The grief, or perhaps the slight flicker of sadness that you feel when you read about a death in the newspaper, can be best understood as a spoiled child. It flails its arms, kicks its feet, and refuses, with demonstrated firmness, to venture close to the people who are not affected by its fast-paced waves.
But this isn’t always the case. On July 5, as I scrolled through the labyrinth of my BBC updates, I came across an article with the headline “UC Berkeley Professor Killed in Athens.” My fingertip froze, and my breath caught in my chest—transforming into a miniature dagger that seemed to peel the skin off my heart. As a UC Berkeley student, the professors that I met and experienced on an everyday basis were the focal point of my college days. This news article wasn’t just the statistical documentation of yet another murder. It was, instead, the beheading of a collective experience.
There is something so beautiful about designating a favorite professor, and looking upon them as your undergraduate mentor. The process of writing emails, waiting for them to respond, and booking office hours to have endless conversations about topics that interest both of you is nothing short of divine—an essence that can be best summed up by the golden glimmer in their eyes when you ask them more. As I read more about the untimely murder of Professor Jeziorski, who was an Associate Professor at the Haas School of Business, the simultaneous demise of ambition comes to the surface. How does one explain the slaying of several aspirational sentences that begin with “I want to become like him someday?” How does one offer condolences to acknowledge the crumpling of academic conversations that helped possibility in every syllable?
So why was Przemysław Jeziorski killed? An article by CNN describes an ordinary morning in his life, where he was “simply walking towards his ex-wife’s house in Athens to pick up their two young children.” The article goes on to point out how the “visit should have been unremarkable if strained—because the couple had been disputing the terms of their custody arrangements.” As Jeziorski headed toward the door, his grasp extended in paternal expectation—he didn’t make it to the handle. Several bullets got in the way. The article describes how “in broad daylight, this typically quiet suburban neighborhood of Greece’s capital, Jeziorski was shot multiple times at close range,” stating that “he died when he fell.” Twelve days later, the article indicates that the perpetrator—who was his ex wife’s new partner—confessed to the police that he shot Jeziorski to prevent him from “taking away their children” so that “they could have a normal life without problems.”
Such confessions often make me ponder over the psychology of shooters. What goes on in the split second between “picking up the gun” and “pulling the trigger?” In that split second, are they able to pause and engage with the repercussions of their actions? Are they able to execute an in-depth analysis into the loss that the trigger was capable of causing, and if they were, in fact, able to gain an insight into this, I wonder— would what they see make them stop? After the untimely demise of Professor Jeziorski, loss took on many shapes and forms. UC Berkeley released a statement acknowledging him as a “passionate teacher” who had spent 13 years at the California University. In addition to this, Jenny Chatman, the Dean of UC Berkeley’s business school described Jeziorski as a “beloved member of the marketing faculty” and stated that she was “heartbroken” after hearing the news.
I think of the Haas Business School courtyard—the open space beneath the skies that tenderly embraces transitioning seasons, shifting conversations and moments of silences, where students just wish to pause and gather themselves. Despite being an immobile space, the courtyard is a strong witness to the everyday intricacies of life at UC Berkeley. I wonder if it saw Jeziorski as well. Did it nod its trees in affirmation when Jeziorski walked out of class and conversed with the students he held close? Did it memorize the sparkle in his eyes and the sincere creases of his smile as he concluded yet another conversation about fintech and digital marketing? And for those who encountered Jeziorski only in the news of his passing, will this majestic courtyard give them a chance to experience his legacy—carefully preserved in its buildings, trees and colors, giving them the opportunity to grieve the death of a professor who never taught them?
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