Some stories force us to confront more than injustice. They ask us to examine the limits of our empathy, the thresholds of our action and the truths we are still unwilling to hold.
A legal ruling. A rising sea. A city under siege. None of these are abstract. And yet, our responses often are: What if the problem is not what we do not know, but what we choose to turn away from? And what might change if we learned to stay with that discomfort long enough to let it shift us?
The Torres Strait Islanders have long warned of the damage climate change brings to their homes and traditions. Their case, brought before the Australian Federal Court, asked for recognition that government inaction placed their way of life at risk. They brought science. They brought testimony. They brought evidence rooted in lived experience. The court acknowledged none of it as a legal breach. The system remained intact. The tide, however, continues to rise.
Elsewhere, the International Court of Justice offered a different kind of clarity. In a landmark advisory opinion, it affirmed that states hold legal obligations to prevent climate harm. This ruling, led by young people and representatives from island communities, marked a breakthrough in international law. But as some truths make headlines and others fade, we are reminded that progress in one space does not guarantee justice everywhere. The recognition is real. So is the gap.
In Gaza, grief arrives without a buffer. The losses are immense and ongoing. Entire families have vanished. Humanitarian agencies estimate that more than 60,000 people have been killed. Among them, thousands died while trying to access food. The numbers are available. The stories are there. Yet the reaction often comes wrapped in caution. Statements are issued in the language of balance with outrage delayed and mourning politicised. It becomes harder to explain why some suffering sparks global response, while other suffering waits on the margins, even as it grows deeper.
Environmental collapse adds another layer to that suffering. Gaza’s farmlands have been razed, water infrastructure destroyed and rising temperatures now worsen health risks for displaced families. More than 130,000 cubic metres of sewage flow into the sea daily, and climate patterns in the region are growing more extreme. Even the climate here is not a neutral force. It compounds devastation, deepens injustice and further isolates those already living on the edge of survival.
In both the Torres Strait and Gaza, land is not just threatened. It is contested. Climate vulnerability is inseparable from histories of displacement. Whether through rising seas or shattered infrastructure, the ground beneath people’s feet is being taken from them. And still, their voices remain furthest from the decisions that determine their survival.
During my time at Harvard, I studied a leadership model that spoke of disequilibrium, the idea that systems only change when they are stretched. Pressure, discomfort and tension are not signs of failure. They are necessary conditions for transformation. But most institutions are designed to reduce discomfort. They manage disruption rather than allow it to teach. The result is an engagement that sounds measured but skirts the heart of the matter.
This brings me to the question: if climate or impacts of war cannot move us to respond with urgency and consistency, what will? If we continue to place emotional safety above moral responsibility, how far will the tide rise before we choose to act? Perhaps justice begins not with consensus or comfort, but with our ability to stay where it hurts. To name what has long been denied. To let the truth, unfiltered, shape what comes next.
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