There is an art to surviving disappointment, but you wouldn’t know it from consuming the arts and culture of the Twenties.

We seem to be hostages of an era of corrosive optimism which is allergic to complexity and intellect, and disappointment too.

The prophet Orwell warned us about this type of society and its dangerous simplicities.

In the political sphere, thoughtful critique and debate were once valued as markers of a healthy society. Now we are left with thin-skinned governments and a tendency towards sociopathic leadership all over the world.

Capitalist media owners have contributed by dropping standards for news, stranding us all in a weird space where any mention of real problems on the part of citizens is seen as an attack on government.

In the worst cases, criticism is framed by the powers that be as a form of treachery.

And yet, people still practise journalism in such an environment. What’s going on here?

I remember my first impression of real-life journalists; it was not very good. They’re nothing like the heroes in the movies, I thought, observing their sharp gazes and reticent tongues.

Why aren’t they out there saving the world with their flaming prose of social justice! What a grim bunch of cynics, I thought. I will never become like that, I thought.

I had no idea of what it takes to persevere in a profession that is utterly idealistic at its core. It turns out that journalists are a case study in how to cope with disappointment not only in one’s individual life— it’s a tough gig— but also in society as a whole.

Well. Journalists and Socialists, actually, and here I am aspiring to be one or possibly both when I grow up.

This past week I have been relying on what I have learned over time from the wisdom of journalists and the interminable motivation of modern-day socialists.

Comments made by my Head of State in response to the killing of the Chadema politician Ali Kibao during a celebration of the police were unexpected, bracing.

It was giving ‘Je suis l’etat.’ It was an unapologetic reminder that the state has the monopoly on the means of violence, and it will justify using it… against civilians.

It is now time to sit back, exhale and begin the process of embracing the massive disappointment of having invested support and belief in the current iteration of the government of Tanzania, only to discover that it was old ghosts in newly tailored Ujamaa kitenges. Old threats in new speeches. I know I am not alone at this crossroads.

The sharp gazes and reticent tongues of journalists now look like resilience to me. After all they are still doing this largely thankless job.

Veterans and old socialists have a stoic patience and deliciously dark sense of humour that quietly teaches.

This is what it looks like to survive the death of your hopes and dreams for your country. I don’t know why knowing this is therapeutic, but it is, so I am sharing it here.

There is an art to surviving disappointment. It consists of indomitable— even defiant — optimism and comes with a sharp gaze and reticent tongue.

Tomorrow — maybe next week or next year, it needs time— this too shall pass and hope will come again.

Culled from The East African