Noch Einmal (Once Again)

“There is only one journey – going inside yourself.”

— Rainer Maria Rilke

Last Friday I attended a reception in my (and 16 other new citizens) honor at the German Embassy in D.C. The Embassy’s Consul General, a warm, gracious, person you might expect would be a diplomat, moved about the room speaking with each of us in turn. “Was it a difficult decision to take German citizenship?” she asked me. “No,” I said without hesitation, and it was true. In that moment I had no reservations. But the journey to get there was a bit circuitous.

My grandfather Alfred Kohn left Germany and came to America in 1927, a year that fell exactly between the Munich Beer Hall Putsch and when Nazis finally seized power. His story was always that he left because he didn’t want to work in his father’s dry goods store in the tiny town of Königshofen in Bavaria where he grew up. But he later admitted to his son (my Uncle Steve) that he could see where things were going politically in Germany and thought it might be a good idea to get out. Besides, as a young man with his life ahead of him why not set out for the new world to seek what fortune might be found there?

It turned out that this “fortune” was mostly my grandma Paula (who also immigrated from Germany) whom he married on Christmas Day in 1931, and the children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren he lived to see and delighted in. As for material fortune, he did fine for a man with just a high school degree. Not wealthy but able to afford what he referred to as his “comfort. In later years they enjoyed a level of earthly success that permitted the occasional trip abroad and a freezer that was always stocked with Häagan-Dazs ice cream.

My grandfather was a renaissance man interested in everything – a voracious reader and learner. In his 80s, he taught himself French by reading French newspapers, also baking, jewelry making, and painting. He completed the New York Times crossword every Sunday in ink. And for a man I never knew to take any exercise other than a walk he had incredible stamina. At 90 he was still running errands for the “seniors” who lived in their apartment building.

He had helped his parents leave Germany in 1939 (literally on the last boat as my mother says), but two of his uncles died in concentration camps. Moritz Kohn died in 1942 in Theresienstadt and Max Kohn in Rivesaltes in 1941. But he didn’t speak much about Germany, and about the Holocaust not at all.

As I grew up and learned about it my feelings about Germany became complicated. For my language requirement in Junior High, High School, and College I picked German (as had my parents in the 1950s). But I never practiced the language with my grandparents, whom I never heard speak anything but English.

During my freshman year of college, my buddy Steve, who lived in the dorm room next to mine, told me that he was going to Germany the next fall for a semester abroad. The trip was being led by his physics professor Rex Adelberger whom I knew and adored though I hadn’t taken a single physic class. When I expressed interest in going, Steve encouraged me to sign up and talked me through my trepidations.

The fall and winter of 1980 I spent in Munich was transformative. Steve and I had an apartment to ourselves. Our host couple was rarely at home, and we were on our own to shop, cook, and generally keep house. It was my first time living as an “adult.” I had to get myself up each morning, take the tram and the U-bahn (subway) to class, and generally look after myself. We often hung out with our German professors, meeting them after class to discussing politics, history, and philosophy. Copious quantities of coffee, beer, and tobacco were consumed at these gatherings though not necessarily all of them by every one of us.

The kindness, friendliness, and openness I experienced from everyone, some of whom knew that I was Jewish and some who did not, was astonishing. I also found a willingness on the part of the Germans I came to know to attempt to confront their history in a way that very few countries and peoples are willing to do. I loved everything about Germany and Europe. I felt that I belonged there and that I would love to have stayed if only it were possible. But there was college to finish and, of course one would need a job and for that one would need more than a tourist visa. I returned to the U.S. and had a life and a career here.

A decade or two ago, Spain passed a law which stated that anyone who could prove that they were descended from a Jew who was expelled in 1492, was eligible to apply for citizenship. Along with that would come citizenship in the European Union and the right to live and work anywhere in the EU. But I didn’t have any Spanish ancestry that I was aware of. (A later 23 & Me genetic analysis confirmed that I am 98.9% Ashkenaz.) I looked into German citizenship around that time but it seemed that I was not eligible because my grandparents left before 1933 when the Nazis came to power. The fact that my great grandparents had left on that last boat didn’t hold sway.

Then in January of 2022 Barbara and I connected with an old friend in Florida whose Jewish wife had applied for and received German citizenship. She told me that the laws had changed and that now anyone whose ancestors who’d had their citizenship revoked by the Nazis were now eligible to apply. Since the Nazis revoked the citizenship of basically all Jews living outside Germany in 1941, it appeared that I was now eligible, along with my children, my cousins, and their children.

