logo
What to know about a cholera outbreak in Susan that has killed over 170 people

What to know about a cholera outbreak in Susan that has killed over 170 people

CAIRO (AP) — A fast-spreading cholera outbreak has hit Sudan, killing 172 people, with more than 2,500 others becoming ill in the past week.
Centered around Khartoum, the disease has spread as many Sudanese who had fled the country's war return to their homes in the capital and its twin city of Omdurman. There, they often can only find unclean water — a dangerous conduit for cholera — since much of the health and sanitation infrastructure has collapsed amid the fightiing.
It is the latest calamity for the African nation, where a 2-year-old civil war has caused one of the world's worst humanitarian crises.
Here is what to know about the new outbreak:
What's the latest development?
The latest outbreak has killed 172 people, with more than 2,500 others becoming ill over the past week, according to the Health Ministry.
UNICEF said Wednesday that the number of reported cases surged ninefold from 90 a day to 815 a day since from May 15-25. Since the beginning of the year, more than 7,700 people have been diagnosed with cholera, including more than 1,000 children under the age of 4, it said.
Most cases have been reported in Khartoum and Omdurman, but cholera was also detected in five surrounding provinces, the ministry said.
Joyce Bakker, the Sudan coordinator for Doctors Without Borders, said the group's treatment centers in Omdurman are overwhelmed with patients.
The 'scenes are disturbing,' Bakker said. 'Many patients are arriving too late to be saved … We don't know the true scale of the outbreak, and our teams can only see a fraction of the full picture.'
What's driving the outbreak?
Khartoum and Omdurman were a battleground throughout the civil war, nearly emptying them of residents. The region of the capital was recaptured by the military in late March from its rival, the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces, or RSF.
Since then, some 34,000 people have returned. But the city has been wrecked by months of fighting. Many found their homes damaged. Clean water is difficult to find, in part because attacks on power plants have disrupted electricity and worsened water shortages, UNICEF said. Sanitation systems are damaged.
'People have been drinking polluted water and transferring water into unhygienic containers,' said Dr. Rania Elsayegh, with Sudan's Doctors for Human Rights.
Health workers fear the outbreak could spread quickly, since many people are packed into displacement centers making it difficult to isolate those infected. The health system has also broken down. More than 80% of hospitals are out of service and those that are operating have shortages of water, electricity and medication, said Dr. Sayed Mohamed Abdullah, of Sudan's Doctors Union.
What is cholera?
The World Health Organization describes cholera as a 'disease of poverty' because it spreads where there is poor sanitation and a lack of clean water.
It is a diarrheal disease caused when people eat food or water contaminated with the bacterium Vibrio cholerae. It is easily treatable with rehydration solutions and antibiotics. Most of those infected have only mild symptoms but, in severe cases, the disease can kill within hours if left untreated.
The WHO's global stockpile of oral cholera vaccines has dropped below its minimum threshold of 5 million doses, making it increasingly difficult to stop outbreaks. At the same time, cholera epidemics have been on the rise around the world since 2021, because of poverty, conflict and extreme climate events like floods and cyclones, the U.N. says.
Why is this happening in Sudan?
The civil war has devastated Sudan since it erupted in April 2023, when simmering tensions between the military and the RSF exploded into open warfare across the country.
At least 24,000 people have been reported killed, though the number is likely far higher. More than 14 million have been displaced and forced from their homes, including over 4 million who streamed into neighboring countries.
Famine was announced in at least five locations with the epicenter in the wrecked Darfur region.
The fighting has been marked by atrocities including mass rape and ethnically motivated killings that the U.N. and international rights groups say amount to war crimes and crimes against humanity.
Devastating seasonal floods have compounded Sudan's misery. Each year, dozens of people have been killed and critical infrastructure washed away.
Were there previous cholera outbreaks?
Cholera is not uncommon in Sudan. In 2017, cholera left at least 700 dead and sickened about 22,000 in less than two months.
But the war's destruction has fueled repeated outbreaks.
Cholera spread across 11 of the country's 18 provinces in September and October, sickening more than 20,000 people and killing at least 626, according to health authorities.
Over the course of two weeks in February and March, another outbreak infected more than 2,600 people, and 90 people died, mostly in the White Nile province, according to Doctors Without Borders.
Other diseases have also spread. In the past week, an outbreak of dengue, a mosquito-borne illness, sickened about 12,900 people and killed at least 20, the Health Ministry said Tuesday. At the same time, at least 12 people died of meningitis, a highly contagious, serious airborne viral disease, it said.
___
AP correspondent Fatma Khaled in Cairo contributed to this report.

Orange background

Try Our AI Features

Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:

Comments

No comments yet...

Related Articles

Prisoner who fatally kicked and stamped on fellow inmate is jailed for life
Prisoner who fatally kicked and stamped on fellow inmate is jailed for life

Yahoo

time3 hours ago

  • Yahoo

Prisoner who fatally kicked and stamped on fellow inmate is jailed for life

A prisoner who kicked and stamped on a fellow inmate who had asked to move cells the day before he was killed has been jailed for life for murder. Mahir Abdulrahman, also known as Mahir Mohamed, was found unresponsive in his cell at HMP Fosse Way in Leicestershire at 7.53am on August 20 last year, around half an hour after Ashirie Smith, 19, and Thierry Robinson, 21, were caught on CCTV entering his room. The 31-year-old Sudanese national suffered multiple abrasions and bruises to his head and neck consistent with a sustained attack, as well as fractures to his ribs, and was pronounced dead at 8.44am despite attempts by prison officers and paramedics to save him. A jury at Leicester Crown Court found Smith guilty of murder and Robinson not guilty of murder but guilty of manslaughter on Wednesday. Smith was jailed for life with a minimum term of 17 and a half years and Robinson was sentenced to 11 years on Thursday. A third defendant, Shaan Karim, 38, was found not guilty of murder or manslaughter, Leicestershire Police said. CCTV released by the force shows the moment Robinson and Smith entered Mr Abdulrahman's cell at around 7.26am before leaving around 37 seconds later. Smith then re-entered the cell and left again shortly after. Another inmate told a prison officer she should check on Mr Abdulrahman, and he was found slumped in the cell and was later pronounced dead. The trial was told Mr Abdulrahman had been stamped on and kicked to the head and neck, causing a fatal bleed at the base of his brain, and that he had previously had tuberculosis which had weakened the bones in his neck. Prosecution counsel Michael Burrows KC told the trial that Mr Abdulrahman, who was serving a 35-week sentence for a sexual offence, had asked to be moved from his cell the day before he died because he did not feel safe. The trial was told Karim had phoned his mother from prison and said other inmates had been 'terrorising him for days' and 'bullying' him. There was also an alleged incident involving Smith and Robinson the day before Mr Abdulrahman was killed in which he had thrown water from a kettle on them. Mr Burrow said that on November 25, after Smith had been moved to a different prison following the fatal attack, he had 'let slip' in anger what he had done, telling a prison officer: 'I'm in for murder, I have already dropped one body and I will take another if you keep f****** with me.' Detective Inspector Mark Parish, from the East Midlands Special Operations Unit, said: 'The injuries suffered by Mahir Abdulrahman showed a serious, sustained attack had taken place which ultimately led to his death. 'Thanks to the hard work of the investigation team, Smith and Robinson have been convicted in court and will now have to face responsibility for their actions.' Serco prison director Wyn Jones said: 'Any death in prison is a tragedy but the murder of Mr Abdulrahman was a heinous act. My thoughts remain with his family and those affected by his untimely death. 'Since the tragedy, our focus has been to bring those responsible to justice by working with the police to secure a conviction. I hope the verdicts will bring closure for his family.'

