I have struggled to find the words for the horror of the massacre of nineteen disabled people in Japan, or my sorrow at the lack of response from the rest of the world. I am not surprised by either one.

There was not the banner of ISIS flying over this tragedy, the controversy of racial politics, or even a beautiful face to run on the 24-hour news cycle; and so the media could not whip the masses up into a panic for our own safety. There were no cell phone calls or last minute text messages sent to family and friends, last words with which to wrench our hearts; they died as they had lived, disconnected from the world. And the world shrugged because we are disconnected from them.

When a movie theater was shot up by a mad man, we all shuddered in horror, because we could put ourselves into the shoes of the targets in the theater. When children were massacred at their school in Sandy Hook, we all wept with their families and held our children tighter, because we could empathize with the pain and horror of those poor parents. When ISIS operatives slaughtered concert-goers in Paris, we were suddenly all French as we imagined the terror and confusion of those in the concert hall.

Every horrific film released by DAESH is discussed in great detail and minutiae so that it can be imagined in all its horror even by those who don’t watch it. It is the modern day snuff film and gore porn, with a side of the adrenaline rush which comes from fear. These videos and descriptions are passed around social media and fan the flames of fear. We are obsessed with the idea of mass murders and horrific deaths.

Our neighborhood is bedecked with blue ribbons because “Blue Lives Matter,” and there have been marches all over the country because “Black Lives Matter.” There are raging debates on social media that “All Lives Matter,” but the reality is that most people don’t really think they do.

A woman pregnant with a child diagnosed with disabilities before birth spends the entirety of her pregnancy being counseled on the wisdom of termination and told that to force anyone to live such a life is needlessly cruel. European babies who survive pregnancy and are born face the possibility of “humane euthanasia” by medical personnel, with or without the consent of their parents. Hollywood and popular culture celebrate the idea of disabled people “bravely” choosing euthanasia over living a life which might be burdensome to someone else.

The able-bodied look at these seemingly imperfect lives with a politely concealed horror, not able to imagine any beauty to a life which is lived without speech, self-sufficiency, or freedom. We, as a society, are repulsed by their dependence and imperfection, and instinctively react with horror at the suggestion that we might be trapped in such a life. Surely, then, death, any kind of death, would be a kind of freedom for both the disabled person and those “trapped” in a life of servitude as caregivers.

Which is why the world is silent in the aftermath of a madman stabbing and slashing nineteen profoundly disabled adults to death because of who they were.

Shot for being Black is a tragedy. Shot for being gay is a tragedy. Shot for being French is a tragedy. Murdered for being a Catholic priest is a tragedy. But murdered for being disabled? We secretly wonder if it wasn’t a mercy, and if maybe they’re better off. Most of us would rather not think about their deaths any more than we thought about their lives, because for most of the world, their disabled lives never really mattered at all.


By 副局長 (Own work) [CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

About Rebecca Frech

Rebecca Frech is a Catholic author, speaker, CrossFit coach, and the Managing Editor of The Catholic Conspiracy website. She is the author of the best-selling books Teaching in Your Tiara: A Homeschooling Book for the Rest of Us and Can We Be Friends? She is a co-host of the popular podcast The Visitation Project, and is a columnist for The National Catholic Register. She and her husband live just outside Dallas with their eight children, a German Shepherd named Dave, and an ever-multiplying family of dust-bunnies.
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