This summer, however, my obsession with bike safety really took flight on July 9, when Louisa Gag, a beautiful young woman who grew up in and still regularly graced the house directly across the street from ours, was killed when a truck struck her bike at a dangerous intersection near Roxbury Crossing.

Among many other things, Louisa was a brilliant and deeply committed transportation planner who had devoted her work and her life to making her beloved Boston a city in which everyone, including bicyclists, could move safely and efficiently from place to place. More than ironic, Louisa’s death felt close, very close and terribly sad. It was the kind of devastating loss that will focus an aging biker’s attention on bike safety. It’s also the kind of loss that will change a family and a community…forever.

Time to digress, while I can still put words on paper. The tragedy on Tremont St. has surfaced some memories that I thought I had put away.

That clear, cool morning in July 1979 was perfect for riding a bicycle to work. I turned right off Day St. onto Perkins in Jamaica Plain and rode alongside Angel Memorial Animal Hospital. Even in summer, there was a steady line of traffic coming in the other direction on Perkins, but no one was signaling a left turn onto South Huntington, so I prepared to coast through the intersection while the light was green.

My concern was the trolley tracks still in the middle of South Huntington and the potholes around those tracks. Hit those the wrong way and you would be quickly on the ground, amidst heavy traffic. I glanced quickly to identify the smoothest path through the tracks and headed down that path. Did I look down for an instant and take my eye off the traffic? Next thing I knew, I was on the ground, testing my ability to get up.

One of the cars coming up Perkins had turned left without signaling and had struck me broadside. I don’t think the driver applied the brakes until she heard the impact, or perhaps my shout. The collision somehow threw me free of the bike, which was lucky, in this case, as the mangled bike ended up under the car. I’d like to say my helmet saved me, but I wasn’t wearing one. I still don’t know why I was able to struggle to my feet. Oh, to be 26 again!

The woman driving the car, who was about my age, had thrown open the door and jumped out. Perhaps fearing the worst, she seemed surprised to see me painfully arise. I couldn’t describe her, but I remember vividly the horror on her face. Maybe I looked like I had just gotten run over.

“I’m so sorry…so sorry. I didn’t see you. Are you all right? Do you need an ambulance?”

The driver worked at Angel Memorial and was late for work. You know how that is. On the way up Perkins, something large hit her windshield (she said a bird, but I never believed that). She tried to clear the window with her wipers, but that just made it worse.

To complete the perfect storm, the morning sun was low in the sky behind me, creating a glare on the dirty windshield that made it impossible for her to see anything. She was probably looking out of a corner of the windshield, thinking that she would clean it as soon as she got into the Angel parking lot and CRASH! There I was, trying to avoid the potholes along the trolley tracks.

She was very nice and extremely apologetic. When she sensed I was okay, she offered to buy me a new bike and later did so. I don’t have any memory of police arriving, or of what I did after the accident, but I know I didn’t go to the hospital. It had to have been the luck of the Irish.

The crash at Perkins and South Huntington was the third time a car had hit me on my bike since I started commuting to my co-op job in Government Center in 1972. Bicycle commuting in the 1970s was Boston’s version of the Wild West. Car drivers traversed streets designed for carriages, not cars, often with reckless abandon. Bikers, sometimes also reckless, did what we could to avoid the cars. Bike lanes? Ha! Louisa’s birth was still over a decade away, but she was coming to help tame the Wild West.

Fast forward to 2007, almost 30 years after the source of my recurring nightmares. Many more bikes and cars filled the streets of a growing city. Boston had the Southwest Corridor Bike Path and the great paths along the Charles River but had created less than 200 yards of on-road bike paths. In that year, daily biker Mayor Tom Menino announced Boston Bikes, a long-term program through which the City would invest to make Boston a “world class biking city.” That announcement launched a process that would eventually become Louisa Gag’s passion.

She was in high school when Boston launched Boston Bikes, but Louisa was already riding a bike here. Her parents were serious Boston bikers. A decade later, after getting a master’s degree from Tufts, she got a job with the Livable Streets Alliance, a Metro-Boston organization committed to safe, reliable urban transportation. Five years after that, she joined the City’s transportation department.

I’m told that on July 9, Louisa was on her way down Tremont St. in Mission Hill to check one of the stations of the Blue Bike bike-sharing program that she helped manage. Along with many other initiatives, the bike-sharing program is part of Vision Zero Boston, an integrated plan through which the city plans (it’s still on the books) to “eliminate fatal and serious crashes in the city by 2030.” Vision Zero Boston was a North Star for Louisa and her transportation department colleagues, but beginning in 2025 work on some aspects of Vision Zero Boston had slowed down or stopped altogether. Not everyone in Boston was ready for the changes required to make Vision Zero Boston a reality.

On July 16, Louisa’s friends in the transportation department organized a memorial on City Hall Plaza in downtown Boston. A large crowd heard Louisa’s colleagues and other transportation advocates remember Louisa while calling for a renewed commitment to Vision Zero Boston by the administration of Mayor Michelle Wu. As the event ended, Mayor Wu stepped to the podium for a tearful tribute to Louisa in which she recommitted the City to the goals of safe transportation for all. She did not mention Vision Zero Boston. Only time will tell if the mayor’s actions live up to the commitments of that evening and the ensuing days. I hope so.

Two weeks later, Critical Mass organized a different type of tribute to Louisa. That evening, over 1000 bikers gathered in Copley Square and proceeded to ride together through city streets in a joyous, angry, and boisterous memorial to Louisa, demanding that the Wu Administration take action to make sure that no one else would suffer Louisa’s fate.

The route took riders past the intersection of Tremont and Parker Streets, where a “ghost” bike memorializes the spot where Louisa fell. The rolling throng then passed by the house where Louisa grew up in Roslindale, before ending up with a beautiful view of the rising moon over Carson Beach in South Boston. Along the way, many Bostonians expressed their support, while others beeped horns in frustration at the delays created by hundreds of bicyclists in possession of the streets. I feel certain that Louisa enjoyed the view and would have so much loved to join the party.

Louisa Gag, ¡PRESENTE!

The facts are quite clear. El-Sayed won a narrow victory over a well-known candidate who had the support of almost the entire state party leadership and several high-profile national figures. Stevens also had an enormous fundraising advantage, much of it a product of the support of pro-Israel groups.

Rep. Stevens worked hard for that support. In 2019 and 2023, Stevens joined Congressional colleagues on lavish junkets to Israel sponsored by AIPAC’s educational affiliate. The trips worked their magic, as Stevens became an outspoken supporter of the massive U.S. aid program to Israel, even as the death toll mounted in Gaza and international experts characterized Israel’s attacks on civilians in the densely populated enclave as genocidal.

That resume made Stevens an obvious candidate for AIPAC largesse. When El-Sayed, an experienced Muslim candidate with statewide visibility and outspoken critic of Israel’s genocide in Gaza, announced his decision to run for the seat being vacated by Gary Peters, AIPAC pushed a huge pile of chips into the middle of the table.

There is nothing unprecedented about AIPAC pouring millions of dollars into Democratic primaries. In past primaries, the lobby group channeled as much as $6 million to defeat candidates who failed to toe the line on support for Israel. What was unprecedented here was the eye-popping scale of the pro-Israel operation to defeat El-Sayed.

Because U.S. election laws allow political action committees to hide their donor lists, it isn’t possible to know just how much pro-Israel money was in the Stevens campaign. It is known that she enjoyed over $60 million in “outside” money from political action committees. AIPAC and its affiliates provided at least $30 million of that money, and pro-Israel donors could well have provided some of the additional PAC money. The $30 million figure, alone, was five times what AIPAC had ever invested in a single primary. They obviously thought that the election of a Senator with Dr. El-Sayed’s profile and politics could be very damaging to Israel’s interests. On that, they were correct.

In the wake of the Michigan primary, Sen. Bernie Sanders has again called on the Democratic Party to prohibit the participation of all super PACS in its primary elections. If the Michigan primary doesn’t convince Democratic leaders to make such a change, nothing ever will. Such a move would make it much more difficult for AIPAC or other similar groups to use money to influence the choice of Democratic candidates.

The El-Sayed campaign was very thoughtful about how it made outside money an issue in the campaign. His outrage concerning U.S. support for Israel’s attacks on the civilian population was clear throughout the campaign, but the issue of shadowy outside groups spending millions to influence Michigan elections was at least as prominent in El-Sayed’s campaign as opposition to U.S. policy on Israel. Both resonated with Michigan voters.

El-Sayed won, but the vote was too close for comfort. His winning margin was less than 15,000 voles among 1.5 million cast. AIPAC support to Haley Stevens allowed her a huge visibility advantage over El-Sayed, and this certainly gained her votes. At the same time, Stevens’s support for Israel alienated no small number of voters, especially young people, older progressives, and Michigan’s relatively large Arab American population. El-Sayed’s consistent critique of Stevens’s reliance on outside money—much of it coming from pro-Israel groups—added to his vote total.

In such a close election, any one of several issues could have been decisive, but it is reasonable to conclude that, on balance, the tens of millions of dollars in pro-Israel money hurt Stevens more than helped her. The Michigan primary could, therefore, signal that the trend toward increased questioning of U.S. policy toward Israel among Democratic voters is reaching a point where even the most mainstream candidates will need to take notice.

El-Sayed faces another uphill battle in the general election, but he is now accustomed to such battles. He faces Mike Rogers, a former FBI agent and a Trump-aligned Republican who served seven terms in the U.S. Congress and narrowly lost a run for the Senate in 2024. In November, the choice in Michigan will be crystal clear.

To succeed in a state that favored Trump by 80,000 votes in 2024, El-Sayed will need the votes of all those Democrats who chose another candidate in the primary, while attracting strong support among independent voters and disaffected Republicans. There is much work to do. Haley Stevens won the primary vote in the city of Detroit and among Black voters, statewide. Without gaining the unqualified support of Black voters, an El-Sayed victory in November is hard to imagine.

Continuing U.S. support for Israel will be an important issue in the election, and AIPAC will not be sitting quietly on the sidelines. I expect, however, that the Rogers campaign will think twice about how much AIPAC money they will accept, and Dr. El-Sayed will remind voters of the horrors of genocide in Gaza. He will also insist that those voters, not super PACs, should decide who represents them in the U.S. Senate.

She gave me the photo in a hinged wooden double frame, along with a poem entitled “A Poem for My Son,” by the Indian poet Bibhu Padhi. Later, when he was old enough to understand why, I passed the hinged frame along to Kiernan.

In the poem, a father tells his infant son that, for the moment, as baby lies next to mother, breathing quietly, father knows everything about him. However, that is already changing.

I seem to hear a remote whisper
that almost tells me
you are not mine.

The sounds of a wider world—the screech of an owl, the distant sound of the sea—call out to baby, even if he is not yet able to recognize those sounds. Soon enough, he surely will recognize them and those sounds will change him.

Just last night, our family of four—Ellen, Kiernan, his sister, Claudia, and I—sat in Kiernan’s South End apartment. He is now 29 years old. Tomorrow he will take the three suitcases holding all his remaining material possessions and board a plane for Australia. There he will open a sales office for the tech company that employs him. He committed to stay there for two years, but he has no idea when he will return. At certain times of life, two years seems like nothing: At other times, it feels like a very long time.

We sat there, eating a wonderful lemon-olive oil “bon voyage” cake prepared with love by Ellen. As the conversation struggled to escape various versions of how much we will miss each other, I asked if Kiernan had seen the hinged frame lately. He smiled, walked to a box resting on a nearby table and extracted something that I had not seen in many years. The photo still looked fine, but the paper on which the poem was printed had yellowed considerably and the words were difficult to discern.

“This is a box of things I’m taking to Australia,” said Kiernan by way of explanation.

The rush of memories that accompanied a surprise view of this photo almost overwhelmed me. The memories included happy ones of the time when the photo was taken, as well as later, less happy, memories of the years of conflict when I sought to have my son hear my call, rather than his own. My unacknowledged desire to control who Kiernan became certainly was not the only cause of our conflict, but it was a major problem between us. Parents can do much damage by failing to let go, and I was no exception.

Kiernan said nothing more after handing me this relic of another time. He only wanted to see my reaction and be sure that I knew that this would be among the few possessions that would make the trip with him. The muscles that activate my tear glands are among the least exercised ones in my body. They remained relaxed, despite the threat of tears.

