As a child, I often heard the news in the background while my mother prepared breakfast. Now, as I get ready for work with my morning coffee in hand, I can’t help but feel a growing weight of despair with each news segment I see. The world feels heavy with stories of division, violence, and sorrow.
Just last Saturday, I found myself reeling from the images of families torn apart due to immigration policies. The sight of a young child, separated from her mother, struck a chord within me—I was once that child, just a few months ago. How did we reach a point where we, as a nation, allow such heartbreaking separations based on one’s origins?
Violence erupts in quiet neighborhoods, as one neighbor tragically takes the life of another. In another city, a group of teenagers inflicts cruelty upon a peer with special needs, all broadcast live for the world to see. And in our nation’s capital, debates rage on over women’s rights, a conversation that feels like a recurring nightmare. Each news cycle leaves me grappling with disbelief over the state of our society.
Over the years, the chasm of economic and social inequality has only widened. This year marks 25 years since the Rodney King riots in Los Angeles—a time I was too young to understand, yet one that has reverberated through generations. My grandfather, who emigrated from a Jewish background, penned a birthday message to me that I only discovered when I turned 19. It was published in the Boston Globe in May 1992, and its message has been echoing in my mind more frequently as I navigate today’s challenges. His words were not just a personal note to me but a clarion call for our generation to make a difference.