Carol Bergman

The reason you should care about this is not that it could happen to you but that it is already happening to others. It is happening to people who, we claim, have rights just because we are human. It is happening to me personally. 

-M. Gessen in the NY Times 3/17/25

Bullying paralyzes all conversation, or obliterates it. Think Zelensky in the Oval office. How did he feel, or try not to feel? Ashamed? Humiliated? Angry? Frightened? Silenced?  A mature man, a President of a nation at war, Zelensky seemed frazzled, but maintained his dignity. Still, the semiotics were clear for all to see: Trump and JD Vance tried to break Zelensky in a public display. Some observers have noted that the encounter was saturated with antisemitic tropes.

Carolyn Mackler was in 7th grade when she experienced bullying for the first time. Her secular family—her father Jewish, her mother not Jewish--had migrated to upstate Brockport, NY from New York City where Carolyn had enjoyed feeling different—because of her height, because of her intermarried family, perhaps.  "I was a free spirit in elementary school," she says.

But then one day, a Brockport classmate drew a swastika on his notebook, showed it to friends, and the bullying began. Kids called her "loser,"  sang what they thought were Jewish songs, and dressed as Nazis at Halloween.

The teachers remained silent.

"Kids are sneaky," Carolyn says, "and even after my parents went to the school to complain, the bullying didn't stop. I shrunk into myself and started feeling insecure. Finally, when I got to high school I decided to pretend I wasn't Jewish. If someone said something, I told them they were making a mistake."

Now, at 51, and a successful Young Adult novelist, with two grown sons, Carolyn decided to tackle bullying, and her own experience, in a book for 5th, 6th and 7th graders, Right Back At You. An epistolary novel, letters appear in Talia and Mason's closets across time; Talia lives in 1987 and Mason in 2023. The narrative device works well and  will surely appeal to middle-schoolers. But I wonder how parents, or educators, will process an underlying message: bullying is too difficult for adult intervention to make much difference.  There are so many well developed approaches to tackle bullying these days that I find it hard to believe this is true. That said, prejudicial bullying—bullying because of race, gender or ethnicity—is so callous that it is particularly challenging.

Like so many other books for adults, children and teens, Carolyn Mackler's novels have been banned from schools, a badge of honor. Scholastic is the publisher of Right Back At You and it is to their credit that they are taking a chance on what some consider a controversial topic. When Carolyn told her editor, David Levithan, what she wanted to write about, he gave her the go ahead without reservation. "With over 10,000 titles being banned or challenged in the last school year (per PEN America's tracking), and with titles such as The Diary of Anne Frank and Beloved being banned, it's hard to imagine publishing books that won't be threatened by censors," he wrote in an email.

Now that the book is published, Carolyn has started an ambitious Pen Pal Project. She asked Scholastic to provide stationary and started contacting school districts throughout the United States. The Sylvan Park School in Nashville, TN and the Lopez Island School on San Juan Island off the coast of Washington State will be the first two participants. 6th and 7th graders will read Right Back At You before a virtual visit with Carolyn. After the discussion, they'll get paired up as Pen Pals. 

Will they be able to create community and empathy across a geographic divide? Will the bullying in their schools stop? Will they come away with a deeper understanding of antisemitism and other hatreds? 

Stay tuned.

If your local middle school is interested in participating in the Right Back At You Pen Pal Project, contact:   www.carolynmackler.com/contact

My Seattle cousin, Ellen—an educator and an activist—sent me a Guardian article yesterday about the Tesla Take Down Movement. I hadn't read much in the American press about it which, in itself, is interesting even though it's a movement.  My heart  soars as I write that word, worthy of a different, bold font.

I don't own a Tesla, but I have friends and family members who do own a Tesla. If I could have afforded one way back when, in the era before the American berserk—more later—I would have bought one, and bought stock in the company, too. Indeed, before Elon Musk started channeling apartheid fascism, or exposed his inner apartheid fascism for all to see, he was an a-WOKE environmentally conscious entrepreneur. So, it's sad and dangerous that the a-WOKE life-affirming impulse in him did not stick. He just couldn't control his arm at the Republican convention. Maybe it spasmed.