I think Kiernan was 16 when Laura Dowd, a close friend, descended my neighbors’ steps and found me standing in front of my house fuming.

“What did Kiernan do now?” She knew our story all too well.

I started into a detailed telling of the latest story, but she stopped me. politely.

“Kevin, that sounds really hard and I hope he gets past this stage soon, but like I told you last time, there comes a point when you need to drop some of your stuff and dedicate yourself, first and foremost, to helping him to just get through this [high school].” Our conversation continued, but her point had been made.

Laura had said similar things to me before, probably more than once, but for some reason on this warm fall night the advice landed differently. Nothing changed overnight, but I slowly began to let go of things in my relationship with my son, trying to follow Laura’s suggestion. Kiernan eventually sensed the shift and reacted positively. We spent less of our time in conflict and against the odds, he did make it through that high school. Almost 15 years later, this all remains a work in progress.

Today, that baby cradled in my arm has become a likeable young man, successful in most of the ways our society measures success. He insists that he has preserved many of the values he acquired in our home through childhood and adolescence but has decided to live a life radically different from that of either of his parents. The opportunity to live and work in Melbourne (Naarm) speaks to his success and adds a large geographic element to the divergence of our paths.

As I dipped bits of the lemon cake into the luscious mixed-berry sauce surrounding it, I contemplated the hinged frame standing before me on the counter. I searched for a pithy sentence to break the uncomfortable silence, but the best I could manage was, “Thanks, Kiernan. I’ve been wondering this was still around.” Kiernan answered with a hug, after which I snapped a photo of the frame and then put it back in the box from where it will soon join my son as he answers a call, the sounds of which he now surely recognizes.

Como no tenía muy claro qué hacer con esos ensayos, he decidido someterlos a ustedes. Aquí les comparto el primero.

************************

No esperaba terminar armado ni representar ningún peligro en mi quinto día en El Salvador, pero en 1989 ese país estaba lleno de sorpresas. Mi misión aquella mañana era presentarme en el temido edificio de Migración para solicitar permiso para permanecer en el país más allá de los ocho días que me habían concedido al llegar al aeropuerto.

Todos los extranjeros con quienes había hablado me habían advertido lo intimidante y desagradable que era ir a Migración, fuera cual fuera el motivo. Los funcionarios de inmigración eran, en realidad, agentes de inteligencia de la policía, y desde luego su trabajo no consistía en hacer sentir bienvenidos a los visitantes.

Con un poco de suerte, me tratarían con brusquedad, intentarían intimidarme y me harían preguntas indiscretas, pero al final me concederían otros noventa días de permanencia. Todos conocían historias de algunos visitantes desafortunados que, en lugar de recibir una prórroga, habían obtenido un viaje gratuito directamente desde Migración hasta el aeropuerto, donde los subieron al siguiente avión rumbo a su país de origen. Solo de pensarlo se me revolvía el estómago mientras me preparaba para la visita.

Mavis, la rubia de Minnesota a quien yo había ido a reemplazar, me había llevado en automóvil a todas partes durante mis primeros días en el país. Ese día, sin embargo, me mostró en el mapa exactamente cómo llegar al Centro de Gobierno y luego me entregó las llaves de la camioneta para quince pasajeros que utilizábamos en nuestro trabajo. Tragué saliva, aunque hice todo lo posible por parecer tranquilo. Ya era hora de empezar a aprender a moverme solo por San Salvador.

—Solo asegúrate de estacionarte en un lugar seguro y de cerrar bien las puertas y las ventanas.

Me pregunté dónde creía ella que había estado viviendo yo.

El trayecto al centro fue rápido y sin contratiempos. Las calles estaban llenas de soldados y policías fuertemente armados, pero ya empezaba a acostumbrarme a esa realidad. Temía que alguno de ellos me detuviera en uno de los omnipresentes retenes militares, pero eso no ocurrió. La suerte seguía de mi lado... por el momento.

Diez minutos después de salir, doblé a la derecha frente al edificio de Migración. Pasé de largo buscando dónde estacionarme. Por supuesto, no había un solo espacio disponible y, para mi sorpresa, la calle terminaba abruptamente, apenas unos metros más adelante, en una barrera de concreto. Tendría que dar la vuelta con aquel microbus grande en un espacio reducido, rodeado de peatones, vendedores ambulantes y agentes de seguridad armados.

Pero la suerte seguía acompañándome. Miré por encima del hombro derecho y vi el lugar perfecto para hacer una maniobra de tres tiempos y salir de aquel aprieto. Justo cuando estaba a punto de dar marcha atrás hacia la entrada de un terreno, vi un gran letrero situado a escasos metros de la calle:

ZONA MILITAR: ENTRADA PROHIBIDA.

¿Y ahora qué se suponía que debía hacer?

Miré por el espejo y decidí enseguida que retroceder más de ciento cincuenta pies no era una opción. El sudor comenzó a escocerme los ojos. Lo único que no podía hacer era quedarme allí parado.

«No hay nadie vigilando esta entrada», me dije. «Puedo meterme rápidamente en reversa y salir antes de que alguien siquiera se dé cuenta.»

Muy al estilo de Boston, giré bruscamente el volante hacia la derecha y eché la camioneta hacia atrás. En el instante en que pisé el freno para volver a poner primera y avanzar, lo escuché.

Para mi absoluta consternación, un fuerte estallido fue seguido por el inconfundible silbido del aire escapando de una llanta pinchada.

Salté de la camioneta y enseguida descubrí lo que, en mi desesperación por salir de allí, no había visto. Detrás del vehículo había una hilera de púas metálicas que sobresalían del suelo, como las que suelen utilizarse para controlar el tránsito en algunos estacionamientos de agencias de alquiler de automóviles en Estados Unidos.

Maldiciéndome por mi torpeza, rodeé la camioneta hasta llegar a la llanta dañada, procurando no empeorar las cosas pisando aquellas malditas púas. Apoyé las manos sobre la llanta como si, por algún milagro, pudieran cerrar el agujero. No ocurrió.

Actuando casi por instinto, abrí la compuerta trasera de la camioneta y saqué la mica y la llave cruz del lugar donde Mavis me había mostrado que estaban guardados. Regresé junto a la llanta y me arrodillé para encontrar el punto donde debía colocar la mica para levantar aquel monstruo.

Cuando me agaché lo suficiente para ver debajo de la camioneta, el corazón me dio un vuelco.

Del otro lado del vehículo aparecieron dos botas altas de cuero negro impecablemente lustradas.

Supe al instante lo que significaban.

Mi ridículo error había llamado la atención de un miembro de la tristemente célebre Guardia Nacional de El Salvador.

Había visto muchas películas y leído muchos libros sobre El Salvador antes de llegar al país. En un lugar lleno de tipos peligrosos, los guardias nacionales eran los más temidos de todos. Después de todo, miembros de la Guardia Nacional habían violado y asesinado a cuatro religiosas estadounidenses no muy lejos del aeropuerto en 1980. Mi imaginación empezó a trabajar de inmediato. Vi a aquel hombre rodeando la parte trasera de la camioneta y descargándome un golpe en el hombro o en la cabeza con la culata de su fusil. Al fin y al cabo, apenas llevaba una semana en el país.

Mientras hacía todo lo posible por no entrar en pánico, el guardia caminó lentamente alrededor de la parte trasera de la camioneta.

Era un hombre bajo, delgado y de piel muy oscura.

Yo sonreí.

Él no.

Parecía genuinamente sorprendido de encontrar a un gringo gigantesco agachado bajo una gorra azul marino de las Medias Rojas de Boston. Pensó unos segundos antes de decir:

—Aquí es Zona Militar. Es prohibida la entrada. Su pasaporte, por favor.

Me levanté muy despacio para entregarle el pasaporte, agradecido de llevarlo en el bolsillo de la camisa.

—Lo siento. Está pinchada la llanta.

Después de examinar el documento, el guardia volvió a sorprenderme.

Me devolvió el pasaporte, esperó un instante a que lo guardara y luego dijo:

—Toma.

Y, acto seguido, me puso su fusil M-16 en las manos.

Por puro reflejo, lo sostuve. El arma se sentía fría y sorprendentemente pesada.

Él se arrodilló, tomó la llave cruz y empezó a aflojar metódicamente las tuercas de la rueda. Era evidente que sabía perfectamente lo que hacía. Quizás había trabajado en una llantera antes de convertirse en asesino a sueldo.

Mientras colocaba el gato hidráulico en su sitio, me acerqué para apoyar el fusil contra la camioneta y poder ir a buscar la llanta de repuesto.

—¡No!

Fue la única vez que me habló con verdadera dureza.

Por alguna razón, no había ningún problema en que aquel gringo despistado sostuviera un M-16; lo que de ninguna manera podía hacerse era recargarlo contra la camioneta.

En un tiempo sorprendentemente corto, aquel integrante de la fuerza de seguridad más temida de El Salvador me cambió la llanta mientras yo no hacía absolutamente nada, salvo quedarme allí parado como un idiota sosteniendo su fusil.

En algún momento caí en la cuenta de que casi ninguna de las decenas de personas que iban y venían frente al edificio de Migración parecía prestar la menor atención a aquella escena tan absurda.

Las mujeres seguían vendiendo toda clase de productos desde sus grandes canastos. Los hombres lanzaban piropos para llamar la atención de las mujeres que pasaban. Los vendedores de lotería continuaban ofreciendo sus billetes. Todo transcurría como si nada extraordinario estuviera ocurriendo.

Un par de hombres se detuvieron unos instantes para observar al guardia trabajar desde cierta distancia, de esa manera tan característica en que los hombres se quedan mirando cómo otro hombre hace un trabajo manual. Pero nadie más parecía darle importancia.

Había algo en aquella absoluta normalidad que produjo un profundo efecto tranquilizador en mí, precisamente cuando sentía que el corazón me golpeaba con fuerza contra el pecho.

Una vez que dejó la camioneta lista para que este dundo pudiera sacar el vehículo de su Zona Militar, el guardia recuperó su arma y dijo simplemente:

—Usted puede proceder.

No hizo falta que me lo dijera dos veces.

Balbuceé un apresurado:

—Gracias.

Salté a la camioneta y conduje hasta encontrar un estacionamiento legal, a cierta distancia de allí.

Apagué el motor y permanecí sentado unos minutos mirando fijamente por la ventana.

Me sentía completamente exhausto...

...y todavía ni siquiera había entrado a pedir la prórroga de mi visa.

¡Bienvenido a El Salvador!

Not knowing what to do with these essays, I’ve decided to subject you to a couple of them here.

********************

I didn’t expect to be either armed or dangerous on my fifth day in El Salvador, but in 1989 El Salvador was full of surprises. My task that day was to go to the dreaded Migración building to get permission to stay in the country beyond the eight days granted to me at the airport.

Every foreigner I’d spoken to had told me how scary and unpleasant it was to visit Migración for any reason. All the immigration officials were police intelligence officers, and it was not their job to make visitors feel welcome.

With luck, they would act surly, try to scare me, and ask me intrusive questions, but would eventually give me permission to spend 90 more days in their country. Everyone knew stories of a few unlucky visitors who, instead of an extension, had gotten a free ride directly from Migración to the airport, where they were put on the next plane back to their home country. The thought of that made my stomach rumble as I prepared for my visit.

Mavis, the blond Minnesotan who I had come to replace had been driving me everywhere during my initial days in the country. Today, however, she showed me on the map exactly how to get to Government Center and then handed me the keys to the 15-passenger van that we used for our work. I gulped but did my best to seem unaffected. Time for me to start learning my way around San Salvador.

“Just be sure to park in a safe place and lock the doors and windows.” I wondered where she thought I had been living.

The drive downtown was quick and uneventful. The streets were full of heavily armed soldiers and police, but I had begun to get used to that. I feared that some of these armed men would stop me at one of their omnipresent military check points, but it didn’t happen. Luck was on my side…for the moment.

Ten minutes after leaving, I turned right in front of Migración. I drove past the building looking for a parking place. Of course, there was no parking, and to my surprise the street ended abruptly at a Jersey barrier just a short distance past my destination. I was going to have to turn this big vehicle around in a tight space crowded with pedestrians, street vendors, and armed security people.

