Who do we grieve for?

For a long time, I had believed that most people actually care about others, particularly the loss of civilian lives; and what was often stopping them from expressing that concern, or doing something about it, was information. That is, they were more likely to take action - small as it may be - if they knew what was going on. During the humanitarian crisis in Yemen, as thousands were killed and millions got cholera in a man-made epidemic, I kept telling myself that it was lack of awareness that was stopping us from showing actual support, though there were early troubling signs suggesting that my hypothesis was not true. I came up with a complicated, though quite weak, argument for myself, when the local champions of Muslim unity looked the other way when Afghan refugees were harassed. Eventually, the list of 'exceptions' got so long that my theory collapsed on its own.

Within the recent past, conflicts in the Middle East, North Africa, Ukraine and, more recently, in the Persian Gulf has taken the lives of thousands of innocent civilians - men, women and children - who just happened to live in a particular place and have had no role in shaping the policies of their governments. While ample information continues to come through to us, we are loud about the pain of some civilians, and silent on others.

For me, my evolution has been shaped by personal experiences. Within the last two years, I have interacted with colleagues and friends who are deeply troubled by the rising issues of hate and Islamophobia in many sectors of society, both within the US and elsewhere. Issues of racism and hate, against any group, deserve full attention. Yet, I learned that just underneath that surface of broad statements of care, the concern of my friends and colleagues is exclusive for only specific communities facing hate, and not others who may also be facing similar, perhaps identical, issues of bigotry and racism. Even when faced with strong evidence, a complicated algorithm involving ethnicities, sects and geographies dictates our reaction. This apathy or deliberate silence manifests itself both among the loud champions of human rights on the left, and those who associate with more conservative positions on the right.

My evolution was fast-tracked in the last couple of weeks, as dozens, perhaps hundreds of civilians lost their lives in Iran. One does not need to endorse the policies of the Iranian government, or agree with the politics of any country for that matter, to empathise with the grief of parents, children, family members and friends who have lost a loved one. But complete or near complete silence from those on the left who have historically spoken for causes of human rights, freedom and human dignity and have protested loudly for marginalised communities, is quite telling. Some voices that have come forward are rooted in anti-war rhetoric (which is important), or regional stability, but falling short of caring for the bereaved. Equally troubling is the position of my colleagues in communities of faith. Over the weekend, I spoke to a religious scholar, who I have gotten to know quite well in the last decade and who has often spoken about the causes of justice. In the past he has prayed for people in Yemen, Syria, Gaza, Kashmir and as far as Congo. He has been completely silent about Iranians. When I asked for his stance, it was a complicated set of mental gymnastics on why he has not spoken about the grieving families in Iran. A combination of pragmatism, a hint of sectarian preferences, respecting "feelings" of some members of congregation from other countries that do not have friendly ties with Iran, and doubts about what 'actually is happening' has stopped him even offering a customary prayer in his sermons. Other faith leaders who are silent may be making a similar calculation.

I still believe that people care - but the numbers in my mind have reserved. Some care about many, many care about a small number. I hope that one day these numbers change, and our hypocrisy trouble us more than it does today.