In a development so absurdly macabre it could only have been scripted by a committee of caffeinated nihilists, survivors of the recent Air India catastrophe have come forward to share their trauma. But here is the kicker, the twist of the lemon in your grief-martini: their families, the ones who were blessedly not on the plane, are also ‘recalling horror’. Yes, you read that correctly. The horror of not being on a crashing plane. The horror of waiting at the airport with a limp welcome banner. The horror of a suddenly cancelled dinner booking.
Biff Thistlethwaite, your ever-sozzled correspondent, has stumbled into the newsroom reeking of gin and righteous fury, demanding to know: since when did proximity to tragedy become a competitive sport? Since when did the mere act of being a relative of a survivor entitle one to a share of the trauma pie? I envision a support group for families who were safely on the ground, huddled in a circle, sobbing into their complimentary tea: “He was supposed to be on that flight. He would have been on that flight if he hadn’t forgotten his passport. The horror of that narrow escape keeps me up at night.”
Let us parse this linguistic lunacy. “Survivors speak of trauma” is a legitimate headline, a heart-wrenching one. People who cheated death have every right to be haunted. But the addition of “families not on plane recall horror” is a masterstroke of journalistic bloat, a desperate attempt to milk pathos from the teats of irrelevancy. It is the equivalent of reporting a house fire and then adding, “Neighbours who slept through the blaze recall the trauma of not being woken up.”
I can already hear the howls of protest from the professional offence-takers. “But Biff, the families are traumatised too! The anxiety of waiting, the uncertainty!” To which I say: bollocks. Absolute bollocks. The anxiety of waiting is a universal human experience, akin to waiting for a bus that might be late. It is not a trauma. Real trauma is the sound of metal shearing, the smell of jet fuel, the sight of a wing falling off. Real trauma is surviving when others did not. Not being on the plane is not a trauma; it is a stroke of luck. Celebrating that luck is fine, but do not dress it up in the language of suffering.
This is the world we inhabit, a world where every minor inconvenience is a crisis, every emotion a disorder, every relative a victim. We have pathologised the mundane. We have turned the simple act of being alive into a potentially triggering event. I blame the internet, which has given everyone a platform to amplify their mediocrity. I blame the therapeutic culture that tells us our feelings are valid regardless of their basis in reality. I blame the gin, but that is a different column.
The headline is a perfect microcosm of our age: overwrought, self-indulgent, and utterly disconnected from the actual scale of tragedy. It is the journalistic equivalent of a participation trophy. Congratulations. Your son survived a plane crash and you are also traumatised. Here is a headline for your fridge.
As I drain my glass and stumble towards the door, I leave you with this thought: the next time a disaster strikes, spare a thought for the real victims. And then spare a thought for the families who were nowhere near it. And then pour yourself a stiff drink. You will need it to stomach the news.
