In Cooperation with Nature

The tendency to experience every life event as unprecedented and unique may be human, but it can lead to improvisation and repetition of past mistakes—mistakes we could avoid if we were more willing to learn from history instead of eagerly trying to transcend it. History does not repeat itself, said Mark Twain, but it rhymes. It doesn’t replicate in identical forms, as similar events—such as epidemics of infectious diseases and their consequences—are shaped by changing social and other circumstances over time. Still, it’s fascinating how certain patterns of behaviour—both individual and collective—persist like a mutated virus, constantly finding new ways to overcome the immune system of our supposed Enlightenment progress. That is one of the messages in Doom, a book by British historian Niall Ferguson, professor at Stanford University, about the history of catastrophes, from those that helped bring down the Western Roman Empire to COVID-19.

The book, written at the end of last year during the still-ongoing pandemic, shows the risks of trying to write history in real time. In his conclusion, Ferguson suggests that this pandemic will likely not rank among the top twenty largest epidemics in recorded history—those in which more than 0.05% of the global population died. By my quick calculation, we are already on that list. Ferguson’s optimism rests on his trust in containment measures and the then-impending availability of vaccines. But in doing so, he seems to forget his own lesson about the importance of learning from past experience. History teaches us—and his book provides vivid examples—that the existence of a rational solution does not guarantee a rational or effective response, either by governments or the public.

Infectious diseases are a constant in human history. The toll has often been unimaginable by today’s standards. The plague wiped out more than a third of Europe’s population in the Middle Ages. Until the mid-19th century, responses to such threats were not based on science but on careful observation and conclusions about disease transmission. Many of the restrictive measures introduced worldwide in response to COVID-19 were already known in the Middle Ages, down to the smallest detail. Quarantine was first introduced in Ragusa (modern-day Dubrovnik) and got its name in Marseille, where it was extended from 14 to 40 days based on inspiration from the Bible. Medieval authorities closed borders and imposed social distancing. Even a form of what we now call the “vaccination-pass-test” system existed centuries before vaccines or testing. In Ferrara, Italy, movement was allowed only for those carrying a certificate of health (fedi di sanità). In Florence, authorities delivered food and medical care to those who were ill or unable to work due to the epidemic—comparable to modern pandemic measures like compensating those in quarantine so they wouldn’t go to work and infect others.

Even the hardship faced by restaurateurs and cultural workers during an epidemic is not new. The 1665 outbreak of plague in London led to a ban on all “plays, bear dancing, games, ballad singing, martial sports, and other gatherings of people, as well as public feasts and rowdy drinking in taverns.”

As with COVID-19, plague containment measures met with mixed responses. Some rejected them on religious grounds. One of the most notorious movements were the flagellants—groups of men who travelled from town to town, forming circles, whipping themselves with metal-tipped lashes, and collapsing to the ground. They believed that only through martyrdom could they stop divine punishment. During their pilgrimages, which lasted thirty-three and a half days, they didn’t bathe, shave, change clothes, or sleep in beds. Public bivouacking and strange group behaviour as a response to pandemics, therefore, are not new. Some flagellants also attacked Jewish communities, leading to brutal massacres in places like Frankfurt, Mainz, and Strasbourg—where I live. Antisemitism and conspiracy theories have long been part of the story of epidemics, and even today, antisemitic memes about supposed disease profiteers are widespread in anti-vaccine discourse on social media. Equating the “injustices” faced by anti-vaxxers with the crimes committed against Jewish Holocaust victims is offensive and completely unacceptable. I’m not saying all anti-vaxxers are extremists or antisemites, but they should be aware of the company they keep.

Scientific progress, especially in understanding the causes of infectious diseases, has diminished religious explanations for epidemics but also created space for other irrational theories and behaviours—many of which persist today. Daniel Defoe, best known for Robinson Crusoe, recorded his impressions of a plague outbreak in early 18th-century London in a journal published in 1722. He wrote:

“People’s fears increased strangely in those difficult times. They were more dependent on prophecies, astrology, charms, dreams, and old wives’ tales than ever before. Whether this unfortunate trait was initially promoted by those who profited from publishing prophecies, I cannot say, but such books truly terrified people.”

Three hundred years ago—and it could have been written today.

Of course, it wasn’t always ignorant masses at fault. Ever since medicine became a profession, there have been doctors whose vanity, incompetence, irresponsibility—or plain stupidity—caused harm. In the early 19th century, some American doctors recommended highly toxic mercury, electric shocks, or blowing tobacco smoke into the rectum to treat cholera. The president of the New York Medical Society swore by plugging the rectum with greasy cloth or beeswax to treat cholera-induced diarrhoea. Ivermectin is merely the latest chapter in a long tradition of bizarre and dangerous “cures.”

One of Ferguson’s key conclusions is that we cannot strictly separate natural disasters from man-made ones, because their course and impact depend heavily on how societies and governments respond. The mortality caused by a pathogen also reflects the social and political system it strikes. Ferguson devotes an entire chapter to the psychology of political incompetence, inspired by British psychologist Norman Dixon’s work on military incompetence. Dixon identified the bad commander as someone who, despite poor decisions, refuses to change course, fails to learn from experience, clings to a failing strategy despite evidence to the contrary, bolsters himself with pompous self-aggrandizement, ignores contradicting information, and always blames others. Although Dixon studied military leaders, the same traits can appear in political leaders—especially those who treat politics like warfare. During a public health crisis, this can have dire consequences, not only in health but across society. As American foreign policy elder Henry Kissinger recently noted, national unity and success depend on people believing that institutions can foresee disasters, mitigate their effects, and restore stability. When the COVID-19 pandemic ends, many will judge their institutions as failures. Whether that judgment is objectively fair won’t matter.

Although the pandemic is still ongoing, growing evidence suggests that Kissinger is right. After a year and a half, people in many places are increasingly desperate, frightened, and angry. These emotions—often justified—create perfect conditions for the spread of political populism. The danger of populism lies not in the questions it raises, but in the consistently poor answers it offers. The virus is not the only threat to societal stability, democratic institutions, and values. It is the inadequate response to the health crisis and the political exploitation of human suffering. If we lose our freedoms after the pandemic, we won’t be able to blame the bats and pangolins. We, the people, will be responsible. Nature merely cooperated.