Personal Blogs

“I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.”

 Helen Keller

Learning to Walk in Another’s Shoes

I was driving my wife to work this morning when I saw a child and her father waiting at the traffic lights. The girl stood quietly, her small hands clasped together as if in prayer. More likely, she was cold. Yet, in that simple posture, there was something sacred; a child’s instinctive response to life’s chill.

On my way home, I saw them again, walking along the pavement. The little girl’s legs worked hard against the distance, her father walking patiently beside her, adjusting his stride to hers. She could not have been more than five. The scene touched me deeply, stirring memories of a winter long ago.

I grew up in Govan, Glasgow, where the Atlantic wind from the west could cut through any coat. I remember The Big Freeze of 1962–63, when temperatures fell to -22°C in parts of Scotland and the ground stayed iron-hard for weeks whilst the Elder Park pond became a skater's paradise. My mother would rise before dawn to light the coal fire, the smell of smoke and porridge filling our small kitchen. She would pull a balaclava over my head, wrap a scarf tight around it, and send me off to school with a kiss and hug. 

Perhaps it was those winters that kindled empathy in me, for genuine empathy is not born in comfort but in shared struggle. It is, as the Bible says, the ability to “rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn” (Romans 12:15). The Greek word used in the New Testament, sumpatheo, means to “suffer with.” It suggests more than pity; it is an entering into another’s experience with the heart.

In truth, empathy, or entering another's experience is also cultivated through stories. Reading has been one of the surest ways we learn walk in another’s shoes. Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry showed me what it felt like to be a young Black girl navigating prejudice in the American South. Dostoevsky’s The Idiot revealed the quiet agony of being too tender-hearted in a harsh world and I feel the aching of the writer's soul.  Dickens taught me that justice is not a cold principle but a human pulse beating beneath the grime of industrial London. And Othello exposed the pain of being victimized by envy and deceit, the terrible loneliness of being misunderstood. Dostoevsky, in The Brothers Karamazov also taught me the challenges of being a believer and facing existential paradoxes.

Each story, like a window opened on a frosted morning, lets in warmth from another life. To read is to thaw the ice around one’s own heart. Empathy, then, is not merely an emotion but a light that burns through coldness—the kind a father carries as he slows his steps for his child on a winter’s morning.

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"It is not down on any map; true places never are." 

Herman Melville

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Pothik (পথিক, Bengali) A traveller or wayfarer. 

 It evokes a poetic sense of wandering, 

both literal and metaphorical, 

as part of life’s journey.

Yesterday, as the sun dipped low over the west coast of Scotland, its farewell beams invited me on a drive. The beach was tranquil, save for the soothing strains of reggae music drifting from a young couple’s radio as they left the sands.

I greeted them, as is my custom, stepping momentarily into the shoes of those who have often been "othered" in a land not theirs. The husband’s eyes sparkled with the day’s happiness as he shared their small celebration, “We have just had a Barbeque.” It was zero degrees, but that never seemed to matter to them

 “Bangladesh,” they told me when I inquired about their origins. I wished them well on their journey through life, a silent prayer blessing their path as I continued my own walk along the shore.

This encounter lingered in my mind, a vivid illustration of what it means to be a Pothik—a wayfarer not just on the physical roads but on the greater journey of life itself. Our paths cross with others for brief moments, yet these intersections are rich with potential for mutual understanding and connection.

This morning, as I read through Romans 14, the scripture seemed to echo my thoughts from the previous day: “Why, then, do you judge your brother? Or why do you belittle your brother? For we will all stand before God’s judgment seat... every knee will bow... every tongue will confess... So then, each of us will give an account of himself to God.” (NIV).

The words resonated deeply, weaving together the day’s physical journey with the spiritual path we all tread. One day, we will each face our Creator, and the tapestry of our lives—each thread a choice made, each color a deed done—will be unfurled before Him. It is a sobering thought, yet it carries a promise too, urging us to live with compassion and understanding, mindful of the ultimate journey that each Pothik undertakes—towards truth, towards reconciliation, towards home.

• NIV – New International Version

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Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry: Empathy and the Human Condition

Mildred D. Taylor’s Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry offers more than a historical account of 1930s Mississippi. Told through the eyes of nine-year-old Cassie Logan, it is a powerful lens into injustice, dignity, and the formation of identity amidst systemic racism. As a work of children’s literature, it does something vital: it fosters empathy in young readers and illuminates universal questions of humanity.

At its heart, the novel encourages readers to feel with others. Through Cassie’s confusion, pride, anger, and eventual awakening, we are drawn into the emotional world of a child forced to confront a society where the colour of her skin predetermines her worth in the eyes of others. Her inner turmoil invites young readers—regardless of background—to imagine life from a radically different vantage point.

Empathy arises not from preaching, but from storytelling. When Cassie walks barefoot to school, while white children pass by in a school bus splashing mud on her, we feel the humiliation. When her father fights to keep the family land, we sense his dignity and resolve. These are deeply human experiences: the desire for fairness, belonging, and justice.

Moreover, Taylor doesn't just portray Black suffering—she honours Black resilience. Mama teaches Cassie to stand up for herself with quiet strength. Big Ma holds the family history. Mr. Morrison, a towering presence, becomes a symbol of protection. Their collective moral strength amid adversity resonates across time, culture, and age. In this, the book doesn't just show what it means to suffer—it shows what it means to endure, to hope, and to love.

Young readers begin to understand that history isn’t just about facts—it’s about feelings, relationships, and decisions made under pressure. The novel asks: What does it mean to be treated as less than human? And what does it take to hold onto your humanity when the world denies it to you?

In this way, Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry becomes more than a story—it’s a moral inheritance. It teaches that to be human is to care, to speak up, to notice the suffering of others, and to refuse to be indifferent. As children's literature, its value is profound—it equips the next generation not only to learn about the past but to feel it. And in doing so, it gently, powerfully, nurtures the empathy needed to shape a more compassionate world.

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