Do you commute into work on the train? If not, you should do. It really is an eye-opening experience: the rush-hour train is a microcosm of contemporary society.
The other day, the morning train I usually catch was cancelled. This in itself isn’t a rare event. More unusually, every subsequent train in both directions was cancelled or indefinitely delayed. In short, the whole thing was completely buggered.
At around 8:30am, a single train that was supposed to have arrived at 6:47am pulled in. Unsurprisingly it was heaving, and I thought myself fortunate to be able to squeeze on. I was stuck by the doors, with less breathing room than an overweight canned sardine, much closer to four other people than would be socially acceptable in any other situation.
It may shock you to know that I was in a bad mood. It was far too cramped, too stuffy, and I was going to be late for work. But none of these inconveniences riled me as much as the attitude of some of the others on the train.
The first station the train stopped at was packed with disgruntled commuters trying to get into Birmingham. One of my fellow passengers joked that the all-too-common line “Can you move down, please?” would be shouted. A few people laughed at Nostradamus’s wit.
The annoying thing was that it wasn’t a joke, because the people in the aisles could have moved along. If they had managed to overcome their ingrained selfishness and squeezed themselves together just a little, a few more people could have boarded the train. That’s a few more people whose days may have only been marred rather than torpedoed by another British railways shit show.
But nobody moved. They only stared at their phones, ignoring commuter after commuter who implored them to show some consideration.
I asked myself why these people seemed incapable of putting themselves in strangers’ shoes. Sure, it would make their journey a little more uncomfortable, but so what? You just know they’d have been fuming if the roles were reversed, and they were on the platform glaring through the train’s windows at the chasms in the aisles.
Don’t get me wrong: there is kindness in our society. Folk volunteer, donate to charities, and generally do incredible things to help others less fortunate than themselves. There’s no doubt that people are capable of incredible acts of generosity and kindness.
In a different entry in my burgeoning catalogue of highly-successful train journeys, I was ill and blacked out. I sunk through the stuffy air to the aisle floor. People rushed to help me. As I succumbed to overwhelming nausea, commuters scrambled to give up their seats. One lady offered me a banana; a man offered me a bottle of water. I was humbled and truly grateful, if more than a little embarrassed.
But I do wonder why it takes someone being ill, or someone suffering from some dreadful hardship, for people to show any empathy. You may have noticed that I keep using the same blanket term “people.” This isn’t accidental or just down to laziness. It seems to me that an insidious, institutionalised selfishness, or apathy at the very least, has pervaded our culture. It’s all too easy to bury ourselves in our phones and ignore others’ problems rather than endure minor inconveniences. I know I’m guilty of it at times, and I feel bad about it on every occasion.
I doubt this blog post will go very far, although it would be great if it did. I only wish to share my experience as a reminder of the importance of putting ourselves in other peoples’ shoes. They probably have the same aspirations and frustrations as we do, so we should empathise with them. If the societal norm is to turn a blind eye to others’ minor struggles, as I believe is increasingly the case, then we should make a conscious effort to break out of the mould. It’s all-too-easy to let the blanket of apathy wrap around our shoulders and forget to think for ourselves.