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empathy
Americans Shouldn't Take Democracy for Granted—It Erodes Faster than We Think
There is cause for serious concern about the future of US democracy, as exclusionary rhetoric and practices contribute to political instability.
Apr 27, 2026
It takes decades to build institutions and the norms and values that keep them working, but far less time to destroy them.
Less than two years into the second Trump administration, the United States finds itself in an undeclared war with Iran, while at home, efforts to undermine institutions like the Justice Department and the legitimacy of elections continue to grow, alongside the threat of Christian nationalism, an ideology that weakens democracy by narrowing the definition of who belongs. At the same time, immigration enforcement has been at the forefront of normalizing the repressive use of state power, with two US citizens killed by Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers and deaths in ICE custody reaching their highest levels in two decades. There is cause for serious concern about the future of US democracy, as exclusionary rhetoric and practices contribute to political instability.
I grew up in a politically unstable system. In just a few years at the end of the 1990s, Ecuador went through five presidents, a civilian-military uprising, a banking collapse, rising inflation, and widespread social unrest. When I first came to the United States as an exchange student, I didn’t understand the importance of “institutional legitimacy,” the idea that an institution is rightful, appropriate, and deserving of trust or respect. In my home country, no such legitimacy existed—and the consequences were dire.
Now, I see Americans’ confidence in institutions—particularly those meant to protect the public and uphold justice, such as the Justice Department and the police—being weakened in real time. At the same time, President Donald Trump continues to delegitimize the entire US electoral system by promoting his (baseless) claim that the 2020 election was stolen. Because of this misinformation, the majority of Republicans believe this to be the case (62%), compared with 31% of all Americans, according to a survey by the Public Religion Research Institute (PRRI), where I am the director of research.
As we move through this election season and approach the nation’s 250th anniversary, it is worth reflecting on how diversity, trust, tolerance, respect, honesty, and empathy are hallmarks of the American democratic ideal.
It is deeply troubling to see continued messaging from the president that risks undermining confidence in the integrity of midterm elections, instilling widespread fear around voting, and advancing immigration rhetoric and policies that demonize vulnerable minorities and limit their rights. Freedom House, an organization that monitors democracy levels worldwide, reports that over the past decade, US democracy has declined from 92 (out of 100) to 81 in 2025, reflecting a gradual erosion in key democratic indicators, particularly in the protection of minority rights.
Despite recent changes in the Department of Homeland Security’s leadership, the Trump administration has continued to pursue its aggressive immigration agenda, conflating undocumented immigrants with violent criminal convictions, and, most recently, with Trump’s push for the Supreme Court to uphold his executive order ending birthright citizenship.
Diversity strengthens democracies by bringing different perspectives to decision-making. It also cultivates empathy by exposing individuals to experiences beyond their own and encouraging tolerance and mutual respect. By contrast, autocracies favor conformity, distrust, the concentration of power, intimidation of critics, and targeting of minorities, like immigrants.
Most, but not all, Americans disagree with the Trump administration’s divisive, dehumanizing policies. PRRI’s recent survey shows solid majorities of Republicans (61%) and Christian nationalism adherents (57%) favor “allowing ICE officers to arrest and relocate undocumented immigrants to detention centers in states far from their home without allowing them to challenge their detainment in court.” They also favor “allowing ICE officers to regularly conduct surveillance and arrests at sensitive locations like schools, hospitals, places of worship, and social service locations” (54% and 53%), suggesting a willingness among these groups to expand state power at the expense of due process and civil liberties.
In addition, a growing movement is challenging traditional understandings of empathy. Data from PRRI finds that while most Americans agree more with the idea that “empathy is a moral value that is the foundation of a healthy society” (80%) than that it is “a dangerous emotion that undermines our ability to set up a society that is guided by God’s truth (16%),” a quarter of Republicans (25%) and nearly 4 in 10 Christian nationalism adherents (37%) agree that empathy is dangerous.
I find myself asking: At what point did we lose sight of the democratic principles we used to uphold? What happened to our commitment to human rights, the fight against corruption, limits on the unchecked use of power, and, simply put, the truth? When did we stop caring about other human beings?
As we move through this election season and approach the nation’s 250th anniversary, it is worth reflecting on how diversity, trust, tolerance, respect, honesty, and empathy are hallmarks of the American democratic ideal. What is happening across the country and abroad should serve as a wake-up call about our commitment to democratic institutions and values, compelling us to come together to repair the damage.
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The 'Empathy Deficit' of the Powerful
What is commonly thought of as power—power over others, aka, dominance—isn’t power at all. It’s an illusion of power that weakens, and perhaps destroys, those who hold it.
Apr 26, 2026
I’m trying to return to the book I started writing a decade ago, and doing so has pulled my awareness of and relationship to the events of 2026 into the larger consciousness the book is struggling to address: What is power?
Can we broaden and expand this word? Can we merge it with collective awareness—you know, the idea of working together? Can we expand our awareness beyond the sense of dominance: power with, rather than power over? Yes, power with, in the “love thy enemy” sense, but without the cynicism and ignorance that usually accompany the word “love."
When we think of power, as I discuss in the book, the word itself commands that we carve the concept into something isolated and wieldable: a sword, a gun, a scepter. Power means power over. There is no basic concept of power—seemingly no word for power in the English language—that also means collaboration, collective participation: people working together, individually empowered at the same time that the larger whole is empowered.
Even when we examine the dark side of power—as in, power corrupts—the examination seems to hover as a warning rather than open up to larger awareness. Consider, for instance, this 2017 article in The Atlantic by Jerry Useem, titled (fasten your seatbelts!) “Power Causes Brain Damage,” which discusses a concept he calls “hubris syndrome.” The essential point the article makes is that people who gain a significant amount of power over others lose the ability to empathize with—or mime, as the article puts it—people in general, the lesser mortals who must follow the boss’ orders. Why am I suddenly thinking of Donald Trump, the world’s “Power Jesus”?
Let’s break the automatic linguistic link right now between power and dominance. True power enlarges the whole; it doesn’t isolate.
This inability to express or feel empathy, it turns out, is serious. It isolates the powerful into their own stereotypes and egotistical certainties, which lessens their ability to make good, or even rational, decisions. (Right, Donald?). And hubris syndrome isn’t merely psychological; it’s also physiological.
Citing neuroscience research, Useem writes:
And when he put the heads of the powerful and the not-so-powerful under a transcranial-magnetic-stimulation machine, he found that power, in fact, impairs a specific neural process, ‘mirroring,’ that may be a cornerstone of empathy. Which gives a neurological basis to what (psychologist Dacher) Keltner has termed the ‘power paradox’: Once we have power, we lose some of the capacities we needed to gain it in the first place.
Useem quotes authors David Owen and Jonathan Davidson, who define hubris syndrome as “a disorder of the possession of power, particularly power which has been associated with overwhelming success, held for a period of years and with minimal constraint on the leader.” Its 14 clinical features, he adds, include: “manifest contempt for others, loss of contact with reality, restless or reckless actions, and displays of incompetence.”
