What do you have here and who do you have here?

Greetings to the Rabbi,
I hope the rabbi still has the strength to answer questions surrounding the disaster in Meron 5771 (some of them are definitely clichés)
But when I saw that the rabbi was patient and answered again and again, I said I would try my luck too.
The first (and last) time I was in Meron during the holiday was 20 years ago, and the intense pressure that accompanied me there was indeed the reason I no longer visited Meron during Lag BaOmer. The feeling was that it was a place of danger, literally.
When what happened this year happened, besides the sadness, I also felt a sense of anger that those who came to the mountain were not driving carefully,

When I told this to a friend, he directed me to a post written by Yaron London, and the truth is that there is something in his words that touched me (many of them are emotionally opaque, as is the custom in the Holy Land).
That is, it is clear that there are people who were not aware of the danger and did not understand the risk they were taking.
But the general feeling of Bai Miron is one of coziness and culture right next to each other.
I understand that this thought is also a mechanism for calming the conscience, but my question is, in a practical way, whether there is morality in the saying of the Sages: A fool must not be pitied…???
 
Attached is Yaron’s post:

Almost nothing.
From my position as an Israeli, a Jew, an atheist, a liberal, a leftist, a rationalist, a Tel Avivian, I am trying to honestly examine my inner state from the moment I learned of the tragedy in Meron.
The tragedy of my loved one makes me tremble. The noise diminishes the further the victim is from the seismograph that marks the intensity of my emotions. The troubles of my children and grandchildren create a noise in me at a level ten on the Richter scale, while the tragedy of thousands in Bangladesh hardly moves a single beat in my heart. At the far end of the scale is joy at the victim’s death, and beyond it – complete indifference. If the intensity of the reaction to the disaster does indeed mark the distance between me and the mourners, how great is this distance?

I am reminded of a character who appeared on the news broadcast before the deadly commotion broke out. The man boasted of his adherence to tradition: “I haven’t missed a single revel in decades.” In my heart, I wanted to ask him, “And what’s the point of this persistence?”, but I immediately silenced the question, which was motivated by reprehensible judgment. Every person has the right to choose their own pleasures, and I am not the judge. In response to a question about the fear of overcrowding, which is a Petri dish of viruses, he replied that “Rabbi Shimon’s right will protect us.” “Yes,” I said in my heart, “it will protect us just as Rabbi Akiva protected the hundreds of thousands of Jews who were massacred during the Bar Kochba revolt.” The answer of the complacent anonymous man already justified my anger, because his own thoughtlessness and that of his ilk increased to some extent the danger expected for those who are not members of the Chogam, including me.

Know that I suffer from agoraphobia, a syndrome whose literal meaning is “fear of the town square” and one of its hallmarks is the fear of being in crowded places. As I saw the tens of thousands of men waiting, crowded into the stadium for the lighting ceremony to begin, almost none of them wearing a mask, the thought crossed my mind that the pilgrims might be harmed by some version of the Maccabiah Bridge, Arad Festival, and Versailles Halls disasters, but I silenced the siren in my mind, because I am not the patron of the ultra-Orthodox nor their educator, and if they despise danger and so delight in dragging mattresses and baskets full of food, crammed into smoke-emitting buses that groan on the hills, jolting in bursting train cars, and if their souls expand thanks to crowding and friction, and babies wailing and gasping from the changing rooms of screaming toddlers, and trumpets blaring and smoke choking from bonfires, and all this in the name of an ancient sage whose laws only a few of them understand, but whose spells everyone believes in, why should I worry about them?
The lack of distinguishing marks among the individuals in the image of the masses contributed to the alleviation of the sense of immediate danger. They resembled each other in the same way that buffaloes falling into the jaws of crocodiles that swarm the Mara River during the great migration season on the Serengeti plain resemble each other. The herd in its multitude rushes into the river, shoulder to shoulder. The buffaloes slide down the bank like a waterfall and cross the strip of brown water where crocodiles lurk, and the viewer does not distinguish between buffalo and buffalo, and therefore does not become attached to a particular buffalo, unless the photographer chooses to focus on a struggling calf whose stomach is firm. If, say, one of the people in Meron had been wearing a red shirt, or a wide-brimmed cowboy hat, or had stood out because of his height, or had worn a pirate’s patch over one of his two eyes, my soul would have clung to him in some way, but I felt no closeness to the indistinguishable silhouettes, thousands of identical silhouettes moving at a uniform pace on the television screen. What do I care if a few dozen of them fall like identical cardboard figures at a shooting range?

I only learned of the disaster in the morning and my response was “I told you so!” It was an arrogant response that was filled with arrogance and joy. I was arrogant towards the Haredim the way a supervised adult would be arrogant towards a wild child who was acting wildly and ran into a wall. There was also anger in it, because the stupid child had disobeyed me, rebelled against my authority, violated my dignity, and now he is bothering me with the need to care for and take care of him. He is also forcing me to share in his grief, because it is impolite to avoid expressing grief, and I have enough troubles of my own.

I condemned myself for the “I told you so,” but I also failed to identify with the mournful tone in which the radio and television announcers spoke, the somewhat slow tone, a quarter of an octave lower, reserved only for announcements about IDF casualties and other major disasters occurring in the Jewish world. I knew that the voices of survivors would immediately be heard, descriptions from those who were almost killed and were miraculously rescued, complaints against police officers who acted in one way or another in a way that worsened the disaster, reports of intrigues in the police force, Netanyahu in his deep voice would utter sentences taken from the drawer in the chest of drawers where words appropriate to events such as this are stored, demands for the establishment of an investigative committee and dismissals, explanations of the Jewish character that excels in skyrocketing initiatives and neglects details (“The Redhead Forgot the Key” by Ephraim Kishon). One of the rabbis of the Lau family would speak about how the pain is ours all of us and that in situations like this The differences are forgotten, because once again it becomes clear that we are one people and we are responsible for each other. Someone will say “Holocaust.” It won’t be long before the journalists on the ground, spurred on by their editors who are in a state of panic, will bring us the pictures of the victims accompanied by texts that teach us about the magnitude of the loss. All the victims will have charitable qualities and some of them will have relatives who have just died in other disasters, because in the Hebrew media there is no victim of a disaster who died without relatives of previous disasters in their family.

I will conclude: In the meantime, I express sorrow for the sake of politeness, feeling about the same way I felt in September 2015, when 2,411 people were crushed to death during the Hajj pilgrimage in Mecca, a kind of faint “oh.” I am trying to internalize the sorrow, to breathe it in, to awaken it, to turn it into a personal, authentic experience, instead of a learned commandment of people, and the effort is not going well. In the meantime, I feel about this disaster and its victims about the same way I felt when I heard the news of a tsunami on an Indonesian island. Almost nothing.