Our Lives Are an Endless Series of ‘And'
Our Lives Are an Endless Series of ‘And'

New York Times

time3 hours ago

  • New York Times

Our Lives Are an Endless Series of ‘And'

transcript Our Lives Are an Endless Series of 'And' I don't know how to hold all the feelings, even all the thoughts I should have in a day right now. The emergency is here and the kids need help with their homework. I have friends who have fallen terribly ill and others who have just seen their test results come back clear. I spend days covering efforts to rip health care from people and torch the global economy. And then I'm supposed to go to a birthday party. I look down at my phone at smoldering ruins in Ukraine and Gaza and Sudan, and then I look up into a spring day. I on some level, something like this is always true, and we are just more or less alive to it at different times. I guess I'm feeling more alive to it right now, more overwhelmed by it right now. More curious about how to keep myself open to it all right now. And then I ran into this unusually beautiful book that's all about this experience. It's called Lost and found. It's by Kathryn Schulz, a writer at The New Yorker. And it's structured around a loss, that of her father, around a finding, that of finding it, falling in love with her partner. And then it's this really moving meditation on the way it's all connected. The way that we quote, live with both at once, with many things at once. Everything connected to its opposite, everything connected to everything. It seemed worth a conversation. Kathryn Schulz, welcome to the show. I'm delighted to be here. Thanks so much. I want to start by having you tell me a bit about your father. Where did he come from. What a wonderful question to begin with, because it has these two valences, the practical matter of where he came from, and the kind of mystifying question of where any human being, in all their wonderful specificity, comes from. In the case of my father, both answers are a little complicated. His mother had fled the shtetl in Poland, when it was clear that the shadow of the Second World War was kind of creeping ever further across Poland. She came from a family of 12. They had the resources to get one of them to safety, and they chose their youngest daughter, who was my grandmother, and indeed her parents. And most of her siblings subsequently perished in Auschwitz. So she gets herself to Tel Aviv. My father is born, and then at a very young age, he was sent away from his mother. He was sent to live on a kibbutz and spent a few years alone there. And then his father vanishes or dies. We don't know. My grandmother remarries. And after the war, their family in a truly unusual trajectory. When half of global Jewry in its terrible, decimated and refugee status is trying to get to the Holy Land. My father and his family flee Tel Aviv and go of all places in the world to Germany. So my father left Tel Aviv at about 7, spent from 7 to 12 in Germany, and then finally the family obtained refugee visas and wound up in Detroit, which is where he then spent his teenage years. You have a beautiful passage about your father being on the boat, coming to America and trying to conceive of how much turmoil and loss he had already experienced. Just tell me a bit about how much dislocation he'd seen before the age of 12. Just shocking amounts, really. I mean, my father was born in 1941. So all around him what should have been whole, vast branches of family trees are just being hewn off viciously and whole communities are being leveled and destroyed. So there was this kind of background dislocation attendant upon every Jew born in that era. But then quite specifically, he was born essentially a stranger in a strange land in 1948 when my father's family left Israel, or I should say, left Palestine, it was still Palestine, and it was effectively a war zone. And indeed an uncle who was traveling with him in the caravan to Haifa to leave at the port there was shot and killed in the car with my father in the car in the backseat when it happened. There was a kind of omnipresent violence and insecurity that characterized his young life. That is just shocking for me to contemplate, in part because he then dedicated his adult life to providing for his children the stability. He just. Absolutely did not have growing up. I read stories like this and I've been reading Melting Point, which is a different very interesting, kaleidoscopic history of this era for Jewish people. But I was also reading Wolf Hall, where everybody's endlessly dying of tuberculosis. I think of the modesty of the things I try to protect my children from now. The things that upset me if it happens to them. And then what. Every generation of humanity, including many people alive today. The extremism of the experience. And it's hard to imagine how you go through that and just keep going. And yet people did and do. So this is a person who's I mean, he's watched his uncle get murdered in the car next to him. What kind of person does he become. My father became the kind of person who you would never guess the quantity of tragedy that lay in his past. You would never guess that. That his whole family had been decimated by the Holocaust, that he had all of this grief and loss and violence at every stage of his life. And my father was ebullient. He was joyful. He was incredibly witty. He was shockingly brilliant. I mean, my dad spoke, I think, eight languages, but basically English was the last of his many languages. And I like to think I'm a reasonably articulate person, and my father could talk me out of the table. I mean, he just was beautifully gifted with languages and I guess, fundamentally generous of spirit. His response to the privations of his life were to live as generous a life as he could, both with material means, but also with his joy, with his intellect, with his energy, his happiness lay in sharing it with the world. Do you understand his temperament as an act of denial or an act of acceptance. What an interesting question. I've never been asked it before. I suppose I understand his temperament mostly as a great gift. And I'm not trying to deny my father credit. He deserves I. I know my father made a great many decisions about the kind of life he wanted to live, and the kind of man he wanted to be, including in ways that changed over the course of my life. I saw him actively become a more patient man. Patience did not naturally run strong in him, nor in me, for that matter. But I think in some fundamental way, I don't think my father was ever in denial about the experiences that shaped him. He didn't speak about them in great detail until I was myself an adult, but he certainly never pretended away the past, and he didn't, conversely, speak of himself as you know who he was because he had been forged in the flames of disaster. Whatever I don't think he valorized suffering as the thing that made him who he was. Now, I certainly think that he had a very acute sense of what it had meant to be a Jew in the world in the middle of the last century, an acute sense of what it meant to be a refugee in this country. I mean, look, my father had two brothers, and one of them was just a year younger than him and for all intents and purposes, shaped by identical forces and could not have been a more different human being. So there is something underlying something way deep down below the choices we make or our active will in the world that is inextricable from who we become. I always wonder when I think about what my grandparents did not complain much about and what I do complain about and what the generations younger than me seem to complain about it, and our cultural attitude towards trauma and self-revelation and self-work. And I'm more of that culture than of the opposite. But I don't look around and think we're happier. I think that's absolutely right. And it makes me wonder, are we doing the right thing in our more excavatory culture, or was there wisdom we have lost in the. Not that people should live in denial, but the balance of how much we go in and how much we simply move forward. Sure and what is resolving versus what is dwelling upon and what aspects of our life we choose to emphasize versus downplay. There was this greatest generation stoicism. And this valorization of never speaking about suffering, and I don't know that was a perfect solution. I mean, my father was an ebullient character, but his mother, my grandmother, was a deeply, deeply bitter, unhappy, volatile woman. And heaven knows she came by those qualities honestly, right. I mean, her life had been unrelentingly traumatic and tragic in ways I cannot fathom surviving. She refuse to talk about it. I tried at various occasions. So did many other people close to her. And I don't know that her life was improved by never confronting the vast sources of pain within it, at least never in any way visible to any of the rest of us. Life is full of suffering. It's unevenly distributed in tragic ways. I would never dispute that. But even the best and luckiest and most privileged life has an unfortunate share of suffering in it. And there are choices to be made about how much do we focus on it. How much do we dwell on it. How much do we speak of it. How do we speak of it. And how much do we pay attention to our own suffering versus the suffering of others. I think you're driving at something a little deeper than everyday complaining, which is a fundamental question about do we regard ourselves as strong. And this is such an overused word right now, but resilient and able to overcome, or do we and do we dwell on what is going well, or on what we hope to do on our aspirations, on our motives, on our goals. Or do we get excessively mired in what has been done to us, or ways that we've been wronged. And I don't pretend to know the answer, and I'm not suggesting we shouldn't speak about trauma and upset. I think it was a great revolution in our culture that people have permission to do so. But I share the sense that something was slightly lost in these generations that, yeah, I mean, my father spent decades not really saying altogether that much about it. Both a fascinating and also an unquestionably disruptive and upsetting and traumatic childhood. I guess I'm also driving at something else. What moved me quite deeply