This is a heartbreaking epidemic that is killing 100 people

Amaleed al-Maliki was surrounded by people when she hit the bottom of the rock.

She is in her twenties, educated, worked, and kept sending text messages and posting. From the outside, her social life is like a shield of despair.

However, she felt wandering in a sea that had never completely touched her surface-level connection.

“I don’t know if anyone knows me,” she told the interviewer. “I don’t even know how to start the conversation.”

Her loneliness is not alone. It’s about invisibility.

She is not unique. She is a chorus.

It’s an unspoken epidemic: Young Australians, more connected than ever before, but are somewhat more isolated, less mobile, and more quiet undoing.

Last week, the World Health Organization declared public health threats to smoking or obesity scale.

These numbers are surprising: one in six people on Earth feel very lonely now.

The World Health Organization estimates that more than 100 deaths per hour. Nearly 900,000 per year.

We often talk about climate change as the definition of crisis in our time. But maybe the real climate crisis is emotional.

A kind of mental drought. A generation lifted up online, surrounded by noise, but starved to death, absorbing the highlight reel while sedimenting its own pain.

We are living in global emergencies. But this is not a radio with an alarm or a television communication. It quietly, almost politely crawled into the bedrooms, buses, classrooms and cafes.

How do you deal with a crisis that doesn’t declare yourself?

Loneliness does not show scales or X-rays. It disguises behind a smile. It haunts the crowded rooms. It whispered, “You are the only one.”

But the truth is, that’s all of us. We are people full of people rolling around each other, looking for something we can’t name. Among teenagers, the situation is even worse.

For millions of young people, the decisiveness of modern life is not excitement or hope. This is a disconnection. Australia is no exception.

One in four young Australians reported struggling in loneliness. They are not alone, but they feel they are. They live with a full inbox and hollow heart, scrolling past carefully curated perfection while wondering why silence won’t let go.

Loneliness is not mood. This is a wound.

One roams quietly in the bedroom, lecture hall and office compartment. It covers itself well in jokes, parties, social media profiles and grows without language.

You can say you’re nervous. You can say you were burned. But you are lonely? That’s different. It feels like admitting failure.

This young generation is the first to grow up online. In the huge leap into the connection, into the message, in self-expression, we lose something original. Quiet, nourishing presence texture. Being seen. Not just like it.

We often talk about mental health in the brain and biochemistry. But loneliness attacks the soul.

It makes people wonder if they matter. Will they notice their absence? Whether it’s the core, they are cute. This pain is not only sitting in my mind. It is displayed in the body.

In inflammation. In a heart disease. In diabetes. Death in early stages. I recently spoke to a young woman, everything on her face: friends, followers, stable jobs.

However, she said the most honest thing I’ve heard over the years: “I don’t know if anyone knows me. I don’t even know how to start the conversation.”

Her loneliness is not about absence, but about invisibility.

One study found that loneliness was as bad as smoking 15 cigarettes a day.

However, where is the national outcry? Emergency summit? hotline?

We are a country that prides itself on being a partner. But the combination is not just after get off work beer.

This is what we do when someone in the group isn’t talking for a while. This is what we say when someone admits they don’t want to come here again. Here is how society tells its members: You are important.

Now, too many Australians don’t hear it.

They are students who are full of people on campus, but there is no confidante. They are teenagers with group chats, but no real conversation. They are the elderly neighbors we used to wave, now only see through the windows.

They are around us. They are us. What makes loneliness so dangerous is that it not only causes pain, but also changes behavior.

It makes people suspicious. It makes them angry. It drove them to the Echo Chambers, where it provided the bitter taste of belonging.

In this sense, loneliness is not only a health risk. This is a citizen. It corrodes trust. It hollowed out empathy. Then what should we do?

Start small. We didn’t need a billion dollar task force to start greeting strangers. Invite someone for a walk.

Send text messages to that quiet friend. Even without service, we need churches, mosques and synagogues to be open. We need schools not only teaching and science, but also teaching contact. We need small talk not sin but lifeline workplaces.

We need to stop pretending that the connection will pass through the bandwidth alone.

We need to hear from people like Amaleed. Not only because her story is brave, but because it is common.

Because every silent commuter, every crowded gathering, every unread message may take someone away in a storm they cannot name.

Who issued an alarm. Now it’s our turn to listen.

We won’t use hashtags to resolve this issue. But we can start fixing each other.

Australia is not the loneliest country. But now, we are more lonely than we admit.

The most pressing thing we can say is probably the easiest: I see you. I’m here.

Let’s talk.

Dr. Dvir Abramovich is the chairman of the Anti-Defamation Committee and the author of eight books.