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 By Eryn Gordon When someone gets the opportunity to travel, they’re agreeing to a life-changing experience, where cultural immersion, language barriers, and the ability to meet diverse people create an opportunity for a broader perspective. Travel changes us, and most would agree that change is for the better, but are the places we visit experiencing positive change as well? In some cases, the answer is no. A few of the world’s most beloved destinations are suffering from their own popularity, in what is called overtourism, the phenomenon of when too many visitors congregate into a specific destination. Overtourism results in uncomfortable crowding, but can also lead to environmental problems, housing inequality, price surges, and loss of cultural identity. One such example is Venice, Italy. As travelers exploring Venice, we get a pretty clear idea of what overtourism looks like on a typical day. Mid-morning at Saint Mark’s Square. Add in some warm weather and blue skies, and you have a recipe for shoulder-to-shoulder crowds that takes ages to maneuver through. Naturally, this is a nuisance for visitors, as we might be hustling through the crowd to keep in line with a tour guide on foot, or might be running to a lunch reservation. We might get exhausted from having to rub elbows and backs with strangers and ultimately end the day by collapsing with relief into our fluffy Airbnb beds. The experience of a local is another story. The city receives over 30 million annual visitors, contrasting the mere 50,000 residents. 6 out of 10 homes are designated as “tourist only rentals,” leaving about 40% of places to live available to locals. For some who have lived their entire lives in Venice, the city is rapidly changing. Beloved shops replaced by globally recognizable chains; shops selling mass-produced souvenirs take over the boutiques. If the number of people living in Venice continues to decline, it’s estimated that there will no longer be any true local residents of the city come 2030. However, when you ask a local Venetian what the true root of the problem is, they often do not say its overtourism, but the lack of local regulations and available education. There is truly no other place like Venice. Paul Rosenberg, a resident of Venice and owner of Campaign for a Living Venice, once told me that when he walks down the street, he sees at least one person experiencing their dream in real life. Venetians know the magic of their city and are happy to share it with others. But it needs to be done so responsibly, otherwise Venice as we know it may cease to exist. This all ties back to the right to travel, and perhaps even the need to travel, but also, the right locals have to their city. When I began the research for my TEDx talk, What it means to be a good traveler, it was important to hear from travel professionals, but it was essential to learn from the locals who actually have to deal with the negative impacts of tourism every day, night, and even during the slow season. I began seeking out locals, not only from Venice, but in Barcelona, Paris, Bangkok, Lake Tahoe, and a few other notable world destinations suffering from their own success. So many of the people I spoke to share a similar sentiment. They didn’t blame tourists for wanting to come to their city or country but wanted better systems to ensure that the place remained habitable. As I mentioned with Venice, it comes down to a lack of education and regulations. The regulations are, unfortunately, out of our hands for the most part. The average traveler (me included) likely cannot lobby with a law maker for better tourism guardrails on the opposite hemisphere. But here is the thing we can do—we can learn about how that specific destination is being impacted by tourism and do our best to mitigate our contribution. Because overtourism affects different places in different ways, the answer to this question will vary, but a quick internet search should help give you an idea of how that destination is experiencing tourism. For example, the overwhelming majority of the coastline in The Bahamas has been bought up by resorts, which means that a small percentage of beach access is actually available to people who live there. As it happens, many of these resorts are all-inclusive, which means that the majority of visitors do not carry cash. Instead, you could carry a waterproof bag with small bills and be sure you tip every person waiting on you. If you feel comfortable doing so, you may skip the resort altogether and try a locally-owned bed and breakfast, further ensuring your tourist dollars help the local economy. Lastly, many of the locals felt that in the fight for ethical and regulated tourism, they were engaged in a losing battle. There is big money in the tourism industry and from the perspective of lawmakers, it doesn’t make economic sense to stifle tourism. In a lot of ways, we as travelers have quite a lot of power when we visit a destination—some would say it’s an imbalance of power. I think we have a great opportunity to change the course of