The curse of individualism

In the 1980s, one of the key ideas of the left—class solidarity—became almost an embarrassing term. Today, it almost seems old-fashioned, like something for blue-collar workers and flat caps, squeezed between the rhetoric of individualism and the myth of difference at all costs. But in his new book, former Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams turns everything on its head: he argues that solidarity is not a relic of the past, but a necessity for the present, precisely because we have become obsessed with “be yourself” and with short-lived group identities. Williams’ argument is clear: individualism, the idea that being authentic means thinking only of oneself, not only isolates us but also robs us of what makes us human—the ability to build something together with others. It is not a question of uniformity: true solidarity arises from acknowledging differences and tensions, not from smoothing them over. And it is not enough to say “I feel like you” to show solidarity. Williams criticizes those who wear a “Je suis Charlie Hebdo” or “Je suis Gazan” T-shirt without sharing the real pain of that group. For him, identifying with someone is not a matter of emotions, but of concrete actions. If you don't act, feeling doesn't matter. Here’s an interesting detail: Williams lived in South Africa during the apartheid era, when solidarity was not a slogan but a force that helped overthrow a regime. He saw firsthand how solidarity can change history, but also how it can degenerate into tribalism or collective fanaticism, what he calls “ecstatic collectivity” – the same dynamic that, on the downside, can lead to destructive cults or group violence. A fact that gives pause: solidarity played a decisive role in the fall of apartheid and in the transformation of Poland, but today, almost no one remembers it. And there’s more: Williams warns against the currently fashionable idea that empathy is the solution to everything. The striking phrase is this: “Empathy cannot do the work of solidarity.” Understanding what someone is feeling does not distribute resources more fairly, nor does it address power inequalities. In fact, feeling another person’s pain does not necessarily mean taking action to alleviate it—if you are a sadist, you might even enjoy it. Williams proposes a shift: we should not try to be “inside” the other person’s perspective, but “beside” it, acknowledging that we will never be able to understand everything, but we can still act together. Another surprising insight comes from Christianity: according to the Christian tradition, love (agape) is not a feeling, but a social practice. Williams explains that the parable of the Good Samaritan shows that it is not important to feel something for the person in need: what matters is to help them, even if it repels you. No one can be compelled to feel pity, but everyone can be called to action. This overturns our common notion that solidarity is a matter of “feeling together.” Williams also delves into the relationship between the body and solidarity. Some say that bodies separate us, that true communion is impossible because each person is enclosed within their own flesh. But phenomenology turns everything on its head: the body is expressive; what we feel is visible in our gestures, in our language— and language itself, Williams argues, is something we learn only in community with others. Therefore, solidarity, at least potentially, precedes us: it is part of our culture, from childhood onward. The hardest part comes when Williams asks: What should we do about those who refuse dialogue? What about those who not only refuse to talk but also scorn the very possibility of common ground? Terrorists, for example, do not want to negotiate; they want to destroy the very notion of community. And here Williams is clear: solidarity is never built once and for all, but must be reinvented every day—and it will never be perfect. The contrarian element that is missing almost everywhere: Williams does not believe that empathy is enough, nor that solidarity always means including everyone indiscriminately. On the contrary, he asks who is truly willing to welcome even those who are profoundly different, such as traffickers or extremists. His proposition is uncomfortable: solidarity is neither fusion nor distance, but a constant tension between difference and cooperation. That's the whole point: solidarity is not a warm feeling, but a cold, repeated choice. If you want a takeaway phrase: Solidarity does not arise from feeling equal, but from deciding to act together despite our differences. If this perspective has made you look at the relationships between individuals and communities in a different way, on Lara Notes you can press I'm In — it's not a 'like,' it's your way of saying that this idea is now part of your way of thinking. And if tomorrow you tell someone that solidarity is not empathy but action, you can note it down on Lara Notes: Shared Offline is your way of saying that that conversation really mattered. This was from New Statesman, and you saved over five minutes compared to reading the original article.