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Yesterday’s killings the Ukrainian girl on the bus, the young, bright politician Charlie Kirk have left me feeling raw. I am more than upset. I’m haunted by how numb we seem to be growing.

I try to be fair. I believe the same grief and anger are due when Muslims in Gaza are killed, whether by Hamas or by Israel. But I confess: I struggle to trust the mainstream media. All too often I feel it leans toward antisemitism, or vilifies people like me, people who long for a world where ideology does not bleed into statecraft.

What we are feeling: these shared moments of sorrow is real. But what can we do beyond sharing our rage and sadness on social media, for a few days, before grief is drowned out by the next atrocity?

And yet…

Perhaps what we can do now is quieter, slower, almost invisible.

To hold on to memory longer than the headlines allow.

To let ourselves feel the weight of each lost life, instead of rushing past it.

To carry their names like stones in our pockets, reminders of the fragile thread we all share.

To answer violence not with numbness, but with the stubborn act of keeping our hearts open.

Maybe this is resistance too: refusing to forget, refusing to let sorrow harden into indifference.

Maybe it begins in these small, tender gestures: writing, speaking, remembering

until they gather into something larger than us all.