tourism, and it starts with the choices we make abroad. Our power as travelers is to leave the places we visit a little better than how we found them. Whether that means uplifting residents, flushing the local economy with tourist dollars, supporting small businesses, or a combination of all three. Overtourism may be hurting some places, but we have the power and the responsibility to shift this. Eryn Gordon is a published travel writer and the founder of Earth To Editorial, a community for authentic and sustainable travel. She's also a journalist and TEDx speaker. Every month, she helps 10,000 travelers unlock a sense of adventure, learn how to explore ethically, and become stewards of their favorite destinations. Please note: We invite members of the greater Global Citizens Circle community to contribute to GCC Voices. The views and opinions expressed in each blog post are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Global Citizens Circle. Our power as travelers is to leave the places we visit a little better than how we found them." - Eryn Gordon
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 By Andrew Boutselis One morning about a year ago, I was drinking coffee in my Brooklyn apartment when there was a knock on the door. My wife had left for the day and we were not expecting any deliveries, so I was naturally perturbed by the disturbance to such a sacred morning ritual. Like most New Yorkers, I contain that paradox of being openly friendly to strangers, while holding any waste of my time in utter contempt. It’s the same trait that leads us to yield to a pedestrian with a pleasant wave yet lean on our horn when they don’t cross the street quickly enough. Closing my robe tightly around my neck, I looked through the peephole to assess the uninvited visitor. Waiting patiently on the other side of the door, stood a bearded, Caucasian man roughly my age, with a Mets hat and stack of pamphlets. He’s either delivering lost mail or the good word of Christ, I assumed, and took my chance as I turned over the deadbolt and swung open the door. He was neither a neighbor nor a missionary but rather a political advocate, specifically for the Democratic Socialist mayoral candidate Zohran Mamdani. I knew little of Mamdani beyond his striking name, made all the more memorable by the retro font used by his campaign that would look more at home on the front of a tiki bar than a political banner.  As a disillusioned Democrat who was quickly devolving into a full-blown curmudgeon since moving to Brooklyn many moons ago, the universal championing of Mamdani by hipster progressives primed me to write him off with little more than an eye roll without having done much investigation. Prescribing to neighborly etiquette more than any political philosophy, I gave the man the floor to sell me whatever rehearsed talking point he had. After a brief introduction, he asked me as a New Yorker what issues concerned me the most. Hoping to pass whatever moral purity test I anticipated coming my way and return to my coffee, I rattled off an uninspired sentiment about the homeless crisis and the need for the city to do more to protect its most vulnerable population. The man in the door nodded politely and agreed, as if I had said something of substance, before telling me his concerns: “I’m a dad,” he began, “and the things that keep me up at night at are the cost of rent and childcare.” Huh. That’s rather pragmatic for a socialist, I thought, embarrassed by my own grandstanding. He went on to tell me about candidate Mamdani, the energetic, 33-year-old assembly member from Queens, who was running an outright affordability campaign, promising to make life in New York easier by taking the financial burden off of residents struggling to meet ends meet, much like my wife and me. I listened to his case, confirmed that I was registered to vote, that I knew where my polling place was, and was left with some literature before he departed to continue his journey. As the door shut behind him I felt a familiar sensation creeping in that I wasn’t able to identify, like a song that comes on the radio that you haven’t heard since you were a kid but cannot put a name to. For a moment I allowed myself to daydream that should this Mamdani character be able to win and accomplish some of this wish list of ideas, how my dramatically that would improve life for my wife and I, who have been actively contemplating if we can still afford the city, let alone have children. I began to recognize the feeling as something from my 20s—hopeful. The feeling had just shown up, uninvited, even more intrusive than the man at my door, but extinguished almost as soon as it had arrived by a reflexive cynicism. Picking up my lukewarm coffee, for the first time in a long time, I considered the option of being hopeful.  