in your book is its attention to suffering and loss. And there's something about that I think is pretty subtle that there's something about. Being open to it versus pushing it away that feels very deep. Neither of those are denial. And you spend a lot of time in the book on the time you spent with your father in the hospital as he was passing away. You have this line about hospitals where you say, and I'm truncating your quote a bit, but I like this part in an ICU, you are aware of the brevity of life and the great looming precipice of eternity. Yet at the same time, you're basically stuck in an airport, and there's this coexistence of the banal and the profound. What were those days like for you. This will sound at odds with the wrenching experience of grief, but honestly, they were deadly dull. I mean, when nothing is happening, which is a lot of the time, when you have someone in an ICU with a kind of mysterious set of failing bodily systems, much of your time is spent doing absolutely nothing. Much of your time is spent waiting for someone who has the faintest idea of what's going on to come and talk to you, which inevitably happens in the 10 minutes you decide you're finally going to go get a cup of coffee. So they felt. They felt long. They felt repetitive. Of course, had this kind of specter of fear always on the edges of them, because it's not like I knew my father was dying the whole time. At some point that became clear. But for a lot of that time, it wasn't clear at all. I will say it also felt, and this is so much of what this book is about sometimes they felt a little bit like a gift. It was this bit of time carved out from the daily grind of I'm at work, I'm on deadlines I'm doing all these predictable things. It was like, well, no, I am here in this hospital. Here we are as a family. Like my family of origin. Together in a room. And how wonderful. And so it had moments of sweetness. There was a kind of bleak tedium to it. And yet it was always punctuated by the gift of family. And then, of course, gratitude for the medical professionals who were trying to help us and outside and around and infusing all of it, this fear which proved accurate, that these were my final days with my dad. I visited a friend in a hospital recently and on one level this felt like the smallest possible reaction, but it also felt very true. I just found myself thinking because she'd been there a while I wish you could be somewhere more beautiful for this terrible thing you're going through that I wish it didn't as you were hurting and as you were in this experience that it didn't have to be here, that feels like a that feels like its own level of cruelty. I think that's often true, and I think many people experience it that way. This longing people have still today to die at home. And the resistance to entering various kinds of care settings. It's not, I don't think, just stubbornness or even fear about being warehoused in an institution or no one will come visit you or this kind of thing. It is a real sense that much of what makes life meaningful is absent from these places, and there is a kind of cruelty at the end of life of all times to not be confronting beauty. I mean, I will never forget. I don't know how much of it you could take in, but I'll never forget turning on Beethoven's Ninth Symphony in my father's hospital room, because we felt like he loved music, and he loved classical music and the urge to fill this incredibly sterile space with something awe inspiring and overwhelming in its beauty was overwhelming within us in that moment. And we've recited in poetry for the same reason. And it's true. You on the one hand, look, I want to be incredibly clear. I am profoundly grateful to the medical team who took care of my father at that moment, and many others. And I don't mean to suggest there's not a reason these places are the way they are. And that acts of incredible courage and grace and beauty don't happen there. They do every single day. But when you are there every single day for a long period of time, you also feel they're kind of. Emotional thinness. The life is so abundant. We'll talk about abundance, I hope, at some point here. But life is so, so rich and wonderful and varied and not abundant. So much of it on my podcast. Be honest. Well, sure. But it's so much of that is forcibly kept at Bay in a hospital. And you're right, one wants. One wants more for the sick and the dying. I'd like to ask you to read a passage. It's one of my favorite in your book. It's on page six. Sure for a while after my father died, I could not stop seeing the world as it really is, marked everywhere by the evidence of past losses and the imminence of future ones. This was not because his death was a tragedy. My father died peacefully at 74, tended throughout his final weeks by those he loved most. It was because his death was not a tragedy. What shocked me was that something so sad could be the normal, necessary way of things in its aftermath. Each individual life seemed to contain too much heartbreak for its fleeting duration. History, which I had always loved, even in its silences and mysteries, suddenly seemed like little more than a record of loss on an epic scale. Especially where it could offer no record at all. The world itself seemed ephemeral, glaciers and species and ecosystems vanishing, the pace of change as Swift as in a time lapse, as if those of us alive today had been permitted to see it from the harrowing perspective of eternity. Everything felt fragile. Everything felt vulnerable. The idea of loss pressed in all around me like a hidden order to existence that emerged only in the presence of grief. I think it's the lines that begin and end that you could not stop seeing the world as it really is that there is this hidden order to existence that emerges only in the presence of grief. Which stopped me a bit short, which feel true, which get a bit to our conversation earlier about denial. Tell me about that sense of this is a more honest perspective of the world. It's so funny. Is it a more honest perspective of the world. It is certainly accurate. By many lights, I mean loss is omnipresent. We will die. The people we love will die. The things we build in the Grand scheme of things, even in the medium scheme of things, are relatively transient and fleeting. And there are times in life when the omnipresence and the scale of this loss do become profoundly visible to us, at least to me. I think a lot about scale. And if you dwell on the scale of the world, let alone the scale of the cosmos, our lives are stunningly short. They seem or can seem stunningly insignificant. And this sense that everything around us is terrifyingly fragile is accurate, right. I mean can't look at the Grand sweep of things and not realize how tenuous our foothold in this world is and how quickly we will be not merely lost, but forgotten. I had this arresting moment when I realized, I can barely tell you my great grandparents' names. I mean, that is 3 generations. That is the blink of an eye. But so it goes, right. And everything. We love, everyone we love. We are going to have to confront just the devastating loss of literally all of them. That's the. That's the bleak version. And it's real. I don't think it's the whole story. There are ways to try to hold the bifocal vision of that kind of loss and why our lives are nonetheless not insignificant, or at least not meaningless. But certainly, in hard moments. And I think for people who struggle with depression or who have a truly unfair burden of grief in their lives, it can seem like the only truth about existence. You call it bleak, and there's a dimension of it where it is very bleak and very frightening. And then also the people I know who abide in it often I don't want to say they don't find it bleak, but that they also describe a certain beauty that comes from the noticing of it. A friend of mine who lost his mother not long ago. He always tells me with some real sadness that time doesn't heal wounds. It makes just everything fade, and that I've watched him grieve the diminishment of his grief, and that there was a beauty in seeing things as a more really were the interconnection of life, the fragility of it. I think one reason we turn away from these things is it feels annihilating to look at them. But then the people I know who are looking at them, there's a kind of connection to something very profound that seems to abide there as well Oh, no question about it. I mean, grief is just an amazing lens. I mean, its capacity for sharp focus is incredible. And it is true that there were moments in the depths of grieving or preparing to grieve my father, that the world had never seemed so beautiful to me, or so much like a gift. And there's a reason we honor death. So much, and why so many generations of philosophers have regarded studying death as the key to figuring out how to live a good life. The incredible thing about death is it forces you to recognize that you are alive, right. And that is not a permanent condition. We have this moment and no other known or given moments to relish that fact and to savor it and to be grateful for it. And it is true. I write a lot towards the end of this book about attention and the gift of attention, and I do think, some kinds of grief can turn us inward and away from the world and obliterate attention in troubling ways. But I think very often grief and the awareness of the inevitability of death truly does heighten our sense of attention and our capacity to look at the world with gratitude and look at it with admiration. And I don't know what other force could do that. I mean, that's tragic. I wish there were something else. I mean, maybe some illegal drugs I haven't tried, but otherwise, I don't know what else can make us so profoundly in awe of and grateful for life. It's a question about attention that brought me to this book, because my experience of the last couple of years, for me, it's been particularly acute the last couple of months, and this has been both a personal and at times a very political experience. Is this feeling that to try to hold the extremes, to give the thing, to give everything its attention at the same time, the loss and the horror the beauty and the elation and also just the normalcy. I'll sit here for a day and I'll cover