Death, in its finality, remains fundamentally arbitrary: it strikes without correlation to merit or morality. Why, then, do we assign such weight to it as a moment of truth?

Historically, obituaries have blended fact with a measured tone of reverence. Even when the deceased was less than virtuous, obituary writers often adhered to the maxim de mortuis nihil nisi bonum. Of the dead, say nothing but good.

This approach was rooted in religious and cultural norms valuing decorum, as well as in a recognition that death itself demanded a certain humility. The obituary was not a vehicle for settling scores but for chronicling a life’s contributions – or, at the very least, acknowledging its end with dignity.

Yet, this tradition often whitewashed history. Powerful men who exploited others, perpetuated harm, or upheld oppressive systems frequently received glowing tributes, their wrongdoings conveniently softened or even omitted. Such erasures have prompted a backlash, particularly in a media landscape where accountability and justice movements also jostle for space.

The expectation of solemnity and respect regardless of the deceased’s actions is incongruous in today’s hyper-mediatised environment, where every death is an opportunity for viral discourse.

Rest in Peace?

These days, the dead, particularly the famous or powerful, cannot expect that they will be allowed to rest in peace. In death, they become symbols – of power, failure, hope or hypocrisy. Their passing becomes an occasion to define not just who they were, but also what society chooses to value or vilify in their memory.

Social media thrives on the currency of attention, rewarding provocative, often irreverent commentary. This creates a space where traditional etiquette around death is rapidly being transformed, replaced by the imperative to “speak your truth”, even if that truth is an unsavoury critique of the deceased.

The tension between two impulses of decorum and truth becomes acute in cases where the deceased is a polarising figure. Consider the outpouring of tributes juxtaposed against the sharp critiques on the death of someone like Atal Bihari Vajpayee. Vajpayee’s unconventional personal life and the conflict of values in his politics and personal choices was discussed in a manner that is rare for any Indian politician.

Similarly, economist Bibek Debroy was pulled down after his death for being unoriginal and it was suggested that he acquired prominence only because the Hindutva intellectual space in India is sparse.

Truth or plain hot takes?

Perhaps the most unsettling dimension of moral panic surrounding the mediatised deaths of less controversial famous figures is that it often hinges on whether they were “truly great” or “as flawed as anyone”.

Take for example, Mother Teresa who was a subject of great scrutiny for not being all that saintly. Or Manmohan Singh, who has received sullen and muted criticism for his economic policies that, according to the critics, paved the way for widening income inequalities and a move towards authoritarian politics.

This dynamic is particularly troubling in cases where unsavoury truths are revealed not to seek justice but merely to satisfy the digital appetite for controversy. This phenomenon reveals the profound discomfort many feel in the face of death’s finality. If death marks the end of a person’s ability to respond, critique becomes a one-sided affair – an exercise in asserting control over a narrative that the deceased can no longer influence.

But the reverse is also true. Death can feel like the mic drop move of memes, which no critic or victim can get past.

Can death be just?

Activists and commentators highlighted American sex offender Jeffrey Epstein’s death in custody as a failure of the justice system, arguing that it robbed survivors of the opportunity to confront him in court. Epstein’s connections to figures across the political spectrum, including former US President Bill Clinton, US President-elect Donald Trump and Britain’s Prince Andrew, made his death a partisan talking point, further fuelling conspiracy theories.

When truly despicable men die, death can seem like the end of hopes of justice. It triggers further grief or anger but seldom full satisfaction. Rarely, if ever, is a famous person’s death described as “rightful”.

The language of justice is often reserved for life, with death seen as an escape from accountability. This complicates the question of how society should respond to the deaths of those whose lives were marked by extensive harm or exploitation.

When former US secretary of state Henry Kissinger died in November 2023, several prominent commentators and publications, characterised him as a war criminal. Some labelled him one of the 20th century’s greatest monsters.

Critics pointed to his involvement in the US bombing campaigns in Cambodia and Laos, as well as his support for authoritarian regimes, which resulted in significant civilian casualties and human rights violations. Rolling Stone published an obituary titled “Good riddance”.

Notably though, there were also ample tributes mentioning his diplomatic acumen and service to the national interests of the United States.

Democratising of mourning

It would seem that social media has democratised the process of mourning, allowing anyone to voice their feelings about a specific person’s death. Professionals in legacy media have been finding it tough to contend with increasingly volatile and divided audiences.

Some concede that this is a form of catharsis or resistance but most view it as a troubling sign of cultural decline. It is argued that celebrating death – even the death of a harmful person – risks dehumanising both the deceased and those who partake in such glee.

The challenge is most pronounced when the deceased is someone whose actions are widely condemned. Take, for instance, the death of United Healthcare CEO Brian Thompson in New York​. The shooting brought into debate how he oversaw perpetuation of policies of harm and profiteering on the backs of the most vulnerable.

Social media memes and muted schadenfreude around Thompson’s death sparked editorials and articles written expressing disapproval over the claimed politicisation of his death.

In reaction, social media users crafted their own “anti-obituaries” and reissued calls to “politicise the hell out of my death”. This was also a pushback against critical discussions on widespread gun-violence in the US being shut down with charges of deaths being politicised.

At the heart of this dilemma lies a fundamental ethical question: should societies prioritise the comfort of mourners over the rights of those harmed by the deceased’s actions?

For those who answer this in negative, refusing to critique harmful figures posthumously perpetuates systemic injustices. Silence, in this view, is complicity. Obituaries glossing over the wrongdoings of a powerful man risk validating his actions and erasing the experiences of those who suffered under his influence.

Hate obituaries: Catharsis or harm?

Hate obituaries often prioritise shock value over thoughtful analysis, reducing complex legacies to caricatures. In doing so, they risk undermining the very accountability they seek to uphold. Like any other ethical dilemma there are no easy answers. For most mortals it might work to embrace complexity: to acknowledge the full spectrum of a person’s life, including both their achievements and their failings.

This requires moving beyond the binary of eulogy versus condemnation, crafting narratives that are honest while being humane. But for powerful men who caused widespread harm, centering the voices of their victims rather than their admirers seems ethical.

Has the outrage economy of social media made it a little easier for people to go against the conventions of the powerful? Perhaps a time of reckoning has arrived for obituary writers who must navigate not only the ethical conventions, the expectations of editors and regimes in power, but also the changed ethics of the audiences and the historical record.

Ghazala Jamil is an Assistant Professor at the Centre for the Study of Law and Governance, Jawaharlal Nehru University.