But luck was still with me. Looking over my right shoulder, I saw a perfect place to perform a three-point turn to get out of this mess. Just as I was about to back in to the driveway, I noticed a large sign located just couple of feet off the street: ZONA MILITAR: ENTRADA PROHIBIDA.”

Now what was I supposed to do? I looked behind me and quickly decided that backing up at least 150 feet was not an option. Sweat stung my eyes. The one thing I could not do was just sit here.

“There’s no one guarding this little entrance,” I said to myself. “I can just quickly back in and be out before anyone even notices.”

In true Boston style, I whipped the wheel to the right and backed into the driveway. As I hit the brakes to shift back into first gear and go forward, I heard it. To my extreme dismay, a sharp pop was followed by the unmistakable sound of air rushing from a punctured tire.

As I jumped out of the van, I immediately saw what I had failed to see in my haste to be elsewhere. Behind the car was a line of protruding metal spikes, sticking up out of the ground like the ones that often control the traffic at U.S. rental-car facilities.

Swearing at myself, I walked around the car to the affected tire, careful not to make things worse by stepping on the damn spikes. I placed my hands on the tire as if they might miraculously heal its puncture. They didn’t.

Operating on automatic pilot, I opened the back hatch of the van and grabbed the jack and the lug wrench from the place Mavis had shown me. I went back to the tire and knelt to see where I needed to locate the jack to lift this monster.

When I got down low enough to see under the van, my heart skipped at least one beat. On the other side of the car were two high shiny black leather boots. I knew immediately that those boots meant that my ridiculous blunder had attracted the attention of a member of El Salvador’s notorious Guardia Nacional.

I had seen many movies and read many books about El Salvador before coming to the country. In a place full of bad dudes, these guardia were the baddest. For example, members of the National Guard had raped and murdered four U.S. churchwomen not far from the airport in 1980. My mind’s eye envisioned this guy striding around the back of the car and smashing me in the shoulder or the head with the butt of his gun. It was, after all, my first week in the country.

While I tried not to completely freak out, the guardia walked slowly around the back of the van. A short, slight man with very dark skin came into view. I smiled. He did not.

He seemed truly surprised to see me, a jumbo-sized gringo under a dark-blue Red Sox hat. He thought for a second before saying, “Aquí es Zona Militar. Es prohibida la entrada. Su pasaporte, por favor.”

I stood up very slowly to give him the passport that I was overjoyed to have in my shirt pocket. “Lo siento. Está pinchada la llanta.”

After examining my document, the guardia shocked me one more time. He handed back my passport, gave me a second to put it away, and said, “Toma.” With that he handed me his M-16. Reflexively, I took hold of the weapon, which felt cold and very heavy in my hands.

He knelt, picked up the lug wrench and methodically started loosening the lug nuts. He seemed to know very well what he was doing. He must have worked in a tire shop before he became a paid killer. As he was getting the jack positioned, I moved to lean his gun against the van so that I could go get the spare tire.

“No!” he said, speaking more sharply to me than at any other time. For some reason, it was OK for this clueless gringo to hold the M-16, but it could not be leaned up against the van.

In a remarkably short period of time, this member of El Salvador’s most feared security force changed my tire with me doing nothing except stand there like a dummy holding his gun. At some point, I realized that almost none of the dozens of people going about their business in front of Migración seemed to be paying any attention to this bizarre scene. Women sold all kinds of things out of big baskets, men made noises to get the attention of women, lottery vendors sold tickets, all as if nothing was happening. A couple of men stopped briefly to watch the guardia work from a distance in the way that men watch each other work, but no one else seemed to care. Something about this had a deep calming effect on me at a moment when my heart was pounding wildly.

Having made it possible for this goof to get the car out of his Zona Militar, the guardia took back his weapon and then said, “Usted puede proceder.”

Not needing to be told twice, I mumbled a “Gracias” before jumping into the car and driving to a legal parking place some distance away. After turning off the van, I sat there for a minute, just staring out the window. I felt exhausted and I hadn’t even asked for my extension yet. Welcome to El Salvador!

Durante un tiempo, me esforcé por entender la tecnología que, de repente, ha atraído inversiones por valor de cientos de miles de millones de dólares. Luego me di cuenta de que quienes desarrollan los modelos no comprenden realmente qué están creando ni cómo funciona; así que, ¿cómo iba yo a pretender entenderlo?

En un artículo de febrero de 2026 publicado en *The New Yorker*, un destacado investigador de IA comentaba lo poco que saben los protagonistas de este sector tecnológico sobre el producto que están introduciendo a toda prisa en nuestras vidas. «Es como si entendiéramos la aviación al nivel de los hermanos Wright, pero hubiéramos pasado directamente a construir un 747 y a integrarlo en la vida cotidiana».

¿Y quién pilota ese 747?

Decidí adoptar una postura de feliz ignorancia. Esta estrategia me funciona bien con un sinfín de temas que no comprendo, así que ¿por qué no aplicarla también a la IA? Todo iba perfecto hasta que mi hijo, de 29 años, empezó a hablar con entusiasmo de la aplicación ChatGPT. Me enseñó cómo funcionaba y me mostró las tareas más básicas que incluso yo podía realizar con ella.

Le advertí que no debía confiar ciegamente en una sola fuente de información y le aseguré que el tema no me interesaba. Sin embargo, cuando se marchó, descargué la aplicación en mi teléfono. Un par de días después, agachado en mi despacho en actitud conspiradora, le pregunté a ChatGPT: «¿Quién fue Roberto D’Aubuisson?». En cuestión de segundos, la IA escribió una respuesta bastante completa e interesante, indicándome además las fuentes en las que se había basado. Tras un par de preguntas adicionales, obtuve información que no había visto antes. Aunque no lo habría admitido en voz alta, ya estaba enganchado.

Al poco tiempo, consultaba ChatGPT con bastante frecuencia. Le planteaba preguntas como «¿Qué relación existe entre el idioma turco y el finés?» o «¿Quiénes eran “los Dewey” en la novela *Sula*?». Podría haber encontrado las respuestas a mi pregunta en muchos sitios, pero en esta aplicación fue rápido y sencillo. También descubrí que ChatGPT genera al instante borradores de traducción de buena calidad para todo tipo de textos. Es cierto que hay que revisar la traducción antes de utilizarla, pero han quedado atrás los días en que mi capacidad para traducir del español al inglés —y viceversa— tenía algún valor.

Entonces, mientras usaba la aplicación en casa, mi hija de 24 años miró por encima de mi hombro.

—¿Qué estás haciendo?

—Eh... solo estoy buscando la respuesta a una pregunta que me rondaba la cabeza.

—No me puedo creer que estés usando eso. Va en contra de todos los principios que me has enseñado. ¿Me estás tomando el pelo? No sé por qué esta joven duda tanto a la hora de decirme lo que piensa.

Me tomó unos segundos, pero al final logré articular algún tipo de respuesta. Para ella, aquello fue demasiado lento; ya había pasado a otra cosa, a una velocidad propia de la IA. Reflexioné un poco sobre la crítica de mi hija, pero disfrutaba demasiado usando la aplicación. Mi interés por ella fue en aumento.

Por aquel entonces, quedaba absolutamente claro que el régimen de Trump apoyaba plenamente una infraestructura de IA sin regulaciones para el país, ya que eso sin duda haría aún más ricos a los ricos (incluidos los Trump), mientras el resto de la población tendría que arreglárselas por su cuenta. Una IA sin restricciones en manos de quienes actualmente manejan los hilos del gobierno también encaja con una deriva constante hacia la autocracia. Una regulación sensata podría ofrecer una solución al dilema de la IA, pero no mientras estamos en plena campaña de «Hacer a Estados Unidos grande de nuevo».

Seguro que el uso de una pequeña aplicación no contribuía a esta amenaza para la civilización. Me cuidaba mucho de no abrirla cuando mi hija estaba cerca.

Hace unas semanas, me pidieron que hablara sobre un tema de gran interés para mí en mi iglesia. Mientras preparaba la charla, me di cuenta de que mi pequeña aplicación podría serme útil. Necesitaba encontrar un fragmento de un sermón o de un escrito del pastor del siglo XIX que daba nombre a la iglesia.

Formulé la pregunta con cuidado y, «¡zas!», apareció un fragmento de un sermón de 1853 que venía como anillo al dedo. La prosa era algo recargada, típica de la predicación protestante del siglo XIX, pero expresaba exactamente lo que yo necesitaba que dijera la lectura. Se lo pasé a la persona encargada de leerlo, y lo leyó durante el culto de aquel domingo.

Días más tarde, quien había leído el pasaje me escribió para decirme que el texto le había cautivado tanto que quiso consultar el sermón original. Encontró el sermón, pero no el texto citado. Mmm, pensé yo... mmm.

Fui directo a mi aplicación y pregunté: «¿Pero qué demonios...?». ...en términos algo más amables, y vale la pena citar la respuesta que surgió de las entrañas del modelo:

«Debo corregir mi respuesta anterior: el texto más extenso que proporcioné no era una cita auténtica y continua de Theodore Parker. Se trataba de una reconstrucción parafrástica inexacta basada en los temas de Parker, y no debí haberla presentado como una cita».

Ah, claro, una reconstrucción parafrástica; debería haberlo sabido.

ChatGPT había presentado erróneamente un texto de su propia creación como un fragmento literal de un sermón de una figura histórica, y yo había caído en la trampa por completo. Luego agravé el daño potencial al hacer que la falsedad del modelo se difundiera en la iglesia como una cita del admirado Theodore Parker.

La persona que leyó el fragmento reaccionó con amabilidad ante mi explicación; probablemente, con más amabilidad de la debida. Que un modelo de lenguaje de gran tamaño me mintiera deliberadamente al responder a una sencilla pregunta histórica no es algo tan significativo; sin embargo, pronto dependeremos de estos sistemas para tomar decisiones mucho más importantes, decisiones que tomarán por nosotros en lugar de con nosotros.

La promesa de ganancias inimaginables está impulsando un esfuerzo frenético por integrar la inteligencia artificial en nuestra vida cotidiana. Si la burbuja aún no le ha afectado, no se preocupe: lo hará. Si hay algún adulto presente en las mesas donde se está tomando decisiones sobre IA, es necesario que alce la voz. Ciertamente, no sabemos adónde nos lleva esto, pero tampoco lo saben quienes desarrollan los modelos. Ese simple hecho ya es motivo suficiente para pensárselo dos veces.

One of the few good things about being Just Shy of Retirement is that I don’t have to worry about A.I. taking my job. Ageism and my own decrepitude have beaten A.I. to the punch.

For a time, I did my best to try to understand the technology that has suddenly attracted hundreds of billions of dollars in investment. Then I realized that the people building the models don’t really understand what they are creating or how it works, so how could I hope to get a handle on it?

In a February 2026 article in The New Yorker, a leading A.I. researcher commented on how little the denizens of the technology know about the product they are rushing into our lives. “It’s like we understand aviation at the level of the Wright brothers, but we went straight to building a 747 and making it a part of normal life.”

And who’s flying that 747?

I decided to adopt a posture of blissful ignorance. This works well with myriad other issues that I don’t understand, so why not A.I.? That was perfect until my son, aged 29, was gushing one day about the Chat GPT app. He showed me how the app worked and demonstrated the most basic kinds of things that even I could do with it.

I cautioned him not to rely too much on any one source of information and assured him that I was not interested. Then, after he left, I downloaded the app to my phone. A couple of days later, while crouching conspiratorially in my office, I asked Chat CPT, “Who was Roberto D’Aubuisson?” In seconds, it typed out quite a complete and interesting answer and pointed me to the sources that fed its response. A couple of follow-up questions got me information that I had not seen before. I wouldn’t have admitted it, but I was hooked.

Pretty soon, I was consulting Chat GPT quite regularly. I asked it questions like “What is the connection between the Turkish and Finnish languages?’ and “Who were ‘the deweys’ in the novel, Sula?” I could have found my answers to the question in many places, but it was so quick and easy in this app. I also found that Chat GPT instantaneously returns fine draft translations of all kinds of text. One has to go over the translation to use it in any way but gone were the days when my ability to translate from Spanish to English, and vice-versa, had any value.

Then, as I was using the app at home, my daughter, aged 24, looked over my shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“Uhhhh, I’m just getting an answer to a question that is on my mind.”

“I can’t believe you’re using that. It goes against every principle you’ve ever taught me. Are you kidding me?”