deportations to Salvadoran torture prisons, and then I'll go home. You just have to make dinner and read books. And I'm sure somebody has the attentional capacity to hold it. But I don't feel like I do. I have never quite felt this overwhelm of the system. And it felt to me like something you were exploring in this book because you also meet your partner in a similar time. It's the it feels like you should be able to settle on an emotional interpretation of a moment that the affect of the story should be more or less one thing, which of course, is not ever true. We're just more or less alert to it. Yeah, I mean absolutely. To be honest, it's actually the reason I wrote this book. The moment that I started thinking seriously about what it was like to have experienced those two quite momentous life experiences and extremely short successions, short enough that I was still falling in love while my father was dying, and found myself kind of grappling with these extraordinarily different emotions at the same time. That's when I speaking of attention. That's what got my attention. I thought, well, this is interesting. This actually is the fundamental nature of life. We are actually always dealing with more than one thing at once. And sometimes they are profoundly contradictory. Sometimes they're just deeply unrelated. And yet somehow we have to spread our attention among them. And we then just got swept headlong into the pandemic, which was, I think, for many of us, an experience of living inside a lot of entirely irreconcilable realities simultaneously. It was like suddenly you were working from home. And that was amazing because you didn't have a two hour commute every day. And you got to be around your kids all the time, but also Oh my gosh, you're around your kids all the time and you couldn't get any work done. And it was so amazing to watch them grow and have time around them. But also they made you crazy. And I just think everyone or more tragically people around you were getting sick and suffering and in this weird way, your family system was thriving. It just everyone, I think, was dealing with these profoundly contradictory experiences. And of course, that was not actually about the pandemic, right. The pandemic brought into focus a fundamental feature of existence, which is we are always inundated by profoundly clashing realities. And some of the question is, how much attention do we pay to them. You are in a position right now where you have to pay attention to it. You're covering these deportations and going home to your family. And you have to live in both of those realities. But, even in the most peaceable of times, the extent to which we are confronting the world beyond our own immediate realities is just a choice. I mean, there's always boundless suffering. There's always boundless beauty, and it really is a matter of where do we look. And it's tough, right. You both have to do both at once. And can't do both at once. And the question of what kind of balance you strike is infinitely interesting to me. I read this book and I wondered about the quality of your actual attention you write, and not just here in your journalism, to as if you're able to tune your attention to very deep levels of experiences, but also somehow to the cosmic and geological context in which those experiences are taking place. You Zoom between time scales very smoothly. There's a passage you have on finding and various forms of takes that I think is quite beautiful. Do you reading it. I'd be happy to. Finding like losing is an enormous category bursting with seemingly unrelated contents from gold doubloons to God, we can find things like pencils and couch cushions and things like New planets and distant solar systems and things that aren't things at all. Inner peace, old elementary school classmates. The solution to a problem. We can find things that were never missing except from our own lives, as when we find a new job or a hole in the wall barbecue joint, and we can find things so deeply hidden that almost no one else thought to look for them, as when we find glial cells or quarks. Do you really experience the world this way, or is that a thing that happens. As a matter of craft and writing and reflection. I love it when people ask me questions I've not been asked. And that one actually does feel kind of core to who I am in this interesting way. I think I experienced the world that way. I mean, I love the bigness of the world. I'm profoundly drawn to questions of scale. I mean, we human beings have a very unique situation, which is that we are finite creatures, to the best of my knowledge, finite creatures in an infinite universe. And that's kind of a troubling position to be in. And I'm endlessly interested in it. It has all kinds of implications in our day to day reality, in our whole existence as a species. That is, that is our context. And I think some part of my brain, for whatever reason, is always looking kind of upward and outward. I think it's kind of Native to my brain. I don't know how helpful it is in a day to day way for these kinds of balancing acts you're talking about, which are endlessly hard. But for good or ill, I do think that's just how I look at the world. My most profoundly peaceful and interested place is up on top of a mountain where I can see really far. And that's not just because I happen to love mountains. Although I do, I am, I am soothed and intrigued by the experience of the longest possible view. Is there an experience that comes to mind for you recently, where you were looking at something small and you saw something big in it, or big, and you saw something small in it. Sure I mean, I'm going to tell a story that sounds like it can't possibly be true, and I swear it is. And what you need to by way of context for this story is that a year or so ago, my partner and I bought the house across the street from the farm where she was born and raised and where her parents still live. And we've been gradually renovating it ever since then, and incredibly excited to move in and to be near family and frankly, near more childcare. And so we finally move in, and I'm just reveling in this beautiful new home as we settle into it. And then this is only a week ago. My daughter, who's now 3 and 1/2, we have these beautiful fields outside of our house, and she wanders off into the field and she returns with a stalk of wheat, said, look, mama. And so I'm thinking oh, she found a stalk of wheat. Fun you know. Children pick up everything. Clovers, coins. Anything muddy. Tarantulas, whatever they can find. So she hands me this stalk of wheat, and I'm just thinking. Oh, how sweet. She gets to live in this beautiful setting where the outdoors is full of so many wonderful little things for her to study. And then she looks at me very seriously and she says, mama, we should use this wheat to make bread for people who don't have any. And it's just one of those moments as a parent where on the one hand, you're just so in love with your child. You think. I mean, who made this remarkable mind like the last thing I'm sitting there thinking like oh, it's like she found a pretty flower or something. And there she is, apparently thinking about the poor and privation and need. So right away, my kind of sense of the scale of what we were talking about just wildly shifted. But also, to be honest, it's just I felt right alongside feeling overwhelming kind of awe for her. I felt so morally indicted. I mean, I am literally in the middle of reveling in my pretty new kitchen, and then suddenly I'm confronted with real hunger in the world, and I'm thinking, why do I have this beautiful backsplash. Like, what have I done here. My three-year-old has more moral clarity than I do about how we should spend our money and our time and what actually matters in life. So, yeah, I mean, in a wonderful way, I feel like my world is full of discoveries that seem small and blossom out into the enormous or seem enormous. And then have some kind of bearing on small, practical things like how to be a family and how to raise children. And it's often incredibly humbling. And sometimes it's very funny and sometimes it's very moving. And in that case, it was all of the above. There's this way of thinking about these questions, where it really feels like the goal is to live in full awareness of the fragility of life, the horrors of happiness. And then it also feels that if you really did that, how would you ever get anything done if you were really, fully present in the beauty of each moment, the ephemerality of. I go and I play soccer with my 3, my six-year-old most nights right now. And on the one hand, I know I am not enjoying it the way I want to be. Like, I know this moment is more beautiful than the way my tired self is experiencing it. Who's also thinking about bedtime and are we going to be late for dinner. And so I want to be more of the Monk and then. You probably understand the way that the constant compartmentalization and filtration of life is adaptive to moving through it. Absolutely I mean, I think, look, I mean, even the monks are not that monkish, right. I mean, there's a wonderful body of literature about distraction and in these spaces that are supposed to be sanctuaries from all the pressures of the outside world and focus the mind. And, you're meant to just think purely about God. And if it were easy, we would all be monks, and the monks would be better at being monks. It's incredibly difficult, and they usually don't have kids and they don't have kids, right. Which are appropriately, I would never say a distraction. They are the essence. They are. They are the thing we are meant to be paying the most attention to. And sometimes that attention is profound and existential, and sometimes it's like, sweetheart, go put your underwear on. Like, it's just like a lot of parenting is just pragmatics, right. I don't know that we should aspire, or I suppose we should aspire to be in touch with the beauty and wonderful givingness of every moment. Aspiration does not actually have to be reality. I think aspiring probably is. Why 3.5 percent of the time we have the transcendent experience of like, here I am curled up in bed with my daughter, reading her a bedtime story, and nothing will ever be so profoundly sweet as this. And you feel it deep, deep