I have a confession. I have depravities I am embarrassed to admit, activities so utterly selfish, self-absorbed and in today’s world, seemingly callous.

I play early morning tennis four times a week. If the weather is tolerably hot, I will come home after two hours on the courts, sit in the hot tub to relax the muscles, have a cold shower then maybe have another coffee. Late in the afternoon, I may join my husband at the lake and jump in with a ‘noodle’ to float in the water for some glorious moments. We will listen for loons and watch the osprey dip in and out of the water to catch fish.

In other times, these activities will make me feel very lucky, I will toast the experience and move on. I will volunteer with non-profits and feel a righteous anger about injustices in the world. I will then apply layers and layers of acrylic paint on canvas over several weeks reflecting on these injustices, read copious amounts of left-wing articles and books, listen to radical podcasts (usually while painting), say a thing or two in conversations about causes of structural inequalities, then go back to the courts, the hot tub and the lake.

After a burst of productivity and inspiration at the start of the lockdown more than two months ago, now each comfort, every experience of well-being seems like a privilege and a luxury as more and more people sink deeper into poverty, food insecurity, illness and health inequities.

Why do I feel so guilty? I’m a person of colour, an immigrant who has experienced layers of racism and discrimination in different countries, sexual harassment multiple times on the streets, festivals, public transportation and many belittling comments at work. Yet I feel complicit in the poverty that many people I know are now experiencing. I feel complicit in the poverty that millions of people are experiencing now. I am complicit in not consistently speaking out against the structural reasons people remain poor, food-deprived, homeless or housed in unsuitable and crowded homes without running water, proper latrines or electricity. I am complicit when I start being numb to the multiple unjust deaths of marginalised, black, indigenous and persons of colour at the hands of police. I am complicit when I simply scroll through stories of fishing communities that have lost their livelihoods because of large fishing conglomerates trawling the seas or refugees lost at sea trying to get to another country that will only deport them or put them in cages and treat them inhumanely or the story of another indigenous woman missing or murdered.

It is awkward and difficult, yes. Warning! Strong empathy for injustices can cause depression. But it is something I hope I will be able to push through, because it is the least that I can do. Open my eyes. Continue to feel the pain. Continue to tear-up and get angry at the stories. Risk getting depressed and disillusioned. But it is the least I can do.