When I was very young, I used to believe that my parents were omniscient and infallible. They knew everything and were never wrong. As I aged, I of course realized the faults of my assumptions. Being a parent now myself, I especially realize how absurd that notion was. We make it up as we go along, doing the best we can with the information we have at hand. Mistakes are part of the practice.

Part of my younger beliefs was that my parents were responsible for or had control over worldly developments. They were adults, they had agency that I did not. I am sure there is some psychological term for this, but, likely for the sake of simplicity, I subordinated systems of authority and power into the hands of those I was most familiar with who also had such seemingly tremendous power and authority – my parents.

Again, this belief waned as I grew, but it became replaced by a perhaps more right-sized view of accountability and action in the world. Rather than holding the expectation that my parents could control everything, I was interested in what they contributed to change and making the world a better place, broadly speaking. As my worldview became explicitly infused with politics during my adolescence and its accompanying arrogance, I more specifically wanted to know what they did that was in accord with my view of what they should have done.

In my unfair, myopic, and Manichaean evaluation, they often fell short. Having learned that they were young adults during the peak of the long 60s, I was interested in how they participated in the movements I was reading about and immersing myself in. It turns out they didn’t, really. This was a source of great consternation and judgment at the time. Again, later in life, I realized that the question of “What did you do?” can be answered in a multitude of ways and is best asked in tandem with the question “What didn’t you do?” Nonmaleficence can be just as important as beneficence. Today, I have a more nuanced understanding of my parents’ answers to those questions. I am proud of them for what they did and for what they didn’t do, and for how they continue to conduct their lives.

Another lesson I’ve learned over the years is that each of us carries a different conception of our place in time and history, of what we hope to fulfill during this life and what we wish to leave behind as our legacy. I think about this more often now in this conjuncture of fascism and genocide. I look at my two-year-old son and expect that one day, he will ask me what I did during these times. What did I do when fascism came to power in the United States? What did I do when Palestinians were being genocided? I hope my answers do not disappoint him. (Note: Neither fascism in the US, nor genocide in Palestine are new phenomena. Both have simply been ratcheted up a notch.)

My answers disappoint me. There is no purpose in an inventory of actions taken. The end result is that I have not done enough. Our collective answer must be, as fascism and genocide march on, that we have not done enough. To do enough would be to have stopped it. So far, we have not. This is not to instill feelings of guilt, shame, or culpability, it is simply a recognition. At the same time, many of us have done something. Perhaps more of us than have ever moved before. And that is not to be dismissed. In this world of relentless harm, exploitation, and trauma, to stand and reject this world, to testify that things don’t have to be this way and that we all deserve better, is a mighty feat. To care for our children with love, to tend to our families, friends, and comrades, to help in ways unspoken, without headlines or social media posts, in the face of a system that cries only for death, despair, and division is a defiant act. It feels like it is not enough, but that must also be held with the compassionate awareness that it may be all we are able to do.

Omar El-Akkad recently published a book on the genocide in Palestine called One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This. I have not read it, but the title rings true. And it brings me back to my son. When the future has unanimously condemned a past that it applauded in the present and he asks me what I did during genocide and fascism, will my legacy be one of shame and obfuscation or of providing an answer that, “No, I did not do enough, but I did what I could.” I don’t know if that will be sufficient for him, but it will have to be enough for me. I do not believe we should live only with an eye toward our legacy, though I also believe we should in part be guided by the observation of Amir Sulaiman: “You will be someone’s ancestor. Act accordingly.” As we navigate this terrain with one ear tuned to the call of history, all we can do is what my parents did. And what I do in turn. We do the best we can within our capacity with what we have at hand. There is no shame or remorse in that. To hurt because others are hurting simply indicates our commitment to everyone getting free. Shame only falls on those who cannot answer to history, to those who cheered on genocide and fascism or, more duplicitously, guarded their silence.