I think I have written here about a recent trip in a Tesla, if not my first, then one of my first. I was in the back seat of the car marveling at the technology and its intent—a cleaner, safer world. The car is a miracle of engineering. Even though there is a necessary reckoning at the moment, there should be no guilt among those who have purchased this miracle vehicle. After all, the fascist impulse was in hiding. I hope the boycotts and marches continue, though, and the movement builds and builds. Until what? Hard to say.

We are in the midst of a profound sundering, the "indigenous American berserk" as Philip Roth dubbed it in his masterpiece, American Pastoral. I recommend the trilogy—American Pastoral, I Married a Communist and The Human Stain, and the more recent, The Plot Against America, all prescient.

In the meantime I rest easy, without guilt, in the driver's seat of my 2003 nearly vintage Honda lovingly maintained by an honest mechanic in my hood. And though I don't have to make any immediate divestment decisions, I will reflect with enthusiasm on the Take Down Tesla Movement, and write about it.

The appetite grows in the eating.  

-Stephen Kotkin to David Remnick, The New Yorker Radio Hour 3/7/25

I have two Canadian cousins, one in Toronto, the other on Gabriola Island off the coast of Vancouver. Sherry, my Toronto cousin wrote to ask why I haven't written about Canada yet on my blog. Of course, I can't write about everything, but I was smitten; I hadn't been paying enough attention. Sherry had crossed the border to join us for "American" Thanksgiving in 2024 after the October "Canadian" Thanksgiving, and I wondered if she'd be traveling to New York in 2025. "The only time I'm going to America is to get on and off a cruise ship," she said definitively during a recent WhatsApp conversation. 

My Gabriola Island cousin, George, said something similar. He's not going to "step foot." Unlike Sherry, he has a US passport and a Canadian passport. Happily dual. But he is not going to step foot.

I am bereft that my cousins have, for the moment, given up on America, that they are postponing their visits.  I understand, but I am bereft. Even worse, #47 signed an Executive Order on January 20 targeting Canadians. They now have to register as "aliens" if they stay in the US for more than three months. This particular "order" slipped under my radar. 

I come from an Alpine skiing family and when I was a kid I had the good fortune to go skiing every winter holiday. If there wasn't enough snow in the US, we headed for the Canadian Laurentians, a 617 mile 17 plus hour car trip from New York City. My stepfather was an endurance driver but at about 2 or 3 a.m. we pulled over to rest in a motel. The next morning we "crossed over" into Canada.  I have no recollection of a border, a border patrol, or a presentation of passports. Either I was sleeping or the border was seamless, one country segueing into another. But, of course, this is an illusion. Canada has its own culture, history, languages, politics, mores and border control.  Indeed, there is much to learn and admire about our neighbors and allies to the north-- the settler population, the immigrants and migrants, Quebec, and the First Peoples of Canada.

Talking to Sherry I realized I don't know enough about Canadian history. I asked her to recommend a good book, and I asked my cousin George the same. They are researching, and if I hear from them before I post this blog, I'll include their recommendations here.

Sherry mentioned that the patriotic fervor among Canadians across the political spectrum, inspired by the threat of annexation, has taken everyone by surprise. It has not surprised me. I remember a summer I spent in Canada at Manitou-Wabing Camp of Fine Arts as a swim instructor. I was asked to model my sculptural face in the art studio when I wasn't at the waterfront, and because I had to sit still was able to listen intently to conversations among the teen artists. They knew I was an American and were careful not to insult me with their banter, but it was evident that what I had thought was an inferiority complex was thoughtfulness, manners, and Canadian chauvinism tempered by  an altruistic, internationalist spirit.  After all, Canada is still a member of the British Commonwealth. They never seceded from that union or fomented a revolution. In sum, we may speak the same language and enjoy a shared border, but we are not the same people. Canadians are distinct. Their nation is sovereign.

Stephen Kotkin (quoted above) is realistic about aging autocrats. They always become infected with a desire for territorial expansion, he says. Nice to know but not comforting for Canada, Panama, or Greenland. Indeed, such belligerent expunging of treaties threatens all of us.

And that's just the tip of the melting icebergs this week.

A Canadian historian recommends these basic texts:  Canadian History for Dummies by Will Ferguson [new edition 2005!], still viable in 2025 and Lower's Colony to Nation.