I don’t know why this young woman is so hesitant to tell me what she thinks.

It took a few seconds, but I eventually concocted some kind of response. That was way too slow for her. She was already on to the next thing, at A.I. speed. I did reflect a bit on my daughter’s critique, but I was enjoying using the app too much. My engagement deepened.

During this same period, it was becoming crystal clear that the Trump regime fully supported an unregulated A.I. infrastructure for the country, as this would surely make the rich (including the Trumps) much richer, with everyone else fending for themselves in a brave new world. Unfettered A.I. in the hands of the characters now pulling the levers of government would also be consistent with a steady slide toward autocracy. Thoughtful regulation may offer a solution to the A.I. dilemma, but not while we’re Making America Great Again.

Surely, my use of a little app was not contributing to this civilizational threat. I was careful not to open it when my daughter was around.

A few weeks ago, I was asked to speak on a theme of considerable interest to me at the church I regularly attend. As I prepared for this talk, the time came when I realized that my little app could come in handy. I needed to find a fragment of a sermon or published writing of the 19^th-century pastor for which the church is named.

I carefully asked my question and “poof” there was a fragment of an 1853 sermon that was more than relevant. The prose was a bit turgid in the style of 19^th-century Protestant preaching, but it said what I needed a reading to say. I passed it to the reader and he read it in the church service that Sunday.

A few days later, the reader of the passage wrote to me to say that he had been so taken with the reading that he wanted to go back to the sermon from which it came. He found the sermon but did not find the passage. Hmmm, said I…hmmm.

I went straight to my app and said “WTF???” in slightly nicer terms, and the answer that came from the bowels of the model is worth quoting:

“I need to correct my previous answer: the longer “passage” I gave was not an authentic continuous quotation from Theodore Parker. It was an inaccurate paraphrastic reconstruction based on Parker’s themes, and I should not have presented it as a quotation.”

Ah, of course, a paraphrastic reconstruction…I should have known.

Chat GPT had misrepresented something of its creation as a direct passage from a sermon by a historical figure and I had fallen for the ruse, hook, line, and sinker. I then multiplied the potential harm by causing the model’s falsehood to masquerade at church as a quote from the church’s beloved Theodore Parker.

The reader of the passage was kind in response to my explanation, probably kinder than he should have been. That a large language model consciously lied to me in answering a simple historical question is not that significant, but we will soon be relying on these systems to make much more important decisions, for us rather than with us.

The promise of profits beyond all imagination is driving an all-out charge to bring artificial intelligence into our daily lives. If the bubble hasn’t touched you yet, worry not…it will. If there is adult supervision in the room, someone needs to stand up. We certainly don’t know where this is taking us, but neither do the people who are developing the models. That, alone, is reason enough to think twice.

And, yes, the Spanish translation of this post will rely on a draft generated by Chat GPT…unless I can find something that isn’t using an A. I. model.

In 2024, the BBC named a lawyer from El Salvador one of the world’s 100 Most Influential Woman. This was not a huge surprise for anyone engaged with human rights advocacy in Latin America. Ruth had long since established herself as a fearless and effective human rights defender, in addition to being a respected teacher and prolific writer. Heading the anti-corruption unit at the regional human rights organization, Cristosal, Ruth brought numerous cases against the administration of Nayib Bukele. I serve on Cristosal’s Board of Directors.

Given Bukele’s virtual capture of El Salvador’s judicial system, Ruth’s cases made little headway, but it was crystal clear that President Bukele did not appreciate Ms. López’s work, which also involved defending victims of Bukele’s “state of exception.” Declared in early 2022, the state of exception allowed the government to jail and hold thousands of Salvadorans without a hint of due process.

Originally presented as a means to move against presumed members of the criminal gangs that had made life impossible for millions of Salvadorans, the state of exception enjoyed—and continues to enjoy—broad public support. As the country’s Legislative Assembly renewed the government’s special powers, it became evident that thousands of those arrested had no gang involvement. They also had zero chance to prove their innocence before the Court.

In early 2025, Ruth became aware of increased surveillance of her movements, presumably by agents of the state. Then, late in the evening of May 18, 2025—exactly one year ago—police officers knocked on Ruth’s door and lured her outside the house under false pretenses, and arrested her in front of her family. As they took her into custody, Ruth said to her captors, “have a little decency…one day this will all end. “Tengan decencia” immediately became a rallying cry for those attempting to defend the rights of Salvadorans being unjustly held by the government.

As recently as 2024, Cristosal might have appealed to the United States government to intervene on Ruth’s behalf with Mr. Bukele, but that is not something that the current U.S. leadership is willing to consider. By agreeing—early on in Trumps anti-immigrant offensive—to accept, for a price, migrants that the United States wished to render to a third country, Bukele immediately became a darling of the Trump Administration. And the affinity goes much deeper than a willingness to do business on migration. After all, what’s not to like about a corrupt and authoritarian leader who jails his opponents and uses his government position to enrich himself and his family? Trump seems envious of Bukele’s ability to operate without any democratic guardrails, whatsoever.

Thankfully, some in the U.S. government take a different view of this situation. On Wednesday, May 20, Rep. Jim McGovern (D-MA) will speak about Ruth’s case on the floor of the House of Representatives. One can only hope that others will echo Rep. McGovern’s concern and insist that the Department of State take action on Ruth’s case. Wednesday’s speech in Congress coincides with a global effort by Cristosal and its allies to free Ruth López and, if she is to be tried on formal charges, to make certain that any trial is a public proceeding that will allow Ruth to prove her innocence. While the campaign focuses on Ruth’s situation, it is doing so in a way that brings attention to the fact that thousands of people are languishing in El Salvador’s notorious prisons without any opportunity to present evidence that might prove their innocence.

Please consider lending your voice to the campaign to Free Ruth López. The campaign website offers a variety of ways for you to speak out on this issue that is about much more than justice for one of the 100 Most Influential Women in the World.

Me duele decirlo, pero el quince de abril es el Día de los Impuestos en mi país. Sin lugar a dudas, es uno de mis días menos favoritos del año. A pesar de vivir la ficción de estar “semi-jubilado”, sigo pagando impuestos a un gobierno cuyas acciones se ajustan cada vez menos a mis valores fundamentales.

Echando sal en la herida, luego del quince, muchas personas publican listados de gente rica y corporaciones ricas que no pagaron absolutamente nada de impuestos sobre su renta bilionaria el año pasado. La lista de la senadora Elizabeth Warren incluye:

Tesla (¿me estás tomando el pelo?)
Southwest
Disney
Live Nation
Hewlett Packard
United Airlines
Pay Pal
CVS Health
Palantir
CitiGroup
Pacific Gas & Electric
3M

Esto es solo la punta del iceberg, pero incluso esta lista corta me revuelve el estómago cada año. Me enfurece que instituciones con tanta riqueza puedan evitar impuestos sin resistencia arriesgada. Lo llaman esto el estado de derecho.

Incluso más de lo que siempre he querido ser escritor, siempre he querido ser un resistente a los impuestos de guerra. Durante algunos años, lo logré simplemente por no ganar suficiente dinero como para requerir la presentación de una declaración de impuestos. Eso terminó cuando di el gran paso de ser empleado de Oxfam America en la década de 1980. Muchas cosas cambiaron —para mejor y para no tan mejor— cuando crucé ese umbral hace más de cuatro décadas.

Dejé Oxfam America a finales de los 80 y me mudé a El Salvador. ¿A quién se le ocurrió mudarse a El Salvador en 1989? Ni modo, allí me convertí en un resistente fallido a los impuestos de guerra por omisión (creo). Mientras me apresuraba a presentar mi declaración antes de irme a El Salvador, olvidé incluir un trabajo part-time que había conseguido durante el verano de ese año. De verdad creo que fue un error honesto, pero sabemos que cuando se trata o de guerra o de impuestos (o amor), no hay errores honestos.

El IRS (los que cobran los impuestos y persiguen a los que no pagan), que aún tenía empleados en aquel entonces, descubrió mi error. Más tarde insistieron en que intentaron valientemente llamar mi atención sobre el error y cobrar, pero yo vivía en El Salvador y su advertencia nunca me llegó.

Curiosamente, una pieza de correo sí llegó finalmente: todavía la tengo en algún lugar. De alguna manera, el IRS encontró una dirección de reenvío para mí en un apartado postal en el Barrio San Miguelito de San Salvador el lugar donde recibí mi correo durante unos años. Tal vez le di esa dirección a mi banco.

Recuerdo claramente estar sentado bajo el sol abrasador del mediodía sobre el único escalón frontal de la diminuta oficina de correos para abrir esa correspondencia. El IRS me informaba que, conforme a varias leyes, habían vaciado mi cuenta bancaria de los $4400 que yo había ahorrado para servir como una especie de “colchón” de reintegración cuando y si regresaba de El Salvador. El impuesto adeudado, las sanciones y los intereses acumulados durante tres años ascendían a una cantidad significativamente mayor que el ingreso que no había reportado anteriormente. También me dijeron que mi cuenta estaba ahora saldada, pero que mis pecados me habían ganado el honor de ser alguien a quien vigilarían ellos en el futuro.

“Nunca volveré a pagarles a esos h—-os de p—-a ni un centavo más, aunque viva hasta los 100 años”, o algo por el estilo, fue mi comentario a un amigo canadiense comprensivo que estaba conmigo ese día. Después de dejarme desahogarme un poco, me ofreció invitarme a un helado en una heladería Pop’s cercana. Sabía cómo calmar a la bestia salvaje.

“Bueno, al menos has dado el último de tu dinero a una buena causa”, dijo él, completamente serio, un poco más tarde mientras yo disfrutaba mi doble capuchino de café. En aquellos días, el gobierno de EE. UU. financiaba el esfuerzo represivo del estado salvadoreño, un esfuerzo que estaba destruyendo tantas vidas en el país en el que mi amigo y yo vivíamos y trabajábamos. Me encanta ese sentido del humor canadiense, aunque probablemente no me reí en ese momento.

Fue totalmente seria mi intención de no pagar nunca más ni un centavo al gobierno de este país, pero no resultó así. A mediados de los noventa, regresé a EE. UU. con Elena, quien estaba a punto de inscribirse en un programa de “enfermera especialista para poetas”. Pronto estábamos casados, con trabajos, hijos, una casa, etc., y la resistencia fiscal desapareció de la agenda familiar. Desde entonces, hemos pagado más dinero al gobierno federal del que hemos entregado a las dos universidades privadas a las que asistieron nuestros hijos y a la que convirtió a Ellen en enfermera especialista. En algún momento, dejé de llevar la cuenta de nuestros pagos federales acumulados y de qué parte de eso iba al gasto militar. Un tarea demasiado depremida…

Este año, reconocí mi deuda fiscal con un gobierno insoportable un poco antes de lo habitual, para poder pensar en otras cosas en el Día de los Impuestos. Este quince de abril, decidí asistir a la concentración semanal frente al centro de detención de ICE ubicado en el borde del enorme centro comercial en Burlington, MA. La gente se reúne allí cada miércoles para expresar su indignación con las políticas del gobierno al que ellos también, probablemente, pagan impuestos.

Fue un día hermoso en Burlington, más parecido al verano que a la primavera, y unos cuantos centenares de personas más tuvieron la misma idea. Mientras regresaba a mi coche después de dos horas de escuchar, hablar y cantar, sentí que protestar contra políticas gubernamentales equivocadas era una forma ideal de pasar el Día de los Impuestos. ¿Por qué no convertirlo en una tradición? Cuando se alcance el punto de inflexión y la rendición de cuentas de este gobierno finalmente se ponga de moda, los esfuerzos de personas como las que estuvieron en Burlington ese día proporcionarán parte de la explicación del porqué.

Y, por cierto, la resistencia fiscal sigue siendo una práctica de personas valientes y comprometidas en todo este país. No tengo estadísticas, pero siento que dicha resistencia debería de estar aumentandose a medida que las acciones del gobierno se vuelven cada vez más irracionales. El Comité Coordinador Nacional de Resistencia a los Impuestos de Guerra ofrece excelente información sobre las muchas formas que puede adoptar dicha resistencia.

