I struggled to get up this morning.
Not because I drank coffee after 3pm the day before. Not because I stayed up late chatting with my partner. Not because there was a work meeting I wanted to avoid. Not even because I was getting up to an alarm with a number four in front of it.
I struggled to get up because I knew that I had to catch a plane today…
News that Malaysia Airlines flight MH370 had disappeared from air traffic control radars began to consume the public’s consciousness on Saturday morning. By the evening, the story was dominating television news coverage and topping every ‘most clicked’ column in the world.
As the weekend stretched on, it became increasingly clear there would be no heroic rescue or happy ending to this story. Whatever caused MH370 to disappear, it was now almost impossible that any of the its 239 passengers and crew would be found alive.
Everyone I interacted with over the course of the weekend was speculating about what might have happened. Other news stories dwarfed in comparison to the monumental, all-consuming horror and intrigue of what had happened to flight MH370.
Was it terrorism? A plane doesn’t just fall out of the sky these days, does it? How could there have been no distress signal? The pilot was so experienced, what could have gone wrong? Don’t we have state-of-the-art GPS something something now? Did you hear about the stolen passports? How strange is it that no debris has been found?
Next, the community’s treatment of the story turned to making personal links with the tragedy. As I chatted with friends and family in hushed pitiful tones reserved only for instances of mass casualty, it seemed that everyone had a story.