Photo via Internet Encyclopedia of Ukraine
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In 2022, millions of Ukrainians poured across borders as war returned to Europe—a full-scale invasion the likes of which not seen since the Second World War. The reaction was immediate and unprecedented. Within days, the European Union invoked the Temporary Protection Directive for the first time in its history, granting Ukrainians the right to live, work, and study across the EU without going through the usual lengthy asylum procedures. Countries absorbed millions of refugees. Poland alone hosted over a million people in the first weeks, turning train stations in Warsaw, Kraków, and Przemyśl into makeshift reception centers by volunteers distributing food, water, and SIM cards. Political rituals quickly followed: European leaders boarded night trains to Kyiv, standing beside Zelensky in symbolic defiance and Ursula Von der Layen declaring Ukraine “part of the European family.” Though these acts of solidarity did not stop for the war, for the people that ran away from the country, myself included, it mattered.
Yet, no moment of solidarity comes without its shadows, and debate soon flared—one I witnessed firsthand as a Ukrainian immigrant in France. The French left claimed double standards and racism based on the warm reaction towards Ukrainians in contrast to asylum seekers from the Middle East. Commentators and activists noted that white, Christian Europeans fleeing bombs were embraced almost overnight, while asylum seekers from the Middle East or Africa had been long met with suspicion and hostility. Jean-Luc Mélenchon, leader of the left-wing party La France Insoumise, warned of a “hierarchy of compassion,” where Ukrainians received rights that Syrians and Afghans had to fight for. Non Governmental Organizations (NGOs) such as La Cimade and Gisti made the same point: what suddenly became possible for Ukrainians—residency, free transport, healthcare, schooling—had long been denied to others. They charged them with not only hypocrisy but also racism: Europe reserves its empathy for those it sees as culturally familiar.
Indeed, during the Syrian Civil War, even as images of bombed-out Aleppo filled screens, the French government admitted only a fraction of those seeking refuge. By 2017, around 37,000 Syrians had been resettled in France, compared to the millions collectively absorbed by Turkey, Lebanon, and Jordan.
The Afghan crisis told a similar story. After the Taliban’s return in 2021, France launched “Operation Apagan” to evacuate Afghan staff who had worked with its military out of Afghanistan and bring them to safety in France. Beyond those narrow categories, Afghans seeking safety in France were largely funneled into French detention centers or forced into the precarious limbo of the asylum system infamous for its delays and rejections.
As of 2025, four years into the Ukraine-Russia war, this debate over Europe’s uneven humanitarian commitment has only gained force with the crisis in Palestine. As pro-Palestinian protests flooded public spaces, including my home university, Sciences Po Paris, public outcry pointed to Europe’s lack of aid going towards Gaza. This is not only a French story: across the continent, the contradictions are striking. European nations have significantly increased their support for Ukraine, committing €11.1 billion in military aid through the European Peace Facility while Palestine has not received a fraction of these efforts despite the humanitarian crisis in Gaza reaching 65,000 deaths and 165,000 injured since October 2023.
These disparities evidently raise numerous societal questions: who matters? Why help some and not the others? To understand this, we must consider the psychological, structural and political limitations of states. This piece will argue that expecting countries, even the wealthier ones, to devote themself equally to world issues is unrealistic, ignoring the structural and political limitations of states.
Regarding psychology, the unequal distribution of empathy across global crises can be understood through the lens of bounded solidarity. Indeed, empathy is not infinite: it is shaped by proximity, similarity, and shared identity. Psychological studies on ingroup bias consistently show that human beings feel stronger empathy for people who resemble them or belong to the same perceived group. Similarly social identity theory, developed by Henri Tajfel, explains that individuals categorize themselves and others into groups, and this categorization creates stronger bonds within the ingroup and weaker bonds with the outgroup. Neuroscience confirms this: brain imaging reveals that the neural circuits for empathy are more active when observing the suffering of people from their own racial or cultural group.
However, recognising the limits of empathy should in no way serve to justify or normalise indifference or prejudice. Instead, it invites a more realistic understanding of human behaviour: while racism and “othering” must be eliminated, proximity and shared identity inevitably influence the way we form empathy.
