In a society where the environment discourages and discredits empathy, our tears begin to dry up. We are unable to rejoice when we should. It feels like our emotions are being controlled by someone else, allowing us only to express prescribed happiness or sorrow.
Published Jun 15, 2025 | 7:04 PM ⚊ Updated Jun 15, 2025 | 7:04 PM
The interior of one of the hostels in BJ Medical College, which was destroyed following the plane crash.
Synopsis: In the deeply human moment of mourning, both the media and the establishment — who communicate with the public through the media — have lost the ability to offer consolation or empathy. Barely had the shock sunk in, barely had the sorrow been assimilated, when questions arose: Was this a conspiracy? Was there an explosion?
On Thursday, at high noon, a metal bird — carrying a full complement of passengers, their dreams, and duties — took off to the skies, only to crash.
It burst into flames. It disintegrated into charred fragments of flesh. It sent out a helpless message: “I have no strength left, I can’t rise
anymore, I’m falling to the ground.” Then, it exploded.
It collapsed onto those who were sharpening their minds to fight battles against death. They were sitting in front of their lunch. They were
poised to become tomorrow’s doctors. It was like a missile attack on innocent hopes, leaving a trail of unending cries, heartbreak, and
despair. How many grieving hearts? How many torrents of tears?
An accident. Perhaps somewhere, someone — human or mechanical — was negligent or careless. Or maybe not. Human limitations, which
cannot prevent every possibility, might have played a role. Or perhaps, fate — that rarely acknowledged force — suddenly took centre-stage.
This may be one of those times when we feel an overpowering and inexplicable force at play.
When such tragedy, too deep to understand or explain, engulfs us, humans become fragile. For a brief time, the divides and differences
between people seem to vanish. A moment of shared humanity is revealed.
An industrialist commented, “This tragedy reminds us once again that life is like a bubble.” It is a moment that reaffirms the fleeting nature of existence. But people do not remain in this reflective sorrow forever. They need some anchor to recover from the shock and grief.
Sadly, in this deeply human moment of mourning, both the media and the establishment — who communicate with the public through the
media — have lost the ability to offer consolation or empathy. Barely had the shock sunk in, barely had the sorrow been assimilated, when
questions arose: Was this a conspiracy? Was there an explosion?
For a story to run, it needs a question to keep it alive. Since we live in a time of crises, perhaps conspiracies can’t be entirely ruled out. But can’t we leave that to inquiries? Why this urgency to release a drop of poison into the atmosphere immediately?
When one lone passenger miraculously survived the crash with minor injuries, it was hailed as divine intervention — a spiritual wonder. But
that narrative, too, did not last long. Soon, suspicions arose: Was he the conspirator? If not, how did he survive?
Oh God! Will this man ever be freed from his toxic mind?
During the Pahalgam massacre, when innocent families on vacation were slaughtered by militants, the country was shaken. The image of a
young woman sitting helplessly beside her husband’s body became an iconic representation of that national tragedy. The pain in her anguished cry echoed instantly in the hearts of the entire nation.
Those who reported on the horrific scene also shared stories of humanity — how locals responded with compassion. One of those killed
in the terrorist attack was a local Kashmiri who died while trying to protect Hindu tourists. His sacrifice dismantled the narrative that the
attack was one religion targeting another — a narrative the attackers wanted to spread.
When such heinous acts injure the collective soul, stories of support and kindness provide some healing. They reassure us that the world is not entirely unjust. But our society is increasingly unable to hold on to that humaneness, even briefly. It seems to be losing the strength to stay in a compassionate space, even for a little while. Every phase, every episode, inevitably slides into hostility.
The Pahalgam massacre took place in strife-torn Kashmir. News emerged that the killers specifically targeted Hindus, leading not only to
grief but also understandable anger. Some directed their rage solely at the terrorists, but others indiscriminately targeted the entire Muslim
minority.
Few cared to acknowledge that those who rushed to rescue the victims and offered help were also Muslims. Even the victims’ families said they held no anger towards any religion — only toward the terrorists. Still, social media brimmed with hate speech. The grieving widow was
mercilessly trolled.
Following the massacre, an Air Force officer named Sophia Qureshi — who explained the army’s subsequent action, “Operation Sindoor,” to the nation — was also subjected to hate. The day after the massacre, or maybe the day after that, a Bengali Muslim soldier died in a counter-
terror encounter in Kashmir. Such stories — stories that reinforce unity and trust in India’s pluralism — rarely find space in the media. We seem allergic to positive signals!
In a society where the environment discourages and discredits empathy, our tears begin to dry up. We are unable to rejoice when we should. It feels like our emotions are being controlled by someone else, allowing us only to express prescribed happiness or sorrow.
The dominant public response to Operation Kagar is indifference. Then comes silent acceptance. In the subsequent stages, though there was
opposition and protest, finally we see support for the operation.
How can we justify a situation where hundreds of tribal people — considered constitutionally and traditionally vital to India — are dying,
and their bodies wrapped in plastic bags become a daily visual reminder of “civilized” society? And yet, this is not seen as a major issue. It’s
deemed inevitable. It has been claimed that the government is doing good work.
So what if 500 people died in six months? Even if 100 of them were Maoists, aren’t the remaining 400 tribal civilians? There’s no debate over
whether these encounters were real or staged. If so many had died of diarrhoea, wouldn’t Parliament and Assemblies have erupted in uproar?
Why the silence here?
Look at the comments under Kagar-related news on social media. The darkest depths of human nature are on full display.
In Gaza, when Israel kills dozens, including children, daily — without fail — a lot of people in India are cheering Israel for its actions.
Seeing the war-ravaged children of Palestine breaks one’s heart. Yet Israeli ministers say, “Even babies are enemies,” and in India, we hail
such ‘bravery’ as heroic. We have already lost the power to cry. Now, we are losing the power to feel. We are gradually being engulfed by a kind of madness that cannot distinguish good from evil.
That is why, after the Ahmedabad crash, we don’t know how to react. Since no one is clearly responsible, we don’t even know whom to hate.
Forty years ago, when the Kanishka flight vanished over the Atlantic, reports did not focus only on the dead but also on their grieving families
— waiting anxiously in airports, searching for updates, clinging to hope. Back then, human-interest stories hadn’t yet been corrupted by today’s cold mechanical narrative styles.
Deep within every person, some humanity still remains. When tragedy strikes, and hearts feel scorched, bringing that hidden tenderness to the surface — even for a moment — can offer deliverance from apathy, gloom, and toxicity. Otherwise, letters and images that provoke darkness only further dehumanise us.
(Views are personal. Edited by Majnu Babu).
