THERE has been something captivating about the terrible story of Russian submariners dying at the bottom of the sea.

Something about more than 100 people trapped in a metal canister in the cold darkness while a world of technical brilliance and political power stands by helpless seems to sum up so much of the human situation.

At the centre of the story has been hiddenness and secrecy.

Submarines are, for secrecy, made to move quietly in the dark, unnoticed and unreported.

Governments (not just Russian ones, but perhaps especially Russian ones) thrive on secrecy even when they say they want to be more open (after all it was Russians who gave us the new word perestroika).

But the dark side of secrecy is there for all to see when things go badly wrong.

Then the secret becomes a cold, dark thing - more than 100 people in the silence of death, and with them weapons (perhaps) and reactors (certainly) which may yet contain another possible Chernobyl.

And if they do, shall we ever know before it is too late?

Yet there is a joyful, playful side to secrecy too, something we learn to enjoy as children.

Presents are wrapped so that we do not see immediately what they are; confidences between people are kept, and privacy honoured.

These are good things. The lesson the submarine tragedy has for us is not that secrecy is bad; only that it is there for people's good.

And when it is used simply to keep hold of power and keep things from people that they need to know the result can be a disaster.

And then even the full details of the disaster may be kept from us.

As fellow human beings our hearts have been touched.

We extend our sympathy, our concern and our prayers to those who have been victims of this disaster and their families.