Over a year and a half ago, when the pandemic slowly started to creep into our lives, we had to make several changes to protect ourselves and the ones we care about. Since then, a lot of these adjustments have almost become second nature to us, more a reflex than a conscious decision. Wear a mask, sanitise your hands, avoid crowds, test regularly. Personally, a few weeks into my first term at University College London, slipping an N95 into my jacket pocket was no different to checking whether I had my phone, wallet and laptop with me. The pandemic never really left our lives, it just became such a routine part of it that by the time we remembered to lock our doors, the new variant was already inside.
For me, this was less of an analogy and more a reality. After having spent most of 2020 in my room, the freedom that came with being a student in the heart of London, one of the busiest cities in the world, left me with a feeling of always wanting more. I signed up for everything, went everywhere; each day felt like a week but passed by like a minute. As the end of term approached, I was filled with gratitude that I got to experience this in a world that was still reeling from the pandemic, but also excited to go home for Christmas and spend time in the lazy comfort of having nothing to do. This excitement quickly turned into uncertainty as I learnt of the first Omicron case 10 metres down the hall.
For first-year international students like me, our university provides us with off-campus housing in the form of student halls. Each student gets their own room on a floor with 8-9 others, and while en-suite is a preference often met, the kitchen is usually shared by all students on the same floor. If your parents trust you with sharp knives, ovens and other potentially 'dangerous' objects, you sign up for self-catered accommodation, while those who were not born with the Masterchef gene like myself, head down to the common dining hall for breakfast and dinner. Time spent in the common rooms, kitchens and cafeterias (which should definitely have been spent studying) creates a 'halls experience' which becomes a rite of passage for students in their freshman year. However, it is this time spent collectively that turns into the weapon of choice for the most infectious variant we have seen yet. The first case soon became the second, which then became the third; within a couple of days, I realised that though I hadn't tested positive yet, self-isolating in my room was probably the only way to remain safe. Going down to eat, using the common kitchen, or even walking down the hallway was potentially dangerous as anyone could be one Lateral Flow Test away from realising they're infectious.
This is not to say that the administration or the staff in charge of our accommodation did not try and limit the spread, it is more to point towards the fact that in a hall comprising over 500 students, the virus tends to render everyone helpless. We were all informed if someone on our floor tested positive and asked to isolate and test regularly with free testing kits provided both by the university and the nearest pharmacy. Beyond that, mechanisms like contact-tracing become more of a formality than an enforceable practice. Even if the most recent case is not on your floor, there is no way of knowing if you met them for dinner the previous evening, or sat next to them in the common room a few nights ago, or just bumped into them while coming back from university and spoke to them for more than the 'reasonable' amount of time it takes to get infected. In a student body that interacts so freely and frequently, the spread of Covid is not a possible eventuality, but a threatening inevitability.
This fear meant that with a flight ticket booked for the 18th, each day was filled with uncertainty and anxiety, which was understandably worse for my parents back home. There's a certain helplessness in waiting, and knowing that I had already been exposed to several direct and indirect contacts meant that was all we could do. I tested everyday, and in the 30 minutes it takes to get the result of a rapid-self test, I'd picture the possibility of it being positive, missing my flight, self-isolating for 10 days and not being able to go home. Having Covid was just as likely as not having it, and there was nothing I could do about it.
I think at the end of it all, it's important to point out that the anxious wait of a 19-year old hoping to move from his room in London to New Delhi is nowhere near the worst this pandemic has had to offer. I am fortunate not only because I managed to fly back home, but also because not being able to was my greatest fear. There are several people who've had it far worse than me, and unfortunately with the way the virus is progressing, several more will follow. I don't want you to read this article and feel sorry for me, I want you to try and relate to me, and realise just how much worse it can get. I know there's not a lot we can do about that, but even if all it leads to is greater understanding and a collective effort to be safer, I think it's more than worth the effort.
(Ishayu Nath is a first-year student at University College London.)
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