An internet search revealed a few law firms that specialized in this sort of thing and after a few interviews I decided to go with a young American attorney based in Berlin. My sister, my mom, all my cousins on my mom’s side, and most of their children decided to apply as well — almost all of Alfred and Paula’s living descendants. There were 15 of us in all.

It took about six months to find all the needed documentation and complete the applications and then we waited for about a year for the German government to process our applications and render a decision. It still felt like a long shot to me.

Well, we were all approved, and by October of 2023 our citizenship documents had been sent to the German consulates closest to our homes. All each of us had to do was to go to the consulate and sign a paper accepting the citizenship.

Living in the D.C. metro area, my consulate was the German Embassy in Washington and I was invited to a special ceremony at which the citizenship would be conferred. My adult children who live in another state were assigned to different consulate, but I requested that they be allowed to join me for the ceremony in D.C. and this request was granted. My wife and my friend Steve, who convinced me to take the semester abroad and roomed with me in Germany more than 40 years ago, attended as well.

The program began with a lovely reception in the Embassy in a room that opened to a beautiful balcony. It just so happened that the day was a balmy 22 degrees Celsius, and the balcony was an inviting place to take photos. There was sparkling wine, soft drinks, and an assortment of cookies and sweets. Seventeen of us were receiving citizenship and we comprised four families each with multiple generations including young children.

The Consul General in her remarks spoke of how Germany was still coming to terms with what had happened. She expressed deep remorse and acknowledged that nothing could undo the past. Still, she hoped, this gesture of restoring our German citizenship, which had been taken from our parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents, might be a movement toward healing. She and her colleagues were thrilled to welcome us back as citizens and she noted that thus far Germany has restored citizenship to more than 200,000 decedents of German Jews.

When the time came to distribute the certificates, each of us was called up one at a time and presented with our Einbürgerungsurkunde (yes, that is a mouthful), our naturalization certificate, and also an NPR style canvas tote which contained: a book called Facts About Germany, a brochure titled Germany for Jewish Travelers, a wooden ball point pen, a notebook, a stationary pad, a coffee mug, and a medallion. The medallion displayed the German eagle emblem on one side and an image of Brandenburg Gate on the other. Around the circumference of the red and black painted coin the name of our new nation to which we belonged: Bundesrepublik Deutschland, the Federal Republic of Germany.

After the certificates were distributed, a self-deprecating young gentleman who worked at the embassy played several German folk songs on his guitar. He sang Die Gedanken Sind Frei (Thoughts Are Free) made popular in the U.S. by Pete Seeger in the 1960s. A fitting song, the theme of which is that even when the body is oppressed the mind can dream untethered.

When I first considered applying for German citizenship it was an extension of my youthful dream of living and working in Europe. And although I may no longer be adventurous enough to start again in a new country perhaps the younger generation of my family is. I might yet live the dream vicariously through one of my children or cousin’s children.

Then too, like most American Jews, I have been all too aware of the dramatic rise of Jew hatred in the U.S. since 2016 and which has exploded since the attacks on Israel last October 7. The thought that it might one day be advisable or necessary to escape has crossed my mind with increasing frequency. In 1939 a second passport could have meant the difference between life and death. If that day were to come again, EU citizenship offers a wealth of options. If things get bad in one place there are 26 other countries to try.

When I returned from my semester in Munich in 1980 my grandfather picked me up from JFK and brought me back to their apartment in Queens. He was eager to hear all about my sojourn. He tested my German and quizzed me on where I had gone, vocally disapproving if I had missed something he considered essential. He seemed genuinely pleased that I had chosen to have a relationship with the land of his birth.

Yet, I must acknowledge that I simply do not know how my grandfather would have reacted to my becoming a German. My grandfather loved the United States and was proud to be a U.S. citizen. I don’t think he felt that he had become an American under duress. But I also realize that it doesn’t matter now what he might have thought about it in the context of his time. The world is a different place than it was in 1933 or even 2001 when he died at the age of 96.

For me now, it is no longer about gaining the right to live and work in the EU, which I am unlikely to do. It is less about having an escape option should one be needed. After all the State of Israel has afforded me and every Jew in the world that security since 1948. Rather I have come to understand this gesture as a one of reconciliation.

