The U.S.—the country of my birth and current residence—has an abysmal history of genocide, enslavement, dispossession, and injustice, only intermittently relieved by contributions to humanity that are nonetheless real and highly significant. It is a nation of profound aspiration and profound brutality, capable of both democratic invention and systematic betrayal.
Given its reputation as a bastion of democracy, among its more egregious actions during my lifetime are its overt and covert efforts to undermine democracy elsewhere. The contradiction is not incidental. It is structural. Again and again, American leaders have proclaimed freedom while supporting repression, invoked order while sowing chaos, and justified domination in the name of stability, security, or progress.
“The political scientist Lindsey O’Rourke has counted sixty-four occasions when the U.S. sought to secretly oust a government or tilt an election during the Cold War,” writes Daniel Immerwahr in The New Yorker (March 23, 2026). “More than two-thirds of these attempts were, like the Iran coup, in support of authoritarians.” Many similar efforts, both during the Cold War and since, have not been secret at all. Nor have they been coherent or principled. From U.S. involvement in the overthrow of Salvador Allende in Chile to the removal of Saddam Hussein in Iraq, they have often been opportunistic, short-sighted, and catastrophic in their human consequences.
The deeper problem is not only hypocrisy, though there has been plenty of that. It is the habit of presuming that immense power confers wisdom; that military, financial, and technological dominance entitle one nation to shape the destiny of others; that history can be managed from above without moral injury or systemic blowback. This illusion has cost countless lives. It has also degraded the moral and civic fabric of the United States itself.
I despair of my country enough that I have largely abandoned sustained attention to U.S. politics and policy. Not because they do not matter, but because the planetary predicament seems to me vastly more consequential in the long run than whatever transpires during the remaining years of the second Trump administration—or what comes after it. Empires rise and decline. Administrations come and go. But the integrity of the biosphere, the stability of the climate, the viability of civilization, and the possibility of a habitable future are questions on an altogether different scale.
All I can say, at this point, is that I hope to contribute to one of America’s better innovations on behalf of humanity: the capacity to imagine beyond inherited limits, to create new forms, to experiment, to organize, to renew. We need to turn our attention away from the compulsive day-to-day preoccupations of our society and toward the needs of humanity’s future. We need, all of us, to step back and take a longer view of history.
Do I wish we lived in better times? Of course. But what matters most is not merely the spectacle of our fractured and fractious society. What matters is how you and I are spending our time, what we are giving our lives to, and what we are choosing to serve. Denouncing the daily outrages being perpetrated on the body politic, however justified and however satisfying, can easily become a trap: a way of surrendering our deepest agency to the very forces we oppose. Necessary witness has its place. But witness alone is not enough. We are already called to the greater work of crafting a new world.
What matters is to continue moving forward with this project in both good times and bad. In fact, it may be even more important in bad times, because it keeps alive the light of possibility, intelligence, and wisdom. Healing Gaia and healing ourselves in the midst of societal breakdown. Keeping alive the hope of civility, truthfulness, and mutual care. Guiding technological development toward greater human and more-than-human well-being. Protecting the conditions under which future generations may yet flourish.
This is not withdrawal. It is not quietism. It is a refusal to let the terms of a degraded politics define the horizon of human possibility. It is a decision to align oneself with what is larger, longer, and more enduring than the current disorder: with life, with regeneration, with the unfinished work of becoming a wiser species.
I lament my country and the role it is currently playing on the world stage. But I cannot let this stop me from contributing to a better future. Nor should it stop you.