The idea is that we’re naturally connected and subconsciously “mimic” others: We laugh when others laugh, tense up when others grow tense. It’s not faking an emotion to fit in; it’s participating in, feeling, the collective emotion that fills the room. “It helps trigger the same feelings those others are experiencing and provides a window into where they are coming from,” Useem writes. But: Powerful people “stop simulating the experience of others,” leading to what the psychologist calls an “empathy deficit,” which saps the powerful of most, or maybe all, of their social skill, leaving them, even as they generate endless obeisance, socially isolated souls.
The conclusion to be drawn here is that what is commonly thought of as power—power over others, aka, dominance—isn’t power at all. It’s an illusion of power that weakens, and perhaps destroys, those who hold it. Consider the rise and fall of dictators, the toppling of empires, the comeuppance of kings and queens. Let them eat cake.
The article does an excellent job pointing all this out, but at a certain point it falls into a linguistic trap. Useem writes despairingly: “This is a depressing finding. Knowledge is supposed to be power. But what good is knowing that power deprives you of knowledge?”
My answer is this: Knowledge in all its basic innocence is, indeed, power, but rarely is this “power over” someone. Knowledge of how to walk, how to read... this is a child claiming her life. And the entire family is empowered. As the child learns how to function independently, Mom and Dad learn how to parent. Yes, knowledge—power—can be used to further the interests of our darkest impulses. We can use what we learn to blackmail, extort, cheat, bully, win, etc., etc. But let’s break the automatic linguistic link right now between power and dominance. True power enlarges the whole; it doesn’t isolate. As the child learns to function, the family grows.
Yes, the power of self-defense is sometimes necessary, at the individual and, yes, the national level. And power can enable us to win, whether a game or a fight. Hurray! But the point my unfinished book is trying to make is that such power exists in a larger context, just as we exist in a larger context—and this context is ever opening and expanding before us. The US relationship to the rest of the world is larger than Donald Trump’s, or any president’s, ego. It’s larger than our military.
Rather, every last one of us, from newborns to geezers, is a participant in creating who we are, and who we are becoming. Perhaps no one says it better than Pierre Teilhard de Chardin: “Driven by the forces of love, the fragments of the world seek each other so that the world may come into being."
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Time to Grow Out of 'Playing' War
By saying the quiet part out loud, Trump is revealing that war is based on the least of who we are, the least mature aspect of human nature.
Mar 14, 2026
Boys will be boys. Just ask the president.
At a gathering of Republicans a few days ago, Donald Trump talked nonchalantly about the recent sinking of an apparently unarmed Iranian frigate by the US Navy—in the Indian Ocean, more than 2,000 miles from the Persian Gulf. A total of 104 crew members were killed and 32 more were injured.
The president proceeded to make this more than merely another brutal, pointless act of war. He turned it into a glaring—shocking—revelation of truth... about the American-Israeli war on Iran and, quite possibly about all wars: about war itself. He was upset at first, he told the crowd, that the Navy sank the frigate rather than capturing it. But when he expressed this to the military officials, one of them responded, “It’s more fun to sink them.”
And the crowd laughed. Uh... are we “playing” war or waging it, with that trillion-dollar annual military budget America has? No doubt we’re doing both, but normally the “fun” part of war—the dehumanization of the enemy, the abstraction of people’s deaths (including those of children)—is airbrushed from public discussion by politically correct strategic and political blather. But this is Trump, spouting the quiet part out loud—in the process, causing the global infrastructure of nation-states, borders, and militarism to tremble. Could it be that war is based on the least of who we are, the least mature aspect of human nature?
A “global structure of nonviolence” is emerging—pushing, pushing against the deeply embedded infrastructure of war and us-vs.-them consciousness.
In contrast, I quote from a recent essay written by my friend Laura Hassler, founder and director of Musicians Without Borders:
Well, guess what. There are other forces alive in today’s world. Decades of resistance to domination and colonialism, the learnings of movements across the Global South, the freedom that Western hegemony for a few decades inadvertently released on its majority population, and access through social media to some of the reality of the actual horrors perpetrated in our names have together led to a worldwide awakening to fundamental injustices, and a worldwide longing for a livable, connected, survivable future.
She calls this worldwide awakening “Radical Empathy,” a term in widespread use, which means a deeply rooted sense of connection among people, well beyond merely sympathy and shared feelings. We are one planet, one people, and we will survive together or not at all.
“Radical Empathy must be fierce, stubborn, creative, persistent,” she continues. “We must hold on to each other, build community, be willing to take risks and accept consequences. Seek alternatives. Stand in solidarity with all who resist oppression and the violence of power and greed...
“And we artists must nurture artistic bravery, using the power of the arts to tell truth, to build community, to turn our capacity for radical empathy into a force for good.”
In other words, Radical Empathy isn’t simply emotional. You can say it’s spiritual, but it’s also political. It’s a movement: ever changing, ever manifesting in the moment, ever addressing conflict by reaching for connection and understanding. Yes, global nationalism still maintains the power to wage war. And war is everywhere these days. As Jeffrey Sachs noted in a recent interview, “World War III is here...” from Ukraine and Gaza and Iran to Asia to the Western Hemisphere. And the fighting across the world is linked.
But at the same time the world is changing. A “global structure of nonviolence” is emerging—pushing, pushing against the deeply embedded infrastructure of war and us-vs.-them consciousness. Finding understanding with your enemy—connecting with “the other”—can be incredibly difficult, especially in the midst of conflict, but Radical Empathy is making it a reality across the planet.
Laura Hassler’s organization, Musicians Without Borders, exemplifies this movement. The organization was founded in 1999, in Alkamaar, a city in the Netherlands. Laura, who was a choir director and organized music events, had put together a concert for the town’s annual honoring of the dead of World War II.
But as I wrote in a column several years ago:
The bloody war in Kosovo was then raging: Thousands had died; nearly a million refugees were streaming across Europe. Its horror dominated the daily news, and Laura couldn’t ignore it. She couldn’t simply focus on the war dead of half a century ago, not when the hell of war was alive in the present moment, pulling at her soul.
She decided, "We’ll perform music from the people suffering from war now—folk songs from Eastern Europe," she told me. Her impulse was to reach out, to connect, somehow, with those suffering right now, on the other side of Europe. And something happened the night of the concert. When it ended, there was a moment of profound silence... and then, as the audience stood, applause so thunderous that the rafters shook. It went on for 20 minutes.
One of the musicians, a political refugee from Turkey, said to her afterwards: "This concert was special. We should put it on a train, send it to Kosovo and stop the war!”
And they went to Kosovo. Gradually, Musicians Without Borders became global, working with local people in war-torn regions all over the world—people on both sides of the divide—to create music that transcends the war of the moment. The organization currently has long-term projects in the Balkans, West Asia, Eastern Africa, and Europe.
This is Radical Empathy, or at least one example of it—our complex force of hope even as the world’s leaders continue bleeding away the planet’s resources in order to play war. Radical Empathy transcends war. It’s who we are—when we find ourselves.