I hadn’t always been this much of a grouch. Like Mamdani himself, I’m a 33-year-old millennial, a mix of people who I feel have had a particularly tough political journey in their third of a century on the planet. While I know that every generation has its own tragic historical landmarks to define them, the chasm between where our country was when we became of age to participate in politics, and America of 2026, feels like an indescribable decent into chaos. As with most people my age, one of the earliest national events burned into my memory was September 11th. For many of us, it was a coming online point, a complete loss of innocence, the first steps towards recognizing the world as a bigger, scarier and far more complicated place than our backyards. Tragedy birthed further tragedy and we saw our country dive headfirst into a war that we did not understand led by people, who even as a 10-year-old overhearing the nightly news was able to recognize as morally dubious characters. By the time I neared voting age, the country had been at war for more than half of my life and was in the depths of The Great Recession. Up until that point, it seemed in fashion among most people I knew to assume that the government was run by war criminals, the president to be a buffoon, my best friend’s father famously enjoying his coffee from a mug with a devil-horned George W. Bush on it. The biggest album of my graduating class was Green Day’s “American Idiot.” Something else had happened, however, by the time I turned 18. Barack Obama was elected president, a historical event that had such an impact on this young white kid from New Hampshire that I cannot fathom the effect it had on more disadvantaged people around the country, let alone the world. The significance was not lost on me, and for everything terrible I had known to be true about America in the present and it’s not-too-distant past, the 2008 election signified to me that change is possible, that things can actually get better. While a child may not understand the minutia of foreign affairs or puzzle of the American economy, I cannot stress enough the impact the character of a leader can have on a child.  Photo credit: Courtesy Barack Obama Presidential Library. This optimistic outlook for the country mirrored a pivotal time in my own life as a I prepared for college and looked to my own future. Through graduation, college and the tumultuous post-grad years, there would be ups and in downs, but one constant in my life was my admiration for the president, the pillars of the Democratic Party aligning with my own values. The youngest of four children in a barely middle-class home, I was essentially raised by a single mother because of my father’s chronic, debilitating illness. Through this upbringing, I saw firsthand the importance of a strong social safety net, the value of the arts in public education, and the nightmare that is our healthcare system. In short, life was hard for my family, but we had leaders to look to and keep us inspired. Believing in my elected leaders and supporting their fight for a better future was an inherent part of my character, as essential to my identity as the books I read or the music I loved. This sentiment seems laughable now, as this romanticized idealism of politics in 2026 sounds as dated and quaint as stump speech given out of the caboose of a steam locomotive. As the Obama years wound down, I found both myself and the country preparing for an uncertain, new future. I had made up my mind to move to New York City to pursue a career in the film industry, and my final few months in New Hampshire were spent basking in the political frenzy that is this key state during an election year. Saddened by the end of a presidency that had defined my formative years, I saw an exciting, more progressive future in the senator from Vermont, Bernie Sanders. Much to my dismay, as well as virtually every other Democrat I knew, he was not our candidate. Dismissed by many establishment Democrats as “extreme” or “unable to win an election,” this seemingly blatant rejection of the will of the party’s base was the first crack in the foundation of my faith in the Democrats.  Photo credit: Facebook Nonetheless, my friends and I threw our support behind the Clinton-Kaine ticket enthusiastically, even having an opportunity to see the former first lady speak, introduced by then first lady Michelle Obama. Unstirred by the trollist rhetoric coming from the other candidate on the right, a friend and I had dinner on election night and even cheered to the presumptive first woman president. It was cold and grey when I moved to Brooklyn in January the following year. I found myself, as well as the country, in a new, unknown place. While exploring a new city was a welcome distraction, I couldn’t escape the existential dread of the direction our country was headed, like waiting for a diagnosis after the discovery of a potentially malignant lump. We looked to leaders but they were still licking their wounds. It felt quite powerless at times. The party was having an identity crisis and seemed to be trying to try to cleanse itself in any way it can. Progressive movements spiked up like #MeToo, leading to long overdue justice for so many women, but adding to further disillusionment of men in power. It was a confusing time and I did my best to listen and learn. I went to protests, met plenty of liberals in my community, but more often than not it appeared to me we were finding more reason to divide amongst ourselves at a time when we should be building a strong coalition more than ever.  