How does a virus take over a community? Slowly. Perniciously. Inconclusively. The first line of attack is not an aching body or a runny nose but an unease that seeps into every corner of life, and which is impossible to explain away because it is reasonable, even necessary. You must listen to this fear. You must calibrate your responses correctly. Otherwise, you are irresponsible, you are careless; in the body of the community, you are a failing organ.
Here in Singapore, we are perched awkwardly on the edge of the coronavirus crisis zone. As of this writing, ninety-two people on the island are known to have contracted the COVID-19 virus. First, it was travellers who’d been to the Chinese city of Wuhan, the epicenter of the outbreak, but gradually the disease seeped into the community and began to spread. So far, no one in Singapore has died of the disease.
But fear, it turns out, is also a virus. A low-level fright of this little-understood malady has taken hold in the international school where my children spend their days, and in the sprawling condominium complex where we live, along with a mix of Singaporean families and foreigners. This fear has the uncanny power to force out the uncomfortable questions that usually lurk unspoken in the communities it invades. You start out talking about the virus and end up picking apart parenting styles or foreign relations.
The virus has become a little-understood variable in a sort of living laboratory experiment in extreme urban and social management. Singapore is home to a diverse population of 5.7 million, of whom nearly two million, like our family, have come to live or work here temporarily. Virtually every aspect of life here, from public-transport routes to political discourse, is carefully controlled by the government.
The normal rhythms of the city are now punctuated by incessant virus-related announcements: emergency e-mails, stern notices on the bulletin board, and urgent WhatsApp messages from the government. Two more cases confirmed. School assemblies suspended. If you’ve been to mainland China in the past two weeks, stay home from school, church, and everything else. It’s worse than SARS. Don’t panic.
The frustrating truth is that we don’t know what we’re living through. Scientists are still scrambling to understand the fundamental facts about coronavirus, such as how it spreads and the length of its incubation period. In the absence of knowledge, we check constantly to see what everyone else is doing, having conversations that only lead to more uncertainty and judgment. In social circles that are preoccupied with family and schools, the coronavirus has become a microcosm of parenting itself: a crisis that compresses all the unease and distrust and self-doubt that lurk around the edges of child rearing into a slow-motion emergency that demands we all collaborate and follow orders.
One morning, while my husband walked the kids out to the bus stop, I opened an e-mail from the school. It was a long message and, as I read, I set down my coffee. I had the sensation of vertigo, like I was tipping face first into my laptop screen.
One of the teaching assistants in the Chinese-language program was a Wuhan native. His parents, who had come to visit over the Chinese New Year, had tested positive for the coronavirus. Happily, they were in stable condition, and the teacher himself did not appear to have the virus, but, then again, the long incubation period made it too soon to know for sure whether he’d been infected. His parents had been staying with him as he went back and forth to school. He’d been in the classroom and had performed in the Chinese New Year staff concert.
If you want to overwhelm a communications network, here’s a good trick: compose an e-mail to thousands of Type A parents announcing that the deadly virus splashed all over the headlines has perhaps infiltrated their children’s school. Press Send just as school buses are heading off into morning traffic.
“Good morning.” That was the first text from one of the second-grade moms: an opening line so barren of exclamation marks and emojis that, on a normal morning, it would imply a grave misdeed on the part of my child. “Saw the email?” she continued. We texted back and forth, and meanwhile I was texting with other parents and with two friends who are doctors in the United States.
“It’s not very deadly,” my friend, who is a research doctor, wrote. “Though it does seem to be serious.”
“Honestly, it’s less severe than influenza,” my emergency-room-doctor friend wrote. “Even if your kids get it they’ll be fine.”
Here in Singapore, one mom was wondering whether the cafeteria food might be contaminated; another was taking pictures of the classroom where the teaching assistant had worked with the children. These calm assessments from America rendered all of that, somehow, ridiculous. I informed the first mom who’d texted that I knew a doctor who said we shouldn’t worry. She replied that she’d also spoken with a doctor and had been told not to worry.
At that point, I assumed we’d reached a consensus. But just then she abruptly announced that her husband was headed to school to pick up their kid. “We’re not comfortable,” she wrote. “I understand,” I replied. Our fragile alliance had fractured, somehow, along lines that had to do with our tolerance for risk. We would not text each other for the rest of the week, while she kept her son at home and I sent mine to school.
If the virus is toying with our parental neuroses, it’s also poking at the sensitive spots of nations. In Hong Kong, where pro-democracy demonstrations have raged for most of the past year, the local government’s refusal to seal off crossings to the mainland was decried as yet another failure to protect the territory from the menace of Beijing.
Here in Singapore, too, the virus dredged up some of the tensions lurking under the veneer of communal harmony. Three-quarters of the city is ethnically Chinese, and there are significant minorities of Indians and indigenous Malays. The city is also home to tens of thousands of residents from mainland China. Relations among these groups have been carefully smoothed by the government, which recognizes four official languages, enforces ethnic quotas on public-housing blocks, and criminalizes any action, including speech, that could undermine racial or religious harmony. Now, though, coronavirus has become an excuse for some landlords, who have tried to seize on travel and quarantine guidelines to evict mainland tenants from their buildings.
“Such actions are not helpful and they have no place in our society,” Lawrence Wong, the national-development minister, scolded in a speech to parliament. “I hope that every Singaporean will stand together and we will all do our part to confront and condemn such prejudice and discrimination.”
In the middle of all this, some friends from Hong Kong came to town; my husband and I planned to meet them for dinner. The night before, one of them texted to warn us that she’d been in mainland China. Unprompted, she offered up the exact dates of her travel, cities visited, and airlines flown. Both she and her husband felt fine but, if we wanted to cancel, they’d understand.