At its heart, citizenship is a gift that was offered to me in the spirit of justice and reparation by the people of Germany and I have but one gift to offer in return. To accept it.

The world’s a narrow bridge; fear nothing.

Laughing When We Can: Life Without a Plan

When I got to the University of Rochester in July of 2015 to take what was supposed to be a one-year gig as interim director of Hillel, the first thing I did was reach out to the student president. Rebecca was a senior and had grown up in Rochester. Unlike most U of R students, she was there year-round. We met for coffee and a muffin in College Town. I liked her instantly. She was warm, friendly, intelligent, and had an unruly, brown mop of Jewfro framing a face set with laughing green eyes.

The thing that struck me about Rebecca was her clear sense of direction about, well, everything. She had decided in elementary school that she wanted to be a doctor who delivered babies and had stayed true to that goal. She entered U of R essentially pre-admitted to the medical school. She graduated in December of 2015 and after working with me at Hillel for one semester, I tried to get her to abandon the med school nonsense and make a career in Jewish communal service. She was intrigued and made a show of considering but that was not in her plan.

It's the exact opposite of how I’ve lived my life.

Growing up, I never had more than the vaguest notion of how I wanted to use my life. I remember when I was in elementary school asking my mother what would happen when I was finished with elementary school. She explained that I would go to junior high school. This would be followed by high school.

“And then?,” I wondered.

“Then college,” she said.

“And then?”

“Then you get a job.”

“What kind of job?”

“Whatever you want.”

I couldn’t imagine a job that I would want except maybe astronaut.

I went to high school. It was a city magnet school that focused on engineering. The experience was such that I knew quickly that I didn’t want to be an engineer. The classes I liked best were English, Chemistry, and a little mini-class in computer programing. My high school had a big ol’ IBM mainframe in an air-conditioned room that could be fed Fortran programs with stacks of punch cards, one card for each line of program. I loved writing programs for that beast and I loved the sound the card reader made as the programs fed in. I gained some small degree of respect from my classmates who discovered that I could spot quickly errors in their programs. I wasn’t great at physics and worse at math. So much for becoming an astronaut. I don’t think it occurred to me that computer programmer might be a job.

I decided on a college because the father of my best friend across the street said I should go there. He was a Quaker and suggested Guilford, a small Quaker college in Greensboro, N.C. I received little guidance from my own parents, whose main criteria was that I go somewhere inexpensive. At $4,500 per year room, board, and tuition, Guilford wasn’t exactly cheap (in 1979) but it wasn’t crazy expensive either. I took an overnight bus to Greensboro on my own and looked around. It seemed pleasant enough, and more importantly they accepted me with my mediocre high school grades.

It turned out to be a great choice or maybe just lucky chance. At Guilford I studied English lit because I liked to read novels and found it easy to write papers about them. It was clearly a path of least resistance. I had no idea what one would do with a degree in English lit besides teach and I didn’t think I wanted to do that. What I did want to do, I had no idea. I did two semesters abroad, one in Munich and the other in London. The opportunity came along, and the cost was about the same as being in Greensboro – why not? They were two of the best semesters I spent in college, indeed some of the most memorable months of my life. I also met the person I would marry at Guilford during the one semester that we both attended.

I had a vague idea of the things I wanted when I graduated. They were pretty unimaginative. Get married, (in the unlikely event I could find someone willing to marry me), have children, find tolerable work, obtain health insurance, retire someday. But I had no idea or plan how these things might come about. It all seemed so intangible. I don’t remember being anxious about it though. Somehow I felt the universe would look after me. Somehow it would all work out.

After college I found myself in Arlington, Va. outside D.C. where my mom lived. With no skills and no real goals or ambition, I found myself waiting tables at bad Italian restaurant run by an Iranian immigrant family. In my free time (there was a lot of it, I worked lunches only) I volunteered at National Public Radio answering requests from listeners for recordings of program snippets that they had heard and wanted to hear again. I would find the segment, make a cassette tape and put it in the mail. This led to my first “real” job.

Thanks to my girlfriend Barbara who spotted an ad, I got hired to work for a company that had contracts with the Department of Health and Human Services to run health information clearinghouses for the federal government. These clearinghouses were how people got information in the dark time before the internet.

I worked on a program called the Sudden Infant Death Syndrome Clearinghouse. I was the project assistant. I was hired to answer the phone, open the mail, and send information to those requesting it. It was much like my volunteer work at NPR. A week or two after I started, the project manager quit. By the time the new project manager started a month later, I had picked off all the parts of her job that looked more interesting than my job and started doing them, leaving the boring bits for my new boss.

