The Echoes of Empathy: Reflections on Ireland, Israel, Europe, the World, and the Lessons We Forget

"How can anyone point fingers at another nation without first cleaning up their own house or do their own history homework?"

My dear Reader,

I write this the day after the Holocaust Memorial Day, on 28 January 2025, from my studio here in Belgium, and I wasn’t sure at first what will emerge and what I would need to address. All I can say is that my heart has been heavy with reflections, and my mind is alive with questions.

I understand if you want to unsubscribe, and I respect your decision knowing this can be “too much” again for the faint of heart. Sometimes it’s best to let go of what no longer serves, and I get that. So please, stick around if you want to support my writing and so me—but don’t if it does nothing for you. I appreciate that. Thank you.

Yesterday, I read about Irish President Michael D. Higgins, who, despite being asked by the tiny Irish Jewish community not to attend, brought up the Gaza conflict and ceasefire during his speech. While I believe in the importance of addressing global injustices, it struck me personally as deeply insensitive to bring this up on a day dedicated to the remembrance of the Holocaust—a time to honor those who suffered unfathomable atrocities.

How quickly we forget.

This moment made me think of the massacre of October 7th, 2023. It wasn’t just an isolated tragedy; it was an attack on humanity itself. It happened during a festival—young people celebrating, dancing, embracing life and peace. And then that. The unthinkable. The brutal, calculated end to joy. And what do I get to hear? “Where are the numbers? Who were those that were killed? Give me numbers!” Seriously? Is that all people think of when the footage alone spoke volumes? Where is the empathy, the heart, when people reduce such horror to statistics?

How can anyone witness those images—bodies broken, women raped, mutilated, murdered—and still choose to turn a blind eye?

And then the killings in the kibbutzim. Yes, children were murdered too, families ripped apart, people kidnapped—many still waiting to be released to this very day. Why does it take so long for them to come home? Where is the urgency? Where is the humanity in the silence surrounding these atrocities?

But history teaches us nothing if we don't confront the present with the same empathy that was so often denied in the past.

While President Higgins may have intended to advocate for peace, his omission of this critical context felt jarring. It reflects a deeper hypocrisy I’ve wrestled with during my years in Ireland—a country I called home for over a decade.

Let me be clear: I’m not writing to demonize a nation or its people. On the contrary, Ireland gave me much. Its warmth once felt like home. But over time, I’ve been left disillusioned by the double standards I’ve witnessed—by the very people who should, by their own history, understand what it means to be oppressed, displaced, and misunderstood.

Ireland, too, has its shadows. We all carry our shadows. I have my own.

Wherever we go, or wherever we are, they cling to us, like wounds that have yet to heal—just as they do in Germany, in Poland, in Ireland, in Europe, and across the world. These wounds shape us, but they do not have to define us. And in navigating those shadows, I discovered my own humanity—something neither a birthplace nor a nationality can define.

But we heal when we are finally seen for who we truly are—not through the lens of our past, not by the expectations others place upon us, but by the simple act of being acknowledged for the entirety of our being.

In a safe space where I can be myself.

When someone truly sees us—our pain, our history, our humanity—that is where healing begins. That’s what or who I would consider home - an emotional presence -that just knows right from wrong. It’s in that presence that we can finally begin to let go of old wounds, and in that recognition, we start to create our own sense of home, no matter where we are.

History Should Teach Us Empathy, Not Division

Ireland’s history is scarred by suffering—colonization, famine, and displacement. Millions of Irish people fled to places like the U.S., seeking refuge from starvation and oppression. So many deaths. Yet, even in exile, they were often met with hostility, ridicule, and systemic prejudice, all while longing to return to an Ireland that, truthfully, hadn’t changed much. How different is this from the suffering the Jewish people endured for centuries, culminating in the Holocaust?

We’ve all been shuffled around so much. No wonder humanity seems to be losing its way—unsure of where home truly is, what home even means, as hearts grow cold and empathy grows scarce.

Strangely, it was in England where I have lived for 2 years that I learned the most about my country of origin—not through books or lectures, but through the prejudices projected onto me. Upon discovering I was German, a group of English people greeted me with a Hitler salute, their mockery hanging in the air like poison. I called them out—daring, defiant—but the sting of that moment stayed with me.

It wasn’t just their ignorance that cut deep; it was the shame I saw in my two West German companions’ eyes, their discomfort heavy and unspoken. It wasn’t even their shame, but one passed down over generations—an inheritance of history that continues, unbroken, as though it cannot be stopped.

“When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.”
― Viktor E. Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning

That moment reminded me how easily ignorance triumphs when we refuse to confront our biases—how casually history’s wounds are reopened, with cruelty disguised as humor. But there was nothing funny about the Hitler salute.

Under Hitler, nothing but disaster came—disaster for Germany and for the world. And that must be remembered, not underestimated. Ever.

Now, watching Ireland, I can’t help but wonder: How has a people who suffered so much at the hands of colonizers—weren’t we all, at some stage?—failed to extend compassion to others fighting for their very existence?

This is not to excuse every action of the Israeli government, but to ask for a broader perspective. Israel has been under attack since its inception, its people haunted by the collective trauma of genocide. Is it any wonder they fight fiercely to protect their home, their lives, and what remains of their identity?

