Let’s set the scene:
It's 2020, and a global pandemic has erupted. Fear and uncertainty grip the world as individuals take drastic steps to protect their families. People isolate themselves, avoiding any situation that might make them vulnerable. Grocery stores are emptied, medication and toiletries are stockpiled, and everyone scrambles to create a bubble of safety for their loved ones amid this unprecedented crisis.
Now, let’s set another scene:
War has broken out in your country. Your life and the lives of your family are in immediate danger. Armed militias target people like you, and you must flee to survive.
Now, let me ask: would your reactions in these two scenarios be the same?
For most of us, the answer is a resounding yes. In times of war, we would act swiftly, perhaps even recklessly, driven by the primal need to protect our families. Just as we’ve reacted in this pandemic—stockpiling, isolating, and making irrational choices out of fear—so too would we respond to war. When life is on the line, rational thought often takes a backseat to survival instincts. But here’s the point: these are the same impulses that drive refugees and displaced people every day.
COVID-19 has pulled back the curtain on humanity’s vulnerability, showing us how we react when our sense of safety is threatened. It has also starkly highlighted the contradictions in how the West treats refugees. Our desperation to protect our families in the face of a health crisis mirrors the desperate actions of those fleeing war and persecution—yet our empathy for them remains distant, if it exists at all.
While the world focuses on the dangers of COVID-19, many of us in the West have responded with panic and protectionism. Meanwhile, we continue to show hostility toward people fleeing even greater dangers, such as war and oppression. There is an undeniable privilege in our ability to worry about a virus, while ignoring the far worse situations millions of refugees endure every day.
A quote from Twitter user @whatsupboosh captures this contradiction:
"The people who reject scientists warning about climate change but immediately buy every bottle of hand sanitizer when scientists warn them about coronavirus prove that it was never about disbelieving. It’s about what doesn’t directly affect them and what does.”
This sentiment applies equally to how we view refugees. We act swiftly to protect ourselves when we feel personally threatened, but struggle to empathize with others whose suffering we perceive as distant or foreign.
Consider this: COVID-19 has caused widespread panic, global lockdowns, and a scramble for basic necessities. Many feel a sense of fear and uncertainty like never before. But for refugees, these feelings are not new. They live this reality every single day.
In countries like Palestine, Afghanistan, and Syria, people have been in a state of perpetual lockdown, separated from loved ones, and unable to travel long before COVID-19. Their homes are not safe havens but war zones. Their crises are far from temporary, and there’s no “vaccine” waiting to bring an end to their suffering.
This is not to undermine the serious toll of COVID-19, but rather to remind us of our privilege. We have homes to shelter in, governments to provide aid, and a future to rebuild. For many refugees, there is no such security—no certainty, no home to return to, and no end in sight to their suffering.
Amir Sahragard, an Iranian refugee who spent six years in Australia’s offshore detention on Manus Island, summed it up best:
“So have little sympathy for your fellow refugees. Remember us when the virus passes, and your life returns to normal. We’re still here, and life isn’t getting any easier, virus or no virus.”
In this pandemic, many of us have experienced panic, fear, and insecurity for the first time. We’ve emptied store shelves, afraid our families might go without. Yet millions of people live in this kind of scarcity daily—pandemic or not. The difference is, our fear will pass. We will return to our lives of relative freedom and comfort. For refugees, such comfort remains a distant hope.
We must carry these feelings of uncertainty and fear with us when the crisis subsides. We must remember that the same impulse to protect our families during this pandemic is what drives refugees to make life-threatening journeys to escape war and persecution.
As the world eventually rebuilds from COVID-19, let us also rebuild our empathy and compassion for those who cannot so easily escape their own crises. We cannot continue to treat refugees as "others" when, in many ways, our experiences during this pandemic mirror theirs—except their lockdowns last for years, not months.
While we sit in the safety of our homes, we must remember the millions of people fleeing violence, poverty, and persecution. They face dangers far more immediate and enduring than we do in the face of a virus. Their fight for survival is a daily reality, not a temporary disruption.
Let us also not forget the refugees who remain in detention, like those under Australia’s offshore detention system, confined indefinitely and without adequate protection. These people, too, are in danger—both from the virus and from the inhumane conditions they face every day.
We have a choice. A privilege to act compassionately. To remember that in times of crisis, we all want the same things—safety, security, and a future for our families. As we come out of this pandemic, let’s use our power to extend compassion and support to refugees. Because while our lockdowns will end, their fight for survival continues.
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