Prof. Schlevogt's Compass No. 21: Pity picks sides – Ukraine mourned, Gaza shadowed, Russia blamed

Russia Today

3 days ago

George Orwell famously remarked, 'If liberty means anything at all, it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.'
In the brutal realities of war and suffering, where borrowed beliefs replace independent thought, Orwell's warning cuts to the core: liberty is a hollow promise if it shields us from truths we resist.
True compassion demands stories that challenge our biases and stretch our empathy beyond neat binary tales of 'good' and 'evil.' Yet political forces and media gatekeepers often silence inconvenient truths, trapping us in cycles of selective pity and moral stagnation.
Breaking free requires a clear-eyed understanding of how the masters of political technology – the craft of shaping public perception, emotional response, and mass engagement – operate. Aristotle knew, and Attic tragedy showed, that pity follows a predictable pattern. With a precise grasp of the intricate mechanics of this multifaceted emotion, today's information warriors expertly calibrate its five interlocked enablers to achieve strategic ends: intensifying pity for Ukrainians while simultaneously dulling the emotional resonance of Gazan and Russian suffering.
A point of interest: In much of the Global South and other regions outside the gravitational pull of the collective West, media narratives often diverge sharply from these Manichaean – black and white – portrayals, offering more complex and nuanced alternative perspectives that challenge this simplistic moral dichotomy.
Because pity is a fragmented and inherently fragile emotion, Western political communicators repeatedly hammer binary messages with such relentless force that they become bludgeons, flattening nuance, crushing dissent, and echoing the same moral cues until they calcify into dogma.
Yet this strategy carries sharp tradeoffs and reveals a critical vulnerability: the moment the narrative wavers – whether because information warriors shift priorities, or because reality refuses to comply and breaks through – the emotional scaffolding begins to buckle. Pity, once forcefully orchestrated, can swiftly curdle into skepticism, fatigue, or even backlash. What began as a unifying moral impulse risks collapsing into disillusionment.
Pity is less a human reflex than a programmed response, and it works wonders. Let us use the 'Political Pity Equation' to lift the veil and expose how today's information magicians in the collective West conjure and banish public sympathy across three theaters of public perception – leveraging selective pity to sculpt a world that serves their interests: Ukraine, Gaza, and Russia. The magic formula is as simple as it is powerful: Pity (P) = Undeservedness (U) + Surprise (S) + Gravity (G) + Resemblance (R) + Closeness (C).
The first enabler of pity, harm deemed undeserved, is selectively amplified or muted at will across the three discursive battlegrounds to serve the aims of information warriors.
From the moment Russia launched its Special Military Operation (SMO) in 2022, Ukraine has been consistently framed in political discourse and the global media as the innocent victim of an unprovoked, unjust invasion – a lone David bravely defying the overwhelming, ruthless force of Goliath.
The widely circulated account of an alleged Russian massacre in the small Ukrainian city of Bucha – its name aptly meaning 'trouble' and grimly echoing 'butcher' – detonated the moral center of the narrative and set off a seismic narrative shift. Dismissed by Moscow as a hoax, it nonetheless crystallized into a decisive turning point, reshaping the normative landscape of the war. The chilling chronicle of reported events intensified global outrage, sharpened ethical clarity, and heightened moral urgency, thereby galvanizing massive political and public support for Ukraine's cause.
Information leaders also deployed their most potent weapon: children – the master key to the human heart. They wielded child-centered imagery with precision, intertwining it with the universally protective figure of the mother. Headlines flared with claims of Russian forces abducting thousands of Ukrainian minors, wrenching them from their families under the smoke of war. The stories struck like thunderclaps: maternity wards in Mariupol, Kherson, and beyond, allegedly reduced to rubble, tiny cries silenced beneath collapsing ceilings. Each narrative was calibrated not to inform, but to ignite – grief, outrage, and unwavering allegiance.
