Did you hope that readers would empathize? Inhabit a refugee’s skin for a few hours? As if that were some kind of panacea. You still hoped even though it had never happened. At best, you would have written a novel that was an emotional palliative for some couple in suburbia. For a few moments they’d think how terrible it was for these refugees. They’d get outraged on social media for ten minutes. But then they’d pour another glass of chardonnay. Empathy is overrated.