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When the Cruelty Is the Point, What Is Left? Radical Empathy
Radical Empathy must be fierce, stubborn, creative, persistent. We must hold on to each other, build community, be willing to take risks and accept consequences. Seek alternatives.
Mar 08, 2026
We always knew that humans could be monsters. We knew about Nazi Germany. We knew about the European slave trade, and about Jim Crow and its ritual lynchings. We knew about Europe’s genocide of Indigenous peoples in the Americas, and about the cruelty of European colonialism in Africa, Asia, and across the world. We knew about the genocidal wars in Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan.
But we also knew about the other end of the spectrum: the people in Europe who hid escaping Jews in their attics. The abolitionists, the Underground Railroad. The nonviolent movement in India that freed millions from British colonization. The pacifists who went to prison in refusal to kill. The Suffragettes; the labor movement; the civil rights movement; South Africa’s anti-apartheid movement; the liberation movements in South America, Africa, and Asia; the Western anti-war movements that finally brought the horrific US-sponsored wars in Southeast Asia to an end.
Somehow, we (or perhaps I should just say I) saw these opposing forces as continuous struggles, continuous choices, continuous needs to resist, build alternatives, create community, connect. A flux with, more or less, equal chances of success if we just kept going. Somehow, we also held a common belief, especially following the traumas of World War II, that there were universal human values, that we as ‘humanity’ could name them and subscribe to them, and that they could protect us from the evils that haunted our world. This seemed to give us space to act for the good, the just, the value of the universality of human rights.
Today, I’m not so sure of that.
There is no time to waste, no neutral space "in the middle." Clearly, in our own innocence, we have not taken seriously enough the depraved power of greed and cruelty, nor understood how far evil has reached. They have grabbed it all… almost.
Like so many others, I am unable to ignore the news about the latest horrific war, launched by the US and Israel against Iran, also unable to ignore the Epstein files and the revelations of the systemic corruption, the evil—no other word for it—that is built into the structures of power that rule not only the US, but the entire "Western" world and all that it dominates, while pretending to represent "democracy" and "human rights."
And the direct connection of these forces to the most evil, or at least the most visibly evil, disaster of our current period: the ongoing genocide in Gaza. And the connection of that genocide with the global arms trade, the US-UK-EU-Israel weapons and surveillance deals. The establishment of concentration camps in Albania for refugees seeking safety in Europe, the cyber-technology that identifies desperate people at the EU border in Eastern Europe by the warmth of their bodies, and sics Frontex attack dogs on them.
"The cruelty is the point." I’ve read this so many times about Israel’s policies and practices toward Palestinians, so extreme in Gaza, only slightly less so in the West Bank and Jerusalem. Children shot in the head, chest, genitals—target practice for Israel Defense Forces soldiers. TikTok videos making fun of Palestinian mothers grieving for their murdered babies. Israeli soldiers blowing up hospitals, universities, schools, refugee camps, and then sharing this online as if they are party jokes. Even a so-called "humanitarian aid program," luring starving people with food, and then shooting them as they desperately scrounge for a pack of flour or rice.
"The cruelty is the point."
And now the back story is revealed: Epstein’s circle of powerful white men, linked to child trafficking, rape, torture of the most defenseless, the most innocent, the least resilient. Meanwhile, these men run the most powerful countries in the world, lead the international banking establishment, steal resources from the citizenry, protect each other, trade off deals, influence, and wealth: "the Epstein class," as it is now being called. Within this cabal of evildoers are the so-called "trans-humanists," wishing to leverage their power to give themselves eternal life—while meanwhile calling for the killing of "all the poor people."
Look at them.
Blank, empty eyes. Stiff bodies. Angry faces. Immature, not as innocent children, but as confused, grown-up boys who never learned the most important lessons, who think they’re powerful because they have a lot of money. People who have understood nothing of the essence of life, people who have probably never held a baby in their arms, never grown a garden or helped a neighbor, never walked through a forest in wonder. Rich kids with simple, underdeveloped spirits, lured by superficial values and massive monetary wealth, now imagining their own eternal longevity. Men coming from loveless backgrounds, who, in our societies dominated by competition, individualism, and greed, have come to own the Earth’s resources and rule our world. (Mostly white) men, compensating for their own moral voids with fantasies of unlimited power, fueled by cruelty.
It is easy to trace the origins of this evil: oppressive medieval Christianity, white European supremacy, patriarchy built on the violent domination of women, greed and vacuous cruelty. Domination through violence and fear of violence.
The cruelty is the point.
Well, guess what. There are other forces alive in today’s world. Decades of resistance to domination and colonialism, the learnings of movements across the Global South, the freedom that Western hegemony for a few decades inadvertently released on its majority population, and access through social media to some of the reality of the actual horrors perpetrated in our names have together led to a worldwide awakening to fundamental injustices, and a worldwide longing for a livable, connected, survivable future.
How to capture this reality, how to describe the alternative to the evil cruelty that so dominates the stories of our time?
Let’s consider the idea of Radical Empathy, which, I believe, is our only hope.
What is Radical Empathy? We know these two words but, together, what do they mean?
Empathy is the ability to feel what the other feels, not the "sympathy" of feeling sorry for someone, but the ability to identify with the feelings of the other, to engage with those feelings as one’s own. To connect with other people, with other living beings, to connect with the planet and all life on it. Perhaps we can describe empathy as a mix of compassion, identification, and solidarity.
And radical means going to the roots, going all the way to the source. Radical has often been interpreted simply as extreme, but that does not do the concept justice. Radical means rooted, grounded, solid, strong.
Combine these two, and see here a powerful concept to help us resist the cruelty and evil now dominating our airwaves, threatening the future of all human and other life on our beautiful planet, threatening the planet itself.
Radical Empathy must be fierce, stubborn, creative, persistent. We must hold on to each other, build community, be willing to take risks and accept consequences. Seek alternatives. Stand in solidarity with all who resist oppression and the violence of power and greed.
We must hold and nurture our sense of humor: not joke telling, but the ability to see oneself in perspective, gently; the ability to use our creativity and the power of the unexpected to flip the story, turn reality around and move it in another direction. We must have the courage to stand up to unjust power, take the risks, and accept the consequences.
And we artists must nurture artistic bravery, using the power of the arts to tell truth, to build community, to turn our capacity for Radical Empathy into a force for good.
There is no time to waste, no neutral space "in the middle." Clearly, in our own innocence, we have not taken seriously enough the depraved power of greed and cruelty, nor understood how far evil has reached. They have grabbed it all… almost.
What they do not yet control: our spirits, our creativity, our ability to defy cruelty, to invent and reinvent Radical Empathy. And, thank you life, they do not control the youth of our world, who increasingly stand bravely against the organized cruelty of today’s powerful.
There is no guarantee that Radical Empathy will prevail, that the powers of connection, compassion, and love will be able to carry us to a place of repair, redress, reconnection, rebuilding, for all who have suffered from the unlimited cruelty of our time. There is no guarantee that our children and our grandchildren will grow and thrive in a world of compassion and connection.