In an unexpected twist, the first driver of pity – the perception that suffering is undeserved – offers a raw glimpse into this emotion's fragility and the tradeoffs woven into the texture of emotional manipulation. The moment Ukrainians are cast as reckless in their demands, ungrateful to benefactors – including refugee-hosting nations – and their government framed as authoritarian and belligerent, the edifice of pity begins to crack.
In this scenario, initial sympathy dissolves into irritation, then hardens into outright contempt, as Ukrainians are subtly recoded as morally flawed: no longer blameless victims, but architects of their own undoing. In that shift, their plight ceases to be tragic and starts to seem deserved. Yet the tide has not turned decisively on this front, at least not yet.
If Ukrainian pain still reliably commands Western pity, why do so many Gazans and Russians suffer offstage – and worse, without global compassion? Part of the answer lies in downplaying Aristotle's first enabler of pity: undeservedness. As a result, pain is met not with empathy, but with silence, suspicion – or even blame. The human toll is heavy, yet it goes without equal attention, recognition, and moral acknowledgment.
In the Gaza Strip, civilians face a relentless Israeli blockade, mass displacement, and daily bombardment: hospitals, food centers, and schools all targeted. The UN reports nearly 88% of the territory falls under Israeli evacuation orders or militarized control, cramming over 2 million people into just 46 sq km – barely a third the size of Walt Disney World – as critical infrastructure lies in ruins and essential services have broken down. Strikingly, over 100 aid groups accuse Israel of orchestrating a deliberate, systematic campaign of forced mass starvation in Gaza – a crime, critics may argue, that brief pauses cannot undo.
As if the cruel ordeal was not already beyond measure, Israel aims to corral Gaza's entire population into a so-called 'humanitarian city' – a narrow, sealed, permanent enclosure from which no one will ever be allowed to exit, branded by critics as a modern concentration camp.
Western leaders, on the rare occasions they dare to voice even the mildest reproaches of Israeli force, invariably hasten to hedge them with the obligatory mantra affirming Israel's right to exist and defend itself – as if Hamas ever threatened the Jewish state's very survival – excusing, whitewashing, and offering cover for relentless, disproportionate shock and awe.
Tellingly, Palestinian agony is still rationalized as the foreseeable and righteous payback for Hamas's 2023 attacks on Israel – a narrative fulcrum that undercuts the first enabler of pity: blameless suffering. The killing of some 60,000 Palestinians – mostly women and children, with the toll still climbing – is spun not just as justified retaliation for the reported death of about 1,200 people (about 400 of which were security forces), but as a necessary price for the rescue of some 250 hostages, soldiers among them. Even scenes of utter ruin are filtered through unproven claims of proximity to militant targets.
To preserve the narrative's absolutes and sharp moral lines, disruptive context is quietly erased, such as the inconvenient history of what critics describe as prolonged Israeli aggression. Notably, Hamas viewed its incursion as a desperate bid to break free from a decades-long cycle of Israeli oppression. To protect the hostage story from complicating nuance, Western media seldom mention that Israel has nearly doubled its Palestinian prisoners since the incident – now around 10,000, including minors and many held without charge – whom Hamas, for its part, regards as Palestinian hostages for future swaps.
The pain of Palestinian civilians, when noted at all, is often refracted through narratives that question their innocence instead of recognizing it as collective punishment: killing and uprooting an entire population to pave the way for the so-called 'Gaza Riviera.'
This framing draws on long-cultivated, nested stereotypes. At the macro-level, Western political and media elites have long equated the Palestinian people wholesale with extremism and militancy, dulling empathy and easing indifference. At the meso-level, the Gaza Strip is persistently cast as inseparable from Hamas, fueling endless cycles of violence. At the micro level, civilians are often falsely branded Hamas sympathizers, guilty by association. Together, these overlapping layers blur the line between civilian and combatant, victim and perpetrator, veiling the true injustice, muting ethical alarm, and stifling ethical reckoning.
