The Empathy We Need: Why Every Human Deserves Dignity Now More Than Ever

In the spaces between headlines and policy announcements, real people are living real lives. They're making breakfast for their children, walking to work, calling their parents, planning for tomorrow. When those lives intersect with sweeping enforcement actions—like the ICE raids we're witnessing today—we're reminded of a fundamental question: How much empathy can our systems hold?

The answer matters more than we might think. Because in America right now, we're seeing what happens when empathy becomes conditional—when it's extended to some but denied to others based on the color of their skin.

Every Human Deserves Empathy—No Exceptions

Let's start with something that should be universally true: every single human being deserves to be treated with empathy. This isn't about politics or immigration status or even criminal history. It's about recognizing the basic humanity in each person we encounter.

Empathy doesn't mean excusing harmful behavior. It means seeing the person behind the actions. It means considering context, understanding fear, recognizing pain. It means treating people as human beings worthy of dignity, even in their worst moments.

But here's what's devastating: in our current moment, empathy is being rationed. It's being given generously to some while being completely withheld from others. And that pattern reveals something uncomfortable about who we consider deserving of basic human dignity.

The Empathy Gap: When Color Determines Compassion

Let's talk about what empathy looks like when law enforcement actually extends it. When Dylann Roof was arrested after murdering nine Black churchgoers at Mother Emanuel Church in Charleston, police officers bought him food from Burger King because he said he was hungry. Police Chief Jeff Ledford described Roof as "very quiet, very calm" and "not problematic". This was a man who had just committed one of the most horrific hate crimes in recent history.

When Kyle Rittenhouse, armed with an AR-15, killed two people and wounded another during protests in Kenosha, he was allowed to walk past police with his hands up. He received "the presumption of innocence, due process, resources for a robust defense, grace for one's grave errors, reverence for his life, respect for his dignity, consideration of his youth, recognition of his vulnerability".

Now let's look at what happens when empathy is absent.

George Floyd was killed by an officer kneeling on his neck for over nine minutes after being suspected of using a counterfeit $20 bill. Friends described Floyd as a "gentle giant" who was "athletic, fun to be around, and was lovable". The store owner where Floyd allegedly used the counterfeit bill said Floyd "was a regular at his store and he never had an issue with him in the past".

Tamir Rice, a 12-year-old Black child playing with a toy gun, was shot and killed within seconds of police arrival. Philando Castile, who followed directions and informed an officer about his legally carried gun, was shot anyway. Breonna Taylor was shot dead in her own home during a no-knock raid.

The pattern is clear: "why do police see an unarmed Black person as more dangerous than an armed white person who has just killed?"

This isn't about isolated incidents. As one legal commentator noted: "The things Rittenhouse got — the presumption of innocence, due process, resources for a robust defense, grace for one's grave errors, reverence for his life, respect for his dignity, consideration of his youth, recognition of his vulnerability, careful deliberation over his future, empathy — are the things everyone should get".

But they don't. And that tells us everything about how empathy is being distributed in America.

When Legal Rights Become Privileges

Right now, as we speak, the empathy crisis has reached a devastating new level. Federal courts have found evidence that ICE and Border Patrol agents are engaging in widespread racial profiling, arresting people they encounter in public solely because they have brown skin or because they're doing work often done by immigrants.

A federal judge recently said there is "a mountain of evidence" to support the claim that agents are arresting people solely based on their race, accents, or the work they're engaged in, in violation of the Fourth Amendment's protection against unreasonable government seizure.

But it gets worse. People are being arrested at immigration courts—at their own legal proceedings. Under a new strategy, after immigration cases are dismissed, immigrants are arrested again, sometimes before even leaving the courthouse building. Legal experts warn this disrupts judicial processes and makes communities less safe, with some saying these actions may intimidate people from going to court hearings.

Think about what this means: people are being denied their right to due process—the very foundation of our legal system. A U.S. citizen from Chicago was subjected to unlawful arrest and detention by ICE. Multiple reports have emerged of U.S. citizens being detained by ICE based solely on their appearance.

One U.S. citizen said he was arrested because "I knew what these supposed ICE agents were doing was wrong, was unlawful," adding that he wanted them held accountable. He believes he was targeted because "they saw my appearance as a threat because there were also other white bystanders who were yelling at them, and they didn't go after them".

The Ripple Effect of Selective Empathy

When we remove empathy from our systems for some people while preserving it for others, we don't just affect the immediate targets. We fundamentally change what our society accepts as normal. We teach our children that some lives matter more than others. We create a world where your skin color determines whether you get Burger King when you're hungry or a knee on your neck when you're scared.

As one detained U.S. citizen said: "What they're doing is actual terror, and the pain they're inflicting on the community is huge. Stripping people from their families — this is beyond politics. This is harming actual human beings".

The fear is real and spreading. That same citizen noted: "We don't allow her to go out anymore by herself. Not without one of us with her... People are just staying home altogether and not coming out". In Downey, California, a City Council member said many Mexican Americans now "carry their passports, just in case".