inside you and and you will always retain it. And the other 97 percent of the time you won't. And that's probably O.K. The amazing thing about these moments of awe at the universe, at life, at what we have, is they are so potent, you don't actually need that many of them. So I don't think you can give up the goal of trying to have more of them or recognize them, but I don't think we need that many of them to sustain our souls. So since finishing the writing of the book, you've had two children. That's right. So much of the book is about being found. What have you found. Oh my gosh. I mean, everything in the most wonderful ways. And I found the particular hair tie that's got yellow daisies on it that my daughter loves. That vanished for a month. And she's thrilled to come across it again. And I have found resources of meaning and patience. I had no idea existed prior to this. I mean, it is the whole scale of discovery. And I think one thing I found, well, first of all, just as a basic reflection on parenting I've never been so grateful for anything in my life. I was a little bit older when our first daughter was born, and to be honest, I had kind of given up on, I don't want to say given up. I had resigned myself to the possibility that I might never have children of my own, and had made a deep peace of. The world is full of children who need love and who are a delight to me, and I'm related to some of them. And that is its own beauty. And it can be sufficient if it has to be sufficient. And that I did have children of my own. And so much is written about all the things that are difficult about Parenthood, and I am not going to sit here and diminish those things. But my overwhelming experience of parenting, it's just a delight, a true and absolute delight. I'll never forget when my first daughter was born, my partner and I had this moment. We were getting ready to leave the hospital and we both were like, so we can just take her home like, that's insane. You gave us a human being. That's incredible. And I mean, to be clear my partner grew that human being for nine months. We went kidnapping and they didn't give it to you. But it has that feeling of like, Wow. I mean, we just go home and raise these children and they are their own creatures, and having new minds to interact with feels incredible to me. I think I've also found, and I feel, based on our earlier conversation about what's been lost from past generations, that perhaps you'll appreciate it. I have found a tremendous satisfaction in duty. I can't say that duty is something I thought about much before this. I'm not of a generation where duty like thrift was an obvious value. I didn't join an institution like the military, where duty is an obvious value. But I'll tell you, no matter how tired you are, at 7:30 in the morning when your kid wakes up go in and you help her get dressed and you make sure she has a good breakfast and your kid wakes up at 7:30 in the morning. Oh, God bless her. Yes she does. She has for every day since she was like 3 and 1/2 months old. The littler one. Yeah iffier. But Oh, I just it's not always what you want to be doing. I mean, who am I was my number one fear about Parenthood is I am so deeply not a morning person. I mean, my favorite hours to write are 10:00 PM to 4:00 in the morning. So on some fundamental level, I everything I had been doing for my entire adult life was deeply at odds with the task of parenting, which is, frankly, being up at the crack of dawn many days in a row. And yet I it's a deep satisfaction to feel like this is what you do. You do it for yourself. You do it for your children. You do it for your partner, and you do it because you have to. And that's a kind of liberation and a kind of wonderfulness and a whole category of existence. I found, because I had children that I had never appreciated, let alone kind of valorized before. You said something really interesting in an email to me when we were talking about doing the show, and you wrote to me and you're talking about parenting that where you're looking matters so much and it is so hard to look both near and far at the same time. Can you say more about that. Oh Yeah, for sure. I think that actually a real imperative of parenting is that and a real imperative of being human is you are present for those around you who need you most. And you provide stability and security, and you find hope, because actually, it's crucial to foster hope for the next generation. And so, Yes, of course, I mean, it's very tricky. There are children the age of my children whose parents vanished overnight. And that's horrifying to me. We are living in trying times. Let us say that said, again, depending on where you look, all times are trying times. There's never been a shortage of suffering in the world. But I am troubled by forms of suffering that are happening all around us now. And I feel complicit in some of them, and I want to be giving them my undivided attention and not ignoring them, even when I even when it's not obvious to me how I might positively intervene on them. I certainly don't want to just pretend they don't exist. And yet, I still have to be joyful for my kids and goofy for my kids. And those are hard emotions to hold together all at once. And yet I find that to be a necessary and productive friction. Not least because, as I said earlier, it reminds us that actually we should always live that way. If you and me, we are among the fortunate. And our we have the resources and the lives to even have the possibility of ignoring the suffering in the world, we should be grateful for everything that reminds us not to and reminds us like we should experience this kind of friction in our lives all the time. One of my most inconvenient beliefs about the world is that we now know too much about it, and that the human mind is not meant to be stretched over this much threat and danger and tragedy at all times. I work in the news. My show is part of this dynamic I'm about to describe, but the news can sometimes be an engine for finding and bringing you whatever is going to most upset you. That is happening literally anywhere on Earth at that exact moment. And it's not that. It's not on some level, good to know about it. I don't want to go to the point where we never knew about it, but I often think that probably the healthy median, the healthy medium, was to be able to pick up a newspaper once a day and find out about terrible things happening elsewhere and important things happening elsewhere, and sometimes wonderful things, but less often wonderful things happening elsewhere as opposed to be with your kids in the park. And your phone buzzes, and it's just something terrible that you cannot affect. It's not even happening to anybody. You definitely don't have power over it, but somebody, somewhere thought it would grab you to know about it. And it's strange. It both makes you aware of suffering. But also I think it has some kind of other quality, some numbing and exhausting quality that is not healthy. I think that's almost certainly true. I mean, it's so interesting. You said you were reading Melting Point, and there's an arresting moment in there when one of the sources in the book, who we're hearing from just talks about how you used to read one newspaper and you'd get 20 minutes of news in the evening, or maybe you'd get 10 minutes of news reels newsreels before a movie. And that was it. And I put down the book when I read that. I thought about it for a long time because I mean, there was not a shortage of news in the world. This was in the middle of the Second World War. And she goes on to say something I found equally arresting and highly related, which is the world seemed much bigger and more mysterious than. So I think you're right, although I also think it's a little bit more complicated than that, because in this kind of tragic way, I feel like we simultaneously know more about the world and less about our own communities in a certain sense, we are. We are. We have traded bits of news from all over for much of it tragic, some of it just inflammatory for a deep and connected knowledge of our own immediate communities. And that does feel tragic and upsetting to me and this kind of absolute flattening of distinctions, so I'd make a hard turn here. I want to ask you about happiness. And I'd like to do that by asking you to read a short passage from your book, which is on page 174. Sure happiness routinely gets not only less attention, but also more criticism than its opposite number. Contemporary thinkers sometimes dismiss it as a shallow fixation of modern life, but to condemn it on those grounds is to mistake it for proximate but different phenomena, either superficial forms of itself like amusement and pleasure, or superficial means of trying to achieve it, from substance abuse to so-called retail therapy. I like this idea that happiness does not get enough attention or theorizing. So if it's not these proximate forms of amusement and pleasure to you, what is it. I think that happiness. I can't believe you're asking me to define happiness on the fly in your podcast. That's what I think happiness is. I didn't write the book. I didn't write the question. Well it when you feel it. I mean, I think that happiness is a state of profound appreciation for what you have in that exact moment. I guess if I were going to generate a spontaneous definition, that's what it would be. And yeah, I mean, I was moved to write about because I was lucky enough to find myself extremely happy. And, I knew I was going to be telling at least two kinds of stories in this book. And one was about grief and one was about love. And when you go and you survey the landscape of love stories, the vast majority of them are covert tragedies they're love stories that get told because they either end in divorce or premature death or some kind of they darken drastically over the course of telling them. And as a result, most of what we read and hear and watch of love stories is either the beginning or the ending. We get the how did you meet. And the kind of falling in love and all of the shiny, exciting romance and passion at the beginning. And either it just ends there, right. It ends with marriage. It ends with getting together or having kids or there's just the kind of implicit or explicit