Keep Our Humanity, Whatever the Cost

In a world that seems determined to strip us of our humanity, how can we keep it?

I’ve asked myself that, recently, thinking about Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy’s words about the ways the Russian invasion has changed him, has changed his people. He candidly shared the struggle he says he faces in keeping his humanity.

“War is a choice,” he said. “And it’s a difficult choice to make because hatred towards your enemies overwhelms you daily. Hatred towards enemies who took away the life one had before ... But you have to suppress your hatred. To know that it’s the enemy, and yet fight by the rules — as in staying human. And that is a hard choice.”

These days, even for people who aren’t at war, inhumanity seems to be the norm, not the departure from it.

Texas Gov. Greg Abbott sent busloads and planes full of migrants to Chicago in the freezing winter, men and women and children who had no gloves or coats or even, in some cases, long pants. I know this because the town I live in put a desperate call out for donations of warm clothing.

These people were in some cases standing at bus stops or train stations shivering, for hours, because Texas did not notify anyone in the city before their arrival.

We can talk all we want about the border crisis, but we should never forget that these are human beings we’re discussing. They are all living lives, the same as you and I are. In our fervor to be right, we shouldn’t push our compassion to the side.

Meanwhile, a presidential candidate calls the people he doesn’t like “vermin” and says that migrants are “poisoning the blood” of the U.S.

We grant humanity to embryos in Petri dishes but not to our neighbors.

We call people we don’t like fascists. We compare political opponents to Nazis — beastly evil without humanity. Dehumanization excuses any tactics, any insults, any violence in its opposition.

This is not a bug in the software of our national discourse; it’s a feature.

It’s an everyday battle to be empathetic, particularly when our interactions are often so far removed from the personal. Fewer of us are getting married, are having children. Many of us are estranged from family members.

We live farther from our loved ones. Fewer of us attend church. More of us work remotely. Travel is expensive and demeaning.

The interactions we do still have in great number are digital.

We talk less to our friends and family members, texting and messaging instead. Social media sites highlight big-engagement accounts, hiding the quaint posts from our friends and family (unless they’re emotional or upsetting and likely to keep us on the site). Influencers sell us things, stripping life of nuance and anger and sadness — all the ugly parts of humanity. Internet commenters are to us simply bots, trolls, ones and zeros scrolling across a screen — even when there’s a real person on the other side.

Despair if you must but there are, I believe, ways to fight dehumanization.

Don’t assume nefarious motives.

A woman honked at me the other day as I was idling at a stoplight, the angry honk you give someone who’s blocking an intersection. I wanted to shout, “What’s your problem, lady?” but instead I held my breath and looked over. She was waving wildly in the direction of a “no right turn” sign. The air left my lungs. She’d just been trying to stop me from pulling into the intersection and getting nabbed by a red-light camera. She was doing me a solid. I waved back in thanks.

Acknowledge the interior lives of others.

Talk to people — at the grocery store, walking your dog, at restaurants, at school pickup. Not so often or so incessantly that your barista dumps a pot of hot coffee on your head. But chat, like we used to, eons ago — when we were people.

“I like your T-shirt.” (If you do.)

“This weather’s fantastic.” (If it is.)

“How was your weekend?” (If you can handle a gruff “fine.”)

Listen to the answers, even if they’re boring or awkward. Because not every weekend was special, not every concert T-shirt has a story behind it, and some people hate the sun.

I suppose what I’m suggesting is that we interact. We make connections, even flawed ones.

Those connections won’t always be forged in agreement, but they will always be grounded in similarity.

For we are all magical and mundane and imperfect. We are all humans.