Photo credit: Pamme Boutselis Things were reaching a boiling point when the pandemic hit, and a red-hot populace stayed home and had nothing but time on its hands—hands that were constantly holding their phones. Misinformation, toxic algorithms, and age-old police violence, now impossible to ignore, filled everybody’s screens. The American culture had become a dumpster fire and the first year of what should have been an exciting new decade did nothing but pour gasoline onto it. The beaten down idealist in me, still clinging to hope, believed that a new leader could emerge from this 24-hour a day shit show. We got Joe Biden. The next four years were a bit of a respite, but it felt like a Band-Aid on a gunshot wound, a minute to catch our breath in the corner of the ring before hearing the bell and going another eight to ten rounds. There were whispers of something called Project 2025—and in seeing the growing lack of faith in Biden, it became increasingly apparent to me that in 2024 there would need to be new energetic leadership to seize this moment and protect the country from the monster waiting in the wings. By July of 2024, as I watched the addled, feeble president fumble his way through the most important debate of his life, I felt a long way from the young man who had watched Barack Obama’s inauguration speech 15 years ago. It was a fittingly frigid day when the orange man was sworn in for his second term. Record-low temperatures moved the ceremonies indoors, although the chill was felt far beyond the borders of the capital. As I watched him take his oath, surrounded by many of the people responsible for eroding the decency of our culture, I felt any hope left in me expire. I wasn’t sad. I was angry, bewildered, and felt that my own party had failed me, the country, and future generations. All these things were on my mind as I drank my cold coffee and looked at the big, yellow letters on the pamphlet in my hands. ZOHRAN. I cast it to the purgatory of unread mail in my office and assumed I’d forget about the wonder kid from Queens. History proved to make this impossible over the next several weeks. I could not escape the name Zohran Mamdani. Posters in bodega windows, stickers on the Q train, wheelbarrows of mail, and above all, a relentless social media presence speaking directly to voters.  Photo credit: Kara McCurdy My knee-jerk reaction was to dismiss the digital blitzkrieg as a shameless attempt to seem relevant to younger voters, until remembering Mamdani was my age and, in fact, a young voter himself. This was not a typical candidate awkwardly appearing on podcasts and desperately speaking to influencers in a calculated ploy to assimilate to the next generation’s language. Mamdani spoke that language. Additionally, he was an immigrant from a working-class neighborhood in Queens, understood the hustle culture of New York City, and even more importantly, had a sense of humor. Most impressive was the clear communication and frank goals of his campaign that you could rattle off the top of your head: freeze rent, universal childcare, free buses. No grandiose statements about equity or demonizing folks who had a different perspective. Direct messaging, instead, to voters about how he will improve our lives. Inevitably, Mamdani’s candidacy became the main talking point over drinks or dinner with friends, whether it be their fiery support or outright dismissal based on the scope off his ambitions. Always more comfortable seated at the skeptic table, I largely agreed with the latter and found the Mamdani agenda a bit fantastical. The rest of the democratic establishment seemed to agree, everyone from the governor to mainstream podcasters labeling him as “radical.” Despite following this logic, emotionally it didn’t sit well with me, perhaps bringing back memories of that old senator from Vermont and his ill-fated nomination back in 2016. As time went on, my flirtation with the omnipresent Mamdani developed into full-fledged support when it became clear the alternative was none other than disgraced former Governor Andrew Cuomo. Having resigned over sexual misconduct, Cuomo’s brand of politics reeked of a bygone era, like the stench of cigar smoke in the woodwork of an Albany steakhouse. Positioning himself as a political heavyweight who had the strength to go toe-to-toe with the President, he seemed to think the title of Mayor was nothing more than a consolation prize that he was entitled to. Contrasted with Mamdani’s direct to the people approach, Cuomo barely did interviews or made his case for himself. He didn’t seem to be seeking people’s vote but rather demanding it. His statements regarding his past lewd behavior can be summed up as “boys will be boys,” a total parade of arrogance not too dissimilar to the president he claimed that only he could stand up to. For anyone on the fence about Mamdani, the choice seemed crystal clear in my mind, as this was a decision between returning to the past or stepping into the future.  