When Fascism came into power, most people were unprepared, both theoretically and practically. They were unable to believe that man could exhibit such propensities for evil, such lust for power, such disregard for the rights of the weak, or such yearning for submission. Only a few had been aware of the rumbling of the volcano preceding the outbreak.

― Erich Fromm, Escape from Freedom,  1941

In Shanghai during the extended Covid lockdown—as reported by Evan Osnos for The New Yorker—people  were singing on their balconies and also demanding supplies. Government drones hovered in the sky: CONTROL YOUR SOUL'S DESIRE FOR FREEDOM/DO NOT OPEN THE WINDOWS TO SING  they broadcast above the heart throbbing sound of resistance.

We are bloodied but unbowed I told an EU friend this morning when she called  and asked why we were not all on the streets protesting. Patience, dear friend, we are recovering from the trauma of the coup. Our soul's desire for freedom will not be eviscerated so easily.

I only speak to myself and for myself. I cannot answer for my neighbors, or the nation, or our politicians.  From my vantage, it's a calamity from close-up or far away, certainly. And it isn't the outcome I had hoped or planned for all my progressive life. "I will never believe my government again," a young person told me the other day as we discussed ICE raids nearby. "We were supposed to be the good guys. We weren't supposed to hurt civilians, men, women and children." 

Such cruelty is hard to witness. Yet many good people are working to help the detainees in my locale. As best they can.  And that is the most we can do right now,  as we still feel endangered.  In this chaotic moment, it is not difficult to imagine the worst.

Let's say, for example, that we own our home and the home is comfortable, capacious. We are affluent, comfortable. And one day an official in a uniform barges in and says, "This house is condemned. You have to evacuate."  So we evacuate. But there is no compensation, no assistance, and maybe there is nothing wrong with the house except that someone else covets the house. What do we do? Where do we go? How do we resist once we are homeless and incapacitated, weakened by our unexpected circumstance?  Or, an email arrives at our place of work and announces "termination," as though we were vermin infecting the office. In an instant, our  life has been hit with a wrecking ball.  How do we recover and move on? 

So, patience, dear EU friend. We are taking a breath, protesting as best we can in this moment. The citizens of these United States have faced many challenges over the years. This one is cataclysmic, worse than anything in my lifetime. But now that we fully understand what has happened, we will find the courage to open our windows and sing.

When does memory begin? What memory is it that I seek? And where, on the thin border between memory and history, can I remember myself?

-Viet Thanh Nguyen, A Man of Two Faces

I am writing this blog post as the results of the German election are tabulated. The ultra-right ADF did well; they and might have done well without the endorsement of America's ultra-right government. Even to use these words in relation to the American government is new, and it's a shock. Thankfully, the weather is warming, ever so slightly, but it is warming. Just to stand around in the sunshine with friends after a long walk and talk seems both healing and necessary. These prolonged conversations are essential for me right now and I must make time for them, not rush away, I tell myself. Reassurance surfaces: "Not every improvement made over the decades will be denounced or eviscerated," someone says. "How can it be when substantial changes are now so firmly embedded in our lives? We have changed, we cannot go back. So let us celebrate and consolidate what has been accomplished thus far," someone else says.

A portfolio of "progressive" accomplishment, what an interesting idea. 

My first contribution to the portfolio, an event in my neighborhood on Saturday, February 22:

It was still cold and icy underfoot, the sky clear and cloudless, as a small congregation of New Paltz citizens gathered to commemorate the lives of two slaves, Anthony and Susanna, who had lived in the cellar of a stone house, and "self-emancipated," meaning they had  tried to escape, and were recaptured. They had been purchased by the colonial settler, Louis DuBois in 1673, one of the first recorded purchase of slaves in Ulster County. Their spirits, and those of many other enslaved Africans, haunts Historic Huguenot Street, the surrounding village, and counties.  The descendants of the 12 "patentee" families still live here and have been slow to acknowledge that their wealth and status was built on the backs of slaves, or that the narrative of tours and signage should be updated. Changes have accrued slowly over the years, and then more rapidly  when the Dr. Margaret Wade-Lewis Black Cultural Center, in partnership with Historic Huguenot Street, initiated a respectful collaboration sharing historical research and co-sponsoring some events.

