Not Every Story Is Public Property

Not Every Story Is Public Property

Apr 10 , 2026. By Eden Sahle ( Eden Sahle is founder and CEO of Yada Technology Plc. She has studied law with a focus on international economic law. She can be reached at edensah2000@gmail.com. )

A woman recovering from a life-threatening condition becomes the subject of relentless public scrutiny, revealing a deeper social pattern, one where unsolicited questions and casual remarks erode dignity. In a culture that confuses familiarity with permission, silence may be the most radical form of respect.

Last week, I heard a story I haven’t been able to shake. It’s about a couple I know, the kind of people who have always carried themselves with quiet dignity. For a long time, they lived with something deeply personal, something painful, something they chose to keep within the walls of their home.

The wife had been battling a severe brain clot. It wasn’t just a medical condition. It changed how she walked and how she showed up in the world. One side of her body no longer responded the way it used to. Every step required effort, concentration, and courage.

But the illness itself was only part of the burden. What weighed just as heavily were the voices around her. “Why are you walking like that?” “Why are you dragging your leg?”

These were not whispered questions from concerned loved ones. They were blunt, careless comments from people who barely knew her. Strangers, acquaintances, people passing by who felt entitled to ask, to point, to stare. Imagine carrying the fear of your own body failing you, and at the same time carrying the gaze of a society that refuses to look away quietly.

For a long time, she and her family chose silence. They valued privacy. They didn’t want sympathy, and they certainly didn’t want public scrutiny. They simply wanted space to heal. But life doesn’t always allow for quiet healing. After a dangerous but life-saving surgery, the kind that leaves marks both visible and invisible, she needed intensive physiotherapy. Recovery was no longer something they could fund alone. They needed support. So they did something incredibly difficult. They stepped forward and shared their story publicly.

It wasn’t just about raising funds. It was about explaining what should never have required explanation. It was about saying, “This is what happened. This is why she walks the way she does.” It was about reclaiming dignity in a space that had taken it, piece by piece, through unsolicited questions and careless remarks.

But what that family went through with running opinions wasn’t unusual. It wasn’t some rare, isolated experience. I hear it everywhere, directed at me, at my family, at others. The questions that aren’t really questions at all, but judgments dressed up as curiosity.

“Why do you dress like this?” “Why are you eating that?” “Why is your hair like that? “Why are you so thin?” “Why are you gaining weight?” “Why don’t you come out more?”“Why aren’t you married yet?” “Why don’t you have children?”

It doesn’t stop. It flows endlessly, like background noise we’ve all learned to tolerate. But just because something is common doesn’t mean it is harmless.

In Addis Abeba, this culture feels almost unavoidable. You step outside your door, and you step into a space where your choices, your body, your life become public discussion. What surprises me most is not just that it happens, but who it comes from. Often, these are not close friends or family members. These are people who feel entitled to comment simply because they can.

We’ve normalised a kind of casual intrusion into each other’s lives. We’ve mistaken familiarity for permission. Somewhere along the way, we blurred the line between community and control. And the cost is real.

I know people who have slowly withdrawn from public life because of this. People who avoid social gatherings, not because they don’t want connection, but because they are tired of explaining themselves. Tired of defending their bodies, their choices, their timelines. I know people who even avoid going to places of worship, spaces that are meant to offer peace, because they cannot face another round of questions disguised as concern.

Think about that for a moment. When people begin to hide from the world, not because of what they have done, but because of what others might say, something is deeply wrong.

We need to ask ourselves hard questions. When did we start believing that every difference requires an explanation? When did we become so comfortable speaking without being invited? When did observation turn into judgment?

There is a difference between care and intrusion. Care listens. Care waits. Care respects boundaries. Intrusion, on the other hand, assumes access. It assumes that because we see something, we have the right to comment on it. Not every story is ours to hear. Not every struggle is ours to analyse. And not every silence needs to be broken.

The truth is, we rarely know what someone else is carrying. The person you ask about their weight might be dealing with an illness. The person you question about marriage and children might be navigating heartbreak or loss. The woman you ask about her walk might have survived something that nearly took her life.

Society should create an environment that gives people room to remain private. There are countless others who go unseen, quietly adjusting their lives to avoid the weight of public opinion. But it doesn’t have to be this way.

We can choose to pause before we speak. We can choose curiosity that is kind, or better yet, silence that is respectful. We can learn to let people exist without requiring them to justify themselves.

Change doesn’t start with big declarations. It starts in small moments. In the decision not to ask that unnecessary question. In the awareness that not every thought needs to be voiced. In the understanding that dignity is something we either protect or take away, often without realising it.

Closeness can be a beautiful thing. But it should never come at the cost of personal boundaries. Community should feel like support, not surveillance.

The woman at the center of this story is still recovering, still rebuilding her strength step by step. Her journey makes one thing clear: resilience should be met with respect, not interrogation.

The next time we feel the urge to comment on someone’s body, their choices, or their life, we should stop and ask ourselves a simple question. Is this kind? Is this necessary? Is this mine to say?

If the answer is no, then maybe the most powerful thing we can offer is silence. Not empty silence, but respectful silence. The kind that makes space for people to live, to heal, and to be, without fear of being questioned at every turn. That would be a culture worth growing into.

PUBLISHED ON Apr 10,2026 [ VOL 27 , NO 1354]