Photo credit: Kara McCurdy Faced with the choice between fresh idealism and business as usual, I was frustrated to find many of the people in my life, who I was ideologically aligned with, still weren’t convinced. “He just won’t be able to get anything done,” they’d proclaim with tired eyes and defeated certainty. No rational person could argue against the mountain of improbability facing the young candidate, but is dreaming big not the purpose of seeking higher office in this country? Obama spoke of the audacity of hope. For eight years in this country, we said yes we can, even when we were defeated and the odds stacked against us. Did John F. Kennedy tell us we would go to the moon because it would easy? Hell, the current president has spent the last decade making promises that he cannot deliver. That is not to equate his incessant lies to Mamdani’s lofty agenda—no, but it is to say that the goals of a candidate don’t inform you of what they for certain will accomplish, but to inform you of who for certain they will be fighting for. The word that came up over and over in this dialogue was “radical.” Every time I would hear this word, I felt an anger growing inside of me. When I looked around, there were plenty things that seemed radical to me beyond Zohran Mamdani. What seems “radical” to me was accepting the status quo, that so many New Yorkers worked more than 50 hours a week and struggle to pay their rent. What was “radical” was expecting people who had been living under an authoritarian to elect a sexual predator as the mayor of their city. It is “radical” to accept that we cannot choose a leader who will fight for us because we need to accept that large-scale change in this country is no longer possible. Surrounded by such rank pessimism, I found myself for the first time in a decade feeling like an idealist. And it felt good. Even if Zohran can only accomplish a fraction of what he has promised, he will have mobilized a new generation.  Photo credit: Kara McCurdy It was a bright, brisk day on January 1, 2026. As the world celebrated a New Year and nursed their hangovers, my city celebrated a new chapter. The sun beamed hard as the young mayor was sworn in by none other than the senator from Vermont himself. It was the beginning of what would be a historic, brutal winter, but I felt some of that cynicism in me melt away. “Beginning today, we will govern expansively and audaciously. We may not always succeed. But we will never be accused of lacking the courage to try.” In those remarks, Zohran Mamdani articulated a core tenet of American idealism. Falling short in the pursuit of a better world is not a failure, but a noble effort, one that is essential to the American story. A lot has been said about the state of our democracy because of the current administration. While it is true that the president is morally bankrupt, culturally poisonous, and globally harmful, he was brought to power by the will of the American people. Rather than let that understandably horrify me and shatter my hope for a better world, I choose to focus on the fact the American people can still choose their leaders, no matter how “radical” they may be perceived. We can educate, inspire, and mobilize an electorate that can make a tidal, historical change in this country. Andrew Boutselis is a writer and filmmaker, currently working in location management in the film and television industry. He studied film production at Fitchburg State University and earned a bachelor’s in communication at Southern New Hampshire University. After two-plus decades of New Hampshire life, he now resides in Brooklyn, New York. Connect with him on LinkedIn. Please note: We invite members of the greater Global Citizens Circle community to contribute to GCC Voices. The views and opinions expressed in each blog post are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Global Citizens Circle. I choose to focus on the fact the American people can still choose their leaders, no matter how “radical” they may be perceived. We can educate, inspire, and mobilize an electorate that can make a tidal, historical change in this country." - Andrew Boutselis By Jerry Dunfey and Nadine Hack Jerry Dunfey is the 1974 founding president of Global Citizens Circle. Nadine Hack has been actively involved with GCC for 42 of its 52-year history. They have been citizen activists for decades. We asked them to share their reflections about their friend Reverend Jesse Jackson, an international icon, who died at 84 on February 17, 2026.  Reverend Jesse Jackson was a larger-than-life force of nature who deeply inspired people from all sorts of backgrounds, especially but not only African Americans. His ability to build coalitions resonates deeply with Global Citizens Circle mission. We were among those who were privileged to know and work with him for many decades. The first time Rev Jesse climbed aboard Jerry’s motor home that he drove around the country to support important political campaigns was in Atlanta when Ambassador Andrew Young was running for the US Congress. Andy is the honorary co-chair with President Mary Robinson of Global Citizens Circle international advisors. He was the first African American elected to Congress from Georgia since Reconstruction.  