In the opening days of the pandemic—amid so much grief, fear, and uncertainty—something profoundly positive emerged. At dusk, apartment blocks became amphitheaters. People stepped onto balconies and stoops, banged pots and pans, clapped into the cold air, and sang across courtyards to honour frontline workers. Neighbours taped hearts in their windows. Teenagers ran groceries to elders. Seamstresses stitched makeshift masks on kitchen tables. None of this was coordinated. People across classes and backgrounds saw each other’s distress and isolation and found diverse ways to express the very same sentiment: I’m right here with you.

Alas, we all know what happened next.

That sense of togetherness unraveled—partly due to stress and exhaustion, and partly due to a series of bitter, mostly online arguments over school closures and masks, over where and when to reopen businesses, over vaccine mandates. Today, half a decade later, our societies continue to relitigate the questions of who got the pandemic policies right—judging based on mortality rates, school achievement, and scores of other factors.

But there’s a question from the legacy of the pandemic that’s even more important to consider:

How do we recover the solidarity that we had and lost?

It’s a question that matters not just for the future of public health but also our........

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