Empathy in a Time of Wanton Cruelty
What does it mean to feel in a world that encourages us to anesthetize ourselves?
When I was a child, I lived for a few years on a U.S. Army base near a suburb of Tokyo. As part of our cultural immersion, we had a mix of English subjects and classes on Japanese arts. A Mr. Kato, an elderly, stern gentleman with little tolerance for the unruly nonsense of small children, taught the origami class. He was tall and thin, and towered over us with an unsparing gaze.
I had trouble folding the thin kami paper correctly; I’ve never been particularly good with my hands. The other kids seemed to have little difficulty creating intricate little samurai helmets and paper cranes, but my fingers fumbled, refusing to obey my mind’s desperate pleadings.
Minutes passed, and it became painfully obvious that I was lagging far behind everyone else. In his heavily accented English, Mr. Kato turned away, scowling in disgust, and said, loud enough for others to hear, “Slow student.” Everyone turned to look at me, unfolding and refolding the paper, slowly melting into the corner of the room.
After public humiliations like that one, I began to put up walls and became the sort of person who carefully observes before acting and speaking. Today, I can be awkward, detached, and cerebral. But beneath the surface, a powerful emotional current still flows within me. A current that makes me especially attuned to others’ embarrassments and sufferings, similar to what I so viscerally felt in Mr. Kato’s class all those years ago. A heavy sadness wallows in the pit of my stomach when a friend loses their grandmother.
I can empathize - feel their discomfort - almost as if it were mine.
And yet, when that flood of feeling rises too high, something peculiar happens. I become quiet. I retreat inward. The same sensitivity that opens me to others’ pain can also overwhelm me into silence.
I used to think this was some personal failure of emotional fortitude. But it turns out, there's a name for this, and it’s not just me.
As humans, we have a paradoxical relationship with suffering: the more cruelty we witness, the less we seem able to feel. The phenomenon is sometimes referred to as psychic numbing or compassion collapse. Our brain’s wiring has limits: for example, we often can empathize with one victim of a tragedy, but as the numbers rise, the victims fade into an abstraction (this phenomenon is sometimes referred to as the singularity or identifiable victim effect).
Think of the famous 1936 photo (one of my favorites) by the photojournalist Dorothea Lange of Florence Thompson and her children, Migrant Mother. You’ve probably seen it without realizing it:
Through the striking image of Thompson’s worried, lined face (she was only 32 here), Lange managed to capture the devastating impact of the Dust Bowl and the Depression more than any statistic about starving groups of people could. Soon after the photo was published, the federal government sent 20,000 pounds of desperately needed food to the migrant camp where Thompson had been staying.
One face cut through the noise.
A Closer Look at Empathy
What exactly goes on in our minds when we feel that twinge of concern for another?
Empathy does not appear to be a single feeling, but is, in fact, a complex process. Neuroscientist Jean Decety breaks it down into three key systems:
Emotional contagion - the automatic mirroring of another person’s emotions. It’s what causes us to flinch when we see someone get hit. Brain regions involved in pain and emotional reactions, such as the amygdala, appear to be involved here.
Cognitive empathy - the ability to understand another’s perspective. A different set of brain regions is involved here that tries to analyze the other person’s mental state.
Compassion - the motivational drive to alleviate suffering. This drive is associated with reward-seeking areas of the brain.
Together, these systems help explain why we are moved so powerfully by the plight of one person.
But empathy is not an impartial observer. Research shows that our brains also view these situations through the lens of group identity. We have a harder time empathizing with those we see as different from us. Neuroimaging studies showed that empathic responses in the brain were stronger when viewing images of members of our own social in-group in pain, and weaker when seeing someone in an out-group in a similar situation.
Without deliberate effort, we risk extending empathy only to those who remind us of ourselves. And when our minds are overwhelmed by the weight of the world, we may withdraw, become numb, or justify our detachment. We must resist these easy methods of escape.
A Radical Act
Mr. Kato, for all of his wisdom, didn’t see a struggling child, but an embarrassment.
I have spent the subsequent years honing my ability to do what he couldn’t - to recognize the humanity in others’ silent suffering.
We live in an age where, frankly, that skillset is seen as misguided, even dangerous, a liability. Some consider empathy to be a sin. And in the depths of the so-called manosphere, influencers preach an extreme stoicism, suggesting that empathy makes you weak, or “beta,” and thus open to manipulation.
It isn’t always easy. It can be uncomfortable, messy, and it’s often inconvenient.
But empathy in a time of wanton cruelty is, in fact, a radical act, a powerful dissent from society’s willingness to put its collective heads in the sand.
We must simply be brave enough to feel.
This Week’s Recommendations:
🎵 What I’m Listening To: I’ve been particularly vibing with the song “Damocles” by British band Sleep Token. The title references the mythical Sword of Damocles, an ever-present symbol of anxiety and imminent doom hanging over the eponymous Greek figure. From the chorus, which practically drips with existential dread:
When the river runs dry and the curtain is called
How will I know if I can't see the bottom?
Come up for air and choke on it all
No one else knows that I've got a problem
What if I can't get up and stand tall?
What if the diamond days are all gone
And who will I be when thе empire falls?
Wake up alonе and I'll be forgotten
I’d also recommend this gorgeous new song, “I Saw the Mountains,” from Noah Cyrus (Miley’s younger sister), which verges on the spiritual.
📖 What I’m Reading: I’ve started listening to the audiobook of Tore C. Olsson’s Red Dead’s History, which examines the period of American history between the Civil War and World War I from a unique angle - through the acclaimed video game Red Dead Redemption 2. Even more entertaining, the audiobook is voiced by Roger Clark, the wonderful voice actor behind the game’s iconic protagonist, outlaw Arthur Morgan.
As a side note, if you’ve never had the chance to experience Arthur’s powerful redemption arc after a fatal tuberculosis diagnosis, watch this:
“Take a gamble that love exists, and do a loving act.”
- Sister Calderón to Arthur Morgan in Red Dead Redemption 2
Until next time,
Jonathan
Empathy is necessary more than ever!