There’s a weight in the air. And not the poetic kind. The heavy, suffocating, war-is-on-the-brink kind. The kind of weight you don’t just read about – you feel it crawling under your skin, pulsing behind your eyes every time you glance at your phone and see another headline.
Iran. Israel. The U.S. bombing nuclear facilities. Iran striking back. Qatar closing its skies. Flights scattered like birds avoiding a storm they can’t quite see but know is coming. It feels like the world is spinning off its axis.
And somehow, I’m here – asking myself how we got to this point and if we’ve learned anything at all from history. Spoiler: we haven’t.
Everything is connected now. It’s cliché, sure – but it’s also never been more real. One decision, one trigger-happy press conference, one rogue drone or ballistic missile, and we’re all part of the chain reaction. Your local economy. Your internet connection. Your ability to fly home. Your safety.
And then there’s Trump.
Yes, that Trump. Back in the driver’s seat like it’s some reality show with global stakes. He didn’t just join the fire. He poured gasoline on it. And I’ll say it plainly – he’s crazy. Certifiably reckless. A man whose worldview is ego first, strategy later. You don’t bomb a powder keg like Iran and pretend you’re solving anything. You don’t poke a sleeping hornet’s nest and act surprised when everything starts stinging.
So here I am, like many others, asking a question that used to be hypothetical but now feels hauntingly real: where is safe?
I think about New Zealand. Switzerland. Iceland. Costa Rica. Places that have stayed out of global fights because they knew better. I think about Uruguay. I think about the cold logic of moving somewhere “off-grid,” far from NATO borders, far from oil routes and military bases.
But then I stop.
Because maybe safe isn’t a place anymore. Maybe safe is an illusion. A fleeting moment in history we told ourselves was permanent.
It all ought to be akin to a pandemic-but this time, we are the disease. Humanity. Our greed. Our addiction to power. Our unwillingness to de-escalate. The contagion isn’t airborne-it’s in our decisions, our leaders, our silence.
And still, I sit here wondering about passports, exit strategies, backup plans. I look at my daughter. I think of the future we’re barreling toward. And I hate that I can’t promise her certainty. I can’t even promise her peace.
So many thoughts. So many questions. No easy answers.
But I’ll write through this. I’ll think out loud. Because maybe that’s the only way to stay sane when the world is doing its best impression of madness.
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