I do not have the words to express what I’ve been feeling these last couple of days.

Although I want to believe there’s some perfect paragraph that can puncture filter bubbles — that can unimpeachably convey the inhumanity of separating people from the lives they’ve built — I’m beginning to think this is impossible in a world where facts can have alternatives.

Thus, you’ll either understand my angst, or you’ll think I’m being Dramatic-on-the-Internet.

Either is fine.

Intellectually, part of my angst might be this: our governmental and bureaucratic institutions, I’m learning, are as fragile as George Orwell made them out to be.

How quickly they can be coopted. How easily they can be channeled toward sinister ends.

Intellectually, another part of my angst might be this: my parents immigrated to the U.S. less than forty years ago — from Egypt. Had Trump been President then, had he been allowed to build upon his present path without a fight, I might not be here.

How much of life is timing. How impermanent our values.

But look: I didn’t go to SFO today for intellectual reasons. I didn’t go because I thought it would convince airport security to throw down their badges in a dramatic gesture. I didn’t go because I thought it would change this misguided policy.

I went because I genuinely needed to know: do we have any humanity left?

I learned that we do.

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But that we’re going to need to keep fighting for it.

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