Achieving one of the highest pollution ratings in the history of the planet last week, the city of Shanghai was almost completely enveloped by smog.

The skyline was obscured, schoolchildren were ordered to stay inside and all manner of commerce was suspended. This was a monumental, even apocalyptic kind of problem, but the government decided to use it as a rather cheerful opportunity to disseminate propaganda, pointing out that the smog was excellent for national defence as it acted as a kind of shield, discombobulating the navigational systems of enemy missiles. I present to you a short list of some of the messages the government passed along to the people in the hopes of quelling their anxiety and boosting their morale:

“Although criminals may think the smog conceals their actions from our surveillance cameras, the people of China will always do what is right!”

“Now free from the courageous bustle of industry, it is a lovely time to stroll the streets of Shanghai!”

‘It is important for the people of China to understand that the pollution we see in the air is definitely not living invisibly in the water, earth or food sources of our nation! China: United in safety!”

“The brownish, rank smog must know that the colour of Red China will never change!”

“Be indomitable in physical training to strengthen the physique, but please, not outdoors in peak smog hours!”

“The people must keep the birth rate low to defeat the smog! ”

“We are fortunate and blessed not to have a flu epidemic while the people fight smog!”

“The smog is our shield against aggressive capitalist imperialism!”

“It is good that Kanye cancelled his concert in Shanghai because of the smog for he is decadent and corrupt!”

“Like smog, the Gods of wealth can enter the home from everywhere if the worker is committed!”

“Chinese women’s volleyball, #1 the envy of the world!”

It’s from 1937, and in reading it I was struck by how much it had in common with communist propaganda in its certainty and fealty to a cause. Possessed with a religious optimism, the corporate soldiers marched furiously into the future, ever forward, ever reaching.  Equilibrium is stasis, and if the corporation isn’t growing, it’s failing, and so almost by definition, the appetite is infinite.

Last week an eight-story building in Bangladesh collapsed killing at least 400 people (a number that may yet rise to 1,000), most of them low-paid (25-30 cents an hour) garment workers. It was the worst accident in the history of the garment industry.

One of the companies that were manufacturing clothes in the shoddily constructed building was Joe Fresh, a very successful and popular brand here in Canada. They’re inexpensive, yet their clothes still manage to exude the downtown hipster aesthetic. As my wife says, they’re like the Ikea of clothing, offering a gentle compromise for those belonging to a fashion conscious tribe but who really can’t afford extravagantly branded proofs of their tastes.

Joe Mimran, the head of Joe Fresh, explains on the company website that this “extreme pricing” is one of their premier selling points. I don’t think it’s being overly dogmatic to say that the real cost of “extreme pricing” are tragedies like the one in Bangladesh. People, abstracted by distance and circumstance, suffer immensely so that we can wear cheap, yet cool-looking, jeans.

In this particular case, it’s been reported the factories are policed by goons who threaten the employees, mostly young women, unless they work 13- or 14- hour shifts, often seven days a week. The building that collapsed apparently had deep cracks inside of it and the workers were actually scared to go in, but nonetheless, were driven in by men wielding clubs.

Can you imagine how it must feel to be terrorized and exploited like that?  I’m not sure that I can, and I take little comfort in the argument that western industry is building a middle-class in far away lands, and that workers like those who perished in Bangladesh are better off with low paying work than nothing at all. It doesn’t ring true to me, and it’s baldly self-serving. The corporations, and the systems that they function within, are clearly taking advantage of the workers, and this is clearly wrong, regardless of the benefit you might imagine blossoming from it. Think again, on the microscopic, empathetic level, of what it must be like to work in one of these cruel sweatshops.

Our lives of whimsy, comfort and petty complaint are built upon horrible deeds.  We need to remember that, and that we enable it each day with our entitled behaviour. We all know how we feel about the Boston Marathon Bombings, but do we really know how we feel about the Rana Plaza catastrophe?

Well, it wasn’t like that at all. The city itself looks like it’s been run over by tanks. Rubble is everywhere, and the majestic architecture, now torn and largely disregarded, gives the place a feeling of battered antiquity. Although chaotic and confusing, nothing happens quickly or with purpose in Havana, it’s as if some torpid cloud had settled permanently upon the place.

Neither Rachelle nor I speak any Spanish, and soon enough Havana began to feel like some surreal game show where the goal of all the other contestants was to take all of our money. The visible expression of poetry I anticipated in the humming arteries of the ruined city was quickly replaced by the feelings of anxiety I get when trying to have my computer fixed by speaking to a techie over the phone. It was a grind, and nothing resolved without a battle.

I suppose you get what you deserve, and as we were taking “a cheap holiday in other people’s misery, “it came at a cost. Needed yet resented, we were the unwelcome other who were lost in the time and space of a culture we didn’t understand. A multitude of humiliations, scams and difficulties took place, and it became exhausting and demoralizing.

Near the end of our trip Rachelle and I stumbled upon a small fairground. There were bumper cars, a little roller coaster, a merry-go-round and the like, and it felt like stepping into something kind. We went on all the rides, yelling alongside the children, and I felt somehow restored. As we were walking through the grounds we came upon a batting cage. A line-up of Cuban men and teens waited to take their turn and I joined in at the back. It had been years since I’d been in a batting cage, and I could tell from the looks I was getting– and all the words muttered but never explicitly understood– that I was considered a joke.

When I eventually got into the cage I hit every ball that the machine threw at me, the last one with such certainty and force that a little girl of 4 who had been watching, jumped into the air and yelled “Opa!” As I walked out of the batting cage the Cuban men, surprised, smiled at me and gave me the thumbs up, and for a moment I felt returned to myself, like I belonged.

And then later Rachelle showed me the video.

Sweet Lord, what I had imagined to be a heroic athletic assertion against great odds, you know, grace under pressure and all that, was actually the pitiful and frail sight of a small man in glasses and flip-flops awkwardly dropping his bat on a bunch of different pitches. Each “swing” was like the bat was too heavy for me and I could hold it no longer so I just let it fall. It was entirely “special,” but I guess it just shows you that we see in this world what we need to see, and when we most need to see it.