But even if we do not succeed to turn the global tide, we will still be living our best possible lives as changemakers, planting seeds of change, creating islands of survival.
I remember, reading Joanna Macy, her admonition to embrace your grief. Look straight at the horrors, acknowledge the dangers, the threats to our world, the destruction, the cruelty.
And then look beyond, choose, and move together.
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A 'Walk for Peace' by Monks vs. War Criminal Netanyahu in DC
In a single day, Washington hosts both a war criminal and monks leading a walk for peace. Which model will you choose?
Feb 11, 2026
On Wednesday, Washington, DC will witness two historic moments, both carrying the banner “peace.”
After 15 weeks, the 2,300-mile Walk for Peace, led by a group of Theravada Buddhist monks, will reach its conclusion at the National Mall. Meanwhile, just under two kilometers away at the White House, President Donald Trump will meet internationally wanted war criminal Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu to discuss the prospect of imminent military escalation in Iran and Gaza.
On Tuesday, February 10, both Netanyahu and monk and spiritual leader, Venerable Bhikkhu Panakkara, invoked peace when explaining their respective journeys to the capital. Before boarded Wing of Zion, Israel’s state aircraft, Netanyahu told press, “I will present Trump with principles for negotiations with Iran that are important not only to Israel but to everyone who wants peace and security,” adding, “In my opinion, these are important principles for everyone who wants peace and security in the Middle East.” At the same hour in Washington, Venerable Bhikkhu Panakkara addressed the thousands gathered outside the National Cathedral, offering a different vision: “We are not walking… to bring you any peace. Rather, we raise the awareness of peace so that you can unlock that box and free it, let peace bloom and flourish among all of us, throughout this nation and the world.”
Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, will gather near the Lincoln Memorial to witness and honor the end of the monks’ spiritual trek from the Huong Dao Vipassana Bhavana Center in Fort Worth, Texas. At least hundreds more, will gather to protest the arrival of Netanyahu.
For all that separates these events in character and intent, each carries a vision of humanity and America, a reflection of alternate futures for the country and the world.
The monks will walk from the Peace Monument near the Capitol down to the Memorial. It will likely be a continuation of the exchanges that have marked their journey: flowers, bows, clasped hands, and smiles. They arrive after bearing unusually cold winter months, following an ascetic tradition of eating just one meal per day and sleeping beneath trees.
Nearby, Trump and Netanyahu will be fortified away from protesters, protected by gates, barricades, drones, and agents, meeting in richly adorned rooms, exercising a power over the future of the Middle East that is both absolute and unpredictable. Netanyahu is reportedly expected to insist that to secure Phase II of the “ceasefire” Peace Plan that never was, Israel must escalate its ongoing genocidal attacks against the entirely displaced civilian population in Gaza. He is also anticipated to lobby for terms, particularly regarding ballistic missile programs, that could deliberately undermine a US-Iran deal—a predictable objective of the Israeli government.
Trump, who proclaims “peace through strength” as the White House doctrine, may be dangerously receptive to Netanyahu’s vision. Almost notoriously, he has sought to brand himself with peace—relentlessly chasing the Nobel Peace Prize, styling himself the self-proclaimed “peace president” at rallies, staging photo ops, making self-aggrandizing speeches, and founding the so-called Board of Peace, which he will soon celebrate at the newly renamed Donald Trump Institute of Peace in DC (formerly the US Institute of Peace). Peace has become a banner he claims, brands, and projects onto his political identity.
But while he may assert himself as the peace president, who has “ended eight wars,” he remains the president who in very recent months, has initiated sheer terror and chaos. He has kidnapped other Presidents, deployed the National Guard, and unleashed violent immigration agents on American cities; he has embraced systematic family separations of immigrants and migrants, celebrated patterned executions in the Caribbean, defunded healthcare and Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program benefits for millions in favor of building out a military-grade Immigration and Customs Enforcement budget and a fantasy golden dome, wields tariffs and economic coercion as erratic weapons of global power, seeks to colonize and ethnically cleanse Gaza to fulfill his son-in-laws Rivera vision, escalates regime-change operations around the globe, and more recently has manufactured a humanitarian crisis in Cuba. He is also the once-close ally, confidant, and facilitator of Jeffrey Epstein, and, like Epstein, a sexual predator.
Here, in DC today, two very different notions of peace converge.
In the White House, some of the world’s most dangerous, most criminal, and cruel men convene with the fate of millions in their hands, scheming war and exercising it through greed, supremacist ideology, and a state apparatus that shields them from accountability. Their peace is loud, flashy, and enforced. It slaps itself on trophies and buildings. It holds ceremonies of the utmost excess. It is severed from justice and empathy. It requires death. It requires war. It is ever attached to “security.”
There is also a peace carried to mark the end of a long, deliberate walk across the city. This peace, marked on a white flag, is humble and steady, disciplined and tempered—peace as practice, not strategy, not spectacle, but ethic. A testament to humanity’s highest aspirations. People from across the country join it, of every origin, faith, and language, observing in reverence and quiet joy. They honor the hope and tradition the monks have devoted themselves to, a practice rooted in mindfulness, compassion, and self-restraint. Along the way, they may hear again what Venerable Bhikkhu Panakkara has repeated throughout the journey: “Today is going to be my peaceful day.” For the last time, the monks offer those who witness the chance to share in this intentional presence.
For all that separates these events in character and intent, each carries a vision of humanity and America, a reflection of alternate futures for the country and the world. Today in the nation’s capital, history is being made—among those who claim power and peace, and those who live it.
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What's at Stake When the President Uses the R-Word
The real question is not whether Trump is allowed to use degrading language, but whether a president who does so honors the dignity of the office—or hollows it out from within.
Dec 27, 2025
When a president uses language that dehumanizes, it is not a matter of legality, it is a matter of dignity, and it signals who our society values. Every utterance from the Oval Office carries weight; it sets norms, authorizes behaviors, and communicates whose humanity is recognized and whose is diminished.
When President Donald Trump referred to Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz using the R-word, defenders rushed in with a familiar refrain: freedom of speech. He can say what he wants. He is protected. End of discussion.
But this is not a freedom-of-speech question. It is a freedom-of-dignity question.
Donald Trump is not a private citizen muttering into the void. He is the most powerful person in the world, speaking through a global amplifier backed by the authority of the presidency. The real question is not whether he is allowed to use degrading language, but whether a president who does so honors the dignity of the office—or hollows it out from within.
A president’s words do more than reveal character; they instruct the nation in who it is permitted to become.
Some defenders argue that only the N-word merits being reduced to an initial, that if Trump wants to use “retarded,” he can—and so can anyone else. They dismiss criticism as cancel culture, another example of Democrats weaponizing political correctness.
This defense is morally hollow. Saying, “Only the N-word counts” is an impoverished standard. Harmful language does not become acceptable simply because it targets a different group. The R-word is not neutral—it has been used for decades to demean, exclude, and dehumanize people with intellectual and developmental disabilities, reducing human beings to a punchline or a flaw.