Local volunteers and others who’d come to Georgia and joined the bandwagon on Jerry’s RV for Andy’s historic races between 1972 and 1976, along with Rev. Jackson, included US Congress woman Maxine Waters then in the California State Assembly, and Harris County Commissioner Rodney Ellis, a Global Citizens Circle board member for many years, then a legislative assistant to US Congressman Mickey Leland.  In 1984, Jerry’s son Peter Dunfey, brought Rev Jesse to the campus of the University of New Hampshire to register student voters. In 1988, aboard the RV plastered with Keep Hope Alive posters, we traversed through Manhattan, Brooklyn and the Bronx, carrying, as always, campaigners famous and unknown. We have fond memories of dancing in the streets as Jesse got the crowds ‘fired up and ready to go’ long before that chant was used by presidential candidate Barack Obama. The moment the camera focused on Rev. Jesse weeping as 2008 Democratic presidential nominee Obama stepped on the stage in Chicago, was as profound as the Red Sea splitting open. We too wept knowing the pivotal role Rev. Jesse had played in getting our nation to that bittersweet yet joyous hour. Our interactions with Rev. Jesse were not just political. We hosted him and his family at the Parker House Hotel in Boston in the 1980s when his youngest daughter attended boarding school in the region. She most recently visited us in Lutry, Switzerland in 2019 and we remain connected with the other members of his family. From 1974 until the present, Global Citizens Circle has highlighted the voices of social justice activists throughout the world. Coretta Scott King and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr’.s granddaughter Yolanda Renee King co-led a 2019 Circle "In the Footsteps of Giants: Grounding and Growing the Dream." Rev. Jesse was with Dr. King when he was assassinated, as was our Global Citizens Circle co-chair, Ambassador Andrew Young. From 1960 as a student in Greensboro, North Carolina, when Rev. Jesse became active in the civil rights movement, joining the local Congress of Racial Equality chapter participating in sit-ins, through 1966 when he began to lead Operation Breadbasket, a Southern Christian Leadership Conference program in Chicago, until his death, Rev. Jesse “fought the good fight, finished the race, kept the faith.” May his example continue to inspire all of us to create a more just world. Please note: We invite members of the greater Global Citizens Circle community to contribute to GCC Voices. The views and opinions expressed in each blog post are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Global Citizens Circle. May Reverend Jesse Jackson's example continue to inspire all of us to create a more just world." - Jerry Dunfey and Nadine Hack  Photo by Gary Butterfield on Unsplash By Mariam P. Sometimes, late at night when I’m studying or the internet is slow, I catch myself wondering about big things , like why people believe what they do, or how the world could be different. In those quiet moments, I realize curiosity isn’t just something nice to have. It’s actually a strong way to deal with a world full of arguments and divisions. We live in times where information comes at us constantly : news alerts, social media threads, heated family dinners. It’s easy to feel overwhelmed and retreat into certainty. We scroll past opinions that don’t match ours, mute notifications from “that one friend,” or just nod along in conversations to avoid conflict. But I’ve noticed something: the moments when I push past that instinct and get genuinely curious are the ones that stick with me. They don’t always change minds (mine or anyone else’s), but they change the energy. They make space for something human instead of just positions. Right now, a lot of people pick a side fast and stick to it. They stop listening. But asking questions changes that. A simple “Why do you think that?” or “What made you feel this way?” can open the door to real talk instead of shouting matches. Those basic questions are powerful because they shift the focus from winning to understanding. When we ask them sincerely, we’re saying, “I see you as more than your opinion.” We’re inviting the other person to share the story behind their view , the experiences, fears, hopes, or values that shaped it. Often , people aren’t used to being asked. They expect attack or dismissal so when curiosity shows up instead, it disarms defensiveness. Suddenly, the conversation isn’t a battle; it’s an exchange. I’ve seen it happen in small ways. In online chats with people from different places, when someone asks a real question instead of arguing, the whole mood shifts. People start sharing stories. They don’t always agree, but they start to understand each other a little better. That small shift matters. This works on a bigger scale too. Whether it’s arguments about politics, climate, or