“Hell is other people,” says Garcin, an undead character in Behind closed doors, an essential piece by Jean-Paul Sartre. There have been countless analyzes and jokes associated with this famous phrase since it was first uttered on stage in Paris during the Occupation in May 1944. However, I do not believe that it is used today in an attempt to explain the deep alienation that seems to have gripped the tens of millions of Americans who no longer want to return to the office in the wake of the pandemic.
The most common reasons offered to explain this enormous navel-gazing migration are varied: the comfort of teleworking and the freedom supposed to result from it; a tight labor market, which gives exceptional bargaining power; the selfishness of the millennial generation; a generalized spirit of fed up; the growing ambition to start his own business in the style of entrepreneurs who started in a garage, like Steve Jobs; the elimination of journeys between home and the office, and the saving of time for leisure and family life. Whatever the motivations, the numbers for remote work are impressive.
According to a Gallup poll, there were, at the end of August, more than 70 million American employees who could telecommute, of which only two in ten worked full-time on site. The percentage of office work has increased with the COVID-19 slowdown, but a recent Bloomberg report indicated that office occupancy in the ten largest US cities was, on average, just 50.4% and , in New York City, 47.5%.
Anyone can see with the naked eye the lack of activity in the streets and on the sidewalks of Midtown Manhattan, the main commercial district. With an estimate of over 1.5 million clerical jobs in the city’s five municipal sectors, it can be deduced that there are, say, 800,000 people who, by their presence, participated in the common daily life before the pandemic and who no longer do so. We are in a seismic event in urban history.
At the start of confinement, in March 2020, I suffered a lot from isolation, although our family life worked quite well. I missed the people, but also the scenarios, the dramas and the hustle and bustle of the street… and the office. I quickly developed a hatred for Zoom conferences, knowing that the small image on my screen hid nuances and emotions that I would have seen in person. One perceives the outline of the other much better in physical company, and I felt deprived of this crucial information, in a way blind. With the increasing amount of time spent in front of the computer, I grew nervous.
The screen can serve as a window on the world, but it can also lock you in a silo, a kind of monotonous and senseless prison. So, I reopened my office as soon as possible, at the beginning of September, with all the sanitary precautions. What a joy to see colleagues, even masked, and what a wonder to be able to solve problems and make decisions quickly, without the infernal and endless exchange of emails. The homeless and drug addicts lining the streets in this near-empty corner of Manhattan could notice my happiness, so glad was I to find my business district in all its grandeur and misery.
On the other hand, the welcome return to human warmth has in no way resolved the conflicts between humans. The pain in the ass keep on pissing off; disputes and shouting matches swell; old rivalries, overwhelmed by fear of the plague and the habit of speaking through a machine, reappear. The common fridge is again overflowing with expired and sometimes moldy food. Outside, the rats walk around arrogantly. In the subway, there are filthy lunatics all over the place.
I believe that much of the refusal to return to work physically stems from a rejection of the other — as well as of the collective, heterogeneous and inevitably dangerous society. We were already seeing this trend before the pandemic — Trump’s call to erect a wall against undocumented “rapists” resonated strongly in the American psyche, and the threat of COVID metaphorically installed itself in its place. We don’t want any more germs; the trumpists, like many leftists, prefer an illusory purity that suggests that one is better defended at home, planted in front of the computer or the television in a safe space.
This desire for purification goes back to our Protestant roots and the witch hunt: Salem in 1692; prohibition in 1919; McCarthyism in 1950; and the current purges in the media, in academia and in politics against male and “racist” abusers, and allegedly harmful words.
Back to Sartre. Immured in a furnished and constantly luminous hell, Garcin questions “The boy”: “Is it daytime? The boy replies, “You see, the lamps are on.” Garcin learns that “outside” there are “other bedrooms and other corridors”. “Where’s the switch?” continues Garcin. “There aren’t any”, explains the boy, but “the management can turn off the power”. Like the Chinese, Iranian or Russian governments have the ability to “cut off” the Internet. Repressed in a closed home with the screens permanently lit according to the whim of a central power, it is my idea of hell. Let’s go out together!
John R. MacArthur is editor of Harper’s Magazine. His column returns at the beginning of each month.