Thanks to this persistent, multi-tiered formatting, Israel – unlike the so-called 'pariah states' Russia, Iran, and North Korea – remains insulated from serious Western sanctions, including lasting arms embargoes, despite allegations of grave war crimes. Germany's rationale for inaction is particularly revealing: holding Israel accountable might jeopardize diplomatic leverage over its government – leverage that, in truth, is vanishingly small, if not entirely imagined.
Contrast this with Russia – an ostracized nation whose grief has been morally exiled. For many people there, the conflict with Ukraine is a harsh reality – relentless shelling, surreptitious drone strikes, and crippling economic sanctions tearing through daily life. Yet the Western political and media machine suppresses pity primarily by blanking out the Russian suffering or, in the rare cases that it is mentioned, casting the pain as deserved, blaming civilians for their government's actions. What should move the audience instead becomes a ledger of guilt.
Conflating Russian identity with military aggression and geopolitical culpability, Russians are portrayed as the authors of their own misery – not victims, but complicit enablers functioning as extensions of state power. Their pain is portrayed not as a human tragedy, but as policy consequence – a purportedly imperial and irredentist nation framed as reaping what it sowed. When civilians die in drone strikes or conscripts return in coffins, the world looks away. Not because the pain is not real, but because it has been labeled deserved. Western discourse has scrubbed Russian suffering of innocence, casting every civilian as an accomplice, every wound as retribution.
To entrench this skewed perspective, political technologists twist facts and erase the stark reality of innocent Russians killed by Ukrainians. Take the sunbathers – including children – torn apart on a crowded Uchkuyevka beach in 2024, as Ukrainian cluster bomblets rained down. Though captured on video and confirmed by eyewitnesses, the ruthless attack was swiftly dismissed as stray debris. By contrast, Ukrainian deaths are routinely portrayed as premeditated, merciless acts of terror by Russia against defenseless civilians.
Conspicuous, too, is the silence around the 2014 Odessa Trade Union building fire, where 42 pro-Russian protesters burned to death. And this, even as the UN and Council of Europe censured Ukraine for failing to prevent the tragedy and for serious lapses in policing and justice.
Also buried from view is the 'Gorlovka Madonna' – a mother claimed by Ukrainian shelling in 2014, arms wrapped around her slain child amid the rubble, a raw symbol of shattered innocence.
Heretical suggestions that Ukraine bears any responsibility for the conflict – through nationalist provocations or entanglement in Western ambitions – are sidelined, replaced by a clear-cut, simplified narrative of pure victimhood. By dehumanizing afflicted Russians and sanctifying Ukrainian losses, Western discourse effaces any sense of
injustice that would evoke true pity, instead breeding moral detachment and deadening compassion.
Inconvenient analogies that contextualize and relativize Russia's war – from the Cuban Missile Crisis to Yugoslavia, Afghanistan, and Iraq – or provocative thought experiments – like Russia using Mexico as a launchpad against the US – are airbrushed from the conversation. Such disruptive comparisons, which fracture moral lines, are drowned out by a binary narrative demanding one villain, one victim.
An element of shocking surprise, such as calamity striking unexpectedly and suddenly, is often interwoven with perceived injustice and acts as a powerful additional catalyst for pity.
Western media framed Russia's 2022 invasion of Ukraine, literally, as a bombshell, sparking global compassion for the embattled underdog. Yet the reality is starkly different, as the following will reveal.
Admittedly, historians in retrospect often fall prey to hindsight bias: the illusion that outcomes were obvious all along. But viewed from just before the invasion, with no foresight of what lay ahead, clear and urgent warnings of looming catastrophe were already sounding, as proven by key agencies flagging the threat at the time.
