Transcription
Empathy no longer holds much value. Any need for human contact has been severed by technology, leaving many to carry the weight of life's troubles on their own. This has not been easy, however, as even those presenting themselves as pillars of hope, are beginning to crumble under their own weight.
People who lie about their well-being, be it good or bad for notoriety, or those who farm outrage with politics and shock statements, skew our own emotions. So as a reflex, we have become accustomed to hiding our feelings. Some even strive to be misunderstood because of it, thinking that suffering in silence makes them somehow stronger. But in fact, it makes them weaker, more susceptible to despair and any fortitude that they feel because of it is really just cowardice.
So where do we go from here? If the world is pulling us further apart and handing our feelings over to those loud enough to perform them for us, what is left of empathy that is still genuinely ours? And does being empathetic ourselves really even matter? It is often believed that man's greatest gift is his unique ability to feel another's pain, weep when seeing others weep, and love them as they love him. But unbeknownst to those with hearts made of gold, empathy is a sickness. It is a cancer whose thin and spiky roots infest every fiber of the body. While being a potent disease whose presence is loud and unmistakable, it is also invisible to the eye, lacking any discernable features to diagnose it by. Those sickened by it give most freely, and precisely because of that, they are most often bled dry.
The world is not fair is a phrase as unremarkable as breathing air. Some are born into wealth while others are born into poverty. Some are striving for some form of moral goodness while others parade around like wolves amongst flocks of sheep. Precisely this goodness is exploited for financial and social gains by those who see themselves above it all. So the only reasonable compromise we seem to be left with is to withhold our compassion from the world altogether. instead sharing it only with those closest to us which in itself poses a clear conflict. If compassion is shared with one person, it is neglected for another and vice versa. So we are forced to assign people different values which we cannot logically reason. It is simply perhaps even mechanically that we choose between those who we see as being worthy of our warmth and those we do not. Indeed, what makes this double-sided blade cut even deeper is our inability to tell who truly needs it. And so being left standing in this open field as vulnerable as a tree whose best efforts [music] to move from place are met with complete and utter failure, we ask, what is the point of striving for goodness and sharing our compassion if it will inevitably lead to us being cut down ourselves?
The death of Ivan Ilage is a novela penned by the renowned Russian author Leo Toltoy in the late 19th century. It follows Ivan Ilage, a judge by trade, who finds himself laying on his deathbed, unable to grapple with the thought that he is going to die. His condition begins after what appears to be a minor injury gradually reveals itself to be terminal. Much of the novela focuses on Ivan's struggle to comprehend the gravity of his situation. As he reflects on his life, he realizes that he has not lived meaningfully, but rather allowed himself to be puppeteered by the expectations and whims of others.
The nolla opens with Ivan's funeral, introducing the people who had been present in his life. Viewed through their perspective, the story becomes considerably more grim. After news of Ivan's death spreads, his colleagues and acquaintances begin to consider how his passing might benefit their own careers. One, Theodor Vasilovich, even fantasizes about a promotion. Another, Pot Ivanovich, who was Ivan's close friend, perhaps even his closest, whom he had known for years, reflects mainly on how the vacancy might benefit his brother-in-law. Even Ivan's wife, Brascovia, who had long fallen out of love with the man, regards his death not as some great tragedy that would drastically change her life, but as an inconvenience. Of course, none of these thoughts are expressed aloud. [music] Instead, the characters perform the expected gestures of mourning that are quickly overshadowed by their conversations with Potter, which revolved not one bit about Ivan.
Indeed, what we must not forget is that the nolla is a work of fiction and Toltoy presents these figures in an exaggerated way to highlight their callousness and [music] social indifference. Yet, their behavior is not entirely unfamiliar. Human relationships often contain an element of utility. An employer, a casual acquaintance, sometimes even a friend who exists merely to receive our complaints. This leads to many superficial relationships all throughout life that exist largely in the realm of mutual recognition. It is immensely difficult to open oneself up to others. And what makes it even more challenging is the uncertainty that such openness will be reciprocated. But be that as it may, it is only through such vulnerability that genuine empathy becomes possible. Otherwise, interactions risk becoming a performance between two actors of whom neither wishes to close the curtains.
In most discourse, the I inevitably takes precedence over the U. As human beings are inherently self-centered, from the first breath taken to scream out for help to the last one wishing to not die alone. Even in the wake of Iman's death, those around him are beyond mere indifference to his passing, somewhat relieved that it is he who [music] has died and not they. Yet, the self-centeredness ultimately collides with the inevitability of shared mortality.
