A meditation on apathy
It is Tuesday after the four-day weekend in the UK, and things are generally looking up. New research projects are starting, Github issues need closing, and many photographs are awaiting editing.
Yet, a few months ago, I was stuck. Paralysed by the constant stream of imagery from Ukraine. I’d wake up (in Boston at the time) to BBC live news and Reuters live photo feed, perpetually looking for … something. A trace of hope or certainty. I was constantly worried about my Ukrainian friends and acquaintances who found themselves in the middle of a war. I couldn’t get it out of my head.
And today, on this perfectly ordinary Tuesday, I realise that until I open my Instagram feed, I barely think about the pain and suffering of the people living in conflict zones. The thoughts and worries about millions who lost their homes overnight and thousands who lost their loved ones are replaced with either stupid things like deadlines, or downright privileged bullshit like where to go for a holiday and how much it will cost. Yes, I feel better than I did 8 weeks ago. However, I also feel guilty for being in a situation where I can allow myself to forget, even for a moment. Mothers entertaining their children in one of many shelters in Poland and Ukraine don’t have that luxury. There is no such thing as an ordinary Tuesday in a war.
What brings about this apathy? How can I, even for a moment, forget the suffering. Not just in Ukraine but in all other pointless conflicts around the world? How can we, collectively, block a part of the world from our worries?
I have no idea.
In the moments like these, I wish I could do something more about it. But the sad reality is that I can’t. Most of us can’t really do much more than stare in horror and, at best, urge our governments to do something. Until they do, and until there is some sort of resemblance of peace in the world, I am grateful for kind reminders by John, Ash and all photographers, reporters and fixers in Ukraine that are bravely reminding us how lucky we are.
