A State of Fear: How the UK government weaponised fear during the Covid-19 pandemic, Laura Dodsworth [the two towers ebook .txt] 📗

you believe you can defeat the source of threat you go into fight mode. If you see the danger as too powerful to overcome, you try to run away: the flight response. If you can’t defeat the danger or bolt from it, you freeze. Appropriately, considering my foreseeable future would involve not leaving the house, going out to work, or to see my family, friends or partner, I froze on the sofa.

But as I watched Boris Johnson’s speech to the nation, as he told us we ‘must’ stay at home, I also started observing his body language. Why was he clenching his fists so hard? Why the staccato speech? Something seemed ‘off’ and that triggered alarm bells. Later on I considered my own response. Until that point I had not been unreasonably frightened of the virus, so why was this speech frightening me now? I was sure that the prime minister’s language was intended to alarm me, and that in itself worried me.

I have always tended to freeze when I am frightened. I find it a bit disappointing. It’s not a very useful reaction. Of all the fear responses, freeze elicits the most uncomfortable after-effect, as it often accompanies attacks and victims can feel ashamed. But if a threat is bigger than you, and you can’t get away from it, freezing and just trying to survive it is your only remaining option. We exhibit all these fear responses at different times because they are successful evolutionary mechanisms; they kept us alive.

Once, my eldest son climbed too far up a tree and fell. I had a bad feeling about that tree. I said he shouldn’t climb it, because it had dead branches and, well, because I am a mother. I was maybe 50 yards from the tree when he fell. As he plummeted, I felt every quantum of strength and usefulness drain through my feet into the ground. After the first wave of cold sweat, I wobbled towards the tree, finding my strength and gathering pace as I went, to find him lying unharmed between lethal, spiky branches. My husband had leapt instantaneously into action, galloping towards our son while shouting ‘Oi! Oi! Oi!’ He had beaten me to it.

Looking back, there are two learnings. First, I freeze. Such a weak-kneed response is not much help (there’s the shame) unless I encounter a grizzly bear some day. Second, I also learnt my first fears are worth attending to. I should heed my instinct when it tells me something is amiss. My radar is often good.

Like many others, I had done my best to qualify as an armchair virologist by mid-March 2020, and inhaled articles and YouTube videos about viruses, Wuhan and the Diamond Princess. So I understood that while this was a lethal and nasty virus, and much was still unknown, it would inevitably behave as all other respiratory viruses before it. Why would it not?

One reason that Boris Johnson’s speech alarmed me was because I was worried that the response was disproportionate. Never before had we quarantined the healthy. We were mimicking totalitarian China’s response to the virus. How I had pitied the poor Chinese welded into their homes! My mind fast-forwarded to the worst possible economic and social consequences. Should the precautionary principle in this case mean we should lock down – an un-evidenced method of trying to control a virus – or was it more prudent to follow well-rehearsed pandemic protocols, which had never recommended lockdowns? (At this point you may say, ah, but we had prepared for influenza, not coronavirus! In which case please let me assure you that coronavirus was on the National Risk Register of Civil Emergencies.1)

I have to acknowledge my own fear – I am in no way immune. Indeed, I doubt I would have wanted to write this book had I not felt the prickles of fear myself. From the first night we were told to lock down I realised I was more frightened of authoritarianism than death, and more repulsed by manipulation than illness. Like the rest of the nation I stayed put for three weeks. Then three weeks more. And, well, we’re still here one way or another. Then the freeze thawed and I started thinking, and then wobbling, towards the source of my fear. That is also what I do. I may take a little longer to arrive, but I want to look my fears squarely in the eyes once I’m there.

What was it that felt ‘off’ about Boris Johnson’s speech? Reviewing it recently I was struck again by the artifice that triggered my radar on 23 March. Johnson is a performer, but he normally performs the ‘likeable buffoon’. You would expect such an important speech to be rehearsed, but it felt too contrived and different to his normal presentation. He was controlled, stern, and at a basic level that was hard to pinpoint, it didn’t feel genuine.

I asked two experts to help me decode Johnson’s body language and style of speech.

Naomi Murphy is a clinical and forensic psychologist who has spent many years working in high-security prisons, often with people who don’t always tell the truth. She echoed my reaction: ‘His words and some of his body language convey one message, but you sense another message, and that rings alarm bells. He doesn’t seem authentic.’ She pointed out that there were times when he was giving a message with his head and hands, bobbing his head forwards and gesticulating, but his body was held back, suggesting that personally he did not believe in the essence of his words.

An appearance of inauthenticity could have been simply down to nerves. It would be natural to feel nervous before such a momentous speech to the nation, and that affects behaviour and body language. As Murphy said, ‘you can hear his mouth is dry, which is incredible for someone who is used to the limelight. This is a man who likes being liked, and he might be worried that the public will not