In one chapter, Ivan remembers a passage he had read as a student that had then, as it did now, not fully settled for him. Kaio is a man. Men are mortal. Therefore, Kaio is mortal. For Ivan, it was an impossibility as he had never considered himself to be Kaio. But in reality, anyone that could have come to mind will inevitably have to face death, for they too are mortal. This goes to say that those around him will too meet their end and they will too have to reflect on all they have accomplished hoping that people empathize with them. But at that very moment they fail to offer that same empathy to Ivan.
There is not a soul in this world who has not suffered. Ask anyone to tell a story of their life and they will without much hesitation tell a tale of immense hardship. The death of a relative, a loss of one's purpose in life, a chronic illness eating away at them, or a childhood washed with great sadness. This means that suffering is inescapable as it resides somewhere within feeding off of life's troubles. It is truthfully a pain no amount of pros can ever paint in a manner that is both clear and wholly honest. This is because we like to exaggerate this feeling as it paradoxically makes us feel better about ourselves. But this does not come without its ramifications. In choosing to complain about our own bad affairs, we are made out to be no different from a hurt animal, barking and squealing in hopes of someone, anyone caring about us.
Social media has undoubtedly made this worse. Suffering has now become spectacle. What was once a private ache is now performed for an audience and measured by engagement. The ease of accessibility allows people who are perhaps not in the right state of mind to be broadcasting themselves to do so anyways. What makes this worse is the comments being essentially what fuels this type of media as everybody has a voice and an opinion now no matter how dimwitted or intelligent they are. These comment sections are consequently flooded by people who don't see the individuals performing for them as human rather as scarecrows. And so, like the crows that they are, they'll pluck and sink their dark black beaks into the bean bag in hopes of eliciting some sort of emotion. Such behavior should not be ridiculed, however, for this impulse belongs to everyone. The innocence and warmth once carried by each of us are dimmed by the cold walks of life. And what is lost is often sought after again in the warmth of others.
Nevertheless, suffering alone is not a virtue. It is tempting to fall under the guise that those who suffer most are also somehow most deserving of whatever it may be they seek in life. But they are not. Suffering, though caused by a multitude of evils that are often outside of one's control, is nonetheless fundamentally emotional. Imagine suffering like clumping piles and piles of mud together to form a mountain upon whose peak lies nothing but an overhang. No one's there to push them off it, and yet many choose to do it themselves. And so they wallow in their own despair left a hollow carcass. Speaking with such people who have sunk deep into sorrow is reminiscent of talking to someone who had been shot. This shows itself in the lack of life in their voice and the absence of any superficial show of interest that so many commonly present during conversation in order to pretend as if they care. Thus sitting next to them a thought can't help but poke at the subconscious whenever any impulse to help them arises. It is he who suffers not I. Why must I suffer too? Withdrawal from this dead man feels frictionless, while any attempt to string words together that are meant to shed light onto their predicament proves itself utterly futile.
A story without conflict is boring. And as it so happens, this is not confined to fiction alone. In fact, life is no different, as not everyone intends to keep it peaceful. Not to mention that acting as though all can be sorted out with words and feelings is a childish fantasy. Because all reasoning and empathy that are advertised when there is a lack of any discourse are somehow forgotten in the face of conflict. Devils are set to roam the valleys of hell. And yet they are not so distant. Those who choose to play devil's advocate throw the world out of balance, leaving the only force that can rival those wishing to see the world burn to be the pure carnage of war. Despite it seemingly being our trump card against all collective evils, it is often looked at through a dirty lens. War is not freedom, nor is it some form of political game. Instead, it is, if not anything else, the embodiment of death itself, which leaves no room for empathy.
Young men are riled up to lose both their humanity and feel inclined to fight for some bigger cause. They are infected with a sense of pride to be better than their enemies, who at that moment are no longer viewed as fellow humans. They do so with a false notion that being a physically stronger, more agile, or intelligent soldier will help them survive. When war is in fact pure and utter randomness, a single stray bullet may make the world go dark in an instant, regardless of their combat ability. Any promise of grandeur or empty sayings that each fallen soldier matters as a means of giving closure to those rooting from home is a plain and almost whimsical lie. The generals and other people who have not themselves stepped foot into war knowingly guide young and hopeful men to their deaths. These are someone's children, someone's husbands, brothers, and friends who will never be seen alive again.
