Gangsters Have Emotions Too

If you saw him on the street, you would have crossed to the other side. He was big, heavily tattooed, and carried a reputation that filled the room before he spoke. A gang member. A survivor of violence. Someone people labeled as dangerous and unreachable. I was warned to keep things professional, controlled, and distant through other staff. But distance wasn’t what he needed.

From the beginning, he sat guarded—arms crossed, eyes alert, words sharp and measured. His toughness wasn’t arrogance; it was armour. In his world, emotions were liabilities. Vulnerability invited harm. Anger was safer than fear, and silence was protection.

What many people don’t understand is that this kind of hardness is learned. When chaos is normal, emotional numbness becomes survival. He didn’t choose this life because he lacked feelings—he chose it because he had too many and nowhere safe to put them. Instead of pushing or judging, I chose compassion.

I listened. I didn’t flinch at his past or rush to correct his anger. I stayed steady when he tested boundaries, waiting for rejection or condemnation. Compassion isn’t weakness—it’s consistency. Over time, his posture softened, his voice slowed, and stories began to surface: loyalty turned into betrayal, childhood stolen by violence, pain disguised as pride.

The shift didn’t come from a dramatic confrontation. It came from a quiet question about loss—about who he missed. He froze. The room went silent as years of suppressed grief surfaced. His breathing changed. His eyes dropped. Then the breakdown came—not loud or explosive, but raw and human. The man who had survived fights and prison couldn’t outrun his grief anymore. He cried like someone who had never been allowed to feel safe enough to fall apart.

In that moment, the tattoos and reputation disappeared. What remained was a wounded human being who had never been given permission to be vulnerable. That was the beginning of healing.

Compassion didn’t excuse his past or erase responsibility. But it created space for accountability without shame. It allowed him to face himself without being crushed by self-hatred. Healing doesn’t start with punishment—it starts with being seen. This experience changed the way I view people labeled as “gangsters” or “criminals.” Many aren’t emotionless or cruel. They are people who learned early that feeling was dangerous and survival came first.

Gangsters have emotions. They’ve just been taught to bury them deep. Transformation doesn’t come from dehumanizing people. It comes from recognizing their humanity and addressing the pain beneath the behaviour. Sometimes, the toughest people aren’t heartless—they’re hurting. And sometimes, healing begins when someone chooses compassion over fear.