On a cold night, by the side of the road, a mother was lulling her child to sleep inside a car parked on the shoulder. She was not a refugee in a camp, nor a displaced person in a statistic, nor a victim in a breaking news report. She was simply a mother trying to convince her child that this situation was only "temporary." Many cars passed by, carrying many cameras... but no one stopped. Simply because she was just a mother who did not belong to the "story being told."
اضافة اعلان
In an era where tragedies are measured by the number of dead and displaced, the human being has become a number... and later, even outside the number altogether. There are those who are counted, so reports are written about them, and responses are built upon them. And there are those who are not counted, remaining stuck between life and oblivion—never reaching a camp, never registered in a database, and never appearing on a news bulletin.
The media, unintentionally, has become a partner in this gap. It sees what is documented, displays what is measured, and amplifies what can be summarized in a number. But what about those living outside the lens? What about those hiding in temporary homes, in cars, in the shadows of cities? These people do not ask for much... they only ask to be seen.
The ethical question here is not about the scale of the catastrophe, but about the limits of our vision of it. Is the tragedy what happens... or what we do not see of what happens?
When tragedy disappears from the screens, it does not disappear from reality. Instead, it turns into a silent burden, carried by people who were not even granted the right to be numbers.
Perhaps the human being no longer has a value that counts, or perhaps they are no longer a story to be told... perhaps!!
Who will write the tale of a human whose name was never mentioned?