It feels like a farce to compare what’s happening in Gaza to genocide when the Jewish people have lived through a true genocide committed by Nazi Germany.

Yes, this isn’t to justify every decision made by a government that should lead by example, not sell its soul to the devil. But perspective matters. Imagine if Ireland, the USA, France, or any country faced such relentless hostility. Would its people simply allow themselves to be attacked without defending what they hold dear? Or would they, too, fight fiercely to protect their future if they have the means to do so?

Always remember: there are no 'others.' There is only ever just You.

So, take care of yourselves,
And in doing so,
Cultivate a kinder world.
Start where it matters most—
The unseen, the invisible—
The heart.
DD🌻

The Complexity of Empathy

It’s not just the Irish government’s stance or Higgins’ speech that disappoint me; it’s the broader anti-Semitic undercurrent I’ve seen creeping in, hidden behind the guise of political critique. People seem to forget that Israel is home not just to Jewish people but also to Arab Israelis and Christians. It is a place of coexistence despite its conflicts. Yet the world continues to single out the Jewish people, as if their courage to defend what’s dear to them is somehow an affront to humanity.

What about the systemic issues Ireland hasn’t dared to face within its own borders? The legacy of the Magdalene Laundries, the shame surrounding the treatment of women and children, the Church’s unchecked power—it’s all still there, unhealed, unspoken. These wounds linger, like shadows that refuse to fade.

But sure, who am I to call them out on their very own injustices when it’s always easier to point fingers at others?

Be how you would like to be treated But know your limits when enough is enough

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? We keep finger-pointing, condemning “the other,” when in truth, there is no “other.” There is only ever You. How can anyone point fingers at another nation without first cleaning up their own house or do their own history homework?

It’s just strange, isn’t it? When I was young, I was taught that pointing fingers at others is impolite because it can be seen as accusatory or dismissive. I was constantly encouraged to look at my own behavior and actions before criticizing others. Yet, somehow, that lesson seems to get forgotten or ignored as we grow older. It's almost as if my parents must have developed amnesia along the way.

In the adult world, it’s become all too common to focus on the flaws and wrongdoings of others—like criticizing children or those that behave differently to the norm — without fully examining our own. This tendency can be driven by many factors: political or social ideologies, an unwillingness to confront our own shortcomings, or the ease of deflecting blame to avoid the discomfort of self-reflection and taking responsibility.

Ah yes, the adult world—quite the circus, isn’t it? Get the popcorn out! Let the entertainment begin! We all need a good laugh - a good belly laugh - to remember who we are, and to not lose the plot.

A Personal Reflection

My disillusionment with Ireland isn’t just about politics; it’s also deeply personal. In my years there, I often felt like an outsider. The country became increasingly international, which I initially embraced, but something changed over time. Especially when I reached out for connection, it often felt hollow, as if no one truly saw me.

But it was in Berlin, surprisingly enough—within the warmth of the Jewish community—that I finally found the belonging I had been searching for.

It was a stark contrast to the judgment and isolation I often felt elsewhere. For the first time in years, I felt truly welcomed. Their warmth and openness reminded me of what humanity can be when we lead with empathy and understanding.

I learned that aggression, when viewed through the lens of history and survival, is often just resilience in the face of repeated trauma.

This brings me back to Ireland. Even though I don’t believe all of Ireland lacks compassion, I often wonder—does the kind of empathy humanity truly needs ever reach deep enough? What if it’s still far too little?

Empathy, when it’s not merely theoretical but lived and felt, has the power to change the world. I highly recommend here Ionbhá: The Empathy Book for Ireland, edited by Cillian Murphy (yes, that Oppenheimer Cillian who is an empath!).

Lost empathy: what to change to change the world

The Road Forward

Empathy is not about choosing sides; it’s about understanding each story, each struggle, and recognizing our shared humanity. What the world needs is not more finger-pointing but a willingness to confront our own biases, our own wounds, and to ask: How can we do better in order to be better?

To the people of Ireland, I ask: Where is your empathy? Where is the solidarity born from your own history of suffering? And to the broader world, I ask: When will we stop being “against” and start being “for”?

The true power lies not in our differences, but in the commonalities that bind us together. When we recognize that beneath the surface, we are all connected by our shared humanity—that is where healing begins.

In the end, it’s all about the space between us—the space where we are willing to meet each other, not with blame or judgment, but with understanding. If we can stop pointing fingers and start listening—really listening, not to respond, but to understand—maybe, just maybe, we’ll begin to break down the walls that separate us.

We are all carrying something, some wound or story that shapes who we are. But we - as a humanity - are also capable of so much more than we think—empathy, kindness, and the capacity to change.

So I ask you: can you step beyond the labels and the judgments? Can you choose to see the humanity in those who seem so different from you?

It’s easy to point at the problems around us, to claim the moral high ground, but the real work lies in the quiet moments—those moments when we challenge ourselves to face our very own shadows and embrace the complexities of others.

So, if you dare, and I dare you, if you’re willing to take a deeper look into the heart of what it means to be human, I invite you to join me on this journey of understanding. Not just as a distant observer, but as a participant in the creation of a kinder, more compassionate world.

Thank you,

DD🌻