Finding humanity in difficult stories

By Kate Domaille

In a world shaped by unsettling events and difficult stories, how we interpret what we see and hear matters. Drawing on literature, film, and her work as a celebrant, Kate Domaille reflects on the importance of empathy, perspective, and the search for humanity even in the darkest narratives.

Kate teaches literature and cinema and she is an accredited celebrant with Humanists UK.   

In Albert Camus’ famous novella The Outsider, the main character, Meursault, approaches the world with chilling emotional detachment. He cries no tears at news of his mother’s death, shows little reaction when a neighbour violently assaults his girlfriend, and tells his own girlfriend he does not think he loves her. By the end of Part One, he has committed murder for no apparent reason. When tried and then jailed, he shows neither remorse nor despair. 

Published in the middle of the Second World War, Camus’ bold portrayal of such detachment in the face of violence resonated strongly with French readers, and the novella regularly makes it onto ‘favourite reads’ lists, though it has to be said mostly among male readers. It’s a book that has continued to be thought about, taught about and re-published some 80 years on. Meursault is far from the most malign character in fiction and Camus doesn’t represent him as such. Rather, the novella poses a set of questions about how individuals respond to the world and to personal events. A new film version has just been made and I was keen to revisit the book before seeing the film.

In Albert Camus’ famous novella The Outsider, the main character, Meursault, approaches the world with chilling emotional detachment. AI image.

Recently, I also watched Green Border (2023), directed by Agnieszka Holland. This film depicts refugees lured to Belarus after the Syrian conflict, believing that resettlement awaited them. Instead, they were drawn into a political strategy in which migrants were used to exert pressure on Poland and the wider European Union. Pushed towards the Polish border and forced through forests and barbed wire, they became trapped between two states enforcing hardline border policies. Refugees are repeatedly turned back, detained, separated from loved ones, and subjected to violence on both sides. It is a very hard watch, and a powerful reminder of the anxieties of our current age. Yet alongside this central narrative, there are also threads of hope. Groups of Polish activists organise to support refugees on the ground, while ordinary people offer food, shelter, and acts of kindness and empathy to those caught up in the crisis.

These examples reflect the fact that my reading and viewing are rarely escapist. I am drawn instead to the counter-narratives within difficult stories – to the traces of goodness, humanity and hope that can be found if we look closely. I draw on these as a way of balancing the anxiety such stories can provoke. This is also the approach I bring to my teaching of literature and cinema, where meaning is shaped not only by what is told, but by how it is told – through framing, perspective, and narrative craft. Returning to The Outsider, I choose not to read Meursault simply as a man without a moral compass, but to ask what might lie behind his responses. What might explain how he sees the world? How might we understand him? Read in context, his actions and attitudes become more complex, and perhaps more comprehensible.

This search for multiple narratives continues in my role as a funeral celebrant. When I first meet a family, they are often fraught with grief, overwhelmed by the tasks they must complete before the funeral, and uncertain how they are going to say farewell. I have never presented myself as someone who can resolve their grief – celebrants are not counsellors – but I can help them to recognise that tears are frequently shed because of love. Rather than focusing solely on the turbulence and anxiety of death, we try to bring attention back to the warmth and joy of life. This is true even when working with families who have fallen out, or who have had difficult relationships along the way (and haven’t we all?). It is important to step gently into someone’s story, to listen attentively, and then to shape and reflect it back to them with care. This process usually results in appreciative feedback, for example:

‘We really appreciated the relaxed meeting prior to you writing the eulogy, taking time to listen to stories about mum, and her achievements, and finding out about her. Mum was difficult but through recalling the best of her life we came away with a new understanding of her. We can't thank you enough for everything.’

I can’t say that trying to ‘climb into someone’s skin and walk around in it’, as Atticus Finch suggests in To Kill a Mockingbird, will always lead to understanding. There are moments – particularly in response to some recent events in the news – when human actions can lead to laughter or despair. At such times, I find myself returning to the helpful perspectives offered by history, politics, and the humanities.

So, drawing these reflections together, here are a few guiding thoughts for maintaining well-being in difficult times: 

• Stories are rarely straightforward – look closely to find understanding in the shadows and corners of a narrative.

• History reminds us that periods of turmoil are not new. However dark things may seem, human societies have endured and renewed themselves many times before.

• Crying, laughing, smiling and shouting for help – with friends, neighbours and even strangers – can help us through difficult times.

• We should keep our minds open and avoid oversimplifying things. Life is rarely reducible to a single explanation.

• Even in the worst of times, daily acts of kindness, sweetness and compassion can be found.

Now I’m off to watch that new film version of The Outsider.

www.humanist.org.uk/katedomaille