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when tragedy becomes a headline and grief gets lost

 


When Tragedy Becomes a Headline, and Grief Gets Lost



When the news of the plane crash broke, I was in school, conducting my classes, immersed in the ordinary rhythm of the day. The message reached us quietly, and then everything shifted. Conversations spread through the corridors, disbelief settled into faces, and routines suddenly felt hollow.


One of the pilots was the youngest — a former student from our school. Most of the teachers had taught her, or at least seen her grow, walk through the halls, smile at familiar faces. I never taught her myself, yet her pleasing smile still comes vividly before my eyes. It’s strange how loss works that way — how someone you barely knew can still leave behind a deep ache. It is heartbreaking for everyone associated with her, just as it is for the families and loved ones of all the others who died in the crash.


And yet, when the headlines appeared, the focus shifted quickly. A politician. A female pilot. Speculation. Analysis. Politics behind the scenes. What was missing — almost entirely — was grief.


Five people died.

Five different individuals.

Five different families.

Five different worlds collapsed in a fraction of a second.


They were reduced to titles, roles, and debates.


What disturbed me deeply was the way blame found its direction. The difference between male and female was quietly, yet clearly, drawn. Questions were raised about her being a woman. About her age — just 25. About her flight experience — 1,500 hours. As if tragedy needed a gender. As if loss required a scapegoat. As if a young woman who acted briefly and lost her life deserved scrutiny instead of silence and respect.


Since that day, my mind hasn’t been cheerful. It’s been three days, and the episode keeps returning to my thoughts — not as breaking news, but as a lingering weight. Why did it happen at that moment? Why those five people? Different ages, different aspirations, different journeys — all abruptly ended.


This is what troubles me the most: how quickly we will move on.


In a few days, the news cycle will change. Another headline will replace this one. Conversations will fade. Life will resume its pace. But for the families of those who died, time will not move so easily. They will carry an absence that cannot be debated away. An empty space that no explanation can fill.


There will be an unoccupied chair.

A voice that no longer answers.

A future that was imagined and now feels stolen.


That pain doesn’t trend. It doesn’t make headlines.


Perhaps this is the saddest part of modern tragedy — not just that lives are lost, but that grief becomes selective, filtered through status, gender, and attention. When tragedy becomes a topic rather than a wound, empathy is the first thing to disappear.


Maybe we cannot stop tragedies.

Maybe we cannot hold grief forever.


But we can, at least for a moment, pause — and remember that these were not just names in the news. They were lives. And their loss deserves more than a passing mention.


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