Learning to empathize in a time of judgment

Thomas J. Ward

More than 50 years ago, as a young American searching for meaning during a period of political and personal upheaval, I encountered the Unification movement. What first moved me was not doctrine or argument, but something more basic: a sense that my heart, which felt closed and strained during my university years, was reawakening. Like many people who discover a spiritual path — whether inside established traditions or far outside them — I chose to follow what I felt was my calling because something in me changed for the better.

Over the years, I have had opportunities to observe the movement’s founders in moments when their ideals were tested, such as legal challenges. In 1982, I attended Reverend Moon Sun-myung’s court proceedings in New York on several occasions and joined the Moons for a quick lunch during court recess. In 1984, I met with the Moons at the Federal Correctional Institution in Danbury, Connecticut, alongside French Ambassador Maurice Robert and Colombian Ambassador Jose Maria Chaves, during visiting hours. We sat together at a picnic table in the visitor’s area, and I listened while Moon spoke not about his own circumstances but instead about the responsibilities of developed nations towards the developing world — Europe to Africa, the United States to Latin America. As we left the prison, Chaves turned to me and said, “Reverend Moon is in prison but he remains a free man.”

Unfortunately, I was not present on the last day of his trial in New York. I remember hearing from those who were that when the verdict was read, Moon approached the lead prosecutor and offered his hand to acknowledge his appreciation for the seriousness with which the prosecution had conducted its work. Whether or not one agrees with Moon’s beliefs or public activities, that gesture was consistent with his long-standing emphasis on finding a way to understand and appreciate even those who oppose you.

This ethic of empathy is also found in the life and teachings of Han Hak-ja, who now finds herself in the midst of her own legal challenges. In a speech she gave in 1992, she addressed the question of why loving one’s enemy is not simply a moral posture but a recognition of shared humanity.

“Even when there is an enemy that God wants to kill, why can’t He punish him? It is because He knows that that person has parents, a wife and children that still love him… When you feel this heart of God, would you be able to take revenge on your enemy? On the contrary … you must help your enemy.”

This passage has stayed with me for more than three decades because it captures a truth that resonates across faiths and philosophies. Empathy does not mean naivety, nor does it imply agreement. Rather, it asks us to consider that the person standing against us is also someone’s child, spouse or parent. It reminds us that our actions — especially in moments of conflict — have consequences, not only for opponents but for the network of relationships surrounding them.

As Han now awaits the outcome of her own case, supporters have expressed concern about the conditions of her confinement, describing a small holding area without basic comforts. Such reports, if accurate, raise understandable questions about how elderly detainees are treated in high-profile investigations. But beyond the particulars of the case — matters that the courts will adjudicate — the more enduring question is how one responds when under scrutiny, pressure or accusation.

I do not pretend to know how any person will ultimately respond to such a moment. I am painfully conscious of my own limitations. But based on decades of observing Han’s public life, I would not be surprised if her response reflects her respect and appreciation for the human story behind every adversarial relationship.

I am not fully able to embody that ideal. Loving one’s enemies is far easier to admire than to practice. Yet the examples I witnessed — the Moons’ quiet gestures of kindness in difficult circumstances, and Han’s appeal for compassion even toward opponents — continue to challenge me to expand the boundaries of my own empathy.

In times of public controversy, when institutions, reputations and deeply held beliefs are placed under strain, it becomes tempting for all sides to harden into positions of certainty or indignation. But perhaps these are the moments when an ethic of recognizing the humanity of the “other” becomes most necessary.

Whatever the outcome of the legal proceedings, the broader issue that should concern us is how societies hold together when conflicts intensify. Courts will determine legal responsibility; history will debate the legacy of movements and leaders. But the day-to-day lives of ordinary people — including critics, adherents, officials and observers — still depend on our ability to see each other as human beings before anything else.

The teachings that first inspired me more than 50 years ago did not promise that justice, disagreement or accountability would be easy. They simply insisted that human relations always involve more than just the person who stands in front of me. There are always parents, spouses, siblings and children that cannot be discounted from our calculus of sentiments. That is a message I still believe has value today.

Thomas J. Ward is professor of peace and development at HJ International Graduate School for Peace and Development in New York City. A Fulbright alum, Ward’s articles have been published by Cambridge University Press, East Asia Quarterly, E-International Relations, the Journal of CESNUR and Bitter Winter, among other publications. The views expressed in this article are the author's own and do not represent those of The Korea Times.