Our neighbourhood in the western suburbs of Hamburg was built during the Nazi era. Short, uniform red-brick buildings, covered in lush ivy, stand in neat rows perpendicular to a quiet leafy street. My girlfriend and I, from Scotland and Ireland respectively, love it here. The neighbours are largely foreigners too and there is a great sense of community.

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One unusual feature of our street is the basement complex that connects the buildings. During the war, this labyrinth of tunnels was used for air raids. Blast-proof metal doors are still in place and have to be opened with huge levers, like on a ship.

Hamburg is a tolerant, cosmopolitan city. It has been relatively welcoming to refugees (compared to some other German cities). The biggest humanitarian crisis to hit Europe since the war is happening, and everyone here is acutely aware of it. At Hamburg’s main train station, hundreds of migrants arrive every day, and can be seen standing around in groups, looking confused and not knowing where to go next. In response citizens are mobilising to provide support. Container-style villages have been popping up in some of the nicest neighbourhoods, to provide emergency housing for the sudden influx of people. As a freelance consultant, I visit many clients’ offices and in each I see a corner with donations piled high to send to the refugee centres.

Last Thursday morning I had an earlier than usual start. Dragging myself out of bed at 6am for an important meeting on the other side of the city, the refugee crisis was the last thing on my mind. Dressed and ready, I went to the cellar to fetch my bike. I was just about to pull it out of the storage room when there was a movement at the edge of my line of vision. I nearly hit my head on the low ceiling in fright, as there was a woman, scrambling to pick up her clothes from the floor.

I don’t believe people in Britain have yet grasped the scale of the migrant crisis

She was Middle Eastern and seemed to be saying sorry in English as she hurriedly packed her things into a bag. In that moment I didn’t know what to do as she seemed so frightened; I had just had a fright too. I held out the palms of my hands and said: “It’s OK, don’t worry.” She looked at me with suspicion and I tried my best at a calm, reassuring smile. She continued packing and I took my bike outside.

As I cycled to my meeting, the shock faded and quickly turned to concern. I stopped and called my girlfriend, waking her up, and asked her to go into the basement and see if the woman needed anything. She did so but it was too late – the woman had already left.

After the meeting, I was troubled and felt I should share what had happened with my friends and family, most of whom are scattered around the world, on Facebook. I posted: “Went down to the basement at 6:30 this morning to get my bike and got a shock when I found a woman sleeping down there. This is the refugee crisis in Germany hitting home! I wouldn’t suppose any of my British or Irish friends have any idea what I’m on about.”

Facebook Twitter Pinterest ‘I searched the basement complex, every nook and cranny, every vacant space, for her or others but there was no sign.’ Photograph: Bernie Duffy

Perhaps it was my snarky tone that inadvertently incited an argument. Germany, after all, is taking the majority of refugees, with nearly 800,000 expected this year alone. But the responses to my status update were far beyond anything I anticipated. I had obviously touched a nerve.

I was actually dumbfounded by the comments. These were people I thought I knew well who were now judging me in this critical moment. “We should look after our own first, send them back!” was a common theme. “I suppose the good Samaritan came along later,” was another more sarcastic sentiment. I was caught between two conflicting moral responses and there was no winning.

Although I regretted not helping her, I argued that it would be problematic to ask the woman to explain herself at 6.30am to a strange man while half-dressed and startled awake. A cup of coffee does not solve anything when you’re sleeping rough. I know this because I’ve been there, 20 years ago in the UK. When you’ve spent a night on the hard ground, a cup of anything is a shallow gesture: a toilet, a shower, a washing machine and dryer, and a clean towel are your real needs. You want your dignity, not sympathy.

As the anger towards me, and my defensiveness, dissipated, I noticed a pattern in the reactions. The more well-off of my critics were the most sanctimonious, savagely critical of me not doing enough. The more hard-working of the respondents were the less tolerant, and more likely to blame Germany, or me, for being too sympathetic or even causing the problem in the first place.

I support the housing and protection of refugees, but I am now aware that I must do more personally

I became profoundly involved with the response, so much so that I could not sleep the following night. I searched the basement complex, every nook and cranny, every vacant space, for her or others but there was no sign. It was as if she was a ghost. A 30-second encounter had turned my day, my week, upside down.

I searched deep within myself too, that night. I’m not a man without compassion; we all have compassion to varying degrees, it’s human. But how did I miss this opportunity to be the hero? Should I not have swept her up in her moment of despair, fed her, clothed her, found her a place to live, traced her family and sorted them out too, and maybe even found her a job while I was at it? Well, no, it’s not my responsibility. She was sleeping in the basement, not drowning at sea and I was not standing on the beach watching, although some reacted as if I were. I don’t know this person, but I know there is still space at the refugee centres here.

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The more oblique argument is that the problem is not for our authorities at all, at our expense, but for the authorities of another country, whoever “us” and “them” might be. It’s a whole other way of deferring responsibility and was the sentiment at the root of my more indignant critics. I don’t believe people in Britain have yet grasped the scale of the migrant crisis. They are only receiving a small fraction of the number of people that are arriving in Germany, and yet the panic is inflated in the UK press as if Barbarians were at the gates.

But when it’s on your doorstep, it’s not political any more, it’s personal.

Of course I empathise with migrants. I’ve spent the majority of my life as one, but it doesn’t mean I’m ready for their problems when I’m confronted with them. I support the housing and protection of refugees, but I am now aware that I must do more personally. The minimum I – or anyone –can do is to be prepared to help a poor traveller.

That is why I am putting together an emergency kit for the next time this happens – complete with a towel, toiletries, rain poncho, bottled water, new socks, 20 euros and flyers with directions to help centres. I will speak to my neighbours and encourage them to prepare likewise.

I’ll also be leaving the basement unlocked, for the time being.