Up first on the stage, Kara Augustine, Director of Public Programming at Historic Huguenot Street. In the past, she said, if you walked from one end of the street to the other, you would not have known that slaves lived here. It was an inaccurate depiction of New Paltz history that required correction.  

I could hear a gasp as one or two onlookers seemed taken by surprise at the depth of acknowledgement in this admission. In and of itself, it was an historic moment, an amplification of the  brass "stepping stone" memorial  to Susanna and Anthony.

Up next, Kate Hymes, Ulster County's 2023 Poet Laureate and the Vice President of The Margaret Wade-Lewis Center, performed a "libation," and a Bishop offered a Christian prayer.

A man beside me mumbled, "It was all so long ago. What does it matter now?" and turned away.  But most of  the audience was moved and lined up to place cowrie shells on the stones, a silent gesture of goodwill.

The memorial was inspired by the Stolpersteine Project, initiated by the German artist Gunter Denig in 1992  to commemorate the victims of the Holocaust—Jews, homosexuals, the physically and mentally disabled, and others—denoting where they lived and worked. As of June 2023, 100,000 Stolpersteine have been laid in Germany.  These stones are literally called "stumbling stones," and are placed directly in the way of traffic as a reminder of the Nazi past and the individuals who were murdered.  There's a stone in front of my father's childhood home in Wiener Neustadt outside Vienna with the names of my murdered relatives. Though it's a strange sensation to know it is there, I am grateful to have a sensation, to be a living descendant of a genocide. Let others stumble onto this stone and ask, "What happened here?" 

Anthony and Susanna's memorial is not directly underfoot; it is off to the side. But the docents at Historic Huguenot Street  will undoubtedly point then out on their tours. a significant gesture of reconciliation. As research continues apace, and descendants of the Huguenot Street slaves are identified, it is hoped that they will gather in this sacred space to honor their forbears.

What serveth a man if he gain the whole world and lose his immortal soul.

-New Testament, Mark 8:36

I woke up this morning in a fugue state. I was channeling conceptual artist Jenny Holzer in my dreams. Like her textual projections onto buildings, the words expelled from my mouth were in capital letters. I was screaming with an urgency I had not experienced since I participated in the now historic 2017 demonstration in front of Trump Tower on Fifth Avenue. Then, as now, the news reports were distorted by commentators sanitizing the purpose and  portent of the demonstration. We already knew that Trump was a gangster, that he would try to wreck our democracy, and leave INDESCRIBABLE SUFFERING  in his wake, but the mainstream broadcasters in our midst obfuscated the historical turning point with happy talk and highlighted the counter-demonstration by Antifa, the cameras turned to the drama of the possibility of violent encounter.

American market-driven newscasting is, for the most part what my professors in grad school called "Happy Talk News," and its unseriousness—remember that word from the recent campaign in a different context—is a reflection of an assumption that Americans prefer to be entertained rather than informed. This is a deceptive cover for the market-driven media environment; we are all unwittingly delivered to the advertisers. Sustained in depth conversation is available if we opt for it.  But we must  opt for it.

Even before #47, I made a decision to begin each day listening to British podcasts: BBC, The Guardian, The Economist. I admit I am an Anglophile having lived in London for a decade where I worked occasionally for the BBC as a reporter and wrote articles for The Times Educational Supplement. During those years away from America, my outraged voice muted, my interviewing deepened and became less confrontational, my geopolitical perspective expanded, my writing matured, and so did I. America was no longer the center of my world.

Perhaps my glasses are tinting rose at the moment as I look back at this period of my life. I miss London and my EU friends more than ever. It hurts when they say that they never want to step on American shores again. Like many others, I'm shattered by the consequences of the election, but also determined not to despair. As the news becomes more and more INDESCRIBABLE my morning routine continues: I cut the fruit, make important choices: yogurt or cottage cheese? I add nuts, I write in my journal, I recite a secular prayer: MAY WE CONTINUE TO WORK TOGETHER FOR PEACE, FREEDOM, AND THE RULE OF LAW AT HOME AND ABROAD. AMEN.

My parents had left Haiti in the middle of a thirty-year dictatorship during which most people were being terrorized. A woman or girl being raped or even killed was not all that unusual.

-Edwidge Danticat, All the Home You've Got

If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared.

