Compassion Without Confusion

I still remember exactly where I was on September 11, 2001. I was not yet living in the United States. In Argentina, September 11 is Día del Maestro—Teachers’ Day—a holiday devoted to those who educate, nurture, and shape the future. It is a day of celebration and gratitude, when students bring small gifts to their teachers.

That morning my school had organized a trip to Uruguay, to the old city of Colonia del Sacramento. We crossed the river by ferry, excited and carefree. While still on the coach, news began to circulate about something terrible happening in New York. By the time we arrived at the hotel and gathered for lunch, the television was on. The images were surreal: airplanes striking the Twin Towers, smoke rising, people running for their lives. I remember the collective gasp—the silence, the disbelief. It felt like watching the unthinkable. A human tragedy of unimaginable scale, a complete disregard for life itself. Even from thousands of miles away, I felt that something fundamental had shifted in the world.

Years later I came to New York on a fellowship. I went through the long process of visas and paperwork, eventually receiving my green card and, later, my citizenship. On the day of my swearing-in, I cried with gratitude and pride. From that moment, I carried an even stronger sense of civic duty and appreciation for the country that had welcomed me. I am a proud citizen of the United States, and since becoming one I have participated in five elections as a voter—each time with a deep sense of honor and responsibility. Being an American citizen is not just a privilege; it is also a duty. Choosing the right leader for our city is part of that duty—something we owe to ourselves, our families, and our society. It is a responsibility that must be carried out with wisdom.

As an educator, I believe that teachers, doctors, nurses, police officers, firefighters, and soldiers are the backbone of any society. They hold it together through service, sacrifice, and a quiet, constant commitment to others. They are the heroes who keep the moral fabric intact.

I often think back to that September day in Colonia. It reminds me that history is never made of isolated moments. What happens in one generation shapes the next. Memory matters—not for nostalgia’s sake, but because it grounds our moral compass. The attacks on September 11, 2001 were not only an assault on America. They were an assault on the idea that human life is sacred, that freedom and diversity can coexist, that cities can be havens of peace rather than battlefields. When we forget that lesson, we risk confusing the meaning of compassion itself.

That is why I watch today’s political climate in New York with both concern and sadness. I never imagined that someone with such openly anti-American and anti-Israel views as Zohran Mamdani could seriously aspire to lead this city—the very city that bore the scars of that infamous day. This is not about party or ideology; it is about moral direction. It is about whether a leader truly believes in the values that define this city: freedom, respect for life, pluralism, and truth. Charisma is not character. Eloquence can hide dangerous intentions. We must not let rhetoric blind us to reality, nor allow confusion to masquerade as compassion.

There is, however, a difference between compassion and confusion. I believe wholeheartedly in a society that protects those in need, a city that gives opportunity and dignity to all. That is what New York has always stood for. But compassion must never become blindness. There is an old saying: If it’s too stupid to be true, it’s probably not true. We must be able to tell when idealism turns into fantasy. We can—and must—care about justice, equality, and human rights without surrendering to naivety. Our city cannot afford leaders who confuse strength with cruelty or empathy with gullibility. I want a New York that remains compassionate and clear-eyed; generous and grounded in truth. That balance is the essence of good leadership and of moral maturity.

As a Jewish woman, I cannot ignore the echoes of history. For centuries, our people have made the same painful mistake: believing that appeasing those who hate us would change their hearts. It never has. Attempts to win the affection of those determined to despise us only endanger us further. What endures is authenticity—remaining true to who we are, standing firm in our values, and continuing to spread light through our actions. That is the Jewish response to confusion: to lead with moral clarity and to keep doing good despite the noise around us.

I have already voted—not only for myself, but for the safety and future of my children, my neighbors, and every New Yorker who wants to live in a city that remembers who it is. The choice is not between perfection and imperfection; it is between confusion and clarity, between those who would protect this city and those who would put it at risk. Leadership is not about slogans. It is about responsibility. A mayor must be a guardian of all communities—Jewish, Christian, Muslim, secular, immigrant, native-born. But that guardianship requires loyalty to the principles that make this city thrive: liberty, safety, and respect for every human life.

As we approach another election, I hope New Yorkers will vote with wisdom, not weariness—with discernment, not confusion. I pray that God grants us leaders who protect every resident and ensure that our diversity remains our strength, not our weakness. The city I fell in love with—the city that welcomed me, that still carries the memory of September 11, 2001 in its skyline and in its soul—deserves nothing less than leaders who remember. History is not over. It is the quiet teacher standing behind every decision we make.

Compassion is sacred, but confusion is dangerous. To honor the past and safeguard our future, we must hold on to both our kindness and our clarity.