Daylight

By: Irina Preotescu

I look at the Hudson and the neatly groomed trees of Riverside Park. Then I check to see if there are any boats on the river. As I scan the segment of water that is visible from my window, I always stop to look at the row of houses glued to each other on the New Jersey side of the shore. Upon a quick, superficial glance, one might mistake them for the houses by the river Reie in Bruges, or maybe Stockholm’s Söderström. That, or maybe I just miss travelling a little too much. 

Riverside Park and the Hudson River, photo by Irina Preotescu.

It is the finishing touch to my morning ritual: I sit in silence, stare out the window and rinse my eyes in daylight after what is usually a night of little or restless sleep. After 4 years of living in a basement, where my only view was the pavement and the bottom half of my trash bins, I take immense joy in staring out the window each morning. During this brief yet essential time, I could easily forget that we are in the midst of a global health crisis. Up to this point, the day is like any other since I arrived at International House.

However, that’s about the only thing that has maintained its familiarity. Instead of jumping out of bed and rushing to my first class, I sink back in the warm comfort of my linen sheets. This used to be the dream. This used to be my only living breathing wish whenever I had to wake up early, which was every day: to just go back to bed. So, in a fitting celebration of this newfound joy, I pull the cover up to my chin and do what my depression has always begged me to do. Nothing. 

Depression adds about 20 kg (44 pounds for American readers) to every action I take and every thought that crosses my mind. When every little thing becomes irrationally and insufferably heavy, my mind has no choice but to drift off. It floats away to a space where nothing, and I mean nothing, is required. A space where I can just watch the world in deep silence, like staring out the window for hours on end. In an unforeseen chain of events, the painful reality of depression blended strangely with the current and tangible reality of this pandemic. I don’t have to fall into the quicksand of daily anxiety or feel the shadow of maliciously grinning doubt in every moment. I can just sit and watch the river and the dogs and the joggers, and imagine that nothing else exists. I can’t count how many times I promised to go out with friends, only to cancel, paralyzed by an emotional and inescapable physical exhaustion. Now it’s recommended to isolate inside. In a strictly selfish and unhealthy sense, it is a sweet victory. In the midst of raging global chaos, I can finally rest.

But not for long. On the other side of the world, my mother still goes to work, as per usual. She gets up at 5 AM, lets the cat out, feeds two very excited Labradors, gets dressed, and heads for the hospital. As the head of the infectious disease department at one of Bucharest’s best hospitals, she carries an immense responsibility. She does so with astounding grace and professionalism. Watching my mother work has always felt like watching a fish return to water – she belongs there. Her confidence, energy, focus, and drive have made her renowned in the medical world. These are the values I hope to apply in my own career after SIPA. That is, if the economic crisis doesn’t have it’s way. With each news of death or disaster, a sliver of crippling fear creeps its way into my mind until it engulfs my entire attention, and my ability to focus becomes a thing of the past. My mother is exposed every day, and I can’t stop thinking about it. My father works from home, but this is somehow just as terrifying. Any problem I have ever had pales in comparison. Now my only living, breathing wish is that my parents and grandmother survive this.

There is no shortage of lenses through which we can observe this crisis. It is a time defined by uncertainty, unlike anything we have ever lived through. It is the kind of challenge for which many of us have been eagerly preparing. In that sense, it can be an opportunity to look towards the future and embrace change. It has refreshed and reshaped our perspective, and I can only hope meaningful change will follow. There is no use clapping for doctors and nurses if they will continue to be underpaid and under-equipped after this is over. There is no use thanking essential workers if they will be denied a living wage after this is over. There is no use complaining about national responses if people don’t go out and vote for competent leaders in elections after this is over. Indeed, if we don’t learn our lessons from this tragedy, we are simply inviting new tragedies in the future. 

Most importantly, this eruption of chaos has proven to us, yet again, that we can never really have full control over nature. However, what we do have is each other, and in times of true crisis we cannot deny how powerful that is. Yes, globalization has contributed to the spread of the virus, but it has also made possible the rapid spread of information, preparedness, and aid. Solidarity and cooperation stand as guiding principles in difficult times - between individuals, neighborhoods, communities, cities, or countries. This should be one of the lessons we draw from this moment.

I can only stay in bed for so long, though, before hunger eventually pulls me to the kitchen. And while depression has long been my persistent companion, so has been my determination to move forward. All of my classes are online. But all of my classes are Columbia classes, and this used to be what many told me was a far-fetched dream. I am in quarantine, but I have the privilege to live at IHouse, in the city I love most. Every morning, staring out the window in silence is a privilege, as my life could easily have been different. I am lucky in this situation and that is made obvious as soon as I open my eyes to daylight.

Irina Preotescu (‘21) is an MIA student concentrating in Economic and Political Development.