Landscapes of Longing and Loss

The Titan & The Adriana : when words can reach the places our eyes cannot

"Language is power, in ways more literal than most people think. When we speak, we exercise the power of language to transform reality. - Julia Penelope

During the pandemic lockdowns, I read a story about Le Van Hung, a former deep sea fisherman in Hoi An, Vietnam, who had returned to the ocean in his small, woven boat. 

A storm had destroyed his family business onshore and he had no other choice left. He spoke of the need to bring in abundant hauls to support his family of six, “We hope,” he said, “but I never know what happens under the water.” Hung’s words somehow described, perhaps what each of was experiencing at the time—a scale of uncertainty that none of us could easily measure. Hung’s words described the invisible depths that held both his hope and helplessness. 

I thought again about Hung’s words recently, as we followed the stories of two groups on two very different ocean voyages. Five people on board OceanGate’s Titan submersible — rich, elite and able to freely choose their voyage — and another—of around 750 people, migrants and refugees. 

Of course these two stories are different; one story unfolded in real time, the other only met our eyes once the disaster had happened. But both groups faced the mercy of the ocean and human error, one group seeking survival and the hope of a different future, the other, because…well it’s hard to say exactly. 

One twitter user* wrote, ‘The Titanic submarine is a modern morality tale of what happens when you have too much money, and the grotesque inequality of sympathy, attention and aid for those without it. Migrants are ‘meant’ to die at sea: billionaires aren’t.’ 

Of course, the news coverage of these wreckages is hard to reconcile because it exposes the dramatic inequality of our world. 

Did we want the billionaires to die? Why were we transfixed as the hours passed? Can two different stories hold our gaze at once? 

Journalist Arwa Mahdawi wrote a helpful piece reminding us of why we were so captivated by the story of the Titan and its almost unbelievable absurdity compared to the shipwreck off the coast of Greece, ‘It’s human nature to feel overwhelmed by suffering at scale; it’s called psychic numbing.’ Research shows that as problems grow in scale, and more people suffer, our emotional response doesn't scale up.

I’ve written before about how seeing can sometimes be an escape and can stop us from responding. But seeing can also remind us that we are finite and we cannot be everywhere; our gaze becomes focussed: we can care, we can act. 

At the time of writing this it took me five internet searches to find the name of the boat which sank carrying migrants and refugees. She was called the Adriana, and departed Libya on 10^th June 2023, four days before she was wrecked, carrying hundreds of Egyptians, Syrians, Pakistanis, Afghans, and Palestinians. Over one hundred children were below deck. I wince, heavy, aching. 

Many moons ago, I wrote a research paper on the representation of refugees and asylum seekers in mainstream tabloid newspapers. Not a single source I could find at the time, included an individual photo showing the eyes of the person seeking asylum and introducing them by name. 

The photos showed packed out migrant boats, crowds arriving at checkpoints, lines of people crossing bridges, and fluorescent lifejackets piled up on beaches. Bodies without names. Bodies without stories. I was shocked at the Western news industry’s skewed limitations. ‘One dead fireman in Brooklyn is worth five English bobbies, who are worth 50 Arabs, who are worth 500 Africans,’ writes Moeller in Compassion Fatigue. 

We will have had our different reasons for being glued to the Titan rescue story: intrigue, doubt, ethnic affiliation, geographical proximity, horror,  anti-capitalism and ‘eat the rich’ sentiments, or simply longing for a happy ending. This story was unusual, and sadly an overcrowded boat with desperate people crossing the Mediterranean, isn’t. 

Research shows that news coverage exposes the connection between under-representation and prejudice, apathy and violence, between storytelling and survival.

In 2015, British Prime-Minister David Cameron told viewers of ITV that the French port of Calais was safe despite a ‘swarm’ of migrants trying to access Britain. It wasn’t the first or last time migrants and asylum seekers have been dehumanised with words. 

Our tongues, small though they are, hold immense power,

“A small rudder on a huge ship in the hands of a skilled captain sets a course in the face of the strongest winds. A word out of your mouth may seem of no account, but it can accomplish nearly anything—or destroy it!…By our speech we can ruin the world, turn harmony to chaos, throw mud on a reputation, send the whole world up in smoke…” (James 3 : The Msg) 

Poet Wang Ping, puts words to her experiences in the poem Things We Carry on the Sea, 

We carry our islands sinking under the sea…

We carry old homes along the spine, new dreams in our chests…
We carry yesterday, today and tomorrow…

And we carry our mother tongues

爱(ai)，حب  (hubb), ליבע (libe), amor, love

平安 (ping’an), سلام ( salaam), shalom, paz, peace

希望 (xi’wang), أمل (’amal), hofenung, esperanza, hope, hope, hope

As we drift…in our rubber boats…from shore…to shore…to shore…

What were those on board The Adriana carrying? Words (and poetry, I’ve found lately) can soften me towards curiosity, towards compassion. 

Shortly after the Adriana was shipwrecked, my sister sent me a video of two brothers reuniting, one of whom had survived the shipwreck. I watched, trembling at the words passed between the two of them and a third person nearby, and the love and loss that their conversation held. I was not only seeing, I was hearing.  In a brotherly embrace through barricades, I felt it. Amid confusion and fear: tenderness, an embrace, relief. 

A friend, aid-worker or journalist (we don’t know exactly who they are) nearby asks: 

Friend: How are you and how do you feel? 

Mohammed: It is a disaster, really. 

Friend: Just take it easy…please don’t cry. 

Do you know where we can find you and where exactly? 

In the Kalamata hospital. Is it just Kalamata or other places? 

Mohammed: Just this place….

Friend: We will come to see you there.  

But don’t worry. 

We are behind you all the way and we will support you in any way possible.

 

A question. A comfort. A promise. 

So as I write, I know that stories and words and time - really matter. 

I know that words – language shared between us – can mean the difference between life and death. I know I must write to feel my own humanity again.

If I narrow my gaze and understand my portion of power, where and to whom can I offer a question, a comfort, a promise? 

Hope, like a fisherman once said, is possible, even though we can’t always see, or understand, what lies beneath. He told me that hope and uncertainty were not incompatible.

“Words matter, for

Language is an ark.

Yes,

Language is an art,

An articulate artifact.

Language is a life craft.

Yes,

Language is a life raft.” 

― Amanda Gorman, Call Us What We Carry