happily ever after, or we then kind of leap ahead to the destruction and dissolution of this much longed for state, whether through separation or death. And I found this curious, because, of course, that leaves off the vast majority of most or at least many relationships. When you are happily together with someone, actually what matters to you is the middle and actually what you want to have. Go on and on and on is the middle. But nobody writes about the middle. Like, there's very little about just the kind of day to day happiness and just texture of a happy life which isn't just happy. I mean, a lot of this book is about the kind of endless overlap and contradiction and friction and different emotions. And a lot of happiness is infused with annoyance or frustration or bad days or whatever it may be. But still somehow fundamentally feels for us that the deep and essential name you would give to it is happiness. And that was interesting to me, and I wanted to write about it. Well, I wonder if that's because we expect happiness to be simpler and pure. I think sometimes about periods in my life that I am certain I will look back on them as virtually perfect that the problems were small. Nobody I loved was sick in that moment. I was surrounded by family and friends. My work was satisfying, even as my experience of that period is often exhausted, overstretched, overscheduled, anxious and this question of I mean, maybe one reason people don't write about those middles is that the middles always more of everything. Your description of your first kiss with your partner, which is functionally cosmic in its language, is probably going to be different than the way you experience a Tuesday when everybody's on deadline and dinner needs to be on the table, even if you'll probably look back on that as a beautiful period. I think we think the feeling of it should be simpler maybe than it ends up being. I think that's absolutely true, but I don't think that's just true of happiness. I mean, Yes, happiness is more than just happiness, but everything is more than just everything. I mean, there's this wonderful C.S. Lewis line about how you never encounter just cancer or just war or just happiness or just unhappiness. They are always incredibly variable in the lived experience of them. There are good moments and hard times. There are hard moments and good times. And we want to act like that's the anomaly. But it's not right. It's like the actual texture of life. And in fact, I think we would probably all be happier if we recognize that happiness is not a pure experience. Love is not a pure experience. Grief is not a pure experience. It is always. All of them are always amalgamated with their opposite. And it's so sweet, actually, your awareness that someday this shall seem wonderful and easy and it's sure. Of course, my life and my partner's life with two children and 17 book deadlines and whatever else may be going on, is not the bliss of a first kiss when the world suddenly seems to be opening up and this entire new path is shining before you. But I'll tell you, the path is beautiful and part of what we don't, I think pay enough attention to is the beauty of that path of any path. And it's what I said earlier about duty on some level a beautiful thing about hard moments in marriage or in anything is like, well, you're doing this because you're committed to it. Even in the moments that aren't just bliss and joy. And, do I want to take the compost out in the pouring rain as I did first thing this morning. Absolutely not. But do I want my partner to have to do it. Nope like, why shouldn't I. Isn't the better thing to do in this moment is to man up, as we used to say, and just go do the thing. And there's a kind of beauty in that, and a kind of happiness and a kind of fulfillment in it. And it's not the shiny, glossy kind, but it's what a lot of life is made of. And I do find it possible to regard it as I don't want to say fun, but purposeful and meaningful. What is different about the relationship between happiness and duty from happiness and fun Well, probably happiness and duty is more sustainable. One can always be dutiful. There are always jobs to be done. Work to be done needs to be met in this world. And if you derive happiness from a sense of duty, I actually think that is an infinitely sustainable source. And it kind of comports with my broad theory of happiness, which is, I think, in our absolute worst moments, the thing that can sustain us is serving others. I really do. And it's really powerful to remember that there are other needs in the world that other people have needs, and that actually you can help meet them and ameliorate them in whatever small ways. There's no community on Earth that does not need your help Netta, and it is good to get outside of your head and outside of your own misery. So if duty is part of your sense of happiness, you will never have to look far to replenish it. Fun I love fun. Do not get me wrong, fun is wonderful. Fun is amazing. I'm my family and I were going to the beach this weekend and I honestly can't wait. We in a kind of narrowly defined sense of it, we don't have a lot of self-evident fun right now just because. We have a 3 and 1/2 month old, we have a three-year-old. Like there's a we used to just jump in a car at the whiff of an interesting story, or a fun thing to do and gallivant through the night. And that was really fun, right. And do I miss it sometimes. Of course I miss it. And in that kind of narrowly defined way, there's less fun in my life. On the other hand, children are infinite fun. I mean, children are hilarious. Other than perhaps my father, I've never had such a consistent source of hilarity in my life. As young children. They say hilarious things, they think hilarious thoughts, they do funny things, and they live with a kind of glee and humor that is contagious and interesting. So I. I'm certainly not here to diminish the value of fun. I actually think laughing is just profoundly good for the mind and body and heart, and my kids make me do it all the time. One thing that I really enjoyed about the book is the emphasis on the connectivity of all of these things. That part of just the human experience is you don't get any of them all at once, and you couldn't have any of them in a way, without the others. You have an interesting section on how the philosopher William James thought about our thoughts, and particularly, I guess, the connectivity between them, the shadowy substructure of our thoughts. Can you talk a bit about that. I can, so I went to William James because my annoying experience of life. Is that any interesting thought you have ever had. William James had long before you did and said something really brilliant about it. And sure enough, William James had many interesting things about the idea of. And so William James was the guy who gave us this idea of the stream of consciousness this sense that or this awareness that your mind is always full of thoughts, many of them unrelated to the task at hand or whatever you're looking at. It's just teeming with ideas and instincts and impulses and impressions from the world around you all the time. This constant flow of thoughts in our mind. Sometimes we're paying attention to it, sometimes we're not. But as we all know from how difficult it is to meditate or focus or fall asleep at night, there's just always noise in our minds, generating all of these things. So William James writes about the stream of consciousness. And in the middle of doing so, in this kind of odd way, shifts metaphors and starts talking about the thoughts in our minds as birds flying around. And sometimes they're flying and sometimes like, perch somewhere. And he says, we only ever really pay attention to the places they perch, which is in his mind is like the nouns and verbs and the adjectives the really obvious things like, you're a noun, you're a bird perched somewhere. We can talk about it as a client or we can talk about a rainstorm or a word like red. It feels like it has content for us. So there's all this stuff that happens when the birds are flying around, which is and the if and the or these kind of subtle but absolutely crucial elements of our thought that we don't pay attention to. And yet profoundly shape what we're able to think and what we think about and the way that we think and says we should there should be a feel of and just as much as we have a sense of a feel for blue or cold. And that was incredibly helpful to me because I thought oh Yeah, that's kind of what I'm here to do. I'm here to try to figure out what's the feeling of and what is this idea. What is this word doing for us, and what's the role that it plays in language, which is a different way of saying, what's the role that it plays in how we think. Did you feel like you came to an answer to that. What is the feel of and so a little bit in distinction from every other conjunction that the English language has. But if or all of those actually describe a kind of necessary relationship. If this, then that, that's a causal relationship. It actually tells us something about the two halves of the sentence we're creating. The beautiful thing about. And as you can stick any two things together with it, they can have absolutely no relationship to each other. I give you apples and oranges, right. Or they can have every relationship to each other. Romeo and Juliet or none on Earth crab apples and tuxedos. And this morning, what we're dealing with is like, we have 30 minutes to get dressed and get to the library to do a podcast with Ezra Klein and our nephew, who's at our house, who's 2 and 1/2 just vomited in the crib, which means there's nowhere for him to sleep. And also, whoops, I'm ignoring a note from my editor and I need to go to the grocery store. I mean, this is life, right. There is just this. And that's before we get to Oh man. And open the New York Times' and Joe Biden has cancer and people are being deported. I mean, the number of linked thoughts, experiences, demands in our days is infinite. So part of this feeling of and is the sense that everything is connected to everything else, which I want to say can be a really beautiful thing. I mean, the sense that everything is connected to everything else is also the sense that we can make a difference. Like if indeed