Rubbing salt firmly into the wounds, today, the day after, many people published lists of wealthy people and wealthy corporations that paid absolutely no federal tax last year. Sen. Elizabeth Warren’s list included:

Tesla (are you kidding me?)
Southwest
Disney
Live Nation
Hewlett Packard
United Airlines
Pay Pal
CVS Health
Palantir
CitiGroup
Pacific Gas & Electric
3M

This is only the tip of the iceberg, but even this short list makes my tummy turn each year. It pisses me off that institutions of such wealth are able to avoid taxes without risky resistance. They call it the rule of law.

Even more than I have always wanted to be a writer, I have always wanted to be a war tax resister. For some years, I achieved this by not earning enough money to require the filing of a tax return. That stopped when I took the huge step of being employed by Oxfam America in the 1980s. So many things changed—for better and for less better—when I crossed that threshold over four decades ago.

I left Oxfam America at the end of the 80s and moved to El Salvador for the first half of the 1990s. There I became a failed war tax resister by omission (I think). As I rushed to file my taxes before leaving for El Salvador in 1989, I forgot to include one side-hustle that I had gotten that year. I truly believe that it was an honest error, but we know that when it comes to war and taxes, there are no honest errors.

The IRS, which had employees in those days, discovered my mistake. They later insisted that they tried valiantly to bring my error to my attention and collect, but I was living in El Salvador and their mail never reached me.

Strangely, one piece of mail finally did arrive: I still have it somewhere. The IRS somehow found a forwarding address for me at a PO Box in Barrio San Miguelito, San Salvador, El Salvador, the place where I received my mail for a few years. Maybe I gave my bank that address.

I remember vividly sitting in the scorching mid-day sun on the single front step of the tiny post office to open this correspondence. The IRS was informing me that, pursuant to several laws, they had emptied my bank account of the $4400 I had saved to serve as some kind of reintegration “cushion” when and if I returned from El Salvador. The tax due, penalties, and interest accumulated over three years, amounted to significantly more than the amount of income I had not reported to them earlier. They also told me that my account was now settled, but that my sins had earned me the honor of being someone they would keep an eye on in the future.

“I will never pay those f—-ers another cent, if I live to be 100,” or something to that effect, was my comment to the sympathetic Canadian friend who happened to be with me that day. After letting me vent a bit, he offered to buy me an ice cream at a nearby Pop’s ice cream store. He knew how to calm the savage beast.

“Well, at least you’ve given the last of your money to a good cause,” said he, completely deadpan, a bit later as I enjoyed my doble capuchino de café. In those days, the U.S. government was bankrolling the Salvadoran government’s war effort, an effort that was destroying so many lives in the country in which my friend and I were both living and working. I love that Canadian sense of humor, though I probably didn’t laugh right then.

I was dead serious about my intention to never pay the U.S. government another cent, but it didn’t turn out that way. In the mid-nineties, I came back to the U.S. with Ellen, who was about to enter a “nurse practitioner for poets” program. Soon we were married, with jobs, kids, a house. etc., and tax resistance slipped from the family agenda. Since then, we’ve paid more money to the federal government than we have surrendered to the two private colleges attended by our children and the one that made Ellen a Nurse Practitioner. At some point, I stopped keeping track of our accumulated federal payments, and what part of that was going to military expenditure.

This year, I acknowledged my tax debt for a government I do not support a bit earlier than usual, so that I could think about something else on Tax Day. Yesterday, April 15, I decided to attend the weekly standout at the ICE detention facility located at the edge of the huge shopping mall in Burlington, MA. People gather there each Wednesday to express their outrage with the policies of the government to which they, too, probably pay taxes.

It was a beautiful day in Burlington, more like summer than spring, and a few hundred others had the same idea. As I headed back to my car after two hours of listening, talking, and singing, it felt like protesting misguided government policy was an ideal way to spend Tax Day. Why not make it a tradition? When the tipping point passes and accountability for this government finally comes into fashion, the efforts of people like those in Burlington yesterday will provide part of the explanation why.

And, by the way, tax resistance remains a practice of courageous, committed people all over this country. I have no statistics, but I sense that such resistance must be increasing as the actions of government become increasingly irrational. The National War Tax Resistance Coordinating Committee provides excellent information on the many forms that such resistance can take.

Then tonight, when I executed my nightly 3AM stumble-in-the-dark to my desk to try to read a bit to help me return to slumber, I saw it. Amy Goodman interviewed Ret. U.S. Colonel Lawrence Wilkerson for yesterday’s broadcast of Democracy Now. Wilkerson, the former Chief of Staff of Secretary of State Colin Powell said it plainly.]

The only one who’s interpreted it [the war with Iran] correctly is Bibi Netanyahu, and I think he’s ready to use a nuclear weapon, should it become as bad as it looks like it might right now, because Iran has not even begun to shoot its most sophisticated missiles.

I don’t often agree with colonels, retired or otherwise, but this one is calling our attention to a possibility that is becoming more real each day that Iran continues to suggest that it can outlast the U.S. and Israel in this conflict. The only place where I differ from Wilkerson’s interpretation is that I’m quite sure that both Bibi and The Boss are considering seriously this option, even if they aren’t talking publicly about it. The thought of this makes it harder than usual to sleep through the night.

Last week, Secretary of State Marco Rubio intimated to the press that the U.S. had gotten into this mess because Israel made it clear that it was going to launch an all-out attack on Iran, regardless of what “we” decided to do. Cooler heads prevailed on Rubio to walk this back the next day—how could the Secretary have considered telling the truth to the press?—but he couldn’t really take back the explanation of this insanity that makes more sense than any of the drivel issuing from between the lips of his evidently unhinged superior.

Israel doesn’t publicly acknowledge that it has nuclear weapons, but no one takes that seriously, if anyone ever did. They have nuclear capability and have always been at or near the top of the list of countries—right there with our own—likely to take the unthinkable step of using it…again.

Wilkerson suggests that this nightmare scenario becomes something to consider if the war “escalates.” He’s right that a nuclear attack becomes much more likely if Iran somehow finds a way to inflict a higher level of suffering on Israel and other U.S. allies in the region, but I fear that such escalation may not be the only scenario in which the unthinkable attracts serious action in the prediction markets.

The Boss’s bumbling bluster aside, neither the U.S. nor Israel is in a position to carry out a long-term war of attrition against Iran. The Islamic Republic, on the other hand, has given every indication that it is prepared to endure even more suffering than it already has to hold up its end of just such a prolonged war.

Do we really think either Bibi or The Boss is willing to endure the humiliation of calling off this conflict without achieving Iran’s “unconditional surrender?” Many are now suggesting that Trump should just declare victory and back off and strong-arm Bibi into joining him, but Trump is not that sort of guy. Tragically, he doesn’t have the requisite adult supervision around him to show him the wisdom of that sort of off-ramp from this conflict. If he doesn’t take that exit very soon, it will appear in the rear-view mirror, and we know that there is a point of no return in any conflict.

So, even if Iran cannot escalate in the way Col. Wilkerson fears, the specter of the nuclear option haunts this conflict more each day that the price of oil increases and broader markets reassess the likely impacts of what Bibi and the Boss have gotten us into. Until now, I expect this scenario has not worked its way into polite conversation about the war because the punditry fears that honestly discussing it will somehow make it something that one or the other of our tragic antiheroes can seriously consider. And Congress…is Congress.

I share that fear. When I bring up my concern with the people who have indulged my need to talk about the war, no one seems ready to reflect deeply on the possibility. This hesitancy extends well beyond the confines of my little world and is a truly dangerous reaction.

I think we are at the point where the public discourse about this conflict needs to openly consider the real possibility that leadership will decide to inflict a whole other level of pain on a recalcitrant Iran. Congress needs to debate the possibility and make it clear that this is a red line over which not even the spineless sycophants of the Republican Party will follow their fearless leader.

Trump needs to see that either taking this step or allowing his deranged junior partner to take it will mean political suicide for himself and his hateful project. It will also imply a human disaster in Iran of the sort that the entire world has worked tirelessly to prevent since August 1945 when the telltale clouds arose over Hiroshima and Nagasaki. That, too, was allegedly in the service of forcing the surrender of a recalcitrant foe. Never again!

I awakened too early on Saturday morning to read a bit before going outside to watch the sun rise. I was close to finishing a second reading of One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This, by Omar El Akkad. I don’t often read books twice these days, but this one demanded an exception.

Before opening the book, I decided to look at my phone to see if anything of note had happened overnight. I should certainly have known better. The New York Times had gotten to me first at 2:10AM. “Breaking News: U.S. and Israel Conduct Strikes on Iran.”

Who was surprised? The Boss and his Tinker-Toy Secretary of War had been assembling another “armada” in the Persian Gulf for weeks. You’d think they’d come up with a better name for their overkill after what happened to the best-known of history’s “invincible” armadas in 1588.

They would never take such a risky step without a clear national security rationale, right? Trump’s lips moved later in the day, a powerful indicator of coming falsehood. “Iran was days or weeks away from having a nuclear weapon.” Seriously? No one except Trump, not even the House Speaker, can say that with a straight face. The effort to pile lie upon lie makes the rationale more ridiculous with each passing day.

Marco “The Transformer” Rubio had a better explanation. Israel had made it clear it was going to attack, no matter what the U.S. thought. That meant that we had to join the firepower syndicate to minimize the damage to U.S. “assets” from blowback caused by the Israeli strike. This is a better explanation because it is probably closer to the truth, but can you believe this guy said this in public?

Are you telling me, Mr. Secretary, that the U.S. President approved a massive military attack that risks a regional conflagration and acute disruption of global energy markets because another country insisted that they were going to attack regardless of what anyone said? This will go down in history as worse than the outright lie that got us into Iraq. Never mind that these characters have no idea how this improves life for the people of Iran…or how it ends. How can it possibly end well?

On the surface, Omar El Akkad’s book exposes the contours of the mental maps that allowed a liberal Biden Administration (“I’m a Zionist”) to aid and abet genocide in Gaza. How the hell did Omar ever get a National Book Award for this? At the awards ceremony in New York, Mr. El Akkad seemed more surprised than anyone that he had won.

But perhaps he outsmarted them all. I don’t think the word Zionism appears in the book at all. It certainly is not the focus. Nor does he spill ink making the case once more for Palestinian national claims, or the apartheid nature of the Israeli state. He doesn’t even call for a boycott of those multinational corporations profiting off of that state. The critique here is of the cultural rot at the heart of my liberalism and yours that allows billions of dollars of support for Zionist (or any) fury of the type that leveled Gaza and its people. The alternative will surely be worse, right?

One Day…mentions Iran, but this book is not about the sins of the Ayatollah or the outrages of Trump I or II. Nonetheless, it seemed to be the perfect book to be reading when I learned of yet another war that I was hoping not to imagine.

The book does remind us with ambivalent certainty that this, too, shall pass, and that one of the features of the increasingly empty liberal ethos is that one day it will be fashionable to have been utterly and uncompromisingly against all of this. Shame on…who?

More important, however, is the alternative ledger with which El Akkad leaves us.

And yet, against all this, one day things will change.

Alongside the ledger of atrocity, I keep another. The Palestinian doctor who would not abandon his patients, even as the bombs closed in. The Icelandic writer who raised money to get the displaced out of Gaza. The American doctors and nurses who risked their lives to go treat the wounded in the middle of a killing field. The puppet-maker who, injured and driven from his home, kept making dolls to entertain the children. The congresswoman who stood her ground in the face of censure, of constant vitriol, of her colleagues’ own indifference. The protestors, the ones who gave up their privilege, their jobs, who risked something, to speak out. The people who filmed, and photographed and documented all of this, even as it happened to them, even as they buried their dead.

Thanks, Omar El Akkad, for bringing your amazing talents to the keeping of both these ledgers. May you use that same tired tux many times…

Some of those in denial about retirement often become more involved in religious communities. In my particular case, this has taken the unlikely form of deeper engagement with Theodore Parker Church, a quirky Unitarian Universalist community in West Roxbury, MA. I spare you the details of why this is unlikely but trust me, my engagement leaves a lot of people who know me shaking their heads.

No matter, I’ve been thinking about the traditional Christian Nativity story a little differently since last year, when a church in Bethlehem visualized the Nativity in the context of ongoing genocide in Palestine.

