THE BIGGER PICTURE: Sometimes things happen that are so deeply painful, we don't know how to speak of them. We look at each other and want to reach out; but fail to find in ourselves the courage and skills needed to move in and be helpful.
We are all grieving, and terrified that if we begin to engage in it with each other, we will be lost in that grief.
For me, one such event has been the Air India disaster of 1985.
Twenty years ago, on June 23rd, two suitcases full of bombs were loaded onto Air India planes in Vancouver, Canada.
One exploded in Narita airport, Tokyo, killing two baggage handlers.
About an hour later, the second bomb exploded. This time, the plane was in flight, full, and about half an hour away from its destination at London Heathrow. Some 329 people were killed. The debris fell off the west Cork coast.
I was 12 when it happened and my family knew several of the passengers on that plane well. They were Canadians from the Indian immigrant community, and we were a small group.
As an Indian Canadian, if you didn't have someone on that flight, it's likely you or your parents knew someone. Our community became our extended family away from home. The air disaster was the most significant event of our generation.
When we heard the news, it was inconceivable that something like this could actually happen.
For 20 years, we have struggled to talk to each other about what happened. The shock and grief have been too overwhelming. We don't want to face it and, as a result, the feelings continue to sit under a dam deep inside with no outlet for healing.
My fear has been that the pain was too great - that those who lost their mothers, fathers, husbands or children would hate me for bringing it up.
I have been frightened that I would lack the skills to be useful once they started to tell me about it, and that I wouldn't have the strength to face their anger.
I have been afraid that if I opened this can of worms, things would get worse for them and I would be responsible.
I haven't known what right I might have to remind them of such grief.
Most of all, I have thought that, over time, they might have finally found a way to organise and contain those feelings, and that by asking about that day, I would break that organisation and plunge them back into chaos, making the whole exercise of speaking of it a vain indulgence.
What has kept the silence in place has been nothing less than fear of the end of the world.
There is no coincidence why this struggle has felt this big.
On a personal level, the bombing of those planes was the end of our world - at least for one phase in time. Any attempt to face into that experience would bring up exactly that first feeling. I suppose it is understandable then, that while amidst this, I would forget the truths I know about human beings and what we need to heal and move forward.
However, we cannot move forward with such silences in our past. This is one thing, at least, that I have been able to remember.
And so, this year, in the weeks coming up to the 20th memorial, I made a decision to go back and talk to my family and close friends who lost relatives on that plane. It has been an incredible journey of discovery and growing up, and this is what I have learned.
As those bombs blew apart holes in our hearts, they also blast through our reserves of hope. It wasn't skills I was lacking - in fact I, in particular, have skills that assist people through even the most difficult emotions - it was my courage that was shattered.
Even more curious, however, has been my fear that they would be angry with me for talking about it, and that somehow I could make things worse.
It has been two decades, and a whole lifetime, but what I have discovered is that I have been overwhelmed by my own grief, not my fear of theirs.
Somehow, as a child - and as someone who suffered the loss "once removed" - I have not felt eligible to grieve. I have felt insignificant in comparison to my parents, who lost their long-time friends, and my "Auntie" whose mother, sister and two nieces were on that plane.
When grief enters our hearts, it stays there until we let it out. It must be shared. We must show each other what it looks like. Only then can we release it from ourselves and rebuild some hope. No matter how much pain we are in, doing so will always make things better.
Shalini Sinha works as a life coach and counsellor and presents the intercultural programme, Mono, on RTÉ Television. She has a BA in comparative religion and anthropology and an MA in women's studies.