“Are you better now than you were four years ago?” Wrong question.

“Are you better now than you were four years ago?” Widely criticized for its blatant revisionism, House Republican Conference Chair Elise Stefanik (R.N.Y.) asked the question last month. There were consequences. It finally brought the coronavirus pandemic to the forefront of the rhetoric of the 2024 presidential campaign.

The Biden campaign’s final response, a video ad featuring body bags, refrigerated trucks, and a montage of President Trump proposing treatments with disinfectants, was effective in its shock value, but it was also effective in the face of the challenges our country faces. The collective trauma left largely unaddressed.

Stefanik’s question, and the answer it leads to, lacks nuance. For most Americans, the honest response is neither “yes” nor “no.” A more productive question we should all be asking is: how Is it different now?

As anthropologists who led a five-year study on death, memory, and mourning due to COVID-19, and as writers and editors who created a website and book collecting stories of loss due to the pandemic, we regularly We are talking to the bereaved families of those affected by the new coronavirus. We are also hearing from many others, including healthcare workers and frontline workers, who will feel the effects of the pandemic for the rest of their lives. We teach students whose formative learning took place in situations of extreme social and physical isolation.

Their experiences tell us that even after four years, people are different, and very different. As a society, we need to make room for more nuanced and thoughtful conversations about the impact of the pandemic, including in government buildings and election campaigns.

The day after Stefanik’s misguided question, and the same night as the State of the Union address, we joined a gathering of volunteers at artist Suzanne Brennan Firstenberg’s studio in Bethesda, Maryland, to work on her installation “In America.” I witnessed the archive management of “Remember”. —More than 700,000 white flags planted on the National Mall in the fall of 2021 to commemorate those lost to the pandemic.

No one there asked if life was better than it was four years ago. Instead, the volunteers, many of whom had lost loved ones to the coronavirus, expressed bittersweet joy at being reunited. The main motif was gratitude. Everyone was grateful to be in an environment where their grief, vivid memories, and ongoing concerns were viscerally understood. There was room to acknowledge how the pandemic had changed them.

“What’s different now?” It may sound like a politically dubious question, but the Stefanik law was enacted by Kentucky Governor Andy Beshear (D) during the high-stakes week that coincides with Super Tuesday. Please look at the question and the State of the Union. He issued a proclamation declaring that the Day of Mercy will be repeated annually across the state on March 6, the anniversary of the first recorded coronavirus case in the commonwealth.

The Day of Mercy commemorates the more than 19,000 Kentuckians who have died from the coronavirus, but in the proclamation and during a ceremony held on that day, “Healthcare workers, first responders, and educators , farmers, grocery store and restaurant workers.” And those who, with deep compassion, “helped me get through this battle of my life.”

This declaration extends Mr. Beshear’s public health leadership through the darkest days of the coronavirus pandemic. Despite protests and political pressure in the state, his administration always focused on saving lives, not red and blue divisions. This bipartisan approach was key to his successful re-election this November.

Encouraging reflection and compassion is not just a political act. It’s a world we need to build together. We witnessed a small-scale example of just that in late March when we visited the annual lighting ceremony at the Ramiz Haat COVID-19 Memorial in Wall, New Jersey.

Created by Rima Samman Whittaker, who lost her brother Rami to the coronavirus in May 2020, the monument was created as a simple memorial by placing a few stones and shells on Bellmawr beach. It began, but quickly grew into a place of national mourning.

At the lighting ceremony, Whitaker stood in front of a crowd that braved the torrential rains of an early spring nor’easter and spoke about her understanding of the toll of the pandemic and how it has changed her.

“No matter how much time passes and the world moves forward, nothing will ever be the same for us,” she said.

That afternoon, no one was analyzing the economic or domestic stagnation. Rather, we spoke the language of community as well as loss. We looked a few feet away to the area Whittaker lovingly tended. In its place sits thousands of stones carved into hearts framed by bivalve shells, and despite the strong winds, the monument exudes a peaceful atmosphere. The souls we have lost are kept there and their memories honored.

Is it different now? we.

Directed by Martha Greenwald WhoWeLost Project Also the editor ofLost Ones: Portable Coronavirus Memorial” Sarah Wagner is a professor of anthropology at George Washington University whose researchFocusing on COVID-19 and mourning in 2020 and beyond.