Is it acceptable to feel nothing when confronted with the suffering of others? Does this numbness signal personal malice, or is it simply weariness from the relentless barrage of bad news? The age of information has tested our ability to read about tragedies and still feel empathy. The constant pressure to be ‘good’ and to follow different causes can become burdensome. With so much suffering in the world, is there a way to preserve our humanity without becoming desensitized?
Two years have passed since Russia expanded its aggression across Ukraine, yet the tragedies remain relentless. Just as people grieved over almost 50 deaths in the recent Poltava attack, the next day widened an already open wound with attacks on Lviv, Sumy, and Kryviy Rih. Among those who suffered is Yaroslav Bazilevich, who went to sleep as a husband and father of three daughters and woke up on September 4th as a childless widower. Pain, death, and torture have become background noise, especially as new conflicts emerge globally and political distractions loom. The yellow-and-blue flags on social media avatars, once symbols of solidarity, now seem almost redundant. The constant influx of bad news feels unbearable, especially when the peace talks themselves are far from peaceful.
These thoughts aren’t foreign to even the most compassionate among us. At some point, the innocence of childhood wore off, and the harsh realities of life came into focus. While we can hear many stories and empathize with them, there sometimes comes a point where we just give up.
A man suddenly confronted with a bloodied stranger thrown from a car and surrounded by medics will be taken aback. The emotions are raw: horror, curiosity, and empathy—all mixed with the instinctive urge to help. Yet, the same man hearing the wail of an ambulance siren on another day may feel nothing, or even annoyance at the disruption. When someone is witness to a horror, he feels himself to be a potential part of the solution. But when sufficiently removed from a situation, he sees himself as at most a bystander, preoccupied with daily life. Faced with a world full of tragedies, it’s easy to shift into the latter mindset—distanced, disconnected, perhaps even indifferent.
Yet, choosing between empathy and detachment has real consequences. Aggressors like Russia work to weaken their targets in myriad ways, one of which is to isolate them from the empathy and outside support. Their propaganda machine infiltrates Western media through news outlets, YouTube channels, and films, painting the Ukrainians themselves as corrupt, weak, and unworthy of help. People begin to believe these lies, even as countless lives are lost. The enemy revels in this apathy, for while he cannot defeat the supporters, he knows the sense of helplessness might help do the job.
This weariness is not unique to our time. Even a century ago, writers like the Ukrainian Mykhailo Kotsiubynsky reflected on how endless suffering can drain one’s capacity to feel. In his novel Intermezzo, he vividly presents this emotional disassociation following the Russian Revolution of 1905-1907. He describes the protagonist feeling numb as he reads about people being brutally murdered, writing:
You look at me reproachfully—and you are right. You know, I once read how twelve of you were hanged … Twelve of you … and I yawned. And the second time, when reading the news about a number of white bags—I ate a ripe plum. You know, I took a wonderful juicy plum in my fingers … and felt a pleasant sweet taste in my mouth … You see, I don’t even blush. My face is white, just like yours, because the horror has drained all the blood from me. I no longer have a drop of hot blood for those living dead among whom you walk like a bloody dream. Pass me by! I’m tired.
Kotsiubynsky poetically conveys how the suffering of others haunts the man, leaving “traces of their soles on his soul.” In a desperate attempt to regain his humanity, he retreats to nature, fleeing the city for the countryside in Kononivka. The cries of the hanged and executed victims are replaced by the gentle sounds of birdsong and the hum of bees. He finds rest in the smell of grass, long walks, and the quiet rhythm of nature. His soul begins to heal.
Perhaps this is one way to preserve empathy: by caring for our own souls. In a world overwhelmed with suffering, it’s vital to find moments of rest and to reconnect with God, His creation, and the world in ways that restore rather than destroy. Only then can we bravely face the world as it is bearing witness to the pain of others without losing ourselves in the process.
Just as Kotsiubinskiy’s character sought refuge in nature to restore his soul, the Bible has similar themes of rest and renewal. The story of Elijah is a powerful example of how divine care can help us regain our strength and purpose. When Elijah felt defeated by Jezebel’s relentless pursuit, God provided for him with food and sleep. Exhausted from his battles against ungodly rulers and overwhelmed by the loss of his fellow prophets, Elijah prayed for death. But his mission was far from over—God restored his spirit and reignited his purpose. The Lord’s response to our fatigue is always one of love and renewal.
Having borne the weight of our suffering through the cross, He understands our struggles intimately. In Paul’s letter to the Galatians, we are also called to carry each other’s burdens, for when we share the load, it becomes lighter. God’s answer to our weariness is found in personal restoration, renewing our strength, and restating our commitment to doing good, “For at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up” (Gal. 6:9).
While moments of apathy may be unavoidable, they need not be permanent. Like Elijah and like Kotsiubynsky’s protagonist, we can seek restoration through rest and spiritual renewal, allowing ourselves to regain the strength to care and act once again. In taking care of our own souls, through God’s guidance and provision, we make space for renewed empathy. And the restored soul, firmly grounded in peace, is capable of intercessory prayer, solutions, and the simple ability to bear witness to the suffering of others without turning away.