This is not about partisan loyalty or performative outrage. It is about whether we believe people deserve basic dignity regardless of disability. If you had a child, a sibling, or a close friend with an intellectual or developmental disability, would you really argue that the most powerful person in the country should be excused for using a word that has long diminished their worth? Would that feel like free speech, or like indifference?
Leadership is not only about what one is legally permitted to say. It is about what one chooses to say. Leaders set norms. When they adopt language that punches down, they grant permission for others to follow. Calling that out is not political correctness; it is a minimal ethical expectation of public leadership.
BJ Stasio, a Peer Specialist 2 with the New York State Office for People With Developmental Disabilities, explains:
When national leaders use the R-word casually, it reactivates real harm for people who were once labeled, limited, and underestimated. As someone who has lived with that label—and now leads within the disability rights movement—I know firsthand what the stigma can do.
Nicole LeBlanc, a disability employment consultant and self-advocacy adviser, underscores the emotional and systemic toll:
Seeing the R-word insult return to everyday language is enraging. Many people with autism—especially those diagnosed in adulthood—carry complex trauma histories from bullying and verbal abuse. Research shows they are more likely to be bullied than the general population, leading to high rates of PTSD, anxiety, and other challenges. People with disabilities want respect, love, acceptance, and access to services that allow us to thrive, not just survive. Using hateful language fuels negative attitudes, health disparities, and higher abuse rates. Respect is not optional.
Emauni Crawley, a behavioral health coach and disability advocate, is blunt:
The manner in which Trump articulates the R-word is not a result of ignorance. It is an act of perverseness.
Dr. Gary Schaffer, professor of school psychology, mental health counselor, author, and a person with disabilities, adds historical context:
The R-word is not neutral. It is hate speech, reducing learning and behavioral differences to something laughable and diminishing a person’s value to society. When the president of the United States uses it openly, he gives a green light to discriminate, segregate, and withhold empathy—not only from people with intellectual disabilities, but from anyone with learning or behavioral differences.
This danger is not theoretical. Prior to 1975, many students with disabilities were denied access to education entirely because they were deemed incapable of learning. Language paved the way for policy. It always does.
Max Donatelli, a US Air Force Vietnam veteran, disability advocate, and parent, put it plainly:
The public disrespect shown by this president to people with intellectual and developmental disabilities is unprecedented. Our country deserves better. As a parent and advocate, we have found it challenging to rid our language of the R-word at the local, state, and national levels. We helped New York State end its use of it in the office that administers services to people with intellectual and developmental disabilities. What was once the Office for Mental Retardation and Developmental Disabilities is now the Office for People with Developmental Disabilities, thanks to significant advocacy. Our wonderful son Craig, who has Down syndrome, deserves the respect and opportunities afforded all citizens. The use of this slur is a stain on this presidency that won’t be forgotten by us.
The R-word entered medical and educational usage in the late 19th and early 20th centuries as a supposedly humane replacement for earlier slurs. By the 1960s and 1970s, it had become an everyday insult. Its harm was so widespread that it was removed from professional, legal, and clinical use, replaced by terms such as intellectual disability and developmental disability. Organizations like the Special Olympics have spent decades urging the public to abandon the word entirely.
Trump’s use of it is therefore not accidental, nostalgic, or brave. It is regressive. It communicates that labeling human beings this way is acceptable—even legitimate. Taboos are ethical boundaries. When a president violates them intentionally, the violation instructs.
Words alone are dangerous. When paired with policy, the harm compounds. Rhetoric that degrades, combined with policies that strip protections, sends a clear message about whose lives are valued and whose are negotiable. Programs like SOAR, which helped people with severe mental health challenges access Social Security benefits and provided housing, healthcare, and stability. Cutting them leaves people exposed. The erosion of special education, weakening of Americans with Disabilities Act guidance, and refusal to provide real-time American Sign Language interpretation at White House events send the same message: Accessibility is optional; inclusion is an inconvenience.
Harm becomes systemic not all at once, but sentence by sentence, joke by joke, policy memo by policy memo. The erosion of dignity rarely announces itself as violence. It begins as permission—to mock, dismiss, reduce. When that permission comes from the highest office in the land, it spreads.
This is not about fragility. It is about responsibility. A president’s words do more than reveal character; they instruct the nation in who it is permitted to become. When language degrades and protections are hollowed out, dignity ceases to be shared and becomes a privilege rationed by power.
The question is no longer whether such language is legal. It is whether we will accept a politics that treats some people’s humanity as expendable, and whether we will recognize, before it spreads further, that a nation willing to bargain away dignity at the margins will eventually find it gone at the center.
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What Christmas Once Meant—and What It Could Mean Again for a Divided America
Christmas, once a time to gather, reflect, and renew our obligations to one another, and the social rituals that once cultivated empathy and reinforced civic responsibility, have been reduced to a spectacle of distraction, dead trees, credit card receipts, and gift wrapping.
Dec 24, 2025
When we think of Christmas today, what comes first to mind? Twinkling lights along Main Street, the ceaseless hum of commerce, the relentless parade of advertisements promising joy measured in price tags. Rarely, if ever, do we pause to consider the ethical marrow beneath this season. And yet, for all its modern commercial veneer, Christmas—like the solstice festivals and civic rituals that preceded it—was once, and could be again, a moral and civic compass pointing toward generosity, compassion, and shared responsibility. Long before Christianity claimed this season as its own, human societies looked to the turning of the year and found in its darkness a lesson not only of survival but also of communal obligation, recognizing that vulnerability, scarcity, and the fragile ties that bind a community demand attention and care. In the forests of Northern Europe, the Yule log burned, a symbol of light returning to the world; in Rome, Saturnalia erupted in feasts and gift-giving, a deliberate inversion of hierarchy, reminding citizens that social cohesion required recognition of all members, even the lowliest; and in the Near East, solstice celebrations marked a liminal time when ordinary rhythms of life were suspended, and moral reflection took precedence over practical concerns.
Across cultures, these seasonal rituals share a common thread: attention to the vulnerable, cultivation of generosity, and the reinforcement of communal bonds. What united these disparate societies was the recognition that humanity flourishes not by the accumulation of wealth or the assertion of dominance, but by generosity, hospitality, and attention to the vulnerable. In these shadows of history, we find the first glimmers of civic duty: the ethical imperative to care for neighbors, to acknowledge the marginalized, to place the health of the community above the satisfaction of individual desire.
When Christianity emerged and incorporated the winter solstice into the story of the Nativity, it did more than assert doctrinal authority; it reinterpreted the old moral lessons through the lens of narrative: the story of a child born in a stable, heralded by shepherds and angels, whose birth was at once humble and cosmic, ordinary and transformative. Here was a story that celebrated vulnerability, humility, and hope, stripped of theological ornamentation, offering an ethical exemplar and telling the listener to pay attention to those on the margins, to protect the weak, to recognize that moral light can shine in the darkest of times. The ethical heartbeat of the season, however, has largely been drowned out in contemporary America. In our hyper-individualistic culture, compassion has been privatized, morality commercialized, and communal attention fractured across economic, racial, and ideological lines. Christmas, once a time to gather, reflect, and renew our obligations to one another, and the social rituals that once cultivated empathy and reinforced civic responsibility, have been reduced to a spectacle of distraction, dead trees, credit card receipts, and gift wrapping, obscuring the enduring potential for ethical reflection and civic repair.
