Remembering Through War and the Paradox of Empathy

Dear Readers,

The other day, I was on the phone with my sister in Germany. It was a casual conversation; we talked about the news, the weather, the children, and then suddenly the topic shifted to the India-Pakistan tension. She said to me: “India has recognized the independence declaration of the Baloch in Pakistan. You know, I only learned that there was a people called the Baloch in Pakistan because of this crisis.” I fell silent at that moment. Because my sister’s surprise was not hers alone. It was a surprise we all shared. We learn about many peoples, languages, identities, and geographies around the world only when war breaks out, when conflict erupts, when smoke rises from somewhere. It’s as if the existence of a people is confirmed only by the sound of gunfire. It’s as if even empathy awakens only with the sound of explosions. *** This article, then, pursues the feeling of half-surprise, half-shame that arose from that phone call. Because why does humanity only notice the suffering of other peoples during times of crisis? Why are peoples invisible on maps considered “existent” only during massacres? And most importantly: How many more peoples will have to die to be recognized? Today, I would like to bring this philosophical and epistemological paradox to your attention. The history of humanity is woven with a form of remembrance shaped by pain. Peoples forgotten in times of peace, languages buried in silence, geographies blurred on maps; whenever a war breaks out, whenever a massacre occurs, that is when they return to the world stage. This is not just the visibility of tragedy, but also a striking contradiction of humanity: to recognize the existence of others only through death, massacre, genocide. This article addresses precisely this contradiction. Because in the modern world, empathy is often triggered only by violence. A silent people, a peaceful culture, or a forgotten language is considered “existent” only when a bomb falls, when a border is violated, or when news of a genocide makes headlines. Strangely enough, humans see more as they fight, understand more as they destroy, and feel more as they kill. We need to seek answers to these questions: Why does truth often become visible through war? Why does empathy emerge only in moments of destruction, and not in times of peace? And is this form of visibility a memory regime worthy of human dignity? Tracing the paradox experienced in geographies from Kashmir to Rwanda, from Kurdistan to Bosnia, we must question the silence of maps and the eloquence of bombs. Because if a people must die to be recognized, then humanity has become a species that can only see what it has lost. DOES WAR MAKE A PEOPLE RECOGNIZED? In the modern world, the way peoples, languages, and identities are “noticed” internationally often begins with a war, a genocide, or a crisis. Pain has become not only a trauma but also a means of communication. It’s as if to be recognized, to announce its existence, a people must first be massacred, subjected to genocide, or displaced. Hundreds of peoples, invisible on maps, unmentioned in news bulletins, not included in academic studies, live silently and are forgotten; but when war breaks out, they find their place in Google searches, United Nations reports, and diplomatic negotiations. I would like to clarify this tragic order of visibility with some examples from the twentieth and twenty-first centuries: 1988: Halabja Massacre and the Recognition of Kurds Through Genocide In the final period of the Iran-Iraq War, the Saddam Hussein regime used chemical weapons against Iraqi Kurds. In Halabja, more than 5,000 civilians, mostly women and children, were killed by poisonous gas in one day. This tragedy made the Kurds visible for the first time, not only in the Middle East but also in world public opinion, as a “people subjected to genocide.” International media was shaken by the photos of Halabja; but this recognition came only with death. 1994: Rwandan Genocide The systematic massacre of 800,000 Tutsis stirred the conscience of world public opinion regarding ethnic tensions in Africa. The Hutu-Tutsi conflict became a mirror not only for Africa but for all humanity to confront. But visibility, again, was achieved with blood. 1995: Srebrenica Massacre Occurred during the Bosnian War (1992–1995) and was recorded as Europe’s largest civilian massacre since World War II. Bosnian Serb forces captured Srebrenica. In the following days, approximately 8,000 Bosniak (Muslim) men and boys were systematically massacred. 1999: Kosovo War With NATO intervention, the world recognized the existence and struggle of the Albanian people, who wanted to break away from Yugoslavia, in such an open manner for the first time. Before the war, Kosovo was just a sub-region; with the war, it transformed into an identity, and then a state. 