This became my modis operandi for the rest of my career. Do things that seemed interesting whether they were my job or not and offload the boring bits to someone else when possible. I am not saying this was the right thing to do, it is, however, what I did. For some reason my bosses almost never objected.

I became the editor of the monthly newsletter and proficient in the database program that ran our information response system. I even learned enough of the programming language to be able to fix minor bugs. I obtained the administrator password by looking over the shoulder of our “information services manager” as she typed it in. I still remember it: Daytona. This gave me full access to every part of the system. She never found out that I knew it.

I quit that job in February of 1986 so that Barbara and I could travel the world. We each threw $5,000 of hard-earned savings in the kitty and set off with backpacks and a tent to travel until the money ran out, which it did 16 months later in Thailand.

We spent our last few dollars to get home and put down a deposit on an apartment and I again went looking for a job. Thanks to Barbara who spotted an ad, I got, a position as a research assistant at an organization called the Public Risk Management Association (PRIMA). I didn’t know what risk management was, or what an association was for that matter, but I proceeded to unconsciously pursue the same career strategy at PRIMA that I had employed previously: I tried to take on the things I found interesting and to ignore or offload the things I didn’t. I became the bookkeeper and I taught myself accounting. Then bookkeeping became repetitive so I convinced the director to hire another bookkeeper and make me the finance director. When the director left and the assistant director became the executive director, he made me the assistant director. Two years later, four years after I started as research assistant, I was the executive director.

In 1998, I quit my job again to go to graduate school. I only knew that I wanted to pursue my Jewish journey by working for a Jewish organization. I had no idea what that would be. While I was in school, my now wife Barbara spotted an ad for a job at the Hillel International Center. Money was running short. I applied for and was offered the job. I worked there for 14 years. I was hired for one thing but ended up doing many others (see MO above).

I retired in 2020 at age 58 and was quite content to spend the next few years reading, writing, walking and, once Barbara retired, traveling. Then in February of this year, my friend David called me and asked if I’d be interested in being the finance manager of his nonprofit start up. I thought about it for 7 seconds and then said, “Sure, sounds fun!”

And this has been my career, indeed my life. I can’t say that things didn’t turn out as I expected because I didn’t really expect anything. In my career, if you want to call it that, I pursued the things that interested me. I never worried much about salary or advancement. In my entire career I never negotiated or asked for a raise. It was a textbook case of how not to manage a career, of how not to get ahead.

And yet…

I always made a living, a decent living. And, I realize now, just as important, my work always met three criteria.

1. It was interesting. Most days I went to work there was something to learn, something for my curiosity to pursue, and problems I enjoyed trying to solve. I always remained slightly incredulous that I was being paid for what I was doing.

2. I loved the people I worked with. I mean that very literally, I found I came to care about the people I worked with like family. Also, like family, they could be irritating, occasionally infuriating but I loved them, nonetheless. Most of them anyway.

3. I saw my work as meaningful and believed that it was in some small way making the world a better place. Whether being a supportive voice on the other end of a phone line for a parent who had lost a child to SIDS, providing resources to those working to ensure public safety, or serving up a home cooked meal to students away from home, my work always felt like more than just a paycheck or a way to make someone else rich. I was very lucky there.

I used to wish that my parents had given me more direction. Suggested a college, or a career, given me a Jewish education or just a stronger sense of identity or destiny. But now I see that my folks like Forrest Gump’s mama had it right when they said effectively, “Y’gonna have to figure that out for yourself.”

I read somewhere this week that you only see the hand of God when you look back. I understood that to mean that the trajectory of your life only makes sense in retrospect. But I still envy those who have always known what they were meant to do, those who made a plan and stuck to it until realized.

Rebecca began medical school at the University of Rochester in the fall of 2016. Today she is a doctor, an OB/GYN at a clinic here in D.C. It’s all working out according to her plan.

Still, for me, having no plan also worked out. I followed my curiosity and always found interesting work. I accepted whatever I was paid and just made sure that I spent less than that. If I was offered a promotion, I took it.

I married my best friend. Two beautiful children appeared and grew into kind-hearted adults. It was a lot more luck and chance than anything. Certainly, nothing I deserved.

