I have spent the majority of my adult life in and around the University of Hull, first as a student and later an employee. By far my favourite aspect of my last role there was meeting students to discuss their courses, and how they were working towards their aspirations for the future. Their optimism was a source of strength and energy for me.
My late-20s were blighted by severe depression. I lost my job and my home, but not once did I cry for myself. Not even when I was at my very lowest. I didn't cry for years - not until Libby had been missing for almost 2 weeks and a vigil was held for her at a local church.
I had the opportunity to bounce back and find my life again. Libby never will, and that is unspeakably sad. In her moving words, Libby's friend Amelia reassured those that didn't know Libby personally of their right to cry for her. We can all mourn her. I cry for the obvious kindness in her heart, the relationships she had with others and the warmth she brought to their lives, and her boundless potential never to be realised. I cry for those she has left behind, who must now face life without the benefit of her presence.
Some of my friends cannot understand why I have shown such an interest in these events if it upsets me. I can't reconcile that attitude, and am reminded of a quote from one of my favourite sociologists:
A society which considers itself to be just, has ceased to be so
We cannot afford the luxury of being wilfully myopic. We shouldn't look away just because something is bad or scares us. This is no different. Injustice needs to be looked square in the eye. That night seems to have been an awful confluence of circumstances. Whilst the blame falls nowhere but on those who were ultimately responsible, there were so many junctures where things could have been done differently.
We simply have to be more aware of one another, and treat each other with care and a considered compassion.