we are all connected, then our actions matter. They matter to each other. They matter to people far away. They matter to people we will never meet because they're not even born yet. So it's overwhelming. But I think also kind of hopeful, kind of exciting. But there's this other feeling that and has, which is the feeling that something is about to happen. If you're telling me a story and you stop talking, what I'm going to say to you is and meaning like what happens next, right. Like, it's almost a feeling of suspense. And is this kind of little word that propels us into the future. And in that sense, it's a kind of it gestures towards this kind of temporal abundance too, right. Like, that's the William James feeling like, well, there's always something else that we can reach beyond and connect to. There's always something more coming down the line toward us. So I think it is a feeling of connection. It's a feeling of continuation. It is a feeling of abundance. And all of those to me are fundamentally and ultimately quite hopeful feeling. I'm struck how much you're talking about the feeling, in a way, of the word and the way it connects things, the way it implies procession. I guess I'm interested in the feeling of the experience. I mean, so much of the book is about holding these two extremes of experience at the same time. The loss of your father, the finding of your partner and that love. And I think that's been what I've been interested in. I feel in my own attention, a desire to constantly be choosing a lane of sensation or feeling. I should feel badly about things right now. I should feel good about them. As if I'm running some calculation in my head that ends with where on the sentiments scale I'm supposed to net out. And that also some part of me realizes that's wrong, that what I'd like to be able to do is feel different things at the same time. I find that very hard to do. I'm curious if writing this book, or going through that experience or reflecting on this the way you have has made that easier, or made your sense of feeling more capacious? I don't know if it's made it easier. It certainly made me more aware of it. And I guess that is a kind of ease is to feel peaceful about both the necessity and the necessity and sometimes the impossibility of feeling all the things at the same time. It has given me a sense of well, this is life, right. And it's actually O.K to have mixed feelings and mixed experiences. I adore my partner. And I think she's brilliant, and she fills my days with wisdom and humor and surprise and stability. And also, we've been married for seven years and together for 10, and we two kids, and sometimes we drive each other crazy or we're frustrated or we fight. And actually, I have a lot of peace around that, which I think is helpful. Like, I just am like, well, that's not love. That's just part of the deal here. And we feel a lot of things at once and we should and sometimes it still stops me up short, in good ways. And I said earlier, I think it's important to be open to the surprising feeling because I think it can trouble us morally. And that's probably a good thing. I'm a word nerd. Of course I think about how and works, and I actually do think it's interesting. And I think it's philosophically interesting and profoundly related to the question of how we feel in these moments. But of course, I feel it, right. I feel these tensions all the time. It's impossible to be alive and fortunate in the world today and not feel like which of these things am I actually suppose it's not. Which of these things am I supposed to be feeling. We feel them all. I think the real problem is which of these feelings should I act on. Well then, let's end on a point of word nerdery I learned something from a book that I didn't which is that the English alphabet used to end with the symbol for and. And I was really surprised to learn that. I was really surprised to learn that too. And I mean, talk about scale. And space and time. This was true until quite recently, all the way up to the end of the 19th century when children learned the alphabet. The procession started with A, B, C and ended x, z and. And that's literally how they were taught the alphabet. It's incredible to me that piece of knowledge, instilled in generation upon generation of school children, could degrade in the course of less than a century when I was coming up through school to the point that we had no idea that had once been part of the alphabet, but indeed it was. And which, of course, I found both fascinating, just because how funny that people used to learn that. And now we don't. But why was it part of the alphabet. We don't spell words with the and sign. I think the only answer I can reasonably provide is it actually did feel that crucial to the kinds of we learn. We learn to write the alphabet so we could learn to write words, and we learned to write words so we could learn to write sentences. And actually the word and is the third most common word in the English language, and the only ones we use more often are the article, the and various conjugations of the verb to be. But it is. I agree, it's very interesting. It suggests a kind of importance to the ability to make an end to incorporate that into how we. Write down our experience of the world as a metaphor for what you're worked with. In your book, and what a lot of us are working with in our lives. It struck me as quite moving. I know. What a beautiful idea, actually, that anything should end in and write that. Something that seems like an ending is actually an explicit reminder that there's always more. That's something else can be connected, that something else can happen next. I find it very beautiful. And always our final question. What are three books you'd recommend to the audience. Oh my gosh, I almost forgot over the course of all this. First of all, I have to say Thank you so much for always asking this question, both because I delight in learning what people read about and because Oh, it's just nice to know that literary culture, however embattled it might be, is still shaping our lives and our thoughts and all of these wonderful and enduring ways. O.K my three. Number one. It's so funny you mentioned that you're reading Wolf Hall. I would like to encourage you and your listeners at some point to go read A Place of Greater Safety, which is the book Hilary Mantel wrote before turning to Thomas Cromwell and his compatriots. And it is about the French Revolution. It is 800 pages long, incredibly undisciplined, absolutely unruly, and wildly great to read. I also recommend it because it is fundamentally the story of three people who are trying, in full sincerity, to make a better nation, and instead just absolutely destroying it and destroying themselves in the process. And I don't mean to suggest we're on the Eve of a French Revolution style catastrophe. I certainly hope not. But it is nonetheless extraordinarily interesting reading material right now. So that's number one. Number 2 is a book that just is out this week, I believe, which is this wonderful graphic novel Spent by Alison Bechdel with beautiful color artwork by her partner, Holly Rae Taylor. It's about the experience of growing up in a relatively hardscrabble family and living this kind of marginal artistic existence, and then suddenly finding yourself reasonably well off. And it's very adjacent to these questions we've been discussing of well, how do you enjoy your life and your money and also live your values and interact with your community. And it's very smart on the questions of what we do with our money and our money and our morals. And it's also just riotously funny as all of her work is. So that's number two. And number 3, this book I think I've heard you talk about as well, also a relatively new book, and I'm partly shouting out my partner here because she was involved in the Michael Lewis project, Who is Government?, which is this collection of essays by these wildly different writers about government bureaucrats, which at the time that I first heard about it, I was like, I don't really know how well a book about an anthology of essays about government bureaucrats is going to do. And tragically, it met the moment. And I can't think of a better thing for people to be reading right now than these. I found just incredibly moving stories about what these alleged agents of the deep state are actually doing with their time and doing on behalf of the American people. So those are my three recommendations for you. Kathryn Schulz, Thank you very much. Absolutely my pleasure. Thanks so much for having me. This is an edited transcript of an episode of 'The Ezra Klein Show.' You can listen to the conversation by following or subscribing to the show on the NYT Audio App, Apple, Spotify, Amazon Music, YouTube, iHeartRadio or wherever you get your podcasts. I don't know how to hold all the feelings, even all the thoughts I should have in a day. Right now, the emergency is here, and the kids need help with their homework. I have friends who have fallen terribly ill and others who have just seen their test results come back clear. I spend days covering efforts to rip health care from people and torch the global economy, and then I'm supposed to go to a birthday party. I look down at my phone at smoldering ruins in Ukraine and Gaza and Sudan, and then I look up into a spring day. I know on some level this has always been true, that we are just more or less alive to it at different times, but I guess I'm feeling more alive to it right now. More overwhelmed by it right now. More curious about how to keep myself open to it right now. And then I ran into this unusually beautiful book that's all about this experience. It's called 'Lost & Found.' It's by Kathryn Schulz, a writer at The New Yorker. The book is structured around a loss, that of her father, and around a finding: that of finding and falling in love with her partner. And then it's this really moving meditation on the way it's all connected. The way that 'we live with both at once, with many things at once — everything connected to its opposite, everything connected to everything. It seemed worth a conversation. Ezra Klein: Kathryn Schulz, welcome to the show. Kathryn Schulz: I'm delighted to be here. Thanks so much. Want all of The Times? Subscribe.

