In a zoo in Japan, a baby macaque named Punch, abandoned by its mother, has captured global attention. Rejected by the troop after birth, the little monkey has been spending its days clinging to a plush orangutan given by its caretakers. Videos and photos of Punch have been viewed and shared millions of times; people were moved to tears, sighing, “If only I could hug and comfort him myself!” Punch’s story stirred our sense of compassion and touched us all.
But while such open and widespread compassion is shown to a baby monkey, why do people fail to see—or choose to ignore—the babies being killed in different parts of the world? Why is the same empathy not extended to the more than 72,000 people killed in Gaza over the past two years, nearly 20,000 of them children, or to the starving infants in Yemen, Sudan, Somalia, and elsewhere?
Part of the answer lies in Aristotle’s description of the human being as a political animal. Even when exercising compassion, humans often act politically and pragmatically, calculating risks. It is far easier to show compassion toward animals because defending an animal does not trigger ideological, religious, political, or ethnic conflict. An animal has no “side,” no sect, no political identity—no label that could make it an “other.”
When you defend an animal, no one calls you a traitor, irreligious, subversive, or a sympathizer with terrorism. State mechanisms, ideological camps, or media troll armies do not mobilize against you. Your “compassion” remains within a comfort zone; you soothe your conscience. With a single post, like, or comment, you can appear to be a “good” and “compassionate” person.
Social psychology has long explained this phenomenon. Leon Festinger’s theory of cognitive dissonance holds that people feel discomfort when their actions conflict with their beliefs. When human rights violations, war crimes, or systemic oppression are at stake, showing compassion may place an individual at odds with their group identity, official narratives, or social environment. To resolve this dissonance, many choose silence—or even blame the victim.
Showing compassion toward animals, by contrast, minimizes this tension because animals occupy a “neutral” space. Psychologist Paul Bloom, in Against Empathy, argues that empathy is often selective: it gravitates toward what is close to us, similar to us, and emotionally safe. Empathy for distant, complex, or “dangerous” victims carries a higher cognitive and emotional cost.
From a sociological perspective, Émile Durkheim’s concepts of collective consciousness and collective conscience come into play. Societies generate solidarity through shared emotional objects. A baby monkey like Punch becomes precisely such a safe object of shared feeling. His suffering unites everyone—but divides no one.
Yet when it comes to children under bombardment in Gaza, civilians killed in Rojava, Uyghurs detained in camps in East Turkestan, or Rohingya subjected to genocide in Myanmar, the same compassion often fails to activate. These sufferings are “politicized”; they require taking a side and paying a price. Speaking out may bring social costs—loss of employment, public shaming, exclusion, even legal consequences.
This selectivity is not new. Zygmunt Bauman, in his discussion of “postmodern ethics,” observed that morality in modern society has become individualized and aestheticized. Suffering turns into an object of visual consumption. Punch clinging to his plush toy is consumed as an aesthetic tragedy: it moves us without disturbing us. Human oppression, however, is messy, complex, and unsettling. To defend its victims requires stepping outside one’s comfort zone.
Animal rights, of course, matter. The suffering, abandonment, or loneliness of any living being should concern us. Punch’s story shows that our capacity for empathy is still alive. But the real question is why we confine this empathy to risk-free spaces. If we can weep for a baby monkey’s loneliness, we should also be able to weep for human children systematically killed, starved, or left homeless. Defending animals is easy; defending human beings—especially those labeled as “others”—requires courage.
Objecting to oppression and standing with the oppressed is a requirement of being human, regardless of religion or belief. Yet Islam places particular responsibility on Muslims to resist injustice and uphold justice. History, sociology, and social psychology all suggest that one reason Islam spread rapidly was that Muslims opposed oppression, supported the wronged, and sought to establish justice.
Jerusalem’s peaceful surrender to Caliph ʿUmar was rooted in trust in Muslim justice and the belief that they would not oppress. Likewise, before the conquest of Constantinople, the Byzantine grand duke Loukas Notaras reportedly said, “I would rather see the Muslim turban in Constantinople than the Latin mitre,” reflecting confidence in Muslim fairness.
Where Islam endured, it did so through the justice represented by Muslims.
The Qur’an and authentic hadith literature give wide place to mercy (rahma, compassion). al-Raḥmān and al-Raḥīm—the Most Merciful, the Most Compassionate—are among God’s most prominent names, invoked at the beginning of every act. The Qur’an refers to mercy in hundreds of verses.
Islam commands compassion not only toward humans but toward animals as well. The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) told of a sinful woman forgiven and granted Paradise because she gave water to a thirsty dog (Bukhari), and of another punished for starving a cat (Muslim). In Islam, showing mercy and opposing oppression are not merely emotional acts—they are responsibilities. We are charged with stopping evil “by our hands or our words.” As ʿAlī said: “If you cannot prevent oppression, at least make it known.”
Said Nursi expressed the link between faith and compassion succinctly: “A person’s faith is measured by the mercy they show to creation.” As faith deepens, compassion for all beings must grow.
If those who claim to be Muslim remain silent while the elderly, pregnant women, and infants are oppressed, there is a clear contradiction with Islam. Erdoğan, who has used religious rhetoric in politics, once justified harshness by saying, “If you show pity, you will become pitiable.”
Yet the Prophet’s measure is unmistakable:
“Whoever does not show mercy will not be shown mercy.” (Bukhari; Muslim)
“Show mercy to those on earth so that those in heaven will show mercy to you.” (Tirmidhi; Abu Dawud)
Injustice and oppression have universal definitions. Compassion is a human emotion. If we can desire justice for everyone and avoid discrimination in mercy, the world will become a more livable place for all humankind.
