Roger-Luc Chayer ( Image : AI / Gay Globe)
In all Western societies, the recent deaths of several public figures in a short span often trigger waves of collective grief and deeply shared emotions on social media. Recently in Quebec, the passing of Fanfreluche (actress Kim Yaroshevskaya), author Victor-Lévy Beaulieu, and singer Serge Fiori has sparked numerous reactions online.
In France, the deaths of Mylène Farmer, Geneviève Page, Herbert Léonard, and Jean-Marie Le Pen have also prompted strong reactions. Although the latter remains a very controversial figure, his passing stirred a significant emotional wave among many French people.
In the United States, the tragic death of actor Gene Hackman alongside his wife, the loss of the charismatic Val Kilmer, the legendary boxer George Foreman, as well as actor Richard Chamberlain — an emblematic figure beloved by many women and an icon of the gay community — deeply impacted the collective imagination.
These losses raise questions and generate profound distress among those who identified with these prominent figures. Many express a sense of emptiness or emotional void that is hard to come to terms with.
What are the effects and symptoms of collective grief?
Collective grief is somewhat like a fog that slowly settles in the surrounding atmosphere. Without always realizing it, it colors the general mood, slows down impulses, and darkens conversations. When a public figure dies, especially one who was part of everyday life or shared memory, a strange feeling of loss seeps in. We might not have known the person personally, yet the absence feels very real.
This kind of grief often stirs a diffuse mix of nostalgia, sadness, and sometimes confusion. Memories surface — a film watched during adolescence, a song played repeatedly, a memorable televised moment. Social media fills with messages, photos, and heartfelt nods. It’s a way for everyone to say: I remember too, I am touched too. We do not only mourn the person but also what they represented: an era, an emotion, a landmark.
There can be a certain disorientation, a temporary disturbance of inner bearings. People sometimes feel more tired or more emotional. And occasionally, without warning, personal memories resurface, as if this loss echoes other, more intimate ones.
Yet, there is also something comforting in this shared emotion. We feel less alone in our sorrow, we recognize ourselves in others’ pain, and this silent communion creates bonds. Collective grief, ultimately, acts as a mirror: it reflects as much the departed as those who remain.
How can LGBTQ+ communities help soothe collective grief through their experience with the HIV crisis?
Primarily, the gay and lesbian communities were deeply affected by too many losses during the early and ongoing HIV/AIDS pandemic, with the rapid disappearance of very young people at a time when little was known about the disease.
It is said that in certain parts of society, nearly 30% of people passed away. At the start of the HIV crisis, those most heavily impacted — especially gay men — often worked in professions valuing creativity, personal expression, and independence. Many were found in artistic, cultural, and community sectors. They worked in theater, dance, fashion, music, design, advertising, visual arts, journalism, and publishing. These fields were more open to sexual diversity and often allowed greater freedom to live one’s identity in a world still largely closed elsewhere.
Others worked in healthcare, education, or the hospitality industry, where careers could be built without necessarily following traditional paths that often excluded LGBTQ+ people. For example, in Montreal, many gay men were active in nightlife: bars, clubs, cabarets, saunas, as well as in bookstores, alternative publishing houses, and community radio stations.
The experience of LGBTQ+ communities facing the grief caused by AIDS offers today’s society a precious lesson: how to transform loss into solidarity, and silence into living memory. Often confronted with indifference or rejection, these communities faced relentless waves of grief. They learned to come together, to mourn collectively, to speak of those who left as if keeping a flame alive, and to find meaning in what seemed meaningless.
They did not just mourn their dead; they told their stories. They created archives, works of art, collective tributes, invented rituals, marches, names engraved on quilts or monuments. In doing so, they prevented these disappearances from fading into oblivion. They also learned to make love and remembrance an act of politics, an act of resilience.
Today, when society loses multiple prominent figures in a short time and that pain becomes shared, diffuse, and hard to name, the example of LGBTQ+ communities reminds us that it is possible to cross the pain by creating connections. By talking about those who are no longer here. By listening to those who need to express their grief. By refusing to let sadness be lived in isolation or shame. These are simple but powerful acts that say: we have already survived the unbearable, and we have learned to love again.
For my part, as an editor and journalist since the early days of the HIV pandemic, and having sadly witnessed the deaths of several friends, colleagues, and a lover, I have always found comfort in presenting and speaking about them when announcing their passing. These tragic moments, rather than merely being announcements of death, often become opportunities to bring forth wonderful memories — fragments of life that remain forever.
And that feels good!
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