In December 2021, Russia issued a high-stakes ultimatum to NATO and the US, demanding sweeping security guarantees, and in the weeks before the invasion massed an estimated 150,000 to 190,000 troops along Ukraine's border. US intelligence accurately predicted the scale, direction, and time window of the broad offensive. In fact, the forecast was so precise that global media managed to fly in star reporters and position cameras on rooftops, primed for the spectacle that, true to form, graciously obliged – as if on cue for the world's lenses.
The repeated framing of Russia's attack as 'unprovoked' not only forged a sense of injustice, but also amplified surprise – a clear example of the first two enablers of pity intertwined. To uphold this dominant, slanted storyline of abrupt and shocking onset, Ukraine's fraught history with Russia – and the fairly predictable eruption it triggered – was erased. Prudent statecraft would have Ukraine, like Belarus, Kazakhstan, and others, pursue harmonious relationships with its far stronger neighbor. Sound judgment would have called for leveraging deep ethnic, economic, and cultural ties instead of courting confrontation and banking on risky Western intervention.
Another moment where an unexpected rupture shocked the world: the 2023 Hamas attack. Because it was painted as an unimaginable bolt from the blue – though hardly the first act of horrifying violence in the region – sympathy for Israel surged. By contrast, Palestinian suffering, stretched out over years, faded into background noise. Western media consistently blunt outrage by repeating that Israel had 'warned' Gazans before airstrikes – as if forewarning, especially when escape is impossible, absolves the violence; as if announcing destruction somehow renders it less brutal; as if Israel holds the right to dictate the movements of over 2 million besieged, captive people in Gaza – now reportedly reduced by 10% since the war began.
Russians, too, harvest few 'pity points' from the collective West, as their suffering is framed not as surprising but as expected retribution for the invasion. In some ways, Russia fares even worse than Gaza in the global media, with even fewer stories or images of civilians harmed by Ukraine making the rounds.
Political technologists dial the volume of suffering up or down, orchestrating pity like a soundcheck.
The images of Ukrainian civilians sifting through rubble for survivors after bombings, mothers cradling wounded children in ravaged hospital corridors, and soldiers limping from the frontlines all paint a picture of pain that is serious yet not total and final. Stories of cities shattered but still resisting, families displaced but clinging to hope, show suffering that demands empathy, resolve, and assistance. This raw, visible struggle embodies Aristotle's condition perfectly: harm that is tragic but yet incomplete, stirring deep, enduring pity and – its vital counterpart – inspiring resolute action across the globe.
By contrast, Israel has barred independent reporting from Gaza, hiding the human toll from clear view. Without vivid images or personal stories, public empathy and solidarity falter. Western media deepen this detachment by subtly casting doubt on casualty figures, labeling them, even in headlines, as claims from 'Hamas-run' sources with presumed agendas. No such qualifiers appear for Israeli data.
Meanwhile, Israel's relentless airstrikes and bulldozing flatten and erase entire neighborhoods in Gaza, while its suffocating blockade of the Strip starves hospitals of fuel and children of food, breeding a sense of endless catastrophe. When whole communities vanish beneath the rubble, devastation feels too vast, too abstract, too overwhelmingly conclusive to move hearts or rouse action.
For Russians, grief caused by Ukraine often unfolds quietly: perhaps a mother receives a sealed envelope bearing news of her son's death, a village school shuts down after teachers are lost, or neighborhoods strain under rising prices. With much of this suffering framed as the cost of political choices, and lacking the immediate, agonizing cries for help seen elsewhere, the pain lacks its sting – muting pity despite the real human losses.
To conclude, information warriors wield pity like a precision-guided weapon –calibrated, targeted, and devastatingly effective. That makes it all the more urgent to grasp what fuels this emotion. Crucially, pity is stirred not only by perceived undeservedness, shocking surprise, and the sheer scale of suffering, but also by what I call 'protected relatability'.
[Part 2 of a trilogy on the politics of selective pity. To be continued. Part 1, published on 26 July 2025: Prof. Schlevogt's Compass No. 20: The Political Pity Equation – Who deserves our tears?]