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“After reading the headlines, only the numbers stay in my mind. Three million. Ten. Six hundred. One. The list goes on and on. We’re getting better at quantifying pain.
I remember jotting down these sentences last semester when we were all trying to fight death. The death of several of our people. The deaths of millions of people during the pandemic. The Death of Rachael Shaw-Rosenbaum ’24.
At the time, writing a column about it seemed so urgent to me that I observed many issues with the way Yale handled death. But I couldn’t write anything. I couldn’t find the words. I couldn’t understand the crushing weight on my chest and the feeling of floating aimlessly. Camus’ words echoed in my ears: “It doesn’t matter whether you die at thirty or seventy since, in either case, other men and women will naturally continue to live, even for thousands of years.”
Very recently, however, the death of a close family member made me realize why I felt like this from the start. It’s because we don’t have the time and space to mourn and deal with the unimaginable. We continue to live as predicted by Camus. But not naturally. We are forced to go on living.
When my father broke the news of the death of a member of our family, my mind went blank. I could only say, “I should have known him better” as the sudden feeling of guilt came in overwhelming waves. His absence in my life had never been so real. I fought back the tears.
In the midst of everything I had to do, all the missions, meetings, events, I also felt like I wasn’t allowed to feel that way. I didn’t want to share it with my friends, worried it would take their time and put them in a dark state. Asking for extensions of time for personal reasons would make me seem weak or irresponsible. No one needed to know. No one needed to share my pain.
I now realize how imperfect this state of mind is. Death has certainly become a much more isolated experience. We are all supposed to deal with it on our own, quickly, without disturbing anyone else. But we also have a responsibility to perpetuate this expectation. We keep repeating that this year or even this week has been difficult for all of us but to say it’s not the same as treating it. And to deal with it, it is more than natural to depend on others and ask for help.
This is a major problem at Yale. After traumatic, personal or community-wide events, we are expected to continue our business as usual. Go to class. Submit the p-set or test. Keep studying. It’s almost as if tragedy and pain don’t exist in our vocabulary, as if we are robots, quickly processing information without feeling anything. The ‘this is what it is’ mindset is why Camus’ words resonated in my ears at the time and will continue to resonate in the ears of many more students.
I can’t help but ask, “How can we even be proud to be a tight-knit community when we can’t think and cry together?” When we all know the source of our distress, but we really can’t say anything. When the constantly repeated “We’re here for each other” is an empty, senseless promise, akin to the desensitizing numbers we read in the headlines.
Death is unimaginable. And processing takes time. It should take some time. Reaching this awareness is not easy. But we must actively decide to recognize our pain and choose to reflect and share with friends. Only then can we begin to call ourselves a true community. Only then can we begin to live naturally.
AMAZING SUDE is a sophomore at Berkeley College. His column, “Piecing Together”, airs every other Thursday. Contact her at [email protected]
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