President Donald Trump answers questions from reporters at the White House in Washington. Photo / AP, Alex Brandon
President Donald Trump answers questions from reporters at the White House in Washington. Photo / AP, Alex Brandon
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We know the scene well: Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern stands at a podium for the daily Covid-19 media briefing, director general of health Dr Ashley Bloomfield a safe social distance away.
Now imagine Ardern, with straight face and serious tone, turning to Bloomfield and asking a question about thevirus. "I see the disinfectant — where it knocks it out in a minute, one minute. And is there a way we can do something like that, by injection inside or almost a cleaning?"
If our Prime Minister had posed the disinfectant query (to be very clear, she did not), we might question whether she needed, at a minimum, more sleep, or was fit for the job.
Most of us wouldn't believe any world leader would joke before global TV cameras about using UV light or disinfectant to treat Covid-19 patients. The stakes are too high.
Worldwide, official counts show the coronavirus pandemic has sickened more than 3 million people and killed almost a quarter million. One-third of illnesses have been reported in the United States, where more than 60,000 people have died.
Experts say the numbers are likely much higher.
Yet US President Donald Trump, who asked the disinfectant question last week, gets a hall pass from supporters, conspiracy theorists and contrarians when it comes to uttering what one UK radio host called "fatal gibberish".
It's the latest in a string of dangerous ad-libs by Trump, who at first called the novel coronavirus "a hoax"; then said it would vanish as if by a miracle; that a proven malaria drug could be a "game changer" in the fight against Covid-19; that testing was widely available; that healthcare workers nationwide had access to adequate personal protective equipment and that a vaccine was coming "relatively soon".
If you told me you'd come to my house relatively soon then showed up 18 months later, I'd be angry.
Americans, if they had ever believed the president before, have stopped putting stock in what he blurts or tweets: a recent survey showed about 23 per cent of people polled said they have high levels of trust in what Trump tells the public.
Just as troubling as the president's fatal gibberish are those 23 per cent who rush to defend him, no matter how asinine his remarks. His apologists and admirers write screeds on social media and post missives from experts such as health food store owner, Stephanie, and Steve the meme maker. Some of these messages tout unproven treatments for illness. Others are mean-tempered, ad hominem attacks. Many toe the party line about the president being a clever jokester.
Last Friday, Trump told reporters he made the disinfectant comment "sarcastically, just to see what would happen".
That's what my 14-year-old says when he knows he's uttered something hurtful or stupid. "I was just joking." No, son, you weren't. Now apologise to your sister.
Words have consequences. The Washington Post reported so many callers flooded a health hotline in Maryland, state officials had to issue a warning that "under no circumstances" should any disinfectant be taken to treat the coronavirus. Nationwide, medical directors reminded people injecting bleach or rubbing alcohol causes massive organ damage and can be fatal. Even the makers of Clorox and Lysol pleaded with Americans not to inject or ingest their products.
And while Trumpers label those who criticise their beloved as liberal snowflakes, Republicans not directly under the president's thumb are speaking out. Former Republican National Committee chairman Michael Steele said leadership from the top down makes the difference in crises like this, and Trump lacks empathy.
"I think in some respect, Americans have been abused by this president. We've seen ourselves and institutions we have relied on and respected and manifested as important be stripped down, stripped away, and leaders put in place who aren't really leaders but sycophants for Trump ... He doesn't give a damn about how you feel … I wish we could stop acting like he really cares about what's going on right now."
Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern and director general of health Dr Ashley Bloomfield. Photo / File
If there's anything we can learn from the botched experiment of a reality TV star president, it's no politician should get a free pass. Jacinda may be the mother of our nation at this time, but she and her team must be called to account if they overpromise and underdeliver.
All politicians fumble, because they're human, like us. In a democracy, we the people are the government. Not Jacinda. Not the Donald. Not Scott, Emmanuel, Boris or any other country's leader.
Succumbing to the cult of personality, no matter how likeable and articulate or fear-mongering and unintelligible our leaders are pins us in a precarious place. You can't analyse an administration with stars in your eyes. Otherwise, we may as well move to Russia, North Korea or China, where speaking out against a politician could land you in jail or end your life.
Back to disinfecting the body: when a Kiwi reporter recently posed the question of injecting bleach to Bloomfield, he paused, blinked and said, "I don't think I need to comment on that, Prime Minister."
"No," Ardern responded. "I think we'll let your silence speak for itself."
