Empathy is the building block of relationships, the determinant that enables one to see something of himself in another, or something of his expected self, or something expected in another, in himself. Since the case studies presented in this book all seek to determine a challenging of binary distinctions the examples embrace the ethos not entirely of the emotional contagion of compassion but of finding distinctness in others we interact with and are sometimes challenged by. The extent to which one can empathise with another has a causative bearing on the wellbeing of that ‘Other’. It can be a matter of life and death, of injury and safety. Empathy, what might be considered an actualised emotion, does not begin as an action, a physical deterrent or assistance. It actually puts into motion what might become a substantial action of another person. It does not call for a mental shifting of identities in as much as it acts on a spatial shifting and an overlapping of human codes of distinction.

Empathy is imagining what another person is in relation to the shifting of his or her time between the past and present, between considering what once was and what can or might transpire in the life of that person, between drawing together of the strands of one’s own human existence and considering the ‘Other’ as vulnerable to the same temporalities and thus bound in the same ‘frame’ of time. Sometimes the challenging of self-identity, racial or ethnic, is at times a necessary medium for generating empathy. For many Germans, Sophie Scholl’s (of the White Rose Movement) defiance in the face of Nazi intimidation was, in retrospection, a quintessentially ‘German’ response.175 An early example of Sophie’s consciousness of the Otherness ascribed to Jews challenges us to consider the paradox in self/other constructs and the temporalities of physical boundaries. When Jewish friends from her class, Anneliese Wallersteiner and Luise Nathaan, were refused entry into the BDM (Bund Deutscher Mädel), the League of German Girls, Scholl remarked, ‘Why can’t Luise, with her blonde hair and blue eyes [not] be a member, while I with my dark hair and dark eyes am a member?’176 We also learn that when a popular young male teacher was suddenly dismissed Sophie commented: ‘What did he do? Nothing…He just wasn’t a Nazi, so it was impossible for him to belong. That was his crime.’177 Both examples speak of Sophie’s broader construct of identity and place. The removal of her friends and teacher suggest a presumed allocation and belonging; Nazism for her challenged the normality of space as it did the occupants of that space. Her distance is an ethical self-examination of herself, her morals, her society and her choice-making; it is a distance which activates and does not prevent emotional response.

Our world is rapidly changing. More than 300 million people live outside of their native homelands and the average person is today more alert to his world than ever before. The dichotomous relationship between Self and Other, sometimes between spectator and spectated, has become more pronounced. The crisis of refugees of the Rohingya in Myanmar or Syrians in their mass exodus out of their country to escape the ongoing conflict; terrorist attacks and indiscriminate killings committed by ISIS, by neo-Nazi white supremacists or by Hindu nationalists create anxiety in our world and sometimes the insecurity we feel generates feelings that can range from anxiety, insecurity and abhorrence. At these junctions, humans group together, we become fearful and untrusting. These feelings of fear, mistrust, generalisations, in-group pressure to conform to prejudices of the other, feelings of betrayal and recurrent discrimination in hostile communities become potential barriers to empathy.

In Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird, Maycomb County, living with the effects of the Great Depression grows in anxiety and distrust of others like the enigmatic Boo Radley and the criminalised black character, Tom Robinson.178 The trial of Tom Robinson furthers and heightens the in-grouping between predominantly white inhabitants and exacerbates fear and insecurity of Maycomb County’s black inhabitants. When big and rapid changes are experienced in society, it becomes all too easy for people to narrowly define who belongs to the in-group, who is a true member of society, a true citizen, and patriot. Simultaneously there is another current that can also operate in such societies during such times, but this one requires empathy, forbearance and understanding. This generates more normative responses, such as a sense of belonging and bridging as opposed to Othering and ostracising.

By stigmatising people, they come to emerge as society’s Others, barbarians, those on the margins of humanity. Between them and the dominants, there exists a supposed marginality.

For Israelis, the separation wall, cutting off hundreds of thousands of Palestinians from everyday life, work, travel, from their farmlands and making strenuous the journey to families, medical facilities and schools mean the Palestinians are bound by territorial constructions. This allows the opposition between the Self and Other to be aggravated. These distant Others are restricted, not so much in frames of landscaping, but in other codes of behaviourism by which the physically distant cannot be rendered close, culturally or otherwise. Between them and the dominants there exists a supposed marginality.

