World War PE

I’ve noticed an increase in people comparing our current situation with that of the second world war. And I get their point, that idea of communal determination and country-wide resolve to get through this together. But I also think that the concept is flawed in a number of ways, not only because the enemy of the world is not, this time, an unstable German fascist, but an undercooked Wuhanese bat.

The main issue is that 99% of us didn’t live through the war, especially not the millennial generation, who make up the majority of the young-ish population of our country. And the upcoming Gen Z populace, who haven’t been alive long enough to experience the spice girls, let alone the war. I know I’ve never been even close to armed conflict, so I’ve been thinking back, trying to pinpoint the closest I’ve personally come to warfare. And I think I’ve got it.

Changing rooms. Specifically, school changing rooms frequented by teenage boys, a collective that should rarely be left alone in groups, never mind in a confined area. I should clarify at this point that I’ve never been in a girls’ changing room, but I imagine them to be quiet places where people complement each other’s hair, and talk about things in a humane fashion. The inside of the boys’ room is another world altogether.

Imagine, if you will, entering a tropical rainforest. Imagine the sounds that you can hear, the strange calls of animals and hoots of birds in the mist, the far-off roar of some huge beast. A humid fog hangs in the air, restricting your vision to no further than a few metres. The place is hot, and you immediately become lost in the dense foliage that hangs all around. You’re worried, you’re scared, and the noises of the animals become ever louder, eventually enveloping you and all you ever knew. You begin to regret your expedition and wish only for a chance to experience the outside world once more.

Only, now imagine that you are not in some distant rainforest. The fog that chokes you is a smog of chemicals, released from thousands of aerosol cans, each with a different smell. The foliage that wraps around you is, in fact, made up of random articles of clothing, discarded either hours, days or decades ago to hang on loose pegs for eternity. Ties are not owned in this place; they are simply found, and taken. The cries of foreign, sometimes alien, animals are, in fact produced by a plethora of teenage boys – you had no idea that humans could create such sounds. Whooping, shouting, something that sounds like the repeated action of a poorly oiled hinge, and the occasional bellow of random noise. Every so often, an aerosol can rolls down an aisle in slow motion, pierced on one side, hissing like a live grenade as it spews out various combinations of lynx into the faces of bystanders. Half-naked, everybody jumps for cover wherever they can find it, as the can rolls to a stop, literally a ticking time bomb. Nobody knows how, when or if it will explode. Huddled in corners, the younger members attempt to dress as quickly as possible and escape, to avoid catching the attentions of the older, bigger individuals, who will select, at random, an item of clothing to be sacrificed to the showers. Time does not exist in this place. Only sheer willpower can push you into the room, and only strength of character will get you out alive.

When I put it like that, I’m surprised the Vietcong weren’t there.