I’ve been thinking a lot recently about empathy. It started a few weeks ago at a leadership summit I attended with other participants of gap year programs, as well as several Israeli students connected through their campus Hillel chapters. During a group session one day, we were presented with a number of images and told to choose the image that elicited the strongest reaction from us. Many of the Americans, including myself, chose an iconic image from September 11, 2001: an airplane striking the first tower of the World Trade Center. We said this was such a powerful image because it was the first time in our young lives—I was eight at the time—that we had encountered terrorism. In response, one of my Israeli peers described his reaction to 9/11. He recounted coming home from grade school and his mother telling him about the first plane crash. His reply: so what?
I reacted the same way you probably just did: furious, defensive, perplexed. But as he soon explained, this was not meant to be dismissive or apathetic. In 2001, Israel was in the midst of the second intifada, when bus bombings were a daily occurrence. Most civilians would not even think about boarding a bus or entering a restaurant for fear of attack. The student acknowledged that the 9/11 attacks were horrific, but the fact remained that they were unremarkable within the reality he was facing at that time.
September 11 was the first time I had ever been made aware of terrorism. But terrorism was happening to other kids, other Jews, other innocents. Childhood naivite aside, why did I only care about terrorism when it affected me?
Empathy is a funny thing. We’re taught to empathize by putting ourselves in our neighbor’s shoe—to imagine how he or she might be feeling. Taken this way, empathy seems simple. But in the past few months I have come to think this is impossible. The lived experience of a human is, as I have come to find, entirely too complex to understand enough to actually see things from his or her eyes. We need to live his life, think his thoughts, face his challenges. No matter how much I knew about the intifada, I could not possibly empathize with my Israeli friend until I faced the threat of terror myself. And that’s a sad, scary thought.
I was struck again by the difficulty of empathy this past week, when my roommate and I traveled to Istanbul for Chanukah break. Among our sightseeing destinations was the magnificent Sulemaniye mosque, a behemoth built by Sultan Sulemaniye in the 16th century to proclaim his importance as the “Second Solomon” (in fact, the mosque was designed after the Dome of the Rock, built on the remains of the second temple of the Jewish King Solomon). We entered the mosque in awe of its ornate domed ceilings and towering minarets, but left with much more: a genuine sense of empathy.
As we walked across the plush red carpet of the mosque, we were approached by a middle-aged volunteer who welcomed us, saying “ask me ”—making me wonder what kind of questions he was expecting. We asked a question about the gold-plated ostrich eggs hanging from the lights (to ward off spiders- who knew?!) and were soon treated to a lecture about each architectural facet of the mosque. I was astounded by the building’s functionality; in addition to its beauty, each element, from the domes to the to the low-hanging lights to the niches where the imam sits, has a function all its own. The volunteer continued to discuss major aspects of Islam, including the story of the prophet Mohammad and the five pillars: declaration of faith, obligatory prayer, compulsory giving, fasting during Ramadan, and pilgrimage to Mecca. We watched two men praying as our guide explained the significance of their motions: they lifted their hands in the air, palms facing out, to signify surrender; then, they knelt on the ground, heads and noses to the carpet, to signify humility before God. I became uncomfortable—this seemed like such an intimate moment. Why had they agreed to share with us, the camera- and question- wielding tourists?
I am fortunate to have been exposed to the Muslim faith more than most Americans. Both my high school and university had a large Muslim population, which has helped me cultivate a deep respect for Islam and its representatives. I have long been frustrated by what I hear in the news nowadays—namely, that Islam is inherently violent or backward, or that the Qur’an condones such acts of barbarism we see from ISIS or Al Qaeda. These beliefs have been used to justify despicable acts of violence. Not just hate speech and physical attacks, but poisonous political rhetoric suggesting a national Muslim registry and a prohibition on Muslims coming to the States (looking at you, Mr. Trump). Of course I knew these beliefs were wrong. Islam is a fundamentally peaceful religion. But it wasn’t until I was actually there, watching those two men pray in a deeply serene and spiritual space, that I it. I was in awe of the beauty, compassion, and serenity of the Muslim faith; at the same time, I was consumed with anger at the absurdity of allegations to the contrary.
I am only affirming what we all know: that feeling is more powerful than seeing. And in most cases, merely knowing the facts should be more than enough to ensure compassion. Too often it is not: case in point, current American political rhetoric that perpetuates pernicious Muslim stereotypes. Americans have been overtaken by a sense of fear. They know that prejudice is wrong (at least, I hope so). But emotion overtakes logic, and they start to think that discrimination may be ok.
We must fight feeling with feeling. Now, more than ever, we need an empathy built on emotion rather than fact. I believe we empathize best not by hearing or reading or even seeing, but bearing witness to those moments that show the truth of the human lived experience. To kneel on the ground in front of our own ignorance and face the reality of what we may never understand: that no matter how kind and compassionate I may consider myself, I know nothing of my fellow man until I have lived his whole life.
To empathize is to be truly vulnerable. It is to admit we do not know everything and may never know. It is opening ourselves to really feeling what another has felt—joy and pride alongside sorrow and pain. And the other must be open to show, not just tell, who they are. That’s a very scary thing. But as I watched those two men kneel to the ground in a public profession of their faith, I realized it is possible.