Pain is not public property

Last Saturday, Kashmir woke up to one of the most devastating tragedies in recent memory. Nine lives lost. Nine families shattered. Nine stories cut short. The valley felt heavier. Homes fell silent. People whispered prayers. Some cried quietly. Some cried loudly. Grief sat in every corner like a bitter burden.

And just when families were struggling to process the unimaginable, a video surfaced on social media. It showed one of the deceased with his little toddler. It was an ordinary moment captured earlier, now shared everywhere without permission. The family pleaded: “Please don’t share it. Don’t make grieving difficult for us.” That one line should have been enough.

But the video continued to circulate. Without pause. Without thought. Without empathy. This is not the first time grief has been stolen. And unless we learn, it won’t be the last. This digital hijacking of grief continues thoughtlessly.

We often believe we are “sharing” to express solidarity. Or to mourn collectively. Or simply because it feels like news. However, sometimes, a share button becomes a weapon we don’t recognise. It turns private sorrow into public consumption. It makes tragedy a spectacle. It snatches control from the family when they need control the most.

Research in psychology repeatedly shows that one of the first steps in healing is “ownership of grief.” This means the bereaved must decide how they want to mourn, who they want around them, what they wish to share, and most importantly, what they want to keep private. When outsiders take over their narrative, unfortunately, by circulating pics, videos or voice notes, the family loses that ownership. This delays healing and deepens trauma.

A study from the University of Michigan calls this “secondary trauma.” The moment a private memory becomes viral, families experience the loss all over again, amplified. And we, unknowingly, become participants in that harm. A single forward can injure someone already bleeding from inside. A single post can turn a tender memory into a public spectacle.

We need to ask ourselves: Why do we share someone else’s pain? Why do we replay their traumatizing moments? Why do we feel entitled to private grief? Maybe we think we are helping. Maybe we don’t think at all! But viral mourning is not empathy. It is intrusion. It is insensitivity.

“Please don’t share it,” the family requested. That sentence should echo in our hearts. It should teach us something. It should remind us that compassion is not in viewing a video. Compassion is in respecting a boundary. Grief is not content. Pain is not public property. Dead people do not owe us stories.

Psychologists explain that people in acute grief pass through phases. Shock. Disbelief. Anger. Guilt. Quiet acceptance. Slow healing. Each phase is fragile. Any disturbance, especially public exposure, can reopen wounds. And reopening of wounds is more agonizing.

Further studies suggest that interference from outsiders prolongs healing. Particularly damaging are unwanted pics or videos. The comments analysing the tragedy. Social media debates about the deceased. Speculations, assumptions and sensationalism. The first month is the most sensitive. The brain is in “emotional survival mode.” Every trigger feels sharper. Every reminder feels heavier. When a video resurfaces again and again, the grieving family is forced to relive the loss repeatedly. They cannot move forward. They cannot rest. Their grief becomes a loop, endless and exhausting.

What can instead help bereaved? Noiseless support. Presence without pressure. Listening without giving advice. Protecting privacy. Allowing silence. Not asking intrusive questions. Respecting what the family wants to be shared and what they don’t. Compassion is simple. But it requires restraint. And that is where we often fail as a society.

Let’s be people who respect grief. Every community has two choices. To comfort or to consume. If we keep turning tragedies into shareable material, we will lose something vital. Our collective sensitivity!

Bottomline: Nine lives were lost. Families shattered. Children left without fathers. Homes left without voices. Let us not add to their burden. Let us not make their grief a public theatre or an opportunity for photo-op. Let us not turn sorrow into media display.

In moments like these, genuine humanity is tested. Not by how loudly we mourn online or how trespassing offline, but by how silently we stand with the grieving—and how we support them in the long run.