There is much wisdom in the Yiddish saying, “Humans plan, God laughs.” It suggests that it may be best not to plan too much. Maybe we should leave the planning to God while we do the laughing —when we can.

The world’s a narrow bridge; fear nothing.

Tune Up: Supporting Your Jewish Friends Who Care About Israel

My Civic had been nudging me for the last two weeks. Like most modern cars, it reminds me with increasing frequency and urgency when a maintenance interval approaches. Finally, the vehicle would brook no further deferrals or delays. A yellow warning light came on and stayed on insisting that an “A17 Service” was required now! I booked an appointment for the next day and drove the car to the Honda dealer. (Don’t judge, I trust the work they do at my dealer. I know I am paying too much).

I like to wait while the service is being performed. The waiting room is clean and nice. There is free coffee and doughnuts, solid wi-fi and little cubicles if you want to work. So, I declined the proffered ride back home or to the metro and settled in for an hour or two while my oil was changed, my tires rotated, and my brake lines flushed.

A few minutes later a young woman came in with her little girl. The woman was on the phone and I quickly realized that she was speaking Hebrew. Of all the languages I don’t speak, Hebrew is the only one that affects me emotionally the moment I hear it. Hebrew speakers know that almost no one outside of Israel will recognize the language never mind speak it. To acknowledge to a Hebrew speaker that you even recognize the language is to effectively declare to them that you are a fellow Jew.

I don’t always say something when I hear a person speaking Hebrew but sitting next to this mother in the waiting room, I felt a sense of kinship. After all, we were both Honda owners.

As she hung up her call, I turned to her and asked, “How is your family?”

It took a second for her to process my question. I could see the wheels turning as she said to herself: this apparent stranger heard me speaking Hebrew, knows I am Israeli, he is probably a Jew (he sure looks like one) and is asking about my family back home because he cares about what is going on. He cares about me.

And then she told me. For about 10 minutes she told me about her family, who she knew that had been murdered, who had been kidnapped, who was in the Army, what part of Israel she was from, and what was happening there. I said little except to present my credentials as a frequent visitor and member of the tribe. In other words, I am an American Jew who has personal connections to Israel and cares about what happens there. But that was established in a sentence or two. Mostly I just listened. Her Uber arrived. The conversation ended. She and her little girl left. No names or particulars about either of us were exchanged but I felt a connection, nonetheless. I hope that she at least took away a feeling that American Jews care about Israel. That we see her struggle and pain as ours too.

As I mentioned in my last post, I have been surprised by and grateful for non-Jewish friends who have reached out with words of comfort and support. Some know the deep connection to Israel that I feel while others don’t necessarily know but assume a bond just because I am a Jew.

For the most part these have been overwhelmingly kind and supportive. But one or two have been unintentionally (I think) thoughtless, even cruel. If you are not Jewish but want to express empathy for me or for your other Jewish friends who cherish Israel, here are a few things to consider if you want to avoid pushing some buttons. (If you actually are trying to provoke, consciously or unconsciously, perhaps examine your motivations carefully and consider not doing that right now.)

Here are some things to know about me and Israel. These may or may not be true about your other Jewish friends. Although many American Jews will find resonance with what I say, the American Jewish community is diverse to say the least. Perhaps you’ve heard the old saw, “Two Jews, three opinions.” Try to understand with whom you are speaking and listen rather than assume you know what they are thinking and feeling.

Here’s where I’m coming from.

1. I don’t care how many articles you’ve read on the internet or in the New York Times or listened to on NPR, I know more about Israel than you do. I know more about Jewish history than you, and I know more about the conflict than you do. I’ve been to Israel more than 17 times including having lived and worked there for three months. I’ve been to every part of the country including the part that is under Israeli occupation. I’ve led 14 Birthright trips, a ten-day trip around Israel with 40 college students and 8 Israelis of similar age. Each of these trips is a history lesson in itself. I’ve had right wing guides and lefty guides. I’ve met and talked with Jewish settlers in the West Bank and with Palestinians. I’ve studied Israeli and Jewish history both formally as part of my master’s degree program and informally. I spent a year as a Shalom Hartman Institute Fellow learning with Jewish and Palestinian scholars about the conflict and its history. I’ve also been to several Islamic and Arab countries, including Egypt, Turkey, and Morocco, and listened to people there and learned about the conflict from their perspective.

