There’s
been a lot of tut-tutting about the people who are overreacting to the
Ebola virus. There was the lady who showed up at the airport in a
homemade hazmat suit. There were the hundreds of parents in Mississippi
who pulled their kids from school because the principal had traveled to
Zambia, a country in southern Africa untouched by the Ebola outbreak in
the western region of the continent. There was the school district in
Ohio that closed a middle school and an elementary school because an
employee might have flown on the same plane (not even the same flight)
as an Ebola-infected health care worker.
The
critics point out that these people are behaving hysterically, all out
of proportion to the scientific risks, which, of course, is true. But
the critics misunderstand what’s going on here. Fear isn’t only a
function of risk; it’s a function of isolation. We live in a society
almost perfectly suited for contagions of hysteria and overreaction.
In
the first place, we’re living in a segmented society. Over the past few
decades we’ve seen a pervasive increase in the gaps between different
social classes. People are much less likely to marry across social
class, or to join a club and befriend people across social class.
That
means there are many more people who feel completely alienated from the
leadership class of this country, whether it’s the political, cultural
or scientific leadership. They don’t know people in authority. They
perceive a vast status gap between themselves and people in authority.
They may harbor feelings of intellectual inferiority toward people in
authority. It becomes easy to wave away the whole lot of them, and that
distrust isolates them further. “What loneliness is more lonely than
distrust,” George Eliot writes in “Middlemarch.”
So
you get the rise of the anti-vaccine parents, who simply distrust the
cloud of experts telling them that vaccines are safe for their children.
You get the rise of the anti-science folks, who distrust the realm of
far-off studies and prefer anecdotes from friends to data about
populations. You get more and more people who simply do not believe what
the establishment is telling them about the Ebola virus, especially
since the establishment doesn’t seem particularly competent anyway.
Second,
you’ve got a large group of people who are bone-deep suspicious of
globalization, what it does to their jobs and their communities. Along
comes Ebola, which is the perfect biological embodiment of what many
fear about globalization. It is a dark insidious force from a mysterious
place far away that seems to be able to spread uncontrollably and get
into the intimate spheres of life back home.
Third,
you’ve got the culture of instant news. It’s a weird phenomenon of the
media age that, except in extreme circumstances, it is a lot scarier to
follow an event on TV than it is to actually be there covering it. When
you’re watching on TV, you only see the death and mayhem. But when
you’re actually there, you see the broader context of everyday life
going on alongside. Studies of the Boston Marathon bombing found that
people who consumed a lot of news media during the first week suffered
more stress than people who were actually there.
Fourth,
you’ve got our culture’s tendency to distance itself from death. Philip
Roth once wrote: “In every calm and reasonable person there is a hidden
second person scared witless about death.” In cultures where death is
more present, or at least dealt with more commonly, people are more
familiar with that second person, and people can think a bit more
clearly about risks of death in any given moment.
In
cultures where people deal with death by simply getting it out of their
minds, the prospect of sudden savage death, even if extremely unlikely,
can arouse a mental fog of fear, and an unmoored and utopian desire to
want to reduce the risk of early death to zero, all other considerations
be damned.
Given all these conditions, you wind up with an emotional spiral that develops its own momentum.
The
Ebola crisis has aroused its own flavor of fear. It’s not the
heart-pounding fear you might feel if you were running away from a bear
or some distinct threat. It’s a sour, existential fear. It’s a fear you
feel when the whole environment seems hostile, when the things that are
supposed to keep you safe, like national borders and national
authorities, seem porous and ineffective, when some menace is hard to
understand.
In
these circumstances, skepticism about authority turns into corrosive
cynicism. People seek to build walls, to pull in the circle of trust.
They become afraid. Fear, of course, breeds fear. Fear is a fog that
alters perception and clouds thought. Fear is, in the novelist Yann
Martel’s words, “a wordless darkness.”
Ebola
is a treacherous adversary. It’s found a weakness in our bodies. Worse,
it exploits the weakness in the fabric of our culture.
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