I feel Ashamed

I was not gifted with the greatest empathy; in fact, so many things simply slide off me. But when I see that, within human fragility, there exists that condition of “survive by any means necessary,” I feel ashamed, and, as if I were a projector, I turn my unconscious toward my own limitations. Helping others begins to feel like an idyllic idea when, in reality, it is so simple; yet sometimes I look the other way when someone, out of necessity, extends a hand to me.

I always have a way to help, even when I do not carry a single coin in my pocket or even a piece of bread to share. Sometimes it is only a matter of looking someone in the eyes, of smiling, of offering encouragement; of making the effort to listen and respond, even if only with something that might provide a measure of dignity.

I tell myself: if I am going to help, it should be in this other way, not in this one; surely this other thing I can do will be much more effective. Because prejudice speaks before the heart and postpones everything. I am so blind that I often judge the actions and conduct of others, as though their way of life were a choice; surely it is not, or at least not for the majority who fill these supposedly free societies.

And so, one after another, countless questions leap forward and cloud what is truly happening. The reality is that if they have made poor decisions, it is because I have done nothing about it; if there are so many of them, that too is because of my omission; if they go hungry, I am responsible; and if they die, it is because I made it possible.

For somehow, all of it belongs to me. Not their lives nor their decisions, but that which they allow me to see within myself. The man who begs, the woman who cries, the old man who waits, the child who lives in need; each of them points toward a different corner of my own insufficiency. I do not know when I began to feel that I am also meant to answer for them, but every time I encounter them, I feel as though they have been entrusted to me for a moment, and that doing nothing is also a cruel way of responding.

The responsibility for everyone's happiness rests upon my shoulders, yet I am always waiting for someone else to act, for someone else to carry the burden, for someone else to break their back and burn alone, like a matchstick on a moonless night, without even a shred of tinder to which it might pass its light.

I grieve, not because of my goodness—I have none of that. I grieve because I was not gifted with the greatest empathy.