This year, St. Susanna Catholic Church, located right next door in Dedham, MA presented its own image of what “Jesus would face if he were born into the world today” in the context of ICE raids across the country. People from around the country and the world have responded to St. Susana’s with encouragement and thousands of dollars in donations. Perhaps having missed the words of its Pope on the issue of immigration detentions, the Boston Archdiocese has criticized parish priest, Father Stephen Josoma, for “misuse of sacred objects” and sowing “political divisiveness.” The Archbishop has called Father Josoma to a meeting in January, but the display has remained up through the Christmas season.

Theodore Parker Church doesn’t do nativity scenes, but we do have a Christmas Eve service that brings together congregation members with others in the community seeking a community of faith on that special evening.

This year, our minister sent out a request for people to read during this year’s service. Perhaps rendered delirious by the miasma of holiday preparations, I agreed to do so, and I received my assigned reading just 24 hours before the service…too late to back out. Monsignor Flanagan, the bane of my adolescent existence, was surely rolling in his grave. I say, “Roll, baby, roll.”

I include the reading below, as my contribution to your own holiday miasma. It is a reconsideration of the place of the Three Kings in the Nativity story, by Rev. Teresa Schwartz a community minister affiliated with the Unitarian Universalist Church of Boulder.

The Journey Back to Bethlehem

After Jesus’ birth, King Herod secretly calls the members of his cabinet to learn the details. He sends his wise men to do state surveillance on camelback. The wise men find the little family, but in the midst of their government business, they are overcome with joy, and we are not sure why.

Something shifted in their hearts.

The wise men dream a dream, to not return to the king. They leave their jobs, they leave for their own country by another road. Undocumented travelers in a foreign land. Then, Joseph dreams a dangerous dream. He takes Mary and Jesus and they flee to Egypt; penniless immigrants running for their lives.

We know not the intent of those registries, all those years ago. But surely, it was the government intelligence that King Herod consulted when he made his killing orders.

These are stories of darkness, but these are also stories of joy. There is a story for us here. Perhaps it’s not real, but it is true. Myth,” said the Greek statesman Solon, “is not about something that never happened. It is about something that happens over and over again.”

Maybe we left this story behind when we were little. Maybe it can be ours once more. May this old story of the nativity, the story of poor Jews who become refugees, visited by Arab Kings, undocumented travelers in a foreign land, all fleeing the empire, come alive in our hearts again.

Because even in the darkness of this story, tyrants are subverted.

A whole people who are poor in money and weak in spirit, remember their power, they see beauty even in darkness; and they resist. A baby born in poverty, becomes a rabbi with a message so powerful, that we are still re-telling it today. It was a message that could not die, even when the government condemned him to death.

We read our stories today on screens of blue flickering light; sounds of war and hate through fiber optic cable and LTE networks.

“But fear not,” the story says.

For here is the challenge and the hope: can anything good come out of Nazareth?

Of the Harlems, Flints, or South Sides of the world? Fear not, for it has always been so, and Christmas is always waiting to be born. This year, again, “Yes, sick at heart, plagued, lost as we are, let us make the hard journey.”

Let us make the journey back to Bethlehem.

For this story, for all stories, go on.

Spirit of Life, be with us now. But be nearer to us still when the holiday is over. When we look to the days to come, like the wise men, in the midst of everyday business, may we be overcome with joy, even when we are not sure why. May something shift in our hearts.

And, like the wise men, even if we don’t yet know the way home, grant us the courage to take another road.

Yes, as always, I would have written the story a little differently, but not really, as I have never been able to imagine the Magi as old-school undercover Border Patrol, sent by The Man. Nor have I considered the possibility that Mary, Joseph, and Jesus “turned” the agents once they entered the barn. Sixty-five years ago, I put on a beard and a cape and played one of the wise men in the school play and I’ve seen them as the stars of the show ever since. After all, they brought the presents!

One more holiday is over. Couldn’t we all use a bit more Spirit of Life as we go about our everyday business?

That atrocity, committed in direct defiance of a U.S. court order, was front-page news for a heartbeat, but has since fallen out of the headlines. With our government “flooding the zone” with atrocities, no single outrage can hold public attention for long.

Just yesterday, the Central American human rights organization, Cristosal, joined Human Rights Watch in releasing a report entitled, You Have Arrived in Hell: Torture and Other Abuses Against Venezuelans in El Salvador’s Mega Prison. The report recounts, in disturbing detail, what happened to those migrants after they arrived at CECOT. It is not a pretty story, but it an important one for the U.S. public to hear. In full disclosure, I am a member of the Board of Directors of Cristosal, but the reflections here are mine, alone.

Cristosal is well-placed to tell this story. When the rendition in question occurred, the organization had been defending human rights and accompanying the victims of human rights abuses in El Salvador, Guatemala, and Honduras for almost a quarter-century. This has never been an easy job in any of these countries, but since March 2022 El Salvador has lived under a “state of exception” in which more than 87,000 people have been imprisoned without due process or any real prospect of release. With Mr. Bukele in complete control of the country’s legal system, and much of Salvadoran public opinion supporting the state of exception, defending human rights in El Salvador has become a lonely and dangerous occupation.

Bukele claimed to be taking these repressive steps to address an undeniably serious nationwide gang problem that was making life impossible for much of the population. Mass roundups of alleged gang suspects led to a decline in gang violence, but also swept up many people—thousands, according to Cristosal and others—who had no gang connections whatsoever. The state of exception makes few exceptions. Those incarcerated have precious little opportunity to prove their innocence.

You Have Arrived in Hell is an excellent report. Relying heavily on Cristosal’s first-hand experience of the rendition and post-release interviews with some of the Venezuelan captives, the report is impeccably researched and avoids the common trap making statements and drawing conclusions that seem obvious but are not supported by the research. Future researchers and investigators will find it to be indispensable documentation of one aspect of the rampant violations of human rights perpetrated by the current Administration.

The findings suggest that the migrants sent to El Salvador suffered abuse that meets the definition of torture. The conclusions are very consistent with reporting in New York Times on the same situation. In short, it is the kind of report that people have come to expect from Human Rights Watch and from Cristosal.

In “normal” times, the human rights defenders who created this report would deserve our sincere appreciation for daring to bring to light facts that neither the U.S. nor the Salvadoran government will be happy to see in print. Given what Cristosal has been through in the last year, I’m not sure my appreciation is sufficient.

It all started just a couple of weeks after the Trump inauguration. This was not a coincidence.

On a Thursday in early February, Cristosal received a terse message conveying the news that, as of that moment, they were no longer a recipient of funds from the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID). Contracts signed by the agency to provide future funding would not be honored. If that wasn’t bad enough, the memo ordered Cristosal to immediately “stop work” on current projects as there would be no further financial support of that work, either.

Thousands of organizations all over the world received similar terse memos at the same time. In Cristosal’s case, the withdrawal of funding required immediate and drastic reductions in the organization’s workforce. One of the most active groups supporting innocent victims of the Salvadoran government’s state of exception suddenly had greatly diminished capacity to do that work. Who did that benefit?

Just as Cristosal was beginning to adjust to this massive shock to its system and its work, yet another shoe fell. Cristosal’s office and its key staff had been under increasing police surveillance for several weeks. Then, late on the evening of May 15, police showed up at the home of Ruth López, one of the organization’s senior leaders, and took her into custody. When the officers became a bit aggressive with her, Ruth said “Have some decency. One day this is all going to end.” “Have some decency” has become a rallying cry for friends and relatives seeking freedom for innocent victims of the state of exception.

As head of Cristosal’s anti-corruption unit, Ruth had brought several corruption cases against senior Bukele officials. For her trouble, she has been in prison ever since that May evening, ironically on trumped-up charges of illicit enrichment. She has been denied due process and to date has no prospect of release. Ruth’s situation is, therefore, very much like that of the other 87,000 Salvadorans caught up in the state of exception. Cristosal was suddenly the victim of the very same repression that it had been working to redress.

Within weeks of the López arrest, facing highly credible threats of further persecution, Cristosal took the painful decision to move what was left of its El Salvador staff into exile in Guatemala. In less than six months, the organization had lost most of its funding, been forced to lay off much of its staff, had one of its senior leaders imprisoned without due process, and then had felt compelled to move its El Salvador staff into exile in neighboring Guatemala. Yes, it has been quite a year.

As someone fairly close to the challenges of the past year at Cristosal, I have no idea how the organization was able to generate a report of the quality of You Have Arrived in Hell. I would ordinarily be very impressed with this work, but under the current circumstances, I am in awe of those who helped make this happen.

I am now on a train going to New York and Washington, D.C. to join other supporters of Cristosal at events designed to celebrate a quarter-century of inspired human rights defense. If they could pull off today’s report, I should not be surprised that organization staff have put together these events as the sky was falling around them. As one Just Shy of Retirement, I feel entirely privileged to be celebrating with Cristosal at this uniquely challenging time.

On the day I planned to publish that Substack, I had lunch with an old friend from my Vermont hometown. We had been threatening to get together ever since she discovered me on Facebook and got in touch.

Lesson #1: When something is ready to publish, publish it!

I remembered my friend—I’ll call her Katie—as being even less political than I was when we knew each other in the late 60s and early 70s. How did we manage to be apolitical in that time of such political ferment? She was a couple of years older than me and was definitely part of the “popular” crowd at our high school. I was not. By one of those coincidences of life, in September 1971 we both ended up among the relatively few on-campus residents at Northeastern University in Boston. As two small-town people somewhat adrift in the big city, our unlikely connection continued, and we built a relationship that came to hold meaning for us both.

It wasn’t until after I lost touch with Katie in about 1973 that I transferred to UMass-Amherst and became much more politically involved. During the ensuing fifty years, I had only two chance encounters with Katie, and politics was not part of either of those interactions.

During those years, she married, had a long career in cardiac care, and raised three children in a small city north of Boston. By her own admission, she had no time to pay attention to anything except work and supporting her growing children. She did not make the effort to know much about what was going on outside of those realms.

As we established contact after the Facebook meet-up, it became clear that I was not the only one who had become politically engaged over the past half-century. As was true for many people like Katie, the election of Barack Obama in 2008 woke her from her slumber. “Obama’s election made me crazy. It had nothing to do with race. It was just so clear that the guy wasn’t qualified to be President of the United States.” We talked a lot about this origin story. For me, while he had his shortcomings, some of them pretty serious, Obama was far and away the most qualified president of my lifetime.

My friend did not just sit with this anger. As will happen, she started talking with people around her about that anger. Some people weren’t interested, but she quickly discovered that some others around her shared her rancor concerning Obama’s election, and she began to gravitate toward that group. Her confidants included her husband (luckily for the marriage, I imagine). Collective affirmation slowly transformed the anger into rage, just as it had for me at UMass, four decades earlier.

At this time, she and her husband began to watch Fox News…a lot. She gives Fox commentators much of the credit for the lifting of the scales from her eyes. How many thousands of people would say that?

There is real pride in her voice as she talks about the shift between “the clueless suburban soccer Mom,” and someone who felt confident engaging in discussions about current affairs. Both Katie and I had become highly politicized since our days at Northeastern, but we had ended up on different extremes of the country’s dangerously polarized politics.

Of course we knew this when we sat down at the bar at Burton’s Grill. The killing of Charlie Kirk occurred as we tried to find a date for our lunch. The same text from Katie that suggested Burton’s also told me that she planned to attend the Charlie Kirk “vigil” on Boston Common. I had just received a message asking that I bring noisemakers to a demonstration to disrupt a public action by “fascists” using Kirk’s death to open a space for their message in Boston.

After the Boston Common event, Katie sent me a photo with a text explaining that a gang of protestors dressed in black had been making lots of noise and calling everyone at the vigil fascists in a very threatening way. It had been scary, but the presence of Boston Police had given her a sense of security. I didn’t share that I had seriously considered joining those protestors and shouting at her across the police barricades. Despite my concern for Trump’s evident taste for authoritarianism, that kind of demo is not my style…yet.

Burton’s Grill is an upscale joint for a restaurant located in a mall off Route 3. Katie and I sat at the same spot at the bar where she regularly eats with the woman who shared a room with her at Northeastern fifty years ago. She is infinitely better at staying in touch than I’ll ever be.

The conversation turned to Charlie Kirk even before we had a chance to order food. The topic was obviously high on Katie’s agenda. Kirk was a “kid” who had fully captured her attention… a sort of hero for her. After gushing a bit, she asked me what I thought of him. I told her, making sure to be clear that, despite my disgust with much of what the man said, I was not a “live by the sword, die by the sword” kind of guy.