2014: Yazidi Genocide The massacre carried out by ISIS in Sinjar brought the existence of the Yazidi people to the world agenda. Similarly, the Rojava Kurds in northern Syria found their place in international literature only when they actually appeared in the conflict zone. Ongoing Crises: Kashmir, Palestine, Balochistan Kashmir is remembered only during India-Pakistan conflicts. Palestine comes to the agenda only when bombs fall. Balochistan is noticed only when an uprising is suppressed. These peoples are invisible when they live in peace; they are considered “existent” only when they can speak through violence. These examples make us ask the question again: Does one have to kill to recognize? And this order itself is one of the most silently accepted moral bankruptcies in human history. THE ORDER WHERE EMPATHY AWAKENS WITH WAR The image of children poisoned in Halabja; Yazidi women fleeing to the mountains in Sinjar; mass grave excavations in Srebrenica… These images are moments of visibility for a people. Sadly, without these images, those peoples would be invisible. The modern world has made “pain” the key to recognition. This is not only a political problem but also a dark side of knowledge production. The French philosopher Michel Foucault says that modern knowledge is based on a “regime of visibility”: what is not seen, not heard, not represented is considered non-existent. If a people is not marked on a map, has no place in the media, has no representation in the UN; it is considered “non-existent” in the world order. Existence is recognized only when it is recorded, represented, shown. At this point, a philosophical rupture occurs: If truth only achieves representation through pain; what, when, and how does humanity see? As Sartre asked: “What good is knowledge based on death to humanity?” A sincere answer to this question requires humanity to begin its own moral reckoning. Because the truth is clear: A people’s language is not heard until it is lost. Its culture is not seen until it is destroyed. Its women are not “understood” until they are raped, its children not “understood” until they are suffocated with chemical gas. This shows that humanity has become a species that can only “empathize with heavy losses.” If even empathy is dependent on a tragedy, then that empathy is actually the name of a moral delay. So the problem is not technical, but conscientious. If humanity recognizes the existence of others only through their absence, this is not a lack of knowledge, but a moral collapse. FOR A FUTURE WHERE EMPATHY IS NOT CONDEMNED TO WAR If humanity can only empathize with massacres, this is not only tragic but also unsustainable. Does every people have to experience a genocide to be recognized? Does every language have to come to the brink of extinction to be heard? Answering “no” to these questions opens the door to another vision of the world. What needs to be done today is to create ways to make peoples visible without violence, who are currently visible only through violence. This is not only a political struggle but also a cultural, artistic, legal, and conscientious struggle. Literature, cinema, music, and academia can make invisible peoples visible even in times of peace. Documentaries, novels, plays, oral history projects, the recording of disappearing languages—all these are ways for a people to express themselves without war. As Victor Hugo said: “Words do not build barricades, but they give birth to the thought that will remove the barricade.” There is a need for a cartography based not on political borders but on cultural memories. Maps should show not only states but also peoples. Examples like Scotland, Rojava, Catalonia, Greenland give clues to these flexible identity geographies. The current international system prioritizes the principle of “territorial integrity” while suppressing the “right to self-determination of peoples.” This contradiction must be overcome. Concepts such as cultural genocide and the suppression of collective identities must be more clearly defined and institutionalized. These rights must be brought to the agenda in platforms such as the UN Forum on Minorities, UNESCO, and the Council of Europe. Waiting for a people to die to recognize them is nothing more than avoiding one’s conscience. A new ethic must move empathy not to post-trauma, but to the flow of life. The Yazidis existed before they took refuge in the mountains, the Kurds existed before they were poisoned in Halabja, the Kashmiris existed before they were driven from the border. So the responsibility is this: to see them while they live, to hear their languages before they die, to listen to their melodies before they fall silent. CONCLUSION Humanity cannot be a species that recognizes itself through wars, that notices others through destruction. If a people is noticed only when bombed, if a child becomes news only with their corpse, if a language is noticed only when it falls silent; then this order itself is the continuation of violence. This is an indication that humanity has linked its own sense of empathy to violence. As if there is no truth if there is no pain. As if the map is silent if no bomb explodes. Therefore, our task is to question this grave cycle. But if we do not question it, we are left with this ironic and dark question: Do we need more wars, more massacres, more genocides to recognize the world and the suffering of its peoples? If the answer is still “yes,” then we are merely witnesses to a conscience that is too late, to a justice that cannot catch up with death.