What others see of themselves and how they imagine themselves being seen have a bearing on collective self-identity and relationships between self and Other can exist in a binary, or empathic outlooks can challenge those tendencies. We look upon I. Dharker’s poem, ‘The Right Word’.179 Out of a frame of a hostile aggressor emerges a vulnerable victim. We are confronted with a linear realisation in her poem concerning a boy whose description in the oetic voice has not been fully discerned, “I see his face. No words can help me now/Just outside the door,/lost in shadows,/is a child who looks like mine.” What follows is a realisation, an acceptance. Though the image of the child traverses from a terrorist, a freedom-fighter, a hostile militant to a guerrilla warrior, the child who was ‘lost in shadows’ is humanised through a code of recognition, a physical similarity. It is this separation from an image imputed onto the boy to an image of oneself found in the boy that enabled the speaker to reconsider her previous prejudices about the boy and the world from which he arises. The poet teaches that if we were less quick to judge perhaps people would not have to live up to the labels that we give them, “I open the door./Come in, I say./Come in and eat with us./The child steps in/and carefully, at my door,/takes off his shoes.” Dehumanisation is a blurring of distinctions, a rendering of Others as faceless, and unlike ourselves. As discussed, the rise of drone warfare in our skies today, of remote-controlled air war, has generated a new mode of depersonalised killings, of dehumanisation, distance and detachment. Chamayou in Drone Theory explained: “Thousands of miles can now be interposed between the trigger on which one’s finger rests and the cannon from which the cannonball will fly.”180 The mechanism of dehumanisation and the way it betrays the trueness of human conscience in its forcible self-antagonising to ‘look away’ from what lies of ‘itself’ before itself. The latter is reflected here in a Japanese prison camp during World War II:

“The Japanese showed a sudden reluctance to meet our eyes in the course of our daily contacts. We knew that they were taking precautions to ensure that not a single glimpse of one’s obvious and defenceless humanity should slip through their defences and contradict the caricature some demoniac a priori image had made of us within them. The nearer the storm came the more intense the working of this mechanism became. I had seen its most striking manifestation in the eyes of a Japanese officer who, with a condemned Ambonese soldier before him, had had to lean forward and brush the long black hair from the back of the neck over the head and eyes of the condemned man before he could draw his sword and cut off the man’s head. Before the blow fell he had been compelled to look straight ahead over the doomed head seeing neither it nor us who stood, raggedly, in a long line in front of him.”181

It is not clear who the Othered we are otherising are, and this paradox is precisely what sustains the Othering. An ‘Other’ is a result of a ‘self’s paranoia about someone he has been led to fear and suspect, which is usually driven by politicians and the media as opposed to personal contact. Sometimes politicians, very noticeable during President Trump’s election campaigns, Otherise ethnic or religious groups in a coded way and therefore activate people’s sense of anxiety and fear. Trump’s 2017 travel ban on all Muslims was symptomatic of an indiscriminate caricaturing of all Muslims as potential terrorists. This did much to harness in-group attitudes and loyalties, which opened up a space where people could be more explicit in expressing anti-Muslim sentiments.

The rhetoric employed to caricature Mexicans as rapists and drug dealers furthered the normalising of Othering, making it more acceptable and even desirable to support calls for their deportation and for a building of a wall. Ironically, the wall is precisely what Othering does. It divides and separates us. Othering is thus both socially and culturally created and peaks at moments of unease. Human encounters, however, can have a remarkable effect of not only reversing stereotypes but also to bridge the distinctions between people so that our differences are viewed in light of a shared humanity and a sign of the amazing creation of Allāh.

We, us, humanity, are a collective effort. Attempts at disfiguring and erasing of others from the human frame requires us all to reach across and bridge. We are to give a voice unto others - victims of war, genocide, social outcasts, the structurally dispossessed. We are to remember that the cost of war is measured not only in terms of physical destruction of homes and state infrastructure but of lives that have been lost, of psychological and spiritual damage, of the creating of countless ‘others’. We must push back against the emergence of genocidal tendencies in our world. Theodor Adorno attempted in his seminal essay ‘Education After Auschwitz’ (1966) to stress the responsibility of education and educators to herald empathic tendencies in young people who challenge attitudes of otherness. The sequence of genocides, however, wars and mass killings, since Auschwitz are a testament that there is so much more for us to do. We must challenge global media narratives, and representations that otherise or exclude fellow humans from a collective state of worthiness, that unleash on others the stigma of devalued, dehumanised, identities. It is upon us to play important roles in building societies that connect people, that bridge. Bridging allows us to open spaces, to foster understanding, communication and an enhancing of the collective human spirit.

Let us remind ourselves that it is against our humanness to dehumanise others, it is against what Allāh created naturally within us, which is to see, admire and respect each other. The South African North Natal tribes have a beautiful greeting phrase, “Sawu bona” which literally means “I see you.” Another member of the tribe would reply “Sikhona” which literally means “I am here.” The implication of such a greeting is encapsulated in the idea that until you see me I do not exist. Attempting to see each other without the stereotypes, the walls, the distance both physical and cultural, that mar our perceptions of each other has been one of the goals of this book. As Muslims we are instructed to live by a higher code of conduct, one that embodies a deep consciousness about each other and the world which we collectively inhabit. And Allāh indeed said:

“Then he was among those who believed and advised one another to patience and advised one another to mercy.” The Quran Chapter ‘The City’ 90:17