Two Worlds

My attention and focus have been on the events unfolding in the United States—and they have been for quite some time. Despite everything, I am American. I love my country, even though the relationship is complicated. I experienced a level of freedom that I once took for granted, and only with distance have I come to understand how unique that experience truly was. To witness such drastic changes in real time has been deeply unsettling—bordering on traumatic.

I have never visited the state of Minnesota. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure why, considering Illinois is just a stone’s throw away. When I thought of Minnesota, images of cold snowy winters, the Mall of America, and the home of Prince came to mind. What I did not fully grasp until recently was the strength, courage, and profound sense of community that has emerged so visibly in the face of tragedy.

There is always so much happening in America that it becomes difficult to keep up with the current outrage. But what has occurred in Minnesota in recent weeks has brought the country to its knees. Unarmed citizens—who posed no threat—were killed by law enforcement. This is not new. It is painfully common. The difference is the skin color of the victims.

What struck me most was the level of outrage and engagement. I have never witnessed anything like it. My emotions moved quickly—from deep sadness and empathy for the victims and their families to pure rage. Rage born from the endless violence that people of color—specifically Black and brown people—have endured for generations.

I think of the Native women and girls who go missing or are murdered with little public acknowledgment. I think of the brown children locked in cages at detention centers not long ago. I think of the countless Black lives lost, often reduced to headlines and used as rage bait. When I reflect on the role of the news today, it feels less like a source of information and more like a system that profits from trauma—turning human suffering into a product.

To say this is overwhelming would be an understatement. Witnessing the routine loss of human life forces a kind of numbness just to function. Accepting it as normal feels deeply disturbing. My decision to leave the United States was rooted in this reality. The killing of everyday citizens had become so routine it felt as ordinary as brushing my teeth each morning. Spiritually, mentally, and emotionally, I was deteriorating.

I was shown—explicitly and implicitly—that people who look like me do not matter. That our lives are disposable. That we must have done something to deserve violence. This narrative has long been woven into American history and cannot be denied.

In many ways, things have come full circle. Abuse, violence, and murder were tolerated when the victims were people of color. People of color move through life constantly defending their humanity while trying to assimilate into a culture that does not respect them. It is exhausting. It is disheartening. And it steals time—time that could be spent on growth, self-development, and meaningful contribution to community.

I remember feeling deep frustration with local politicians in my state, sensing that the constant bickering was never truly about the people. I knew I needed to fulfill parts of myself that had nothing to do with productivity, money, or survival.

What carries me through is the practice of humanity. Reflection. Awareness. Taking time to process how experiences shape my beliefs, thoughts, and the way I engage with myself and others. How I move through the world is a direct reflection of that inner work.