I rarely post about anything outside business. But some things need to be said. Today is one of those days. Shoah. Tuesday is Memorial Day in Italy. I was listening to Sami Modiano, an Italian Holocaust survivor. He spoke to students. And with every memory he pulled up, his throat tightened. His eyes filled. His voice shook. The clarity was almost unbearable to watch. He kept saying. There is no sponge that can erase it. And he made this small hand gesture, like he wanted to wipe the pain out of his head. I thought. What a gift for us. Then I thought. Is it. Eighty one years ago. What did we learn. We feel it. For a minute. We get angry. For a minute. Then the next headline. The next screen. The next distraction. Ukraine. Israel. Palestine. Yemen. Syria. Sudan. Haiti. The list is long. 1990. I was fourteen. I watched war break out around my small life. So I’m asking, quietly. What are memories for, if we keep letting the same thing happen again and again?

I rarely post about anything outside business. But some things need to be said. Today is one of those days. Shoah. Tuesday is Memorial Day in Italy. I was listening to Sami Modiano, an Italian Holocaust survivor. He spoke to students. And with every memory he pulled up, his throat tightened. His eyes filled. His voice shook. The clarity was almost unbearable to watch. He kept saying. There is no sponge that can erase it. And he made this small hand gesture, like he wanted to wipe the pain out of his head. I thought. What a gift for us. Then I thought. Is it. Eighty one years ago. What did we learn. We feel it. For a minute. We get angry. For a minute. Then the next headline. The next screen. The next distraction. Ukraine. Israel. Palestine. Yemen. Syria. Sudan. Haiti. The list is long. 1990. I was fourteen. I watched war break out around my small life. So I’m asking, quietly. What are memories for, if we keep letting the same thing happen again and again?