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For weeks, I have been reading poignant articles about a collision, which claimed the lives of 16 individuals, each of whom belongs to the Humboldt Broncos: a close-knit hockey family, whose suffering and agony continue to tug at the heartstrings of Canadians. When I first heard the news, I was shocked. Tears rolled down my face as I learned about the tragic fate of so many young and gifted athletes. In the days following the accident, however, my sadness turned to reproach as the national response of solidarity quickly gave way to one of self-serving sensationalism, which, for me, focalizes a more nuanced, intricate, and largely unspoken tragedy: the spectacle of mourning.
As hockey fans and family members across Canada united to show their strong, collective support for the victims of Humboldt on social media, I began contemplating how exactly we mourn and what implications this kind of public, national grieving conjures. Flags were lowered to half-mast. Hockey sticks were placed on doorsteps. Green ribbons were tied and proudly worn. Lyrics were composed and tribute songs were sung. Donations came pouring in to top 12 million dollars—and counting. Schools, public institutions, and businesses hosted “jersey days” to honour the lives of the deceased. And memorial apparel was designed and sold to show just how much Canada cares.
We, as a country, rallied to show the people of Saskatchewan that they are not suffering alone—that they, and their sons and daughter—are in our thoughts, prayers, and hearts. The outpour of emotion, love, and compassion is indeed inspiring, particularly in such unique circumstances for which no one is prepared. In these sorts of situations, we do what we feel is right, what we think or know might try to soften the indescribable pain that will now haunt grieving families forever. But in that attempt, in that process of sharing the loss, we tend to forget how to respect a family’s privacy and how to legitimately lament one’s death without turning misfortune into a media feast.
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On March 9, 2016, I received a phone call that would forever change my life. I discovered that my brother, Bruno, had died in a motorcycle accident in Toronto while on his way home from work. In the hours that ensued, I watched, in horror, as several news agencies, including Global, CBC, and CTV, showed, on national television, the scene of the accident. Shattered glass. My brother’s motorcycle on its side. His ripped daypack on the road. A pool of blood. In an attempt to gather more information about Bruno’s death, I gained, instead, a lifetime of trauma caused by viewing countless stills and videos which, to this day, I still cannot review. What, for most, might just be the typical sights, sounds, and statistics of the evening news are, for some, life-changing realities. Admittedly, that I am able to point out the uncommon gore and unfiltered content on the news is, in many ways, a reflection of my social privilege, which allows me to watch the daily broadcasts without the expectation of witnessing war, bloodshed, and terrible violence in my own backyard.
When news first broke of the Humboldt Broncos, I was grateful that camera crews and reporters did not share images of the crash site, that news agencies were actually being conscientious and foregrounding the victims rather than the violence. However, as a journalist reminded me, a lack of imagery likely ensued due to law enforcement officers prohibiting journalists from accessing the collision site, rather than because of the journalists’ empathy.
The following morning, though, I was all but disappointed. Aerial photographs and videos of the intersection where the collision had occurred went viral. Footage of the wreckage—which showed both the bus and truck—were published on dozens on media sites and platforms. As I read accounts of the event, my eyes invariably scrolled to the bottom of the articles to read reactions and comments. I was encouraged by those who, like me, felt that the footage itself was disrespectful to families of the victims, but crushed to see how quickly their unpopular opinions were attacked. At a time when people were meant to stand side-by-side in a public exhibit of empathy and affection, a disgusting “trolling” war raged unabated.
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I understand, wholeheartedly, that media platforms are fulfilling the responsibilities of their roles and are meeting a demand by providing what (I hope to be) trustworthy, unbiased, and up-to-the-second information. But what, exactly, is that demand? Have we become so obsessed with tragic events that we need to see, firsthand, the traumatic circumstances in which they unfold? Are we so accustomed to violence and calamity that we, as a society, become increasingly desensitized to their effects? Are news agencies purposely seeking to perpetuate evocative material that they know will grab and, at least for a moment, hold the attention of a viewership? Most of the texts covering the Broncos story, in fact, used the scene of the accident as the headline photo. Are we valuing journalistic authenticity, here, or satisfying our perverted need for catharsis via clickbait?
What is surprising to me is not that the media are trying to sell us stories but, rather, the degree to which we, as consumers, are willing to buy into those stories. I was conflicted and disturbed when this week’s news featured LIVE COVERAGE of the memorial service held in honour of Broncos player, Evan Thomas, at the SaskTel Centre. Upon first learning of the collision, a stream of tears rolled down my face; I had not anticipated, though, that, weeks later, I would be able to livestream the memorials and services dedicated to the 16 lives cut too short. But where do we begin to draw the line? Are we okay with reporters tweeting updates of a funeral service as it progresses? Do we gladly accept news crews putting cameras in the faces of crying teammates? Are we fine with journalists asking grieving family, “What’s going through your head right now?” and “How are you handling all of this right now?” as if they were athletes being interviewed at intermission?
