He’s a dad. He’s carrying his kids to safety. And he’s crying. It isn’t hard to work out why Laith Majid, the Syrian who was photographed by Daniel Etter as he arrived by boat to Greece this week, has struck a chord with so many people.

In the media debate about the biggest wave of mass-migration since the second world war, most of the protagonists have been dehumanised. At best they are merely numbers. At worst we call them marauders, swarms and cockroaches.

But Majid is a rare counterpoint. He’s someone whose humanity at last forces one to briefly admit that many of these migrants are people not so different from “us”. And that’s partly what makes his picture so heartbreaking.

As the Guardian’s migration correspondent, it has been my job to report on this crisis in most of its forms – on the shores of Libya, Egypt, Greece and Italy; in the plains of Serbia, Hungary, and Macedonia; and now in the sands of the Sahara, where I write. One of the saddest things about this image of Majid is that it’s not in any way unique, even though it is being treated as such.

You can find similar devotion among thousands of men and women trying to reach Europe. The 36-year-old Syrian interior designer I walked with over the Macedonian border was not travelling alone. In his arms, he carried little Hammouda, a one-year-old boy who’s only ever known war or the desperation of fleeing it. This man and most other refugees are not photographed crying as they reach Europe – but many of them are parents going through the same trauma as Majid. And they are largely being ignored.

Perhaps the most depressing aspect to this image is that it won’t change anything

The second thing that struck me while looking at Majid’s picture was how unremarkable this moment will be in the context of his journey as a whole. Captured in a photograph, this scene might seem the climax of an odyssey. But really it’s just the latest of so many hardships that will continue until Majid gains asylum in northern Europe, assuming he ever gets there.

First he would have had to escape the clutches of Islamic State in Deir Ezzor. Then there is the trek through the badlands of northern Syria, and the death-trap just before the Turkish border. This trip across the Aegean Sea will be followed by limbo on the Greek islands, while he waits for permission to reach the Greek mainland. Then there is the march through the Balkans, the likelihood of being stopped on the now-closed Macedonian border, or being mugged by bandits in Serbia, or arrested at Hungary’s new border fence. So many things could still go wrong.

Earlier this summer, I watched dozens of Afghans and Syrians land on the shores of Lesbos, another Greek island. I had expected it to feel like a watershed for these travellers, the moment they reached the safety of the European Union. Instead, most of them didn’t even stop, aside from one or two who took selfies. But the majority simply threw away their lifejackets, scrambled up some scree – and then started walking the 40 miles to the island’s capital. Reaching Greece is not quite a footnote in their quest. But it isn’t the panacea Majid’s photograph might suggest.

Perhaps the most depressing aspect to this image is that it won’t change anything. Some see the picture as a game-changer – something that can help alter the toxic debate about migration. I’m not so sure. It has obviously affected a lot of people who perhaps did not expect to be so moved. But for every one of them, there are still many others who do not care.

Earlier this summer, we covered the story of Hashem Alsouki, who risked death in the Mediterranean to try to build a future for his children. Many readers were moved by his plight. But others described him as a criminal.

Tugging on heart-strings only gets you so far. At a certain point, perhaps, one simply has to talk in more practical terms. You may not be moved. You may not want migrants in your country. You may think the problem will disappear if a few fences are erected here and there.

But the hard reality is that it won’t. People like Majid will still come in their thousands. Their passage cannot be avoided; it can only be better managed. And the logic of this argument stands, with or without a photograph.