Two years of pandemic, three weeks of war | By Josep Maria Fonalleras

This week will be fulfilled two years of the first confinement, the hardest, where all the concerns were born and the ghosts appeared at night, with darkness presiding over the wake of a day that was like all the others, endless and monotonous, distressing and with a distant perspective of the end of the nightmare. Two years that each one has lived as he could, with his own accumulated neuroses, with individual suffering and a collective mess that has pushed us both to resilience and to despair. Those curves that we looked at every day to see if they bent have become maps. We have quickly learned the geography of Ukraine and we know names of cities that we did not know and that are now rubble. In the perspective of these two years, the possibility of a future has vanished in the collective imagination. The pandemic, despite the darkness of the first weeks, admitted an idea of ​​the end. War is the same darkness, but without that faith, however irrational, in a gentle outcome. For now, submerged in uncertainty, desolate and tired, we hardly dare to draw a plausible tomorrow. Worse yet: we are unable to profile it.

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