Is nothing sacred anymore? Can we not even respect human privacy and dignity enough to leave funeral processions to family and to close friends? I know that Canada’s heart as a whole bleeds for these families enduring unbearable anguish. I understand that, because of the gravity, size and nature of this unprecedented event, the citizens of the adoringly called hockey nation wish to pay their respects and tributes in a public way. And I recognize that, by inviting every Canadian into an arena, news outlets are, in part, facilitating a large-scale effort of humanity and harmony that sends to the Humboldt families a moving message: we are with you. But when do we let people, particularly the families of the victims, mourn in private, without facing a barrage of cameras or questions? I do not wish to deprive Canadians of the opportunity to show support for Humboldt, but I do wonder if we are crossing (in)visible boundaries when suffering becomes sensationalized.
As I catch clips of interviews on social media and on television, a familiar wave of emotions hits me. Last week, I wanted to watch an entire interview with Scott Thomas, Evan’s father, but I did not have the heart, nor the mindset, to do so. When the CBC’s Susan Ormiston asked Scott, “How do you rationalize what happened?” and “What do you think that Evan would want you to do now—and your family?” I imagined hearing the same questions from visitors at a funeral and immediately shut off the segment. Is it fair for us to expect parents and family members who just lost their child to be interviewed about their pain only days after such a tragedy? Do we want to hear the answers? Has our media-induced hunger for people to “open up” about their intimate affliction (as though the prospect of managing one’s personal life privately were guilt-ridden or shameful) become so strong that we can no longer deprive ourselves of instant vicariousness?
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As a former professional tennis player, my brother was internationally celebrated. Naturally, his death spurred a great deal of media attention, at the center of which was our family. Although I cannot speak for the parents of the victims in Saskatchewan, I can say that, in the days following Bruno’s death, no matter how much I wanted everyone to know just how good of a person Bruno was, my family and I had—like many others in similar circumstances—requested privacy, which is, I think, a crucial part of grieving. I could not imagine, now, the possibility of having to answer a reporter’s questions after I had picked out my brother’s casket. I give Scott Thomas a great deal of respect for even addressing some of Susan’s questions. Had someone at my brother’s visitation asked me, “Why do you think this happened?” or “What do you think Bruno is thinking now?” I can assure you that my responses would not have been as considerate nor as eloquent as Scott’s. My point, here, is that media and news outlets make this type of inquiry—of imposition—normal.
I am not suggesting that the world turn away from tragedy, nor am I recommending that valuable news stories, including that of the Humboldt Broncos, fall to the wayside for fear of replicating, in some fashion, the violence and tragedy that imbue the event. What I am proposing, however, is that we take a closer, deeper look at how social media and news outlets influence our process of grieving—and for whom we are grieving. Just a couple of days after the Broncos collision, a bus carrying over 40 students plunged off a cliff in Himachal Pradesh, India. 24 children, many of whom were under the age of 10, died. I did not see Facebook profile picture filters honouring those victims, nor did I watch in-depth analyses or talks of this tragic event on the news. I can already hear disgruntled readers mumbling, so let me be clear: I know that Canadian news is just that: Canadian news. Stories that occur in Canada take precedence, granted. But are the lives of children any less valuable or grievable because of their geographic origin? I am not replacing or overshadowing one story with another, but ask yourself: did you even hear about the accident in India?
Journalism is important. Knowing what is going on in the world is necessary. Delivering the news is a complicated, delicate process, especially if that news is negative or painful. My critique is not meant to criticize nor attack news media outlets but, rather, to point out how, in the digital age, we still have social phenomena that need major unpacking, particularly in light of evolving definitions and understandings of privacy, both personal and—oddly—public. I recognize that, to even write this particular piece, I have relied on the very news outlets that I have aimed to problematize, and that I will continue to depend on them for the dissemination of my perhaps unpopular viewpoint. However, while I continue to read, watch, and listen to news stories about disgraceful businesses profiting from selling unofficial Humboldt merchandise, which organizations did not lower their flags to half-mast, and which schools across the country did not host jersey days, I wonder if the point of it all—the lives of the beloved Humboldt Broncos—is a little lost in the feeding frenzy.
The question of how we mourn or grieve becomes increasingly complex. Is a Facebook profile picture filter, for example, a sign of solidarity for the families of the victims? Is it a way for us, as collective mourners, to channel and articulate our unstable and unclear emotions? Or is it simply a way of showing others in our social networks that we are good people for doing both? My Facebook and Instagram feeds saw hundreds of photographs sporting Humboldt ribbons or hockey sticks and jerseys. Most of those, however, were posted without a hashtag, and on private accounts. Who, then, is meant to see these pictures: the families of the victims, who likely draw strength from the national displays of solidarity, or those few hundred followers on an account? Is a selfie in a Juventus jersey without a caption or hashtag sending out love and hope to all the right places or simply searching for self-gratifying likes? Are we comforted by the idea that we are trying to truly be there for others, or are we comforted by the idea of us being seen trying to be there for others? Is all mourning for the Humboldt Broncos sincere or is some just a spectacle?
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Photo credit: Getty Images