Do virus epidemics kill our compassion for other people or does the general public actually come to the rescue? Some historians are optimistic, while others are not. Historian Adriaan Duiveman wonders who is right and what past epidemics have taught us. Rutger Bregman is optimistic: “Disasters and crises bring out the best in us.” In an article in The Correspondent, the renowned historian and universal basic income activist claimed that people can be surprisingly social in disaster situations. A week ago, conservative commentator David Brooks presented a completely different argument in The New York Times. After a disaster like an earthquake or a flood, you see that people definitely tend to help each other. Brooks argues, however, that epidemics are an exception to this rule. Even though we are now frightened and we would rather seek each other out in order to offer help and comfort, we must currently maintain a distance of at least one and a half metres between others and ourselves. People are not the solution, but the risk. And that, writes Brooks, is why “pandemics also kill compassion”. Who is right, Bregman or Brooks? First of all, let us look at the basis of each of their arguments. Bregman also wrote briefly about disasters in his Dutch-authored book De meeste mensen deugen ( ‘Humankind: A Hopeful History’, which will be published in June 2020), in which he refers to Rebecca Solnit’s book A Paradise Built in Hell. The American writer and journalist subsequently relies on a plethora of sociological research. This does indeed reveal that people show great solidarity in disaster situations, such as bombings or floods. One major example is the flooding that followed Hurricane Katrina in the American city of New Orleans. The media reported on looting, violence and chaos, but social scientists discovered that most people actually helped each other through the tragedy. Sociologists discovered that most people helped each other through the tragedy during Hurricane Katrina. Source: Pixabay, CC0. Brooks’ argument is based on a number of historical sources, which were mostly written by people who witnessed the disaster in question. For example, he refers to Giovanni Boccaccio’s well-known literary work ‘The Decameron’, a text about a plague epidemic in 14th century Bologna. Boccaccio had personally experienced the plague in Florence, so he knew what he was writing about. His description of a plague-ridden city is horrifying. Parents left their children behind, people were only worried about their own survival, and no one cared about each other. Are the testimonies accurate? Was the picture painted by witnesses such as Boccaccio accurate? One of the most important studies on plague epidemics in late medieval and early modern Netherlands confirms that it is. In De gave gods (‘The Gift of God’), historians Leo Noordegraaf and Gerrit Valk conclude that the plague led to disruption, fear, violence and rage. Out of desperation, the local authorities barricaded contaminated families in their homes. During the Middle Ages, the plague gave rise to collective actions, but not in a good way: groups of city dwellers persecuted and killed their Jewish neighbours, because they had been labelled as scapegoats. There are many spectres about how people dealt with the plague in the Middle Ages. Source: Public domain via Wikimedia Commons. These are spectres. Nevertheless, they can also be contrasted with a more nuanced and more favourable perspective. Historian Shona Kelly Wray proves that Boccaccio’s literary horrors are highly questionable. The writer’s description of the plague had been formed by literary conventions, or in other words, literary habits. The Decameron therefore reflects how people wrote about the plague, but does not depict how the people themselves experienced the plague at that time. In an astute analysis of a completely different type of source—notarial archives from Bologna—Wray presents a much more optimistic perspective. She proves that, in contrast to the claims made by Boccaccio, people did not flee in droves. She is also able to demonstrate that neighbours and relatives felt a strong obligation to care for the sick. Where possible, people endeavoured to maintain their normal daily life and to keep the ‘social fabric’ of the city intact. A similar study into the situation in 14th century Marseilles arrives at the same conclusion. The complete and utter chaos that is described by Noordegraaf and Valk has not been found by either Wray or other historians in their notarial sources. Who is right? So, who is right? Should we listen to Brooks, Noordegraaf and Valk, or Bregman and Wray? Historians know that every situation is unique: each moment is a specific convergence of factors, actors and structures. At one moment, an epidemic could result in townspeople burning their Jewish neighbours at the stake, or the social disintegration of an entire city. At another moment, an epidemic could actually prompt neighbours and relatives to help one another, and guide each other through the difficulties. Occasionally, both of these scenarios could play out at the same time. Perhaps we should be asking ourselves an even more important question: Is there really any point in comparing our current situation with a medieval plague epidemic? Even as an historian involved in a research project on disasters and crises, I think that the comparison is only valid to a certain degree. Fortunately, there are now at least three things that are fundamentally different compared to the past. Firstly, our standard of healthcare is much better and our level of medical knowledge is far more accurate. Despite the answers that we still lack and hard-working scientists are now seeking, we are much better informed of the effects of viruses than previous generations. Secondly, our communication channels are much faster. Our heads of state addressed us directly, via radio, TV and YouTube, and digital maps allow us to track the spread of the virus in real time. Finally, as a result of these factors, the mortality rate in Western European countries will most likely remain far from the mortality rates from major past epidemics. In the UK, about one in hundred infected COVID-19 patients will die from the disease. Estimated Black Death mortality rates in 14th century Europe differ greatly, but it is most likely that more than one third of Europeans died. Simply put, this is a huge difference. There will still be far too many people mourning their relatives and friends, so I certainly do not want to trivialise the situation. These statistics only show that there are major differences between our current situation and the epidemics of past centuries. What we can actually learn from past epidemics What we can actually learn from past epidemics is that we can behave differently. In his article in The Correspondent, Bregman suggests that it is like a law of nature: when a disaster occurs, people automatically start being nice to each other. Unfortunately, this is not the case, and he makes a more nuanced argument in his book Humankind: A Hopeful History. People are inclined to show compassion and kindness, but they can still act in both helpful and harmful ways. In other words, it is up to you. You have a choice. You can start stockpiling paracetamol and toilet rolls, or even steal face masks from the hospital. That is what is happening right now. You can also be a good neighbour and friend, like the Bolognese neighbours in Wray’s account. In that case, you would follow the government’s guidelines carefully, take care of healthcare workers’ children, or leave a bag of groceries hanging on your elderly neighbour’s front door handle. These sorts of things are also happening right now. I get the impression that the latter is much more prevalent than the first, and that gives me great hope. Which choice will you make? Text: Adriaan Duiveman. This article previously appeared on the blog Faces of Science, an initiative of the Royal Netherlands Academy of Arts and Sciences. Cover image: Luigi Sabatelli, The plague of Florence in 1348. This painting is based on Giovanni Boccaccio’s account in ‘The Decameron’. Source: Wikimedia Commons.