No society is too divided, no darkness too deep, for human generosity, moral courage, and civic imagination to take root. The ethical and civic heart of Christmas, once recovered, can illuminate a path toward a more compassionate, cohesive, and just America.
To reclaim this potential, we must trace the ethical throughlines not only through Christian thought but through the shared moral heritage of the Abrahamic religions. Judaism, Christianity, and Islam converge in insisting upon care for the vulnerable, justice, and humility. In Judaism, tzedakah is not optional; it is the act of righteousness, the concrete demonstration that a society’s moral health is measured by how it treats those who have the least. In Islam, zakat functions similarly: wealth is a trust, a means to uphold social solidarity, and a moral duty to support the community’s weakest members. Christianity, through agape, extends love as an ethic: love of neighbor, love of stranger, love that is deliberate and disciplined rather than sentimental or fleeting. Across centuries and continents, these traditions converge on the principle that morality is communal, not merely personal, and a bridge emerges, demonstrating that the ethical lessons embedded in seasonal rituals are not the property of any one faith but a shared inheritance. Across other cultural and spiritual traditions as well, rituals of giving, care, and communal attention underscore the same principles. Recognition of vulnerability, cultivation of generosity, and attention to justice are civic imperatives, as resonant today as they were thousands of years ago.
The Christmas story, in this light, is as much civic as it is spiritual, emphasizing ethical action over dogma, placing the marginalized and vulnerable at the moral center. To give to the poor, to welcome the stranger, to act with humility—these are civic rituals enacted through narrative, story, and symbol. Stripped of theology, Christmas becomes a rehearsal of the social virtues that sustain society. Generosity, humility, and hospitality are not merely sentimental ideals; they are practical guides for civic life. The story of a humble birth, heralded by the lowly, reminds us that the moral and civic duties of a society are inseparable from the care of its most vulnerable members.
Practical reclamation begins with attention. Schools, community centers, and local governments can frame seasonal activities around service, reflection, and ethical engagement rather than solely entertainment. Families can teach children not only the joy of giving but the moral reasoning behind giving. Civic organizations can revive interfaith dialogues, exploring shared values rather than emphasizing doctrinal differences. Individuals, through conscious acts of care, become participants in a civic ritual that slowly restores trust, empathy, and moral imagination. Seasonal rituals thus function as rehearsals for civic life. Just as societies once lit fires to mark the solstice, today we can perform acts of ethical attention that illuminate darkness in the social fabric, reminders that light, generosity, and hope are communal achievements, not merely personal experiences.
The relevance is immediate. Economic inequality demands generosity and advocacy. Racial and religious divides demand tolerance and empathy. Political polarization demands engagement and ethical imagination. In all these realms, the principles embedded in Christmas—drawn from solstice traditions and Abrahamic moral codes—offer guidance. Ethical attention to the Other, practiced seasonally and deliberately, eventually becomes a civic habit. Healing the nation is not a single act but a series of small, cumulative practices: sharing resources, listening across differences, protecting the vulnerable, and actively participating in community life. These are the same virtues that sustained human societies through long winters and precarious times, centuries before the commercial trappings of modern holidays emerged.
The story of Christmas, then, is a story of civic possibility. It tells us that light can emerge from darkness, that generosity is stronger than greed, that community is more resilient than isolation, and that the vulnerable are essential to the moral health of society. These lessons transcend theology: they are part of humanity’s shared moral imagination. To celebrate Christmas as it was meant to be celebrated—ethically, communally, civically—is to perform an act of moral restoration. It reminds us that empathy, tolerance, and civic duty are not abstract ideals but practical obligations. In a nation so rent by difference, these seasonal rituals offer a roadmap for ethical engagement, one small act at a time. Though Christmas is the lens here, its lessons—the renewal of communal bonds, the practice of generosity, the cultivation of empathy—are universal, inviting all communities to participate in the ethical work of society.
No society is too divided, no darkness too deep, for human generosity, moral courage, and civic imagination to take root. The ethical and civic heart of Christmas, once recovered, can illuminate a path toward a more compassionate, cohesive, and just America. Each act of care and attention reveals the enduring power of shared moral practice and the pulse of civic life, offering the promise that, even in our most fractured moments, the light of ethical and civic consciousness can return, as reliably as the turning of the year itself.
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The Dark Side of Gratitude: When Thankfulness Becomes a Tool of Control
Gratitude is celebrated as a virtue, but coerced thankfulness can reinforce inequality, stifle emotions, and keep us complacent.
Nov 27, 2025
We live in a world that constantly tells us to “count our blessings.” Gratitude is praised as a moral virtue, a mental tonic, a gateway to happiness. Entire industries are built on it: journals, apps, workshops, and social media trends. But what if gratitude isn’t a virtue at all? What if, instead of elevating us, it functions as a quiet mechanism that traps, silences, and pacifies us?
At first glance, gratitude seems harmless—even virtuous. A simple “thank you” can smooth social interactions, remind us of the positive, and cultivate humility. Yet much of our gratitude is coerced, performative, or socially demanded. We are expected to be thankful, whether or not we genuinely feel it. Miss the cue, fail to smile, or silently resent the “blessing” offered, and we are framed as ungrateful, even morally deficient. Gratitude often functions less as a choice and more as a social leash, compelling people to perform virtue on cue.
Take the workplace, for example. Employees are often reminded to “be grateful for having a job” when faced with low pay, long hours, or toxic conditions. The intention may be to inspire appreciation, but the ultimate effect is control—gratitude becomes a tool for compliance. By teaching people to “be grateful” for injustice or minimal provision, society trains obedience under the guise of virtue. It pacifies dissatisfaction by framing fundamental rights and fair treatment as privileges rather than entitlements. In such cases, thankfulness isn’t just a moral exercise—it’s a mechanism to normalize inequity.
Gratitude can act as emotional camouflage. We are taught to appreciate our lives, our health, our families, sometimes even our misfortunes. Perspective is valuable, but the relentless pressure to be thankful can suppress genuine emotions. Anger, grief, frustration—signals that something is wrong—are nudged aside. We are told to “look on the bright side,” even when the side that demands closer scrutiny is dark. Gratitude, in this sense, becomes a velvet handcuff: soft, polite, yet restraining real feelings and masking problems we need to confront. The human psyche thrives on complexity, but “gratitude culture” encourages simplification: Everything must be filtered through a lens of thankfulness.
The braver, wiser act is to stop counting blessings on command, to resist the soft tyranny of enforced gratitude, and to reclaim our right to anger, dissatisfaction, and honesty.
