Mammon

 

Yesterday I travelled to London by train. We were informed that our journey could be delayed (in the event, it was not) due to emergency services responding to an incident between Peterborough and Stevenage. The last time I travelled home from London, three weeks ago, my train was delayed, twice, for the same reason.

On average, someone in the UK takes their own life every 90 minutes.

There is no performative outrage.

On average, between one and two women are killed by their partner or ex-partner every week in this country.

Again, there is no performative outrage.

We have a crisis in this country.

It is not a crisis of the presence of immigrants.

It is a crisis of the absence of hope.

Of belief in any purposeful future.

We have collectively said ‘yes, yes’ to the idea that the purpose of business is to generate maximum profit, for the benefit of the few—rather than to create opportunity for everyone to contribute to society, and in return to be paid enough to live well on.

To this end we have pared work to the bone, in the name of efficiency. We are left without the capacity to cover for one another when we are sick; or to train people into a role—which is a key reason why it is so hard for young people to find work. If a young adult gives up after sending 200 applications and not even getting a rejection letter back (we do not have the capacity to write those) it is not their moral fault.

We have turned our backs on a God of generosity and compassion, and looked to Mammon, the deification of money, to save us.

And Mammon demands human sacrifice.

And this is a price we willingly pay, without question.