2. I have a deep personal and emotional connection to Israel. I have dozens of friends, co-workers, former students, and family members who live in Israel. Some of the people I care about most about in the world live there. Some of them are on active duty in the military. Virtually all of them have a child or close family member who is on active duty. Israelis do not pay a professional army to protect them. Almost every Israeli man and woman (really boys and girls) does several years of military service, and even when that service is complete, they continue as reservists until at least age 55. I am no more than one or two degrees of separation from people who are being held hostage or have been murdered.

3. I see every Jewish Israeli as a family member and a countryman. Israel is not only the name of a country. It is the name of my tribe and the name of a land in which my people have had a continuous presence for more than 3,000 years. The words Israel and Jew are synonymous to me. I see the Jewish state as existential for the Jewish people, our only chance to survive in a world whose other civilizations have for the better part of the last 2,000 years tried very hard to destroy us. Since 1948 it has seemed less likely that they would succeed.

4. Like most Jewish houses of worship in America today, my nearly broke synagogue pays a substantial amount of its annual budget for an armed guard to stand outside the doors anytime there is an event in the building, from a prayer service to religious school for the children of the community. I am part of a group of volunteers who serve as additional guards rather than participate in services so that the rest of the congregation can pray with peace of mind. I do this at least once a month. We must do these things, or we too could be murdered for just being Jews. And it is not just synagogues and temples. Most Jewish organizations from Jewish Community Centers to any other Jewish identified building has an armed guard, metal detectors, and bomb resistant glass film on the windows. Yeah, in America.

So, if friendship and comfort is your actual goal, be kind. I am in mourning for my comrades and my tribe. The attack on Israelis was to me an attack on Jews everywhere. Many American Jews are feeling even more vulnerable than ever in the history of this country. We may also be feeling a little defiant.

Also understand that not all American Jews have the level of connection that I do. Many have never been to Israel, others are deeply ambivalent about Israel’s role in the conflict. A few Jews even agree with Israel’s enemies that it has no right to exist. Still others have an even deeper connection to Israel than I do. I have friends whose parents and/or children and grandchildren are all in Israel and many of those are serving in the military. Compared to theirs, my relationship is like a puddle next to the ocean.

In short, don’t assume that you know how someone feels about Israel just because they are Jewish.

If empathy, kindness, compassion, and a willingness to listen are the dos, here are a few of the don’ts. Again, I am presuming that your intent is to console not to provoke.

• Avoid blind cc’d emails “To my Jewish Friends.” There is likely no exact sentiment that applies to everyone you know who happens to be Jewish. If you want to reach out, take the time to write to each person separately and ask how they are feeling, if they have family or friends in Israel. If they do, express a wish that they are safe and will remain safe. You’ll reach fewer people or it will take you longer but the interactions will be more genuine.

• Don’t tell us that Israel is to blame, even in part, for the cold blooded murder of its citizens. Even if you believe that, now is not the time to assert that belief, and certainly not over email or text. It’s like messaging someone whose mother just died of lung cancer to chide them that the deceased parent had been a lifelong smoker and brought it on herself. Likewise, do not send me articles accusing Israel of genocide, ethnic cleansing, or suggesting that Israel doesn’t have a right to exist or defend itself.

• Don’t refuse to engage face to face. If you are troubled by what is going on in the region (and who isn’t?) let’s talk about it in person. If you are sincere and open to enlarging your understanding, so am I. Why don’t we speak to each other with respect instead of launching missiles over email? Likewise, if I invite you to talk and you refuse, that tells me a lot. How many disagreements or conflicts -whether between two people or between civilizations - have been resolved where the parties aren’t willing to even talk to each other? Pretty sure that number is zero.

• Finally, please don’t lecture me that “all lives matter.” Is it not human to weigh the lives of our families, our loved ones, our neighbors, and our tribe more than those of strangers? In the grand scheme of the cosmos, we might agree that all lives, even non-human lives, are equally worthy (or equally worthless), but within our human constructed reality, everyone cares most about the people they are tied to through love, blood, or narrative. If you deny that, well, I don’t believe you. And no, that doesn’t mean I don’t care about the suffering of Palestinian civilians and innocents.

Friendships are in a sense are a bit like a car. They need care, attention, and the occasional adjustment of the pressures. When a warning light begins to flash, take the time to figure out what is helpful. If you just whip out your big wrench and start loosening bolts before you really understand what going on, you could easily do more damage than good.

The world’s a narrow bridge; fear nothing.