Gratitude also carries a heavy psychological burden. Feeling obligated to reciprocate kindness or opportunity breeds stress and anxiety. Recognizing genuine generosity is one thing; living under a constant sense of debt—to friends, family, employers, or society—is another. Those with fewer resources bear this pressure more heavily: Expectations of gratitude are imposed when there is little power to refuse or negotiate social norms. For some, gratitude becomes an unspoken debt that never expires, a pressure cooker of stress and resentment. In these cases, it is not liberating, but a subtle form of coercion.
We are also encouraged to turn gratitude inward as a self-help tool: “Practice daily gratitude, and you will be happier.” While brief reflections on what we value can improve mood, this framing risks individualizing systemic problems. Feeling unhappy? Focus on what you do have. Struggling with debt, illness, or social injustice? Count your blessings. Gratitude thus becomes a psychological Band-Aid, a quiet insistence that the problem lies not in circumstances or structures but in our own perception. It is both a pacifier and a distraction from meaningful action.
It’s worth noting that gratitude, in its purest, voluntary form, is not inherently bad. Genuine, spontaneous thankfulness can deepen relationships, foster empathy, and anchor us in meaningful moments. The problem arises when gratitude is demanded, packaged, or weaponized—when it is less a personal reflection and more a social or institutional expectation. That is when it stops being a virtue and becomes a subtle tool of emotional and psychological manipulation.
Consider the social media dimension. We post “thankful” photos, recount the blessings of our lives, and share curated moments of appreciation. These public expressions rarely arise from raw emotion—they are curated for approval, likes, and social validation. Such displays may appear harmless, even charming, but they reinforce the notion that gratitude is an obligation rather than an organic experience.
Even in intimate settings, gratitude can carry hidden pressures. Being thankful to a loved one can generate unspoken debts or expectations: a favor must be repaid, a kindness acknowledged, a gesture reciprocated. This is not always harmful, but it becomes so when gratitude is demanded or used as leverage. In this sense, gratitude is not purely virtuous; it is a social contract with emotional consequences.
Step back, and a pattern emerges: Gratitude is often less about authentic appreciation and more about maintaining social harmony, suppressing discontent, and normalizing inequality. It is a quietly coercive force. And yet, we are rarely taught to question it. We are trained to assume that gratitude is inherently virtuous, morally neutral, or personally beneficial. What if, instead, we allowed ourselves to interrogate it—to ask whether our thankfulness is truly ours or imposed?
The real question is not whether gratitude can be good. It can. The question is whether our culture has overvalued it, weaponized it, or confused performative thankfulness with genuine reflection. By unquestioningly embracing gratitude as a moral imperative, we risk ignoring discomfort, overlooking injustice, and silencing authentic emotion. Sometimes, the bravest act is not to be thankful—to allow ourselves anger, frustration, or dissatisfaction. Sometimes the healthiest choice is to withhold thanks, at least until we genuinely feel it.
In rethinking gratitude, we are not rejecting kindness or appreciation. We are reclaiming the right to feel emotions honestly, without guilt or coercion. We are resisting the subtle pressures that tell us to be grateful for situations that do not deserve it. Authentic gratitude, like all virtues, cannot be commanded; it must emerge voluntarily, thoughtfully, and without obligation. Only then can it be meaningful.
The braver, wiser act is to stop counting blessings on command, to resist the soft tyranny of enforced gratitude, and to reclaim our right to anger, dissatisfaction, and honesty. Gratitude should serve us—not the agendas of others.
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Charlotte’s Web, Redeployed: A Children’s Tale in the Hands of Power
White’s literary legacy is rooted in empathy, care, and the affirmation of life; the bureaucratic appropriation of his title stands in stark, almost satirical contrast to the world he sought to illuminate.
Nov 19, 2025
Growing up, there were a few books that left an indelible mark on me. Charlotte’s Web was one of them. Tolerance. Embracing those who are different. Overcoming fears. Seeing miracles in the ordinary. Having faith in the goodness of our neighbors. Love.
So when I saw that a federal immigration sweep in Charlotte, North Carolina had been named Charlotte’s Web, I felt a sharp, immediate repulsion. They were being clever—but how many of them had actually read the book? How different this country might be if more people absorbed its lessons: that protecting the vulnerable is an act of courage, not political theater.
Elwyn Brooks White (July 11, 1899-October 1, 1985) was an American writer whose work has endured across generations. He authored beloved children’s books, including Stuart Little (1945), Charlotte’s Web (1952), and The Trumpet of the Swan (1970). In a 2012 survey of School Library Journal readers, Charlotte’s Web ranked first among the top 100 children’s novels. Beyond children’s literature, White contributed to The New Yorker and co-authored The Elements of Style, the iconic English-language style guide. Kurt Vonnegut described him as “one of the most admirable prose stylists our country has so far produced.”
It is in this context—of a writer celebrated for clarity, humanity, and moral vision—that the repurposing of Charlotte’s Web for a mass immigration raid becomes especially jarring. White’s literary legacy is rooted in empathy, care, and the affirmation of life; the bureaucratic appropriation of his title stands in stark, almost satirical contrast to the world he sought to illuminate.
Charlotte herself, the real Charlotte, not the bureaucratic parody, spins her web to protect, not punish. She acts out of friendship, not force.
On a quiet Saturday in Charlotte, 81 people were arrested in roughly five hours as federal agents conducted a phase of the Trump administration’s nationwide immigration crackdown. Officers swept neighborhoods near churches and apartment complexes. Streets were unusually empty, businesses shuttered, and families stayed home, unsure whether their neighbors, or the law, could be trusted.
Gregory Bovino, the North Carolina-born Border Patrol commander leading “Operation Charlotte’s Web,” posted on X a quotation from the story’s ending, when Charlotte’s children float away on the wind:
Wherever the wind takes us. High, low. Near, far. East, west. North, south. We take to the breeze, we go as we please.
The irony is almost literary. In White’s story, the line is a meditation on freedom, impermanence, and the continuity of life, Charlotte’s children carried safely into a larger world after she has saved the pig. In Bovino’s hands, it frames a mass roundup, turning human beings into objects carried off by a bureaucratic breeze.
White himself described the inspiration behind Charlotte’s Web:
The theme of Charlotte’s Web is that a pig shall be saved, and I have an idea that somewhere deep inside me there was a wish to that effect.
Martha White, who manages her grandfather’s literary estate, made clear that his ethos could not be more distant from these raids. E.B. White “certainly didn’t believe in masked men, in unmarked cars, raiding people’s homes and workplaces without IDs or summons,” she told CNN, adding, “He didn’t condone fearmongering.” He believed in due process, in the rule of law, and in the basic dignity of life.
The spectacle of the Charlotte operation extended to social media, where detainees’ faces and alleged criminal histories were posted as proof of public safety. Here, White’s words carry a sting:
Trust me, Wilbur. People are very gullible. They'll believe anything they see in print.
Activists handed out whistles to warn neighbors of Immigration and Customs Enforcement presence. Community members skipped work, school, and medical appointments. One dental clinic alone reported nine cancellations.