Human societies have always relied on closeness and similarity to generate trust, cooperation, and solidarity. We first care for our families, then our neighbours, then those who share our culture or religion. That layering of empathy is what allows communities to function and survive. In the European context, Ukrainians are culturally and historically proximate to Western Europe: sharing Christian religious traditions, family structures, comparable education systems rooted in the European enlightenment model as well as political multi-party democracies with parliamentary systems. This in turn facilitates both public acceptance and political integration.
The similarity in no way suggests that other cultures are worse, but it is undeniable that they are more different from Europeans than are other European cultures. These differences do not justify oppression or exploitation but can explain why the population will respond with greater solidarity to one crisis than another. While it is ultimately governments that decide how to allocate aid or whom to admit, politicians are driven by the same psychological boundaries as the population. Therefore the limitations of empathy—shaped by proximity, familiarity, and shared identity—help explain patterns of selective solidarity, not indifference or moral failure. Recognizing these limits allows us to understand human behavior realistically while still striving to extend compassion beyond our immediate circles. Thus, in the context of Ukraine and Palestine the public debate should not be directed towards why help Ukrainians and not Palestinians but rather accept that Europeans will be a priority and then expand on the help towards other regions.
Beyond the solidarity of citizens, the difference in treatment must be addressed on a state level, and here geopolitical interests rule. Despite support for Ukraine being framed as a defense of humanity and democracy, the contrast with Gaza exposes its hypocrisy. The difference lies in practical realities: Ukraine is a recognized state with an elected government, whereas Palestine remains politically divided between the Palestinian Authority in the West Bank and Hamas in Gaza, a group internationally designated as a terrorist organization. The fragmentation limits its capacity to function as a unified state, making military aid politically untenable. While the Russian invasion of Ukraine presents a clear case of aggression, the Israeli–Palestinian conflict showcases an untraceable conflict—a decades-long, zero-sum struggle that has profoundly shaped the identities and ethos of both societies. Consequently, the type of assistance that could be effective or legitimate in Israel–Palestine fundamentally differs from that provided to Ukraine. Therefore, Palestine can not get the same treatment nor attention due to the fundamental structural differences of the regions.
More crucially, Ukraine is fighting Russia, arguably Europe’s biggest existential threat. Through its cyberattacks on hospitals and elections, assassination attempts on European business leaders, and open ambitions toward the Baltic states, Russia significantly threatens European security. Thus, weakening Russia through Ukrainian resistance serves Europe’s own security, creating a buffer zone and buying time to rebuild military strength. Ukraine is not only a shield but also an economic asset, the breadbasket of Europe, and a strategic partner. Every euro and weapon sent to Kyiv is, ultimately, an investment in Europe’s survival. In contrast, Israel, however controversial its actions in Gaza, does not threaten Europe’s territorial integrity or sovereignty. This is a main reason why European leaders pour resources into Ukraine while limiting their response to Palestine. As opportunistic and machiavellian as it is, it reflects the reality of international politics: states prioritize survival over universal ideals. Demanding otherwise is noble, but naive.
All of this exposes the limits of states as they exist today. The tension between putting citizens first or humanity first is as old as political thought, but in practice the answer is clear: without a powerful system of international law, “humanity first” remains an illusion, because sovereignty, the very foundation of states, makes equal care for all impossible. Resources are finite, and foreign aid always comes at the expense of something at home. Europe supports Ukraine not only out of principle, but because its own survival and security are at stake. Democracies, too, are bound by this logic. They are not utopias but systems in which elected governments are accountable to their citizens. Human rights may be upheld internationally in rhetoric, but the actual power of a democracy stops at its borders. While the counter argument that human suffering should not be valued differently depending on where it occurs is morally superior, politically, expecting states to act on universal compassion ignores reality. No country can help everyone equally. The truth is that solidarity begins at home, in our neighborhoods and nations, and radiates outward only as far as resources, interests and security allow.
To demand pure humanity from states is to misunderstand what states are. They are instruments of survival, security, and self-preservation. Just as individuals extend empathy most readily to those who feel familiar or proximate, states act most decisively where their own interests and identities are engaged. The vision of caring for all equally is noble yet it will only be possible in a world where sovereignty is transcended by real global authority—a world that does not yet exist. Until then, solidarity will remain bounded, uneven, and above all, political.
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This article was edited by Annika Trippel and Dysen Morrell.
Lauren Gracia 
Cooper Toland 
Anita Boniface