of the peace of the world.”

Here Mother Teresa puts her finger on one of the true “pathologies” of our day, the rushing, not after riches, but what it takes to pay the bills; and in some families, members have more time for their phones and screens than they have for each other. Paradoxically, in lockdown, families find themselves forced to spend time together, and in cities like Paris, where public parks are closed, togetherness is more a challenge than a pleasure.

As one mother said on a call-in radio show in response to the advice of writer-adventurer Sylvain Tesson, who has spent much time alone in Siberia, “I’d love some solitude. For the moment, I’m teacher, cook and cleaning woman for a family of six and confined to a small apartment.”

Let’s just hope that the “disruption of the peace of the world” does not begin in the tight spaces where families are confined.

“It is a kindly act to assist the fallen.”

On the other side of the Covid-19 pandemic, a new world awaits us. In the US, on Friday, March 27, President Trump signed the $2 trillion coronavirus relif bill. Once again, let’s hope the banks and big business don’t take it all. Americans workers are being laid off without severance pay, families cannot pay the bills, many are going hungry and risk losing their homes, and as opposed to the French, many are without health insurance. These are certainly the people Mother Teresa would put first.

As should President Macron, as should President Trump.

While our leaders decide who gets aid, I’ll let Mother Teresa conclude:

“If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.”

Eyes Open to the World

Suddenly my world is bigger. Now it crosses continents, climates, and cultures very different from my own. I am richer for having firmly planted my feet in another part of the world.

I am standing in a palace in the Old City of Dhaka in Bangladesh. Called the Pink Palace by some, it is also known as Ahsan Manzil, “Beautiful Home.” For generations, it was the residence of the provincial governor or “nawab” of Dhaka at a time when the city was part of India and Britain’s colonial empire. This title was passed from father to son, and the ruling Khwaja family invested its personal fortune in furthering education and expanding rights for the Muslim population of what was then East Bengal.

In 1947 India gained independence from Great Britain and the new state of Pakistan was created, uniting the Muslim populations of the western and eastern regions of British India. In 1952, Ahsan Manzil was purchased by the state of Pakistan. Not until 1985, after a devastating civil war which ended in 1971 with the creation of the People’s Republic of Bangladesh, did the palace become a national museum.

As I wander through the home of former nawabs, located at the heart of a crowded, throbbing bazar, I’ll admit I’m not much impressed by the museum’s collections. There’s some furniture from the late 19th century, some silver, some porcelain and local artefacts. Frankly, I’d guess the place was ransacked long ago, the most precious pieces finding their way to museums in Paris, London or New York.

But I’m not here for the collections. I’m here to get a feel for the place. My first surprise, a moment of wonder, is the view of the Buriganga River. It enters my field of vision as I climb the steps of the Pink Palace, making my way between clusters of young men and women who talk and flirt on the steps or wander in the peaceful gardens while outside, the city roars.

This is my first view of the river, of the palm trees lining its banks, of the shallow-bottomed boats that ferry passengers from one bank to the other, of the ferries that will soon pull anchor and travel for twelve hours till they reach the sea, of trucks delivering fruits and vegetables to be sold in market stalls, of the ever-present crowds. The air is hazy, a mix of humidity and pollution.

I’ve been in Dhaka for a little more than two weeks. Upon arrival I was afraid of the crowds, the mosquitos (dengue, zika, chikungunya!), the intense, unstoppable traffic, the people looking at me. It was exotic, almost too exotic. Standing on the steps of the Pink Palace, looking out at the river, I now find the city beautiful and real. I like it here. I’ll be leaving soon but wish I could prolong my stay.

Inside the museum, I stop to look at some old books in a mahogany bookcase. I’m soon joined by a young man. This happens frequently. The people of Dhaka are curious about us “bideshi” or foreigners. He laments that the books are locked in a case. Wouldn’t it be better if people could take them out to read? He is earnest. He wants to get his hands on those books. He is hungry to learn.

I have a flashback to one year ago. I am in a classroom at the university. My students, their eyes fixed on the screen of their phones, are too busy to listen to me. What could an old fogey, deeply versed in literature and history, have to teach these tech wizards? Their agile fingers navigate between apps as they check in on friends or media stars. Compared to Kim Kardashian or a “coucou” (hi!) from a VBF, how can I compete?

Don’t get me wrong. They like facebook in Bangladesh too. High school students surround me. In a country where tourists are estimated at about 60,000 a year, they don’t meet many foreigners. They want to shake hands and take a photo. I’m sure I’ve turned up on many a Bangladeshi facebook page, yet I’m not sure I’d encounter such curiosity and eagerness to learn in Paris or New York.

At the Liberation War Museum dedicated to the memory of Bangabandhu Sheik Mujibur Rahman, the father of Bangladeshi independence, young people come up to me and speak of their love of country, of their pride in the struggle that lead to the break from West Pakistan. They have telephones, but they’re not always on them. They have eyes open to the world.

Is this one of the signs of “old fogey-ness,” blaming everything on “those cell phones”? Perhaps. And it is all too easy to idealize a place one does not know well, like all those Americans visiting Paris who decide they want to live there forever. I’m not ready to settle in Bangladesh, but I do want to return and here are some reasons why:

Young people want to learn and teachers are more important than their cell phones.

Life is hard, bone-tiring, yet people smile and even sing. From my bedroom window, I observe construction workers across the street from the home of my friend Sarah. After a long, hard, dangerous day, they rinse off with a hose, splashing and singing.

People have vitality and want to create. They create art. There’s Tiger Nazir, a painter who gives a prominent place to the Royal Bengal Tiger in his work. Or the 2019 film “Made in Bangladesh” (official trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5uCtl_2nIyU), based on the true story of women organizing a union in the sweatshops of Dhaka. They also create businesses, like Sarah’s sister Sharmeen, who is marketing her “Feisty Tiger Hot Sauce” on-line (check it out at https://www.feistytiger.com/ ). They create street food, like the many itinerant cooks who line the sidewalks of the city.

Everywhere people are busy, working hard at hard jobs, fighting for their rights, and in some cases, risking prison or even death.

There are not enough hospitals, infrastructures are lacking, too many people live in poverty, yet in terms of vitality and general good humor, Bangladesh could make a killing exporting some of its optimism to down-in-the-mouth-countries like the USA or France.

Yes, I loved my trip, and next month I’ll tell you about a connection between Schuylkill County and Calcutta, India.