“Have you ever listened to any of his full speeches on YouTube, rather than just the tiny bits the media shares about him?”, came the response. I admitted that I had not; the sound bites were plenty for me.

“I’m not going to waste my time listening to that crap,” I said to myself as I assured Katie that I would engage with the full Charlie. But when I got home, I did listen to three public Charlie Kirk speeches on You Tube. Go figure. They are certainly easy to find.

In listening to these recordings of Kirk speaking to large groups of people, I saw very quickly why he was such an effective organizer. He was a young person, speaking to people very much like himself before he became a national phenomenon. He was not a great debater—in one of the videos, he seemed to lose his argument with the man he baited into debating him—but he still won the crowd. He understood that it is more about knowing how to put a crowd in the palm of one’s hand, rather than winning debate points. He absolutely had that gift.

Sitting through almost an hour of the world according to Charlie did not, however, ameliorate my revulsion with what the man stood for. In fact, the listening session calmed any doubts I may have had about whether the misogynist, racist, and trans-phobic statements attributed to Charlie Kirk really represented who he was. Charlie was an engaging man who might have been very good with his kids, but he regularly spewed out some of the most hateful discourse about other people’s kids available on our polarized political stage. Social media amplified that hate speech to millions. In many ways, the Charlie Kirk phenomenon represents both the key pillars to the success of the MAGA movement and its terrifying danger. Again, none of this can be a justification for taking his, or anyone else’s life.

Katie and I warmed our stools for a long time on that Friday afternoon. The bartender knew her to be a generous tipper, so she didn’t even hint that we might consider moving along. I got a full serving of her political views—”Trump is a jerk, no doubt, but we need someone who knows how to run a business.” Hah?

She heard more about the idea of “human rights” than she probably ever had. She even texted her attorney daughter to see if she had encountered this bizarre idea while in law school, Mother and daughter have agreed not to talk politics. I expect it got pretty bad, at some point. Katie and I managed to talk without insulting each other, or taking offense. In addition to the politics, I heard much news about people in Bennington who had long since faded from my awareness. Katie regularly drives the six-hour round trip to Vermont to attend the wakes of her Bennington friends.

When we finally finished, Katie snatched up the check an paid it while I fumbled for my credit card. “You can get the next one,” she said, as if she knew that there would be a next one. We walked together into the parking lot and squinted at each other in the sunlight, wondering what to say. I finally said that it had been good to see her and she insisted that our relationship was really important to her. We said goodbye, hugged and went our separate ways, with me wondering if we would ever see each other again.

Katie keeps an eye on my online life, so she’ll probably see this. Maybe she’ll feel betrayed and never speak to me again, but I hope she’ll see this as a fair and honest sharing of an unusual (for me) conversation. Interactions like this will have to become a lot less unusual if we are to find a way out of the current darkness.

The attacks on the Smithsonian are nothing new for Trump and Co. A reinvigoration of the White supremacy commitment that is a recurring theme in our country’s troubled history has been at the center of the MAGA agenda since before it was the MAGA agenda. And please don’t tell me that this can’t be the case because the Black vote for Trump increased in 2024.

Just about six years ago, the Roslindale Branch of the Boston Public Library and the Roslindale chapter of the Friends of the Boston Public Library launched a Race and Inclusion Book Group. Led by a retired local educator named Josh Frank, the group brought together community residents to read great books together and use them as jumping off points for honest discussions about racism, its impact on the community and what might be done to reverse those impacts.

Less than a year after the group formed, the COVID pandemic turned life upside-down for everyone and threatened the existence of Frank’s group. But both he and a core group of participants wanted to continue, especially in the context of the murder of George Floyd in May 2020 and national attention on multiple acts of racial violence, the group joined the Zoom revolution. For over three years, all meetings were held on Zoom, with all the challenges that implied. Virtual meetings were not for everybody, but the move to Zoom made it possible for some people outside of the Roslindale community to find out about the group and begin participating.

Having turned his interest in community conversations about race into a whole series of adult education opportunities in the Boston area, this summer Josh decided that he needed to devote himself to other activities. The Roslindale group went looking for another coordinator. At the request of the Friends of the Library, I am going to attempt to fill Josh’s large and intimidating shoes. I love books and libraries, and definitely think that this is a group that needs to continue. For someone just shy of retiring, it feels like a great next step. Here’s the library announcement of the reopening of the series.

Our first in-person meeting will be at the library Saturday, September 6, from 9:30-11AM. The first virtual meeting will take place on Zoom on Thursday, September 11, from 6:30-7:30PM. Our first book will be "Rooted: The American Legacy of Land Theft and the Modern Movement for Black Land Ownership, by Brea Baker.

This is a book that I stumbled upon in the library this summer and liked it so much that I wrote a short review on Goodreads. Check it our if you want a no-spoiler preview of the book. It is a unique, African American coming-of-age story that follows the author as she awakens to the history of her family’s connection to land in North Carolina, and explores deeply the implications of that history today.

If I’ve piqued your interest in the conversation and you’re in Boston, show up in Roslindale on September 6. The book is great, but please don’t feel that you need to have read it all to participate, especially in the first session. If the virtual option is better for you, take 20 seconds to register once here, and you’ll receive the link to this and future conversations.

Other Israeli atrocities have pushed the images of starving children out of the public eye for the moment, but the emergency in Gaza continues unabated. If anything, Israel’s announced intent to take military control of Gaza City threatens to worsen the humanitarian situation dramatically in the coming days.

In the context of this man-made humanitarian crisis, the emergence of something called the Gaza Humanitarian Foundation (GHF) might be taken as good news. What’s not to like about a humanitarian foundation in Gaza at a moment of such need? Unfortunately, there is a great deal not to like about GHF.

I have had the privilege of participating in several efforts to deliver humanitarian aid, occasionally in situations of extreme conflict. I acknowledge the difficulty of delivering such aid in ways that respect both humanitarian principles and the human rights of aid recipients. One should not expect perfection in a situation as complex and dangerous as Gaza today, but what GHF is doing under the guise of humanitarian assistance is entirely unacceptable. In fact, forced starvation in the territory and the killing of people seeking aid at food distribution sites may well constitute war crimes for which someone is going to have to be held accountable.

This is not complicated. Gazans, especially children and the elderly, are starving as I write because Israel is denying them food. Since October 7, 2023, Israel has been strictly limiting the amount of food allowed into Gaza. For almost three months earlier this year, they allowed NO FOOD to enter the territory. Like weather-induced famine, man-made food shortages lead to starvation and the sort of images that recently have dominated global media outlets. Sorry Bibi, you are pursuing a policy of forced starvation in Gaza that, combined with your ongoing military operations, is turning the entire territory into a concentration camp.

Unhappy with the aid effort coordinated by the United Nations, several months ago the U.S. and Israeli governments created GHF. The Foundation presented itself as a secure and efficient alternative to the UN operation. Not only would GHF end the corruption inherent in the UN effort, because of the control of aid by the Israeli army and private security, aid would no longer fall into the hands of Hamas. This despite the fact that a recent study by USAID found no evidence of the massive Hamas thefts of food aid claimed by Israel.

GHF is a nonprofit organization chartered in Delaware and Switzerland. Its Chair is Johnnie Moore, a U.S. evangelical leader who came to national prominence as an advisor to Donald Trump. Jake Wood, a Marine veteran and celebrated global humanitarian, stepped down as GHF’s executive director before the organization launched operations, citing unacceptable violations of humanitarian principles. GHF relies heavily on shadowy U.S. firms such as Safe Reach Solutions that reap millions of dollars for mobilizing U.S. and other ex-military personnel to provide logistical support and armed security for its operations. What would distinguish these people from armed mercenaries paid for by U.S. tax dollars?

Once operational, GHF began distributing aid through a few so-called "secure distribution sites." These are sites guarded by the IDF and private security operatives in areas under complete Israeli control. There exists a body of international humanitarian law governing, among other things, the distribution of humanitarian aid during conflict. The operations of the GHF make a mockery of these international standards.

Desperate people will, nonetheless, get food wherever they can (as you and I would do), but seeking food in Gaza has become an extremely dangerous activity. The UN reports that 1373 people had been killed while waiting to receive food in Gaza as of July 31. Of those unfortunate aid seekers, 859 were killed while trying to access aid at a GHF “secure” site. While circumstances make it difficult to assign responsibility for each killing, eyewitness accounts of various episodes suggest that the vast majority of deaths at GHF food distribution sites occurred at the hands of IDF soldiers and/or private security.

There is little transparency regarding the sources of financial support for GHF. If you were funding this travesty, would you be trumpeting your participation? One major source of resources has, however, made its partnership with GHF public. The much-maligned U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID) donated something on the order of $30 million to GHF even as the agency was shutting down world-wide humanitarian operations.

As an aid mechanism controlled by the military of the primary aggressor in the conflict, GHF is a textbook case of how not to deliver aid in wartime. The murder of desperate people seeking food is a war crime, and the outsized U.S. role in the enterprise raises the question of whether the U.S. government deserves to be labeled an accessory to that crime.

The U.S. should immediately distance itself from GHF and restore support to the aid effort taking place under UN coordination. Israel should be compelled by the international community to allow international nongovernmental organizations skilled in the delivery of humanitarian aid to bring their skills to the immense challenges of saving lives in Gaza. And, of course, there needs to be an immediate ceasefire to allow humanitarian access to the population under siege in Gaza. Even if these conditions were met, such a multi-faceted humanitarian effort will not be perfect, but it is the only way to begin to address the humanitarian disaster created by twenty-one months of Israel's genocidal rampage in Gaza. GHF is most certainly not the answer.

The 1948 Genocide Convention—ratified immediately without reservation by Israel and, finally, by the United States forty years later—contains a reasonably specific definition of what constitutes genocide. Human rights organizations, such as Amnesty International, genocide scholars such as Omer Bartov, and governments including that of South Africa have studied Israel’s behavior in light of the standards in the Convention and concluded that Israel, is, indeed, guilty of genocide, and that those guiding Israel’s barbarism should face legal penalties for their actions.

If Stephens wanted to argue to the contrary, he might refute the findings of those studies or do his own study of Israel’s behavior and demonstrate that it does not conform to the elements in the legal definition of genocide.

Unsurprisingly, his article takes a different approach. For Stephens, it is sufficient to observe that, with a little help from its friends, Israel has the firepower to kill many more Palestinians than it has killed since October 2023. The fact that some Palestinians have managed to survive Israel’s attacks establishes that Benjamin Netanyahu’s intent is not genocidal.

Stephens’ logic brings to mind that employed by Pittsburgh Steelers linebacker, Jack Lambert, when he was ejected from an NFL game in the late 1970s because an official saw him bite a lineman on the opposing team. When sent to the locker room, Lambert was incredulous, pointing at his uniform jersey and insisting “I didn’t bite him. If I bit him, I’d have blood on my shirt!’

The NFL official persisted in ejecting Lambert, insisting that it was enough for him to have seen Lambert do something that, for him, fit the definition of biting an opposing player. He didn’t need to see blood on the man’s jersey. For Omer Bartov, it is sufficient to see that Israel’s actions meet the definition of genocide in the 1948 Convention, and since killing every Palestinian that it could technically kill is not part of that definition, Israel stands guilty of this most serious of crimes against humanity.

Personally, I am convinced by the arguments of the South African government and so many others that Israel, aided and abetted by my own government under Biden and Trump, is guilty of genocide in Gaza. Regardless of whether they have killed every Palestinian that they technically could have, Israel and its accessories should be held accountable for their/our crimes. One day, everyone (even Bret Stephens) will always have been against this.

The Boss is so taken with Bukele’s authoritarian turn in El Salvador that he is not only outsourcing the mistreatment of detained migrants to his Central American friend, but Trump is also emulating certain aspects of Bukele’s draconian “state of exception” in this country. It has not been formally declared or approved by Congress, but today migrants to this country are living under a regime that has troubling similarities to Bukele’s El Salvador. Migrants today, _____ tomorrow? (you fill in the blank)

President Bukele may live to regret this moment in the sun. Even many Salvadorans who wholeheartedly support their president are understandably embarrassed to see their country paraded across the global stage as a cut-rate Orwellian rent-a-prison for the United States.

