Ever since Israel violated the ceasefire agreement with Hamas, the death toll in Gaza has continued to rise. The violence has not subsided as we all hoped it would; instead, it has intensified. Each day brings new reports of lives lost, families torn apart, and communities reduced to pain and nothingness. Growing up, I would have never imagined that I would bear witness to such a profound and devastating amount of violence inflicted by mankind upon mankind. I have always asked myself: what is the endgame? How many times can we witness mass suffering before we stop feeling altogether? When did genocide—one of the greatest horrors in human history, now very widely documented across social media—become just another headline in an endless stream of images?
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I thought cruelty had met its limits when we all watched a 20-year-old Palestinian man burn to death on a hospital bed after an Israeli strike on a hospital courtyard in Gaza, where displaced people had been seeking shelter. When I came across a video showing bodies being sent flying through the air due to intense explosions, the moment felt surreal—too horrifying to fully grasp. I was dumbfounded. I didn’t know what to think or feel. My body registered the shock, but my mind went silent. In that instant, I found myself trying to suppress any emotion that threatened to surface. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just sat there, trying to distract myself, as if doing so would make the images fade.
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I felt numb, completely detached from what I had just witnessed. And that numbness frightened me. It made me wonder if I was becoming desensitized to suffering—if I was beginning to accept this kind of violence as normal. I didn’t want to, but I didn’t know how else to cope.
This kind of emotional state is what psychologists refer to as compassion fatigue. It is a form of traumatic stress resulting from repeated exposure to traumatized individuals or aversive details of traumatic events. It typically develops in individuals who are highly empathetic and frequently encounter the suffering of others. Symptoms include, but are not limited to: lowered concentration, numbness, feelings of helplessness, irritability, lack of self-satisfaction, withdrawal, aches and pains, exhaustion, anger, or a reduced ability to feel empathy. Compassion fatigue gradually diminishes your internal emotional resources. As you take on the pain and distress of others without enough time to process or rejuvenate yourself, your capacity for empathy doesn’t vanish—but it starts to require more effort, and you begin to feel detached from what’s happening in the world around you.
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Another important psychological phenomenon that explains our diminished emotional response to genocide is called psychic numbing, defined as the indifference we feel when confronted with an overwhelming tragedy. Paul Slovic, PhD, a researcher in decision science, states that “one life is valuable, but that life loses value, perceptually, if it is part of a larger tragedy.” He goes on to say that this is an error in our emotional makeup that prevents us from acting to change circumstances that endanger others. A “false sense of inefficacy” can set in, leading us to believe that our contributions are so insignificant that taking no action seems preferable.
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Psychic numbing does not imply that we stop being human; it means we've witnessed too much pain over an extended period. It's the mind's way of indicating that it's too overwhelming to process everything at once. Sometimes, this can be a necessary coping mechanism. However, if we remain in that state of numbness and allow it to become our default mode, we risk detaching from what makes us feel alive: our capacity to empathize, to mourn, and to be touched by experiences.
These cognitive defenses are understandable, particularly when the surrounding suffering feels unbearable. Yet, hiding behind these defenses can subtly distance us from our responsibility to be present, to observe, and to react. We do not lose our humanity, but we must actively choose to reconnect with it—even when it is painful. Especially when it is painful.
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How do we get out of this state? How do we allow ourselves to feel again, especially in the face of something as horrifying as genocide?
It’s important to remember that the goal is not to feel more—but to recenter your mind and body to a state where feeling becomes safe again.
Start by acknowledging what you’re experiencing by naming your emotions: “I feel numb,” “It feels heavy.” This helps release the shame or guilt you may associate with these reactions. Recognize that this is a survival mechanism, not a personal flaw. You shut down because the atrocity feels too big to help with.
Once you recognize the feeling for what it is, reconnect with what is within your control in grounded, purposeful ways: supporting a survivor, sharing a truth, donating, writing, or grieving. These acts can restore a sense of meaning and motivation.
Next, recognize your limits and give your nervous system space to breathe. Take a walk, spend time in nature, or allow yourself to cry. Let your body feel safe enough to process emotions in a healthy way.
Lastly, don’t isolate. Isolation can worsen both compassion fatigue and psychic numbing. Talk to those around you about what’s happening. Share stories online, engage in discussions that highlight Palestinian suffering. Shared grief can be a powerful driving force for change.
In the face of mass atrocity, it is tempting to turn towards indifference. But now is the time to remain honest, present, and willing to feel. We do not have to carry the weight of the tragedy alone—but we must not allow the pain to make us indifferent. Empathy, fragile as it may be, is the root of every act of resistance, care, and change.
Ayesha Sarwar Nooral is a dedicated clinical psychologist with extensive training in multiple domains of psychology. She advocated for mental health rights and accessible support for all.
Ayesha Sarwar Nooral is a dedicated clinical psychologist with extensive training in multiple domains of psychology. She advocated for mental health rights and accessible support for all.