Sudan's civil war shows no signs of slowing down
Sudan's civil war shows no signs of slowing down

CNN

time5 hours ago

  • CNN

Sudan's civil war shows no signs of slowing down

When the civil war began in Sudan, Shiraz Youssef couldn't hear the explosions, the gunfire or the screams. The 22-year-old from Khartoum lost her hearing when she was very young. But the haunting images she witnessed that day told her everything she needed to know. Those scenes she will never forget. 'All I saw were terrified faces, bloody bodies in the streets — children among the dead — and armed men filled with rage,' she told photojournalist Giles Clarke, who has been documenting the country's crisis as it enters its third year. Shiraz Youssef fled Sudan's capital of Khartoum after the civil war broke out. She and her family left everything behind. People watch as a grave is dug for an imminent burial in Khartoum. Tens of thousands of people have died since fighting began in April 2023 between the country's military and the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces, or RSF. The exact death toll is unknown because of the chaos in the country, but more than 14 million have had to flee their homes to find safety, according to the International Organization for Migration. The UN has described it as 'the most devastating humanitarian and displacement crisis in the world.' It's not just violence that is killing the people of Sudan — it's also malnutrition, dehydration and disease. Infrastructure has been obliterated. 'The trauma runs really deep. You can see that in the eyes of people,' said Clarke, a New York-based photojournalist who has extensive experience working in the region. 'I think what stands out about this is how shocking and how sudden it happened.' A woman and child lie down at a busy malnutrition ward inside the city of Port Sudan. Saad Hammadoun, a 50-year-old mother of nine, remembers the day the war began. 'It was a regular Saturday, and I was working as usual, never anticipating that, in one moment, everything would change,' she told Clarke. 'When I returned home, I found my children terrified, and everything around us had transformed — nothing was the same. I felt a heaviness choking my chest as I was unable to bear the pain and anxiety for my children. I was afraid for them, uncertain whether staying at home would put them at risk or whether leaving would lead to exhaustion.' After a month of bombing and shooting when 'every day felt like a year,' Hammadoun and her family decided to pack up and leave their home in Khartoum State. She spoke to Clarke in Kassala, a city in eastern Sudan close to the Eritrean border. Nearly half a million people fled to Kassala from Khartoum and the cities south of the capital. An aerial view of Kassala, a city in eastern Sudan close to the Eritrean border. 'Much of these houses here have become sort of host communities for the displaced,' photojournalist Giles Clarke said. 'The journey was dangerous, but staying in Khartoum was even worse,' remembers Fawziya, another woman who fled to Kassala with her family. 'We walked for days, passing through areas where bodies were lying in the streets, and we could hear gunshots in the distance. There was no safety, no peace. Only fear.' Muzan Ahmed, 24, was a student before the war, with big dreams and plans for the future. That all changed quickly when the war broke out and she had to leave her home. 'The journey was terrifying,' she said. 'The streets were filled with bodies — men, women, children. I had never seen death up close before; now, it was everywhere. 'At one point, I tripped and fell … right on top of a corpse. I couldn't move. I couldn't scream. I was paralyzed with fear. The body was cold and lifeless, its eyes wide open, staring at the sky as if still in shock. I felt like I had died, too. If a stranger hadn't passed by and pulled me up, I don't know if I would have ever moved again.' Saad Hammadoun worked as a cook before the war. 'Life went on peacefully until, suddenly, the brutal war arrived,' she said, 'throwing us into a situation I never imagined.' Muzan Ahmed said the war has changed her. 'Looking in the mirror now, I don't see the girl I used to be. My eyes are tired. My heart is heavy. I don't know if I will ever feel safe again.' Dr. Tayseer Ebrahim Mohammed Musa fled Khartoum carrying only her phone. She introduced Clarke to displaced women who were living at a former school in Kassala. 'I help others living at the school with trauma and other medical issues,' she said. 'I have found my purpose.' Maryam Mohamed Ramadan says her children lived through moments of sheer terror. 'They would ask me in fear, 'Mama, are we going to die?' I would hold them close and try to calm them, telling them that God is with us and that this nightmare would eventually end.' Some of the displaced people that Clarke met in Kassala had been displaced not once, but multiple times as the fighting spread. Afaf, a 36-year-old mother of four, kept moving with her family from city to city: 'The war followed us like a shadow.' In January, the United States accused the RSF militia of committing genocide. Then-Secretary of State Antony Blinken said that the RSF and its allied Arab militias had 'continued to direct attacks against civilians,' including the systematic murder of 'men and boys — even infants — on an ethnic basis.' Limited travel and lack of burial space has led to burials expanding from existing graveyard perimeters to the city roads. They also 'deliberately targeted women and girls from certain ethnic groups for rape and other forms of brutal sexual violence,' Blinken said, adding that the same forces 'targeted fleeing civilians, murdering innocent people escaping conflict, and prevented remaining civilians from accessing lifesaving supplies.' The RSF called the United States' decision 'unjust,' adding in a statement on its Telegram channel that 'the State Department's claim that the RSF committed genocide in Sudan is inaccurate.' Clarke visited various cities in January and February, documenting the displacement crisis with the support of the UN Development Programme (UNDP) and OCHA, the UN's Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs. Conditions were often dire. In Gedaref, a former bus station was sheltering thousands of people. It was hit with a deadly wave of cholera in August. In New Halfa, Clarke visited a hospital's maternity ward that lost power after a drone strike took out a nearby power facility. A former bus station was turned into a settlement for internally displaced people in Gedaref. A mother tends to her baby, born just hours earlier, in a dark maternity ward in New Halfa. The hospital lost power after a nearby drone attack. In Kassala, Clarke spent time in a displacement camp that was set up on empty acres of land miles away from the center of town. 'They couldn't walk anywhere. They couldn't go to the market. There's no running water,' Clarke said. 'So it was just relying totally on the UN and partners to get any kind of services there.' The UN's World Food Programme (WFP) was delivering the very basics once a month — sorghum, red lentils and cooking oil. Other organizations were also chipping in: UNICEF was setting up learning centers, Clarke said, and building latrines. The UNDP set up solar lights. One of the most sacred sites in Kassala is the Khatmiyya Mosque at the foot of the Taka Mountains. People line up to receive aid from the UN's World Food Programme at a camp in Kassala. The World Food Programme distributed sorghum, red lentils and cooking oil in Kassala. Clarke was there in February when it was announced that the Trump administration would be dismantling the US Agency for International Development. USAID had been critical in providing humanitarian aid for Sudanese organizations and its people, aid workers told Clarke. 'It was despair from humanitarians,' Clarke recalled. 'It was panic actually. … The world humanitarian aid system collapsed overnight.' Very few Sudanese people have savings left, he said. Ashraf, 50, worked as a truck driver in Khartoum before the war. 'We first left Khartoum and moved south to Sannar, then the fighting started again, so we moved to Sinjar. Then the guns came to Sinjar and we had to move again. It's been very tough on me and my family. We have no money or work, and my children are always hungry. I never thought I would be in this position as I have worked hard all my life.' Data from last year shows that 71% of people in Sudan were living on less than the equivalent of $2.15 (US) a day, according to the World Bank. That was more than double the 33% who were living in such extreme poverty in 2022. By March 2024, nine in 10 people across the country were facing 'emergency levels of hunger,' the WFP said. In the sweltering tent camps, the displaced battle a mixture of boredom and despair. 'All they want is the war to end,' Clarke said. 'They want to get back to their homes. They want to get back to normal.' But many Sudanese people, when they return to their homes, are finding that there isn't much left. Moussa Hassan Mahmad has been a teacher in Khartoum for over 30 years. He is now the headmaster of a boys' secondary school in Omdurman. Many of his students have lost parents and siblings in the war. "The children missed almost two years of school,' he said. 'So all we can now do is support and educate them as best we can.' In March, the army reclaimed control of the capital of Khartoum, forcing the RSF to retreat from the city. But what was once a bustling and thriving capital city has now been reduced to a lifeless, charred ruin, said Clarke, who visited in April with support from Avaaz, a global activist group. 'In central Khartoum, which is where the fighting first erupted, the streets are now empty of people but littered with rubble, burnt-out tanks, military vehicles and mangled cars,' Clarke said in April. A government soldier walks across the Shambat Bridge in Khartoum. Destroyed vehicles can be seen across the region. A damaged church in downtown Khartoum. Government buildings, banks and businesses have been charred and stripped to the bone by the RSF, according to local officials, doctors and medical aid workers who remained in Khartoum during the war. CNN has reached out to the RSF for comment. 'The scale of looting is mind-boggling,' Clarke said. 'Everything inside apartments, businesses and administrative buildings. Miles of underground electrical wiring have been ripped out of walls and roads. It seems nothing that has even the smallest value has been spared.' Perhaps one of the most critical losses is the loss of paperwork. Some of the larger government buildings were home to Sudan's paper archives. 'Sudan kept almost all its records, from anything legal to the land registry titles, on paper,' Ahmed Khair, an independent aid consultant, told Clarke. 'Even marriage (licenses) and birth certificates. They are all gone now.' Reports and records from nongovernmental organizations are seen on the floor of a former Humanitarian Aid Commission office in Khartoum. Hospitals in the center of Khartoum were also emptied and destroyed. Wards and operating rooms were plundered. 'In the three hospital buildings I visited, there was the stench of rotting bodies, mostly from dark basement areas that lie untouched from the recent exodus of the marauding RSF fighters,' Clarke said. The Al-Buluk Hospital, in nearby Omdurman, is the only pediatric hospital operating in the region. In its crowded malnutrition wards, Clarke witnessed sick children writhing in beds that they had to share. Mohamed Maysara, 2, cries at the Al-Buluk Hospital in Omdurman. He was there to receive treatment for malnourishment People crowd the malnutrition ward of the Al-Buluk Hospital. Clarke remembers the heartbreaking sounds he would hear inside the wards — groans from children in pain. 'There were probably 50 or 60 children I saw in there at that time who were severely malnourished, and doctors told me that the numbers are rising,' he said. While the fighting has stopped in Khartoum, it has shifted to other parts of the country, including the large Darfur region, where the RSF is entrenched. Earlier this month, explosions rocked Port Sudan, the country's main port city that became the base for government forces after the fall of Khartoum in 2023. There is no sign that the fighting will stop anytime soon. Both sides have shunned global efforts to end their feud. A destroyed plane sits on the tarmac at Khartoum International Airport, which was occupied by the RSF before the Sudanese Armed Forces reclaimed control of the capital in March. This satellite image shows damage at the airport in April. (Maxar Technologies) Last month, the RSF said it had formed its own government as it marked the two-year anniversary of the war. With the war showing no sign of ending, many in the country have been left with a feeling of hopelessness. A woman named Samira told Clarke that although she was only 22 years old, she felt like her life was over. 'My dreams of education and a future feel like distant memories, something that belonged to another life,' she said. Samira and her family fled Khartoum days into the war. 'At every checkpoint we passed, I held my breath, praying they wouldn't stop us,' she said. 'Praying they wouldn't take me.' The war has also left lasting scars on Ahmed. 'Looking in the mirror now, I don't see the girl I used to be,' she said. 'My eyes are tired, my heart is heavy. I don't know if I will ever feel safe again.' Youssef, the young woman from Khartoum, had a surgery planned before the war that she said might have helped her to hear again. That dream is dashed for now. And even though she escaped the fighting, she still fears for her life. She told Clarke she's afraid that someone might take her and that she won't be able to scream for her mother or brothers to save her. 'Even here in the camp, when I go to the bathroom at night, I am terrified that someone might attack me … and no one will hear my cries.' The Omar Haj Musa displacement camp in Kassala is on the grounds of a former high school.

DOWNLOAD THE APP

Get Started Now: Download the App

Ready to dive into the world of global news and events? Download our app today from your preferred app store and start exploring.
app-storeplay-store