As a father of two, I think about what it means to live in that kind of fear. I think about having to explain to my children why they can't play at the park alone, why mommy or daddy has to carry special papers everywhere, why we have to be scared of the people who are supposed to protect us. I think about the weight of teaching my kids to be proud of who they are while also teaching them to be afraid. No parent should have to make those choices.

This is what happens when empathy becomes a privilege instead of a right. When children learn that their safety depends not on being good kids, but on being the right color.

The Connection We Can't Ignore

Here's what's connected: how we treat the most vulnerable among us reveals everything about our capacity for connection itself. When we watch enforcement actions that separate families based on race, we're not just watching immigration policy. We're watching a test of whether we believe empathy should be universal or conditional.

As a father of two children, I cannot fathom what it would feel like to be separated from them. I can't imagine them waking up and asking where Daddy is, not understanding why I can't come home. I can't imagine missing their bedtime stories, their scraped knees, their first days of school. The thought of them crying for me while I'm detained somewhere, unable to hold them, unable to tell them everything will be okay—it breaks something fundamental in me.

The person afraid to take their child to school, the worker who can't report unsafe conditions, the family living in the shadows, the U.S. citizen carrying a passport in their own country—their experiences are connected to all of us. Not because we're all immigrants, but because we're all human. Because we all know what it feels like to be afraid, to love someone we can't protect, to hope for a tomorrow that feels uncertain. Because if you're a parent, you know that protecting your children is the most primal instinct we have.

When law enforcement bought Dylan Roof Burger King after he murdered nine people in a church, that was empathy. When Kyle Rittenhouse was allowed to walk away from a scene where he had just killed two people, that was empathy. When Tamir Rice was shot within seconds of police arrival for playing with a toy gun, that was the absence of empathy.

The difference isn't the crime. The difference isn't the threat level. The difference is the color of their skin. And until we name that truth, we can't address it.

Why Now Matters More Than Ever

We're living through a moment when attorneys general from 18 states have joined together to challenge what they call "shameful chapters of American history" being repeated today. When federal judges are issuing emergency orders to stop what they determine to be illegal racial profiling. When people are filing federal court actions challenging "unlawful warrantless ICE arrests".

This isn't abstract. This is happening in our communities, in our courthouses, to our neighbors. As one family member said: "On January 26, when my husband was coming back from buying tamales for the family, he was arrested. Since that day, my family has been facing a lot of challenges... we have been living in a crisis".

As a father, this haunts me. This man was buying tamales for his family—doing what I do every weekend, what parents everywhere do. He was providing for his children, bringing home food, probably looking forward to sharing a meal with the people he loves most. And then he was gone. His children went to bed that night without their dad. They woke up asking where he was. His wife had to figure out how to explain to their kids why Daddy wasn't coming home.

Another family member said: "My father has been here for over 27 years, he owns his own company, he cuts down trees for a living, he has never been arrested in his entire life. He just goes to work and he comes back to his family. He is loving, he is caring, he is responsible, he is someone to look up to, and he is an honest man." This could be any of our fathers. This could be me. This could be the dad coaching Little League, the one helping with homework, the one teaching his kids to ride bikes.

When I tuck my children into bed at night, I know I'll be there when they wake up. But how many children across this country are going to sleep tonight wondering if their parent will still be there in the morning? How many are learning that love isn't enough to keep a family together when the system decides your skin color makes you suspicious?

But here's what gives me hope: empathy can be taught. It can be practiced. It can be demanded. Research shows that when we practice empathy in law enforcement, it increases trust and confidence in police. Studies indicate that empathy training for police can lead to fewer arrests and less use of force.

A Call to Universal Empathy

The crisis we're facing isn't just about immigration policy. It's about whether we believe every human being deserves to be seen, heard, and treated with dignity. It's about whether we can build systems that extend the same empathy to a Black child with a toy gun that we extend to a white supremacist with a real one.

We can choose to be people who demand empathy be present in everything we do. Who insist that the benefit of the doubt, the presumption of innocence, the consideration of vulnerability, the grace for human error be extended equally regardless of race.

We can choose to see the U.S. citizen being handcuffed for "looking suspicious" and recognize that our own freedom depends on empathy being universal, not rationed. We can choose to see the family torn apart at a courthouse and understand that our own security is threatened when due process becomes conditional.

As a father, I know that my children are watching. They're learning from how we respond to this crisis. They're seeing whether we choose empathy or indifference, whether we stand up for families like theirs or look the other way. They're learning what kind of world we're willing to accept for them.

I want my children to grow up in a country where every parent can tuck their kids into bed knowing they'll be there in the morning. Where every child feels safe walking to school. Where every family can share tamales together without fear that tomorrow they might be scattered across detention centers.

The question isn't whether we can afford to prioritize empathy in our systems. The question is whether we can afford not to. The answer is written in every racial disparity, every wrongful detention, every family living in fear, every child trying to understand why their world suddenly feels so much less safe.

We can do better. We must do better. And it starts with refusing to accept that some people deserve empathy while others don't. It starts with demanding that our systems treat every human being with the dignity that should be their birthright.

In this moment, when the gap between empathy given and empathy denied has never been more stark—universal empathy isn't just morally necessary. It's the bridge back to a society that works for everyone.