―  Machiavelli, The Prince

When a war starts, if citizens are forced to become soldiers, they learn to shoot a gun and to kill soldiers on the "other side." If they cannot shoot their guns, they run the risk of being killed themselves. Nobody cares whether a soldier enjoys killing other people, it is just a job, or more than a job because as they are killing, they are keeping themselves—and maybe even their family—alive . Women and children are left behind unless they have volunteered to fight, which is glorious and laudable and heroic at times, for example in Ukraine right now. Or women and children are evacuated, or they decide to flee and travel long distances to find safety, either on foot, or in a vehicle of some description, or across a body of water in boats and planes, and they may never return to their homeland, or want to return. Which is my family's story once they took flight from what they always assumed would be their home, but was no longer their home. They were welcomed to the United States as refugees and sent to Wyoming for some reason I cannot find out, and my father—who was already an eye surgeon—worked in a hospital and my mother—who had finished medical school but not done her internship—became a visiting nurse.

That was then and this is now. What we are witnessing in the round-ups and deportations is not just a reckoning with what everyone agrees is  a broken immigration system, and far too many seeking safety in a country that is no longer safe, it is an attempt to redefine what America is, beyond its mythology, and what it will become if the vicious cruelty taking hold is not stopped.

Can you think of a nation that has not been touched by killing in recent years or, at the very least, internal economic strife, or worse?  A nation so peaceful that children have never seen a gun, heard the sound of bombs, or gone to sleep hungry?  Can we include American-born children in this list of formative experiences? What has the cohort in Washington done with their children I wonder?  Have they built fall-out shelters and bunkers to protect them in the event of the final apocalyptic event? Or, bought them bullet proof vests to wear in school? What do they discuss with them at the dinner table? How do they explain the promise of America?

Act like a madman and no one will trust you or dare vengeance, Machiavelli suggested.  

The Prince has taken him at his word.

He piled upon the whale's white hump the sum of all the general rage and hate felt …from Adam down; and then, as if his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart's shell upon it.

― Herman Melville, Moby Dick

The drama's done says Ishmael at the conclusion of Melville's masterpiece. He has survived the wreck and lived to tell the tale of Captain Ahab and the whale. He steps forth as courageous witness to record his testimony. The prose is biblical in its intensity, or Shakesperean, or both. There is little time or space for the reader to breathe. The waves pound the beach and the survivors on the beach. All of us, if we are not in government, are on that selfsame beach gasping for air, grasping for solid ground as we are thrown onto dry land entangled in seaweed and the detritus of the slaughtered leviathan—our body politic, ourselves.

Every day has its drama, and its personal challenge, as we try to prepare for what may come next. In the smallest of ways, in the largest of ways, each family will feel the impact of the draconian upheaval in Washington. My EU friends write notations of commiseration as though they might somehow escape the consequences of what has transpired here. It would be foolish to diminish what has happened, I tell them, or to turn away for long. That said, I recommend poetry, odes to nature, musical inspirations. As Yeats was walking down a busy Fleet Street in London, with its grey cement sidewalks, he heard the sound of a fountain and was transported back to his childhood wanderings in Innisfree.  Lines such as this console a crenellated spirit:  "And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow."

Dropping slow. Only Yeats could have written this. I attempt a line: The sky tonight, on the top of the ridge, is cloud-filled. And that is all I can write. The poetry becomes prosaic with worry. Nearly dusk and the water main break just north of where I live is nearly fixed, workers underground and above ground in freezing temperatures. For this, at least, I am grateful today. To have free-flowing clean water.

Human madness is cunning and feline, Melville wrote, and it shape-shifts into forms blatant and subtle. It is irascible, it is rigid, as unfathomable as the white whale, a sperm whale—the  largest of its species—it sleeps vertically to be closer to the surface. If we flail against it, as Ahab did unrelentingly, how will we survive? How to make order out of the chaos of "executive actions," and continue to live purposefully for the greater good? 

Is it madness to have any expectation of progress now, however we define it? Or shall we remain in perpendicular stasis like a whale at rest?

 We were all once strangers in this land.