“Latinos love this country. They came here to escape socialism and communism, and they’re hard workers and people of faith,” said Paola Garcia, spokesperson for Camino, a nonprofit serving Charlotte’s Latino community. “They love their family, and it’s just so sad to see that this community now has this target on their back.”
Nikki Marín Baena, co-director of immigrant advocacy group Siembra NC, called the operation “a shameful day for the North Carolina Republican Party,” noting the celebration of what she described as “terrorist operations” and the recycling of Bovino’s rhetoric about “going after criminals.”
Before Saturday, the largest number of immigrant arrests in a single day in North Carolina was 30. Eighty-one in five hours—nearly triple the previous record, underscores the unprecedented scale of federal enforcement in a city already trembling with fear.
White wrote:
All that I hope to say in books, all that I ever hope to say, is that I love the world.
And Charlotte herself, the real Charlotte, not the bureaucratic parody, spins her web to protect, not punish. She acts out of friendship, not force:
You have been my friend. That in itself is a tremendous thing. I wove my webs for you because I liked you… By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heaven knows anyone’s life can stand a little of that.
The contrast is stark. Charlotte’s web lifts; the raids constrict. The story teaches mercy; the sweep instills fear. Charlotte’s purpose is care; the operation’s purpose is spectacle. As White noted elsewhere:
One of the most time-consuming things is to have an enemy.
Here, millions of hours of planning, messaging, and social-media framing were devoted to constructing enemies, while the human cost, fear, disruption, and trauma, remained largely invisible.
White’s fascination with animals and mortality lent his work an “eerie quality,” and he often described books themselves as “sneezes,” unexpected, uncontainable eruptions of human empathy. In Charlotte, North Carolina, this real-life web demonstrates the inverse: a calculated, coldly measured maneuver, a bureaucratic sneeze that spreads fear instead of care:
The world is full of talkers, but it is rare to find anyone who listens. And I assure you that you can pick up more information when you are listening than when you are talking.
The authorities talked. They posted. They broadcast. But they did not listen. Families stayed home. Children missed school. Communities watched one another with suspicion. Safety, in the administration’s terms, was achieved only at the expense of freedom. And yet, White reminds us:
Safety is all well and good: I prefer freedom.
This is Charlotte’s enduring lesson: the value of life, the importance of compassion, the courage to act out of love. Freedom, dignity, and human connection cannot be suspended at the altar of political performance. The people caught in this web may be removed, but their absence leaves a void that no number of arrests can fill.
Charlotte’s web, whether in a children’s book or in our daily lives, asks us to choose differently. To see, to listen, to protect. To be, as White’s story quietly insists, the kind of neighbor, and the kind of nation, that spins webs of care instead of cages.
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Beyond Division: Choosing Compassion Without Losing Accountability
Compassionate dialogue is a framework that allows us to hold and navigate varied viewpoints without a communications breakdown.
Oct 05, 2025
How do we hold compassion for human loss while also confronting the harm of the beliefs they carried into the world? This tension came into sharp focus in the aftermath of the shooting of conservative commentator Charlie Kirk. Social media quickly split between mourning and condemnation. Some offered condolences to his friends and family, while others condemned his legacy and criticized his supporters.
The clash revealed a deeper duality that many now feel: Grief for a human life lost alongside clarity about the damaging impact of certain viewpoints. If you find yourself torn between mourning a life and rejecting a legacy of harm, you are not alone. This is the conflict of our moment: how to honor our shared humanity without excusing the consequences of speech that undermines it.
The tension is understandable. We can hold compassion for a person who is harmed because of their viewpoints, while at the same time making clear that harmful speech cannot be dismissed as just another opinion. Violence is never the answer, but neither can we ignore the ways speech shapes lives and communities. Respect cannot coexist with speech that dehumanizes. Balancing compassion for human loss with accountability for words that dehumanize is the only way both truths can coexist—and the only way society can survive.
The path forward requires more than moral outrage; it demands frameworks for engagement. Compassionate engagement, the process of creating the conditions for compassion and accountability to exist side by side—offers one way to navigate this difficult terrain.
By starting with listening rather than persuasion, Sanders revealed that people who appear divided by ideology actually share common desires for dignity and opportunity.
Compassion is not absolution. To mourn a life is not to excuse the harm that that life’s words or actions set in motion. Compassion marks a refusal to celebrate violence, even as we continue to confront and resist the ideologies that wound communities. Accountability can—and must—stand alongside compassion.
For example, some argue that Kirk was respectful in person and that he simply had a viewpoint. Others note that he could be dismissive, using selective or misleading “facts” as counter-arguments and engaging in rhetoric that cast entire communities as less than fully human.
Compassionate dialogue can help build community across these different perspectives. It is a framework that allows us to hold and navigate varied viewpoints without a communications breakdown. Compassionate dialogue is not about agreement; it is about a way of engaging that opens conversations rather than shutting them down.
Compassionate dialogue begins with three practices: listening before responding, asking questions that invite reflection, and resisting the impulse to reduce others to their most polarizing positions. It asks us to slow down enough to see the person behind the viewpoint, even when we disagree. These practices don’t erase disagreement, but they keep it from collapsing into contempt.
Research backs up what compassionate dialogue shows in practice. Studies of intergroup contact consistently find that when people are brought together across differences in structured ways, trust grows and prejudice decreases. Evaluations of dialogue programs also show that approaches built on storytelling, perspective-taking, and listening can reduce polarization. Even large-scale studies of everyday conversations suggest that when people take turns fairly and truly listen, they come away feeling more connected. The lesson is clear: Dialogue done with care doesn’t erase disagreement, but it can soften division and build enough trust to imagine solutions together.
I have seen this in practice during dialogue sessions at the Yale School of Public Health. Participants who had built trust within their groups were able to express divergent perspectives openly and, at times, discover solutions by grounding themselves in shared values rather than clinging to distinct viewpoints. This approach allowed everyone to remain anchored in a “both-and” lens that centered their shared human experience.
There are glimpses of what this middle can look like. On a trip to West Virginia, Sen. Bernie Sanders (I-Vt.) spoke with Trump voters. Instead of beginning with a scripted pitch about his political agenda, he asked attendees to share their own perspectives on healthcare in their county. By starting with listening rather than persuasion, he opened a conversation that revealed shared concerns about dignity, affordability, and the future.
His question demonstrated a possible approach to cut past party divisions, inviting people to reflect on their lived experiences—what it feels like to try to afford healthcare, pay bills, or build a stable future. By starting with listening rather than persuasion, Sanders revealed that people who appear divided by ideology actually share common desires for dignity and opportunity.
This approach mirrors what compassionate dialogue calls us to practice: leading with questions, grounding in humanity, and finding connection without erasing difference.
Compassion and accountability are not soft ideals, but obligations born of relationship. Coexistence depends on meeting in the middle, where shared humanity becomes our compass. We can choose compassion without losing accountability and build a society that refuses to let either stand alone.
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