Having suffered through the worst horrors the world can hurl at them, you would expect them to love and appreciate life, eventually even share that love with everyone around them whom they have missed so dearly. But the truth is that the sheer amount of death that they experienced, all of the men who died right in front of their eyes moments after laughing together, makes them feel nothing. And yet none of this reaches those watching from a distance. It does not stop those who see everything but their own stupidity from advocating for war. There is an incessant idea that war takes place somewhere over there. Its lack of immediate impact and an unbridgegable amount of distance severs any empathy that can be felt for those caught in the crossfire. Thus, it goes to say that no matter what misery befalls the world, it fails to seep in, let alone leave a stain until it is right in front of our feet.
It is tempting to believe that indifference is a choice, one that is reasoned and shaped by experience. If we're disrespected over and over again by the same few faces, we'll quickly learn to despise them. A part of us might even wish them misfortune, but the truth is considerably less forgiving. For it is not a moral failure that is to blame, but it is in many ways our own biology. Scientists have found that the impulse driving us to favor one group of people might very well be the same one that cultivates hostility towards another. Empathy in this case appears to be so intrinsic that even mice display traits of it. When observed on seeing another mouse in pain, it will act as if it is also hurting. This perceived pain is amplified when the other rodent is familiar to them while it is not so much for a foreign one. And we are not so far removed. When observed in us humans, we seem to share this very trait, feeling less empathy towards people who are outside of our group, be that ethnically or professionally. It would seem then that empathy and indifference are not opposing forces, but instead are much like a fence. And like any fence, its entire purpose is to decide who stays in and who stays out. And yet, even within the fence, there are limits. [music]
Dr. Paul Slavic, an American psychologist, discovered that the human capacity for empathy does not grow with a scale of suffering. In fact, it shrinks. A single dying child who is photographed and given a name will move many to tears. But a couple hundred or thousand dead will not. When the number of people suffering is too great for us to realistically imagine, the message loses its impact. Indeed, this is a contributing factor to why wars, despite being colossal forces, leaving behind nothing but chaos and destruction, can't be fully internalized. So we are left with this a species that is capable of feeling deep sorrow just by looking at another in pain whose capacity for it dulls exponentially with a number of people suffering.
Of course there are those who argue that the tides are shifting and that this view is no longer entirely true. The philosopher Peter Singer contends that humanity's moral circle has been expanding for centuries. What began as us only caring for our tribe evolved into us caring for our nation, then increasingly for strangers and then even animals. Human rights movements and animal welfare are clear indicators of this societal shift. And perhaps Singer is right. However, it expands only in the abstract, in the institutional. Having more reach does not mean we feel their pain any more intently. In fact, it might entail the opposite. The wider the circle grows, the thinner the feeling is spread. across it.
It is not possible to cure the world of empathy, a world in which no rule can make everyone behave, lest it be an absolute tyranny that disregards the chaotic nature of man. So what choice are we left with other than facing it head on? Wallowing in despair is simple, especially if you allow every minute problem of everybody else burden you. But it is important to understand that you do not have to. It is by no fault of your own that someone on the other side of the globe suffers. Neither is it theirs if you do. Feeling yourself to be part of some distant famine does more bad than good. After all, compassion without boundaries is self harm. Our empathy alone cannot possibly alleviate the world of its pain. But it is enough to help those closest to us. Though that is easier said than done, no matter how warm it may come across, compassionately telling a man who has lost everything to just be happy for having this, that, or the other is nonsensical. Nobody can truly tell another what to do and what to feel and honestly expect that to work. For man is not a machine with a copper mind and a heart made of steel. Instead, he is a creature of contradiction who carries with him a deeply rooted love for humanity unless he feels to have been infinitely beaten by it. In fact, these are the people who must be helped especially because it does not require much only the willingness to ask and listen to sit with one person and let them know that they are not invisible.
Empathy is a cancer but only in sentiment for it behaves more like fire. Its callous nature is capable of burning and toppling homes to the ground while being also the only thing keeping us alive through the coldest of nights. But in spite of it all, the tears of strangers are only water. And perhaps that is true. But it should not stop us from loving one another. And instead, it should inspire us to seek others, to seek true companionship, and to share both our good and our ugly with them when the time is right.