I'm in total sympathy with Dick Smith's sentiments; I only wish

Hear the words of Hugh Mackay, who spoke not as one seeking praise, but as a witness to the conscience of his people: “I’m in total sympathy with Dick Smith’s sentiments; I only wish there were grounds for saying we Australians would never tolerate such appalling treatment of refugees being carried out in our name.” Here is a cry both sorrowful and prophetic. It is not only the condemnation of injustice, but the lament that the heart of a nation has grown dull, that the suffering of the stranger has been cloaked by indifference. In this utterance burns the eternal struggle between compassion and neglect, between the call of justice and the slumber of comfort.

The meaning of these words lies in the recognition that sympathy alone is not enough. Mackay aligns himself with Dick Smith’s sentiments, affirming the need for humanity toward the vulnerable, yet he confesses his grief that the people themselves have not risen to reject cruelty. To tolerate the appalling treatment of refugees is to permit the denial of dignity, to close one’s eyes while others bleed. And worse, such treatment is not done in the name of tyrants alone, but “in our name”—a reminder that silence is complicity, that the shame of injustice stains not only the hand that strikes but also the hand that folds itself idly in the lap.

The ancients tell us of the Israelites in Egypt, a people who themselves were once strangers and slaves. When Moses rose to deliver them, he spoke often these words: “Remember that you were strangers in a strange land.” For it is easy to forget suffering when comfort surrounds you. Yet the law of compassion demands remembrance—that those who have tasted exile must show mercy to the exiled, that those who once wandered must extend refuge to the wanderer. Mackay’s lament carries the same weight: that a nation born of settlers, voyagers, and castaways should not forget the plight of those who flee to its shores.

History offers us a more modern tale in the voyage of the St. Louis in 1939, when more than nine hundred Jewish refugees fled Nazi Germany aboard a ship bound for safety. Denied entry by Cuba, the United States, and Canada, the ship returned to Europe, where many of its passengers perished in the Holocaust. The world looked back in horror, realizing that indifference had become an accomplice to death. Mackay’s words echo that same warning: when nations fail to defend the vulnerable, they bear guilt as heavy as the cruelty they permitted.

What lesson, then, shall we draw? That sympathy without action is a hollow virtue. It is not enough to feel sorrow for the oppressed; one must rise, speak, protest, and demand that injustice not be done “in our name.” A nation’s honor is not in its monuments or its wealth, but in how it treats the stranger, the widow, the orphan, and the refugee. To neglect them is to forfeit one’s claim to righteousness; to defend them is to prove the nobility of one’s people.

Practical wisdom follows: when you hear of injustice, do not turn aside. Speak to your leaders, write to your communities, and open your doors in small acts of mercy. Defend the dignity of those who have no voice. For though you may not end all cruelty, you can declare with your life that you will not tolerate it. And in doing so, you strip cruelty of its greatest ally: the silence of the many.

So let Mackay’s lament be turned into resolve. Let us say, not with wishful hope but with steadfast action, that we will never permit appalling treatment of the vulnerable in our time. Let us ensure that the deeds of cruelty shall never again be carried out in our name. And may future generations remember us not for our silence, but for our courage—for having stood, when it was hardest, with the exiled, the hunted, and the broken, as brothers and sisters of one human family.