-Bishop Marian Edgar Budde, @ Washington National Cathedral, 1/20/25

I had a nightmare last night: ICE has arrived and is taking my relatives away, back to the country where they were born, only to be sent to the Gulag, or to death camps.  There is nothing I can do to stop their deportation, and even though I assume I am safe, because I was born in America, I am not safe. During the next round-up, I, too shall be deported, my rights as a citizen obliterated.

After a strong cup of tea, I pulled up the text of the 14th amendment to reassure myself that as a First Generation American, I am indeed protected by the Constitution of the United States. Here is Section 1, in full:

All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside. No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.

Strangely, though the text is clear, and numerous lawsuits are already pending against the new administration, I was not reassured. It was Elon Musk's "salute," to the audience on Inauguration Day that gave me pause, and worse. I know a fascist salute when I see one.

And he did it once, and then he did it again. The CNN reporter caught it and commented on it. Later in the day social media started some chatter, but not firmly enough from my point of view. I began to regret turning down the offer of Austrian citizenship. In Austria and in Germany, the fascist salute is illegal. Musk would have been arrested and charged. He might have received a fine, or a six month prison sentence. The use of Nazi phrases associated with the salute is also forbidden.

The Nazi salute is also banned in Slovakia and the Czech Republic. In Switzerland and Sweden, the salute, or "gesture," as it is sometimes called, is considered a hate crime. The Swiss softened the restriction in 2014 with these words from their Supreme Court: "If the person giving  it was only expressing their own convictions." Well, the Swiss have a history of such moral waffling regarding Nazism.

Is Elon Musk a neo-Nazi, pretending to be a neo-Nazi, a South African white nationalist neo-Nazi, or none of the above? He was born in South Africa in 1971 during the apartheid regime, steeped in the privilege of all white South Africans. Mandela was released from prison in 1990 and Mandela and de Klerk finally reached a peaceful agreement on the future of South Africa at the end of 1993, an achievement for which they jointly received the 1993 Nobel Peace Prize. 

With an apartheid-loving, anti-Semitic grandfather who migrated from Canada to South Africa, one is just left to wonder about the grandson and what was in his mind as he made the "gesture." I am sure the now released Oath Keepers, Proud Boys, and other January 6th reprieved prisoners, enjoyed what most law-abiding Americans, no matter their political affiliation, would consider a despicable display.

One moment there had been nothing but darkness; next moment a thousand, thousand points of light leapt out -- single stars, constellations, and planets, brighter and bigger than any in our world.

-C. S. Lewis, The Magician's Nephew

On Sunday, the Sunday before the inauguration and/or coronation as some are calling it, I went for a  walk before the snow storm with my friend Helene, my Covid walking partner. We still meet once a week to walk and talk often picking up neighbors along the way. The pace varies depending on fitness and age, but we accommodate each other. When I returned home my husband mentioned that he had a plan to talk to his cousin in Ashkelon, on the border with Gaza. Three hostages and Palestinian prisoners were about to be released. The sensation of hope ascending in Israel, the Gaza Strip, and in the West Bank, where there has been so much death, and so much suffering, was good news, or good enough news. The diplomats have been working nonstop. Would the ceasfire hold? As I rewrite this blog post, there is concern about Israeli settler attacks in the West Bank, as vicious as ever.

It's exhausting to contemplate the history of the Israelis and the Palestinians across generations, two beleaguered people. That's the word that comes to mind: beleaguered. 

Before layering up to dig out our car, I checked my email only to find a confession in the form of a poem from a soldier I know. I had contacted him about the four-week "witness to history" writing workshop for Consequence Forum I'll be teaching beginning February 17. The soldier wishes to remain anonymous.  His plight is universal: he has been taught to kill, yet may abhor killing. Once home he suffers from PTSD because the killing has damaged him beyond repair.

Confessions of an Unknown Soldier

If you are reading this it is because I may be dead

And if I am dead I can freely confess my sins:

They were cowering on the floor when I shot them

I wish I had died then too

I wish I had said: I am one with you

or

Walk with me out of  this hellscape

into the future

But I was afraid, I was a coward

Shooting shooting shooting

A panicked obedience

Never did I imagine myself in this place

A bombed-out city of rubble, rotting flesh, lacerated bones

In prayers for the dead

Rabbis, Priests and Imams

say

May there be peace

and reconciliation

Amen