It was a photograph of a young woman, standing in Moscow's Red Square. The woman was a writing acquaintance, the photo 30 years old. She'd included it in her health and lifestyle–focused Substack one recent week, along with her expressions of concern for the people of Ukraine. Some distant ancestors, she'd always believed, were from that part of the world, and her heart was there with them. Her compassion was perhaps genuine. Her self-centeredness definitely was.
The impulse to see ourselves in the story is profoundly human, and understandable. We watch the spires of Notre Dame burning and sadly recall a life-changing trip to Paris. We hear of a celebrity dying from a seemingly mild head injury, and remember a friend similarly lost too soon. Identification is an essential part of how we cultivate empathy in the world. Think of Barack Obama when he said, "When Trayvon Martin was first shot, I said that this could have been my son."
