On Human Nature and Death

When I was twelve years old, a friend of mine died. He was a classmate, one whom I was quite close with. We used to fight over our grades all the time; he was more mathematically superior in comparison to me, but I held top position for language skills. It was after the long holiday that came after the final year exams – that period of time where you had to come to school but had absolutely nothing to do but play with your friends for seven hours straight. The day I came to school, I had expected everyone to be the same as they always were after a long holiday; bored and wanting to stay at home, but also excited to see friends and trade stories.  I was surprised when I came to class and saw that everyone was in a sombre mood. Some of my classmates were crying. I asked one of them what had happened, and he told me that one of our classmates had died, and it was my friend. He had wandered alone at the hotel his family was staying at and had fallen into the deep end of a swimming pool. He had never learned how to swim. I was a kid back then; I was twelve years old. Death was a stranger to me. I knew what dying meant, but it was a foreign concept; one that seemed so far away. When I was seven years old I fell out of my father’s moving car onto a traffic lane and nearly got run over by a car, but I never fully understood how close I was to dying at that time. When they told me my friend had died, I thought they were joking. Our class teacher came in and told us my friend was dead. I thought she was part of the prank. I kept looking at the hallway the entire day, expecting my friend to bumble up the corridor and apologise profusely for being late. He never did. On graduation day, his elder brother came up on stage to receive his certificate. We just stared. His mother was crying so hard, but we were kids back then. We never gave it a second thought.

When I was thirteen years old, my best friend’s father died. We were in class, all of us, and our class teacher then came in and told my best friend to go to the principal’s office. When he was gone, she told us that there was something that she had to tell us. I was still a kid then. I was insensitive. When she said there was news she had to tell us, I was excited and wondered jokingly aloud about what it could possibly be. She glanced at me in distaste. When she dropped the bomb that my best friend’s father had just died, all the blood drained from my face. Here it was. That word again. That terrible word that brought tears to everyone’s faces and made our hearts heavy and changed our lives. It should have, but it didn't. What was I supposed to do? It was not my father who died. It was not my best friend who died. It was his father. How was I supposed to feel remorse and sadness over that? The mere word death brought us all to a standstill, but it was a halt that only lasted for a moment. My best friend’s world had collapsed. Ours went on as normal. How was I supposed to feel about that? I didn't know, and I still don’t.

Two days ago, my college was closed temporarily. One of the faculty members had died in an air accident. She was a well-loved member of the faculty; I never talked to her much, but I remember her being warm and friendly during the few times that we did talk. It was about my transferring from a Further Maths course into an overpopulated Maths class. I'm sure I was an absolute nuisance, but she dealt with my request kindly and patiently. She was a good person, and two days ago we were informed that she was dead. The plane she was in fell vertically from the sky and crashed on the runway. She had two children. When the vice-principal called us for an emergency meeting, he couldn't hold back his tears when he told us about the accident. Again, we were momentarily stunned by the news, but after several moments later life went on as normal for us. It didn't for the vice-principal. It didn't for her family and her friends. It didn't for the ones who loved her most. But it did for us. I remember leaving the meeting and running across some of the other students who were preparing to leave to have some fun at the city centre. I was sick myself, and so I had other things to worry about. But I remember the vice-principal, despite his tears, telling us that if we ever needed any help to cope with grief and needed any counselling of some sort, he was there for us, and we could come and talk to him any time we wanted. He said he was here to help us, and I remember thinking to myself that we were not the ones who needed help.

I don’t know if it’s a fault of my generation or we simply didn't know her well enough, but we never felt any real grief over it. We didn't. We still don’t. In one week, we will all have forgotten about it. That’s just the way it is. Those who knew her well and loved her are still grieving, but the rest of us feel nothing. It makes me wonder; is my generation that desensitised and callous, or is it human nature to not be affected by death if it does not affect us in a significant way?

And if it’s the latter, is human nature supposed to be that way?