December 2018

A recent article published by the B.B.C. described a modern politician like this: “[he] has insulted women and homosexuals…and attacked political correctness. His comments deeply divided voters and, while some expressed a dislike for him, others felt he was the outsider needed to…rough up the establishment.” Surprisingly, the politician being referred to is not Donald Trump, but Brazil’s president elect, Jair Bolsonaro. After running on a platform that emphasized both his own military background and his support for Brazil’s former dictatorship, Bolsonaro emerged victorious from Brazil’s presidential election in October. The former military captain’s divisive rhetoric centers on a nostalgia for the days of Brazil’s authoritative military regime: he has said that the only failure of this regime was that they didn’t kill enough dissidents to maintain control. This fondness for past violence, coupled with regressive environmental, educational, and immigration policies, have endeared him to some and made him repellent to others. In the current political climate, however, this type of volatile relationship between an elected government official and the country’s citizens is not unusual: the U.S. has Trump, the Philippines have Duterte, Russia has Putin, and Turkey has Erdogan. In the wake of the cultural and political upheaval of the last half of the 20th century, many nations have surrendered to leaders whose forceful nature and conservative political values create an image of a capable arbiter of order. But Bolsonaro’s election is an indication that, even if order is the desired outcome, the ends do not justify the means if the result is intolerance, destruction, and hate.

For hundreds of years, people have come to the United States seeking asylum from war-torn countries, corrupt governments, overwhelming poverty, and religious persecution in hopes of creating a better life for themselves and their families. This hope is foundational and fundamental to the compact of the American dream—there is a place for you here.

In December, 2014, I visited the Yad Vashem Holocaust History Museum in Jerusalem. [1] While the entire experience was sobering, two parts of my visit made particularly lasting impressions. The first was the shoes—the glass case set in the floor containing the shoes of Jews killed in the concentration camps of World War II. The shoes so numerous and yet so individual in wear, size, and style demonstrated the intimate and personal nature of the Holocaust. The second was a scaled-down model of one of the death camps. The industrial scale of the operation was astounding and depicted the massive scope and dehumanizing nature of the Holocaust. The soul-piercing sorrow of the historical exhibits culminating in the sacred silence of the Hall of Names listing the millions of victims of the Holocaust left me with one overwhelming thought: “We can never let this happen again.” I stepped outside and began to breathe in the cognitive dissonance that permeates the Israeli air.

The United States withdrew from the United Nations Human Rights Council (UNHRC) in June, citing the body’s fixation with Israel and their inclusion of nations with egregious human rights offenses. Nikki Haley, the United States Ambassador to the United Nations, told the media that the UNHRC is “a hypocritical and self-serving organization that makes a mockery of human rights” [1]. However, in the same month, the Trump administration continued the family separation policy on the Mexican border—which, according to a panel of child psychologists, caused “irreparable harm” to children who were detained and separated from their parents indefinitely [2].

We're gonna need a bigger boat