Saying goodbye to a loved one is a universal human moment of sadness and grief. It reminds us that everything good and sweet will eventually come to an end. Even when we believe, or at least hope, that we will reunite again, there is often a lingering fear that this parting might be the last. That fear adds weight to the experience of saying goodbye, revealing that it probably is never quite the same for everyone.
Theorists of oppression explain that, while all humans suffer, not all forms of suffering are the same. Central to how we understand oppression is the recognition that certain forms of suffering are caused or exacerbated by social and political structures. How hard it is to say goodbye can depend in very concrete ways on which citizenship you hold, how much freedom of movement it grants, and the sociopolitical and economic realities awaiting you and your loved ones when you part ways. If you know that your loved ones are going back to safe conditions, you might not be as worried about them when saying goodbye.
Ordinary moments of human grief naturally invite us to imagine what could have been different to make this reality more bearable. And imagining better worlds is an emotionally fraught endeavor because it reveals many things that are wrong with the reality that our minds have long been adapting to. In a 1960 interview with Nathan Cohen, James Baldwin remarks that, while in the South it was clear that a Black person could not go anywhere, there was a particular agony in the North, where one could almost go anywhere. It is this “almost,” Baldwin says, that can drive a person mad. Something similar happens when one in exile reunites with loved ones after years of separation. As sweet as such moments can be, reunion can awaken a specific pain; it can open your minds to different realities that could have been lived. For a moment, you catch glimpses of better lives that could have been possible. And in doing so, reunion can undo the hedonic and psychological adaptations that helped you cope with separation over the years.
When I feel the urge to turn to ancient wisdom, especially the Greco-Roman and Abrahamic philosophical traditions, in moments like these, I sometimes find myself disappointed when the nuances and distinctions between different forms of human suffering are collapsed. Still, I have found that learning about human vices in ancient societies through these traditions serves a particular therapeutic function. When we confront the sheer magnitude of cruelty and injustice in our own time, it is easy to jump to the belief that we live in the worst of all possible eras. Perhaps, in some respects, we do: We dominate the planet at an unprecedented scale, destroy the natural environment, possess the scientific knowledge and resources to end many forms of suffering (hunger, disease, and more) yet fail to use it, and enforce artificial borders in a world that has always been shaped by human migration and greater freedom of movement. All of this may be true. But I do not believe there is anything intrinsically more vicious about us, as humans, in this age than in others.
When we think of human vice in terms of vanity, selfishness, callousness, or hypocrisy, we see that much of what the world is undergoing is not a historical anomaly but another cosmic episode of human-inflicted suffering. Strangely, I find this more redeeming than defeating. Despite how deeply entrenched our vices are, many humans—perhaps not the majority, but enough—have managed to transcend our worst impulses and capabilities. If humans have always managed to do well and live honorably in the midst of corruption, hopefully we can too. And indeed, the more clearly we see how corrupt the world is, the greater our responsibility to not allow our own souls to sink into that same corruption.
I feel a deep sense of unease about most forms of theodicy because I believe we must contend honestly with the reality of evil in ourselves and in the world. Nevertheless, I do find the idea that the oppressor may be more wretched, at least spiritually, than the oppressed to be quite admirable. I also find it helpful to try to see the world through the lens of the most vulnerable. Indigenous peoples across the globe have long lived under catastrophic conditions. The world many of us know is not the world they have known. For generations, they have witnessed brutality, corruption, the audacity to subvert truth and manipulate facts, and the hypocrisy of those in power. And yet, I find something empowering in the thought that humans, even under the worst circumstances, have managed to emerge with undefeated spirits and to generate new possibilities of being.
I used to interpret slogans like “the universe is on the side of justice,” attributed to revolutionary leaders such as Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., through a perhaps-naïve optimism that, once conditions become bad enough, once the pain of the chains grows unbearable, people will inevitably stand up for their rights. I have been disillusioned and have come to see the more uncomfortable truth that there is no limit to how much the human mind can adapt to the chains. Suffering, by itself, is not a reliable engine of change. If there is one thing humans do remarkably well, it is endure. I prefer to read such words now as a reminder that humans are bound to a love for life, and that love for life is the only genuine force for dignity and for movement. To use Rosa Luxemburg’s words, we do not revolt “merely because the pressure of [the] chains is too painful” but also against “the chain itself.” And since one can always cultivate indifference to the chains by simply not attempting to move, to rebel against the chain as such requires something more than pain: a love for life.
I think cultivating a love for life requires transcending some fears. My typical strategy for managing fear is to imagine worst-case scenarios and then reassure myself that my loved ones and I can navigate whatever comes, no matter how bad it may be. Seneca’s famous words that we suffer more in imagination than we do in reality become truly therapeutic. Yet this strategy fails tragically when it comes to scrupulosity (OCD-like thinking about moral wrongdoing). Imagining the possibility of committing wrongdoing is just devastating. It reminds us of how vulnerable we all are to developing the very things we resent in others. History and reality show us that fears of such possibilities are not exaggerated.
This strategy also breaks down when considering the epistemic transformations that happen when one achieves greater safety within oppressive systems—when one finally gets the visa, the passport, the citizenship that grants freedom of movement, greater economic security, etc. Goodbye at the airport may become easier. The danger is that, after reaching that safety, one begins to unsee the pain and suffering of those still trapped in precarity, under the illusion that the world has changed because one’s own circumstances have. We should not take such epistemic transformation as necessarily autonomous. As one’s positionality within the world changes, one may become surrounded with other survivors whose life stories confirm one’s biases about progress, that the world itself has fundamentally changed.
Philosophy helps us understand how much of our suffering is shaped by systems rather than simply by fate. It can build a habit of attention toward how the world might be otherwise. These ordinary moments, like saying goodbye at an airport, can become a lens for imagining a different world. It is also an invitation to rethink what we take for granted. Perhaps one of the cruelest dimensions of oppression is that it shapes which kinds of suffering—and whose suffering—are seen and taken seriously. Even many of those who escape suffering begin to unsee what they once knew intimately. And I worry about this often. I worry that as my circumstances change, I lose the sharpness of understanding that came from harder goodbyes. I fear forgetting which world to dream of.
Ahmed AboHamad
Ahmed AboHamad completed his Ph.D. in philosophy at the University of Connecticut. His intellectual interests include the history of ideas, intercultural dialogue, and the exploration of overlooked convergences among philosophical traditions that emerged in different social and historical contexts. His doctoral dissertation offered a critique of contemporary revivals of Stoicism and Sufism. Ahmed will begin his professional career as Coordinator of Muslim Life at Bowdoin College, where he will bring his scholarly background to cocurricular education, student affairs, and campus life.
