The Space between Fear and Compassion

A struggle to balance personal safety with empathy and a reflection on the broader societal tension around homelessness and public perception.

Hi Friends,

Thank you for subscribing to my publication! I am conducting interviews and profiles with some truly interesting individuals in my community and network. I hope to share those with you soon.

Meanwhile, here’s an essay I submitted to the Harvard Graduate Review, and I thought it would be worth sharing with you all. This story explores an internal struggle I experienced—balancing the pull between two opposite emotions. If you have stories or experiences similar to the one below, I’d love to hear them and maybe discuss them with you.

Strangers on a Train

It was 9 p.m. on a Saturday, and I was returning home after visiting a friend across town. It was cold and raining again, and I silently prayed for spring. The train was running late as usual, so I sat on a bench at the far end of the platform, away from the other passengers, and closed my eyes.

My mind was overwhelmed. My thoughts spiraled in different directions as I made to-do lists for everything.

I sensed that someone had sat beside me and opened my eyes to see an old man with gray hair wearing an oversized red shirt. His jeans were tattered and covered in dirt, and so were his fingers. He held a large, clear plastic bag containing his belongings - a few clothes, a toothbrush, and a sleeping bag. I assumed he was homeless, and my body tensed.

Three months earlier, another homeless man had aggressively swung at me. I had barely dodged his attack, jumping out of the way just in time. That experience had left me wary, and now, sitting next to this stranger, I felt uneasy.

Let's call this stranger John.

John asked for directions to a nearby neighborhood. I politely responded, then quickly put on my headphones, hoping to seem busy and disinterested. But he kept talking.

"I miss my cats and want to see them again."

"I'm sorry about that," I replied.

"I had three cats, and two died."

I fell silent.

Then, in a heavy voice, John said, "I just want them to know I am okay."

His eyes welled up with tears, and before I knew it, he was crying. A lump formed in my throat. Without thinking, I reached for his hand and held it in mine. He looked up at me.

"I'm sorry for who I am," he murmured.

My heart pounded. I was still anxious about being near him.

"You don't have to apologize," I finally said, slightly squeezing his hand.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" he asked.

I didn't have an answer, so I simply smiled at him. Despite his vulnerability, a part of me remained on edge.

John sighed. "I don't like how people look at me sometimes."

We sat silently, holding hands until the train arrived. Some other passengers stared at us, and I suddenly became self-conscious.

When the train pulled in, I helped John onto it and sat beside him.

"Where are you going?" I asked quietly, trying not to draw any attention to us.

"I don't know," he said. "But I really want to be with my cats again."

I remained silent but held his gaze, offering a small, understanding smile. His pain ran deeper than just the loss of his cats; I could feel it.

John exhaled. "You're so nice," he said. "And I never want to see you get hurt."

A Lingering Question

I was torn. I wanted to comfort this man, but I didn't know how. Some part of me considered following him or taking him to a shelter, but it was late, and he was still a stranger. I had to think about my safety too.

When the train reached the next stop, John turned to me and said, "I am sorry for the way I am." Then, grabbing his things, he stepped off the train and walked away.

For the rest of the ride, I thought about John and hoped he would be okay. But most of all, I felt guilty; guilty for assuming he was dangerous just because he was homeless. I was ashamed because, in the past, I had likely looked at others like him in the very same way he told me he disliked.

I understand how harmful stereotypes and implicit biases can be; I've experienced them firsthand. At this moment, I also recognize my own biases.

Homelessness and its root causes are complex. Documentaries, news articles, and charities attempt to shed light on the cycles of poverty, mental health challenges, and systemic failures that contribute to the crisis. The tragic stories of people dying from exposure, drug overdoses, or violent attacks are heartbreaking. Statistics show that homeless individuals are far more likely to be victims of crimes than perpetrators.

Yet, public safety remains an ongoing concern. In recent years, the news has been filled with stories of commuters being attacked, some even pushed onto oncoming trains in major cities.

In 2023, the killing of Jordan Neely, a homeless man, by Daniel Penny in a fatal chokehold sparked national debate. Neely, who had been shouting at passengers on a New York subway, was subdued by Penny, a Marine veteran, who claimed he feared for the safety of those around him. Notably, Neely had expressed his willingness to die, go to jail, or kill. Penny was later indicted on manslaughter charges, and the country found itself divided.

For some, Penny was a hero who had protected innocent passengers. For others, Neely's death was an unjust tragedy, another example of a system that failed a mentally ill, homeless Black man. The case ignited protests and discussions about the intersection of homelessness, race, mental illness, and public safety.

I could not decide where I stood. I felt sorrow for Neely, who had faced multiple layers of societal judgment: homeless, mentally struggling, and Black. At the same time, I understood why people worried about their safety in public spaces. With my own experience, I could empathize with those who believed Penny had acted out of self-defense and wanted to see him freed.

Homelessness is not a simple issue; there are no easy solutions. Yet, our personal experiences may subconsciously shape our thinking about it.

I know that compassion and understanding must be part of the answer. But in everyday life, how do we balance our instinct for self-preservation with empathy when encountering individuals like John who are homeless?

It's not an easy balance to strike.

I still don't have the right answer.

As I walked from the train station to my apartment, I returned to making my mental to-do lists.

I had my struggles, but at that moment, I was grateful. I was grateful to have somewhere warm to return to, grateful for the certainty of a bed, a door to lock, and a space to call mine.

I still can’t shake the feeling that somewhere out there, John is still searching for the chance to be reunited with his cats.