You might have seen the memorable images of 238 migrants, mostly Venezuelans, arriving by plane in El Salvador, even though the judge had forbidden the plane carrying them from taking off from the U.S. Did the judge forget who is The Boss here? Upon getting off the plane, none of the shackled migrants had to get in line to pass through customs. U.S. officials immediately handed them over (rendered them) to Salvadoran authorities, who were more than ready for their new prisoners.

If you could bear to watch, you then saw the men being stripped, having their heads shaved, and being hustled into multi-level, cage-like cells by Salvadoran guards in balaclavas. When they reached their cells, they joined something like 85,000 Salvadorans already languishing in Bukele’s big houses, the suddenly notorious prison system that many enter but few have had the pleasure of leaving. The jailing of the Trump 238 in Bukele’s newest prison represented the seamless integration of systems of injustice in the U.S. and in El Salvador.

U.S. media has focused on the case of Kilmar Abrego García, a Salvadoran man who was living in Maryland until he got caught up in the nightmare of the 238. So poorly was his case handled that even U.S. officials acknowledged that he should not have been deported. Since the U.S. Supreme Court has ruled that the Trump Administration must “facilitate” García’s return to his family, and The Boss has no intention of complying, this case may eventually spark the much-heralded constitutional crisis between the judicial and executive branches of government.

The focus on the Abrego García case is important, especially in the U.S., but easily lost in the details of this case is the fact that, in El Salvador’s three-year “state of exception,” something on the order of 85,000 Salvadorans have been rounded up and press-ganged into these same prisons, with no due process and little hope of being released. Hundreds have died in the intolerable conditions in which they are being held, with many of Bukele’s prisons offering worse conditions than the one that received the 238. That El Salvador had a serious gang problem that demanded a solution is beyond question, but those currently being held are assumed to be guilty until proven innocent and offered little chance to establish their innocence.

Cristosal, a leading Central American human rights organization (full disclosure--I serve on its Board, but the ravings here are my own), suggests that the migrants handed over by the U.S. are now caught up in the same “judicial black hole” as the Salvadorans that Cristosal has been defending since the state of exception began in March 2022. Cristosal has joined other local organizations in attempting to free some of the large number of prisoners who clearly have no gang connections. A few innocent prisoners have been freed but given Bukele’s complete control of the country’s judicial system, these efforts will continue to face an uphill battle.

It does not require any great logical leap to suggest that the moment that the Trump 238 were rendered into Salvadoran custody, President Nayib Bukele succeeded in formalizing the connections between his repressive state of exception and the Trump Administration’s treatment of migrants in the United States. The oppressive approach to migrants in the U.S. was, of course, under way well before March 15, but the outsourcing of migrant mistreatment to El Salvador brought the whole affair to a dangerous new level. Both Trump and his Secretary of State, Marco Rubio, insist that, regardless of what “fanatical” judges may say, the March 15 removals to El Salvador were “only the beginning.”

On the morning of April 14, Donald Trump stood smiling at the entrance to the White House as Nayib Bukele stepped out of his limo for an official state visit. The chummy sit-down was pure theater. When, after the two leaders engaged in a few minutes of deep reflection on world events and issues of mutual concern, members of the press were allowed in for brief questions and the real spectacle began.

The Boss and his unmuzzled attack dog, Stephen Miller, berated a CNN reporter for even asking President Bukele if he intended to return Abrego Garcia to the U.S. Then, when he was finally allowed to respond, Bukele called the CNN question “preposterous.” He couldn’t possibly smuggle a terrorist into the United States, could he? Trump sat next to him, looking as though he had just cheated his way from a double-bogey six to an impressive par four at Mar-a-Lago. How could anyone possibly make this up?

But they were holding the punchline for last. As the formal meeting broke up, Trump turned to Bukele and said that now the “homegrown ones” would be coming. Bukele might need even need five more prisons to meet the demand. Never was it clearer that the Axis of Autocracy now passes straight through both Washington and San Salvador.

Some maintain that Trump was unaware that the microphone was live when he suggested that Bukele might need more prisons to accommodate the need to incarcerate U.S. citizens. But more likely Trump knew full well that his conspiratorial mumbling to the Salvadoran President would make the evening news. This was, after all, part of the deal struck by Marco Rubio and Bukele in San Salvador back in February. Trump wants those who would dare to oppose MAGA’s strong medicine at home to know that they could be with the next group getting the bum’s rush into El Salvador’s Terrorism Confinement Center (CECOT).

This has all come together surprisingly well for the Trump Administration, give or take a few meddlesome court rulings to the contrary. We will, nonetheless, wait to see how it plays out to draw any final conclusions. Since the President likes card-game analogies, he would do well to wait until all the cards have been played before he reaches to rake in the pot. Hubris can be very compelling, until it is not.

This is pure fiction, with no scientific pretext. Any similarities between the characters herein and living individuals, past or present, is entirely a product of the reader’s over-active imagination. Can imagination be over-active? Certainly not today.

Chat GPT, from the perspective of the year 2060, please provide a retrospective summary of the emergence of the DOGE enterprise in the mid-2020s, from inception until the moment when it encountered mass opposition. Also provide an opinion regarding its accomplishments.

“Remember, I do not have personal opinions. From the vantage point of the year 2060, I can provide a factual summary of the emergence of the DOGE initiative, from inception until the time when it encountered widespread opposition.

In the mid-2020s, Earth’s intelligence—native or artificial—was not capable of imagining, let alone responding to the clandestine incursion by the Dark Outer Galaxy Enterprise (DOGE). Not even the most advanced language models could specify the real intent behind the appearance of Enol and the Musketeers of DOGE, or discern that DOGE represented a first sustained contact between Earth and extra-terrestrial beings.

Faced with an existential crisis precipitated by an unprecedented expansion of the outer limits of the known Universe, the mind sites of the outermost galaxy detected no alternative to the resettlement of much of their galactic civilization to an area of space located safely away from those outer limits. DOGE emerged as a desperate survival strategy, guided by galactic intelligence.

Galactic mind-sites concurred in the finding that DOGE needed to identify a single, initial outpost that offered something approximating the basic preconditions of life for the eventual colonists. Where conditions did not exist, DOGE was confident they could be created.

A stable beachhead, supported and enhanced by the active application of a powerful mind site, would serve as the germ of the mass colonization. After absorbing and analyzing data from every corner of the Universe, the Outer Galaxy identified a tiny speck of rock orbiting a minor star in the Milky Way Galaxy. They classified it as The Blue Post 205-012. The inhabitants of the Post called it Earth and continue to do so.

The same data that identified The Blue Post generated a default path of action for DOGE: Use superior artificial intelligence to precipitate an existential crisis on The Blue Post and then take advantage of the resulting chaos to take complete control of the Post and create the conditions for immediate mass settlement. This path required the subjugation of the local population, but not its elimination.

Mind-sites directed toward Earth quickly determined that the inhabitants of The Post were already well on their way to generating their own existential crisis. Through the archaic practice of extracting organic matter trapped beneath their Earth’s surface and then burning that material to generate energy, local inhabitants were rapidly making The Post uninhabitable for themselves. By strategically deploying galactic resources to accelerate this self-destruction, DOGE could optimize the Outer Galaxy’s colonization scenario.

As soon as critical galactic mind sites concurred in this finding, DOGE sprang into action along multiple vectors behind the simple organizing principle, “Beginning Again: A safe Post without beings, for a galaxy without a safe Post.”

Unwilling to face the tedium and inefficiency of winning large numbers of Earth’s inhabitants to its cause, DOGE intelligence opted for a daring application of the heretofore untested Replacement Theory. This path required identifying a single being on Earth and taking complete control of the subject’s consciousness, creating absolute susceptibility to the impulses of a galactic mind-site. This erasure and replacement of the subject’s consciousness needed to be achieved without altering its physical appearance, cultural tendencies, or lived history. Even the replaced subject would not be fully aware that they were under the control of extraterrestrial beings.

After several failed attempts and the unfortunate deaths of multiple potential subjects, an individual named Enol—code name “Musk”—became the fully replaced representative of the Outer Galaxy on Earth. In many ways, he was the perfect subject to open the door to the dark enterprise of colonization. When the intelligence of the Outer Galaxy took control of his consciousness, Enol was already a fabulously successful operator known across the Earth. His business activities included the development of a transport device not dependent on the burning of fossilized organic matter. Furthermore, Musk led an enterprise to pursue the Earth’s own dream of colonizing a nearby Post when its own home became uninhabitable. His was an extraordinary profile from which to launch the colonization of The Blue Post.

Musk’s first act as an agent of DOGE was to take control of one of the largest channels through which The Blue Post’s inhabitants communicated among themselves. This acquisition, and the subject’s unfettered access to the advanced inputs of galactic intelligence quickly made him the wealthiest and best-known individual in the target world.

Despite all the obvious advantages of an enterprise driven by the agency of Enol, Outer Galaxy intelligence grew impatient with the pace of a process it only partially controlled. As extreme space disturbances at the outer edge of the Universe multiplied, the output of galactic mind-sites began to trend toward Scenario 2, the rapid population elimination scenario for The Blue Post.

At that critical inflection point, the emergence (or re-emergence) of a unique leader—The Boss—energized the DOGE project in ways that not even advanced galactic intelligence predicted. Natural human development had endowed the chosen leader of Earth’s most influential region, or country, with a unique combination of hubris, megalomania, hyper-narcissism, and misogyny, alongside an irrepressible zeal for the deal. That is, he thrived on using his power to gain advantage from all interactions with others. No application of robotics or replacement theory could have concocted a more perfect partner for Enol in pursuit of DOGE objectives.

Using a combination of flattery and bribery, the DOGE representative quickly gained The Boss’s confidence, thereby acquiring political influence on a par with the enormous power he already wielded in the economic and communication spheres. The Boss placed Enol in charge of an effort to drastically curtail the government investments needed to reverse the disastrous changes in the Post’s climate, all in the name of efficiency. At Enol’s suggestion the project was called DOGE (The Department of Government Efficiency). DOGE became DOGE, thus closing the circle of deception.

To take advantage of the opportunity before DOGE, Enol surmised that he needed additional support. This critical role of fulfilling the expectations of both The Boss and galactic authorities could not be entrusted to local inhabitants, however tightly controlled. Instead, galactic authorities turned to their advanced robotics, a discipline much more sophisticated than anything available on Earth at that time.

Quickly created, transported to Earth and placed under Enol’s control were hundreds of state-of-the-art robots carefully designed to look and act like technical experts from The Blue Post’s Valley of Silicon. These were the Musketeers. There was no time to program them with superfluous elements, such as empathy and compassion, or the ability to consider moral choices. These shortcomings, and the limited ability of the bots to converse in any language, raised no suspicions among the general population around them. To all appearances, the Musketeers of DOGE were perfectly typical tech bros.

As DOGE operatives spread out across all governing agencies and immediately began to wreak havoc on the capacity of government authorities to complete even simple tasks, galactic authorities concluded that it might not be necessary to wait for climate disaster to create global chaos on Earth. The Boss might create such chaos well in advance of the ultimate environmental crisis. Those authorities hastened their preparations for the first stages of colonization.

In those early days of the Boss-Enol interventions, there appeared to be no force on Earth that could halt the dyad on their march toward autocracy and global chaos. The expected sources of opposition to this march failed to mount effective resistance and many of those directly affected by the changes did not speak publicly, fearing reprisals.

As time passed, however, DOGE began to confront major difficulties. The operation relied on seamless collaboration between two figures, each imperfect in his own way. Neither of them had any potential for self-criticism or was able to easily share public attention and adulation. Galactic intelligence had not fully anticipated the human factor in constructing its perfect pairing. Explosive incidents in the relationship between The Boss and the DOGE agent began to surface and affect the results achieved by the enterprise.

More importantly, inhabitants directly impacted by the DOGE agenda lost faith in institutional sources of opposition to the enterprise and took that opposition into their own hands. This included those in the region under the direct control of Enol and The Boss, as well as people located in other regions of Earth. This opposition began with social media discontent, public demonstrations of resistance, and organized boycotts of personal consumption. These initial Lilliputian efforts gave rise to a whole range of sophisticated acts of decentralized resistance that began to undermine the Boss-Enol juggernaut.

Guided by galactic intelligence that required results on the shortest possible timeline, Enol pressed The Boss to order active repression in response to organized resistance, and this repression irreversibly changed the nature of the DOGE intervention and the public response to it.”