The sad truth is that mass migration, whatever the colour of the

The words of Peter Hitchens, “The sad truth is that mass migration, whatever the colour of the skins of those involved, upsets and worries indigenous people, especially the poorest,” carry the weight of an uncomfortable but ancient human truth — that fear often walks hand in hand with change. These words are not an anthem of division, but a lament for misunderstanding — a recognition that beneath the politics of nations and the movements of peoples lies something deeply emotional, deeply human. Migration is as old as mankind itself, yet so too is the fear of displacement. Through his words, Hitchens calls us to confront not just the external forces that shape societies, but the internal struggles that shape hearts — the fear of loss, the yearning for belonging, and the delicate balance between compassion and preservation.

From the dawn of civilization, the earth has witnessed waves of peoples moving — driven by hunger, war, hope, and faith. The ancient Israelites fled Egypt in search of freedom; the Greeks colonized distant shores in search of opportunity; the Vikings, restless and bold, journeyed across icy seas to find new lands. Each migration changed both the wanderer and the native, bringing trade, culture, and innovation — yet always, there was tension. Those who arrived carried dreams; those who received them carried fears. Hitchens’ words reflect this eternal pattern: that the poor, who possess little but their community and tradition, are often the first to feel the tremor of change. Their unease is not hatred — it is the instinctive cry of survival, a desire to protect the fragile stability they have managed to build amid hardship.

In his use of the phrase “the sad truth,” Hitchens does not glorify prejudice; rather, he acknowledges the sorrow that arises when empathy collides with insecurity. The indigenous poor, whether in the villages of medieval Europe or the towns of modern cities, often stand closest to the threshold where cultures meet. They do not have the walls of wealth to shield them, nor the mobility of privilege to escape discomfort. Their neighborhoods become the first crucibles of change — where new tongues, new customs, and new faces enter. For them, identity is not an idea to be debated, but a daily reality that feels threatened by the unfamiliar. It is here, in the tension between fear and coexistence, that the challenge of the human heart is revealed.

History offers us countless reflections of this struggle. When Irish immigrants came to America in the 19th century, fleeing famine and despair, they were met not with welcome but with suspicion. The working poor of cities like New York and Boston saw them as competition, as intruders who would drive down wages and alter the rhythm of their lives. Yet over time, these same immigrants became an integral part of the American story — their songs, their labor, and their faith enriching the nation that once rejected them. This cycle of fear turning to acceptance, of division giving birth to unity, repeats across the ages. It reveals that what begins in pain can, with time and wisdom, end in harmony — if humanity learns to see beyond the veil of difference.

Hitchens’ observation, then, is not a condemnation of migrants, nor an endorsement of fear, but a call to understanding. He reminds us that social peace cannot be built solely by policy or idealism — it must also reckon with emotion. The poor and indigenous cannot be expected to embrace change without being heard, just as migrants cannot be expected to survive without being welcomed. The wise must therefore act as bridges between these two worlds: teaching the rooted to see humanity in the stranger, and the stranger to respect the roots of those whose land they enter. In this way, compassion becomes not a demand, but a discipline — the art of holding both truth and tenderness at once.

The ancients knew this balance well. In ancient Rome, as the empire expanded and absorbed foreign peoples, philosophers like Seneca and Cicero wrestled with the same dilemma: how to preserve identity while practicing mercy. They taught that the strength of a people lies not in the exclusion of others, but in their ability to transform fear into hospitality. Yet they also warned that no nation can thrive if its own poor are forgotten. Justice must flow in two directions — to the stranger and to the citizen alike. Only then does migration become not an invasion, but an exchange; not a breaking, but a blending.

The lesson, therefore, is not to deny the fears that arise from change, but to elevate them through understanding. Acknowledge the pain of those who feel displaced, even as we open our arms to those seeking refuge. Build systems not only of movement but of meaning — where the arriving and the rooted can share not just space, but purpose. The challenge of our age is not unlike that of every age before it: to remember that beneath every label — migrant, native, poor, foreign, rich — there beats the same fragile, human heart.

And so, let Hitchens’ words serve not as a barrier, but as a mirror. They show us the sorrow that lies beneath anger, the humanity that hides beneath fear. For the sad truth he names is also a sacred opportunity — to turn worry into wisdom, division into dialogue, and resentment into respect. For when both the wanderer and the native learn to see in each other the reflection of themselves, then perhaps the story of migration — which began in struggle — will at last find its ending in peace.