rights, things get stuck when everyone thinks they already know the full truth. Questions break that stuck feeling. They let us see new sides, find common ground, and maybe even solve problems together. Think about how polarized things have become , elections, social issues, even basic facts get twisted into team sports. When we assume we already know everything about “the other side,” we stop learning. But curiosity reminds us that no one has the complete picture. Every perspective is shaped by partial experiences. Asking questions helps fill in the gaps. It reveals shared human concerns underneath the divide like wanting safety for our families, fairness in opportunities, or a planet that future generations can thrive on. Those common threads don’t solve everything overnight, but they make collaboration possible instead of impossible.  Photo by Nicole Baster on Unsplash Global Citizens Circle shows this in action. Their Circles bring people together from all ages and places to talk without needing to win. Questions are welcomed, not shut down. Listening happens first. I’ve seen how that builds trust. When people feel heard, they open up. When they open up, change becomes possible. It builds trust and shows that understanding can come before agreeing. Young people especially have this superpower. We’re growing up in a noisy, divided world, but many of us still ask “why” and “what if.” We wonder about fairness, about the future, about how to make things better. That wondering keeps hope alive. It reminds us that the world isn’t finished changing. Every question we ask is a step toward something kinder, fairer, more connected. Of course, asking questions isn’t always easy. It can feel risky especially when opinions run hot or when you’re afraid of looking unsure. But that’s why it’s powerful. It takes courage to say, “I don’t know; tell me more.” It takes strength to listen without jumping in to correct. In divided times, that’s revolutionary. When we choose questions over conclusions, we choose connection over isolation. We remind ourselves and others that people are more than the side they choose to take. We’re stories, struggles, dreams. Curiosity just lets us meet each other there. Here’s something simple anyone can try this week: When you see or hear something you disagree with — in person, online, or even in your own head — stop for a second and ask one honest question. “What’s behind that view?” or “What part of this is hardest for you?” Just one question. And remember: the goal isn’t to agree; it’s to learn something new about the person across from you. If this speaks to you, feel free to share your own question or join a Circle — small steps go a long way. “The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existing.” — Albert Einstein Mariam P. is a young Afghan woman passionate about technology, education, and creating opportunities for women. She continues her studies online while volunteering and participating in global leadership programs. She enjoys reading, exploring art, and engaging in a variety of extracurricular activities, including digital projects. Living through years of conflict and restrictions has shaped her belief that learning, commitment, and community are powerful forms of healing and hope. Please note: We invite members of the greater Global Citizens Circle community to contribute to GCC Voices. The views and opinions expressed in each blog post are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Global Citizens Circle. When we choose questions over conclusions, we choose connection over isolation. We remind ourselves and others that people are more than the side they choose to take. We’re stories, struggles, dreams. Curiosity just lets us meet each other there." -Mariam P.  By Casey LaMarca In May 2020, my wife and I had to cancel our oldest daughter's first birthday party. The world was closed, and we couldn't give her the normal experience she deserved. The experience she deserved to look back on later in life when she needed comfort, knowing she had a big celebration surrounded by family and friends. Where she could have laughed at the fashion choices of the time and the questionable decision to choose a brewery for the party’s location (listen, first birthday parties are also for the parents). For almost two years, my wife and I worked from home during the pandemic without proper child care. I still get stressed thinking about all those days when we had to use the TV as a babysitter or risk missing a meeting. We didn’t have the luxury of living off one salary. People were losing their jobs; how could we risk it? And our village, while powerful, was relatively small. So what did we do instead of that big 1st birthday? We signed off work for the day, did a cake-smash photography session, and just unplugged. We lived off that day for a while, but what we would have given for that normal, right-of-passage birthday party. In 2026, birthday parties are back, but they still don't feel normal. Our oldest daughter is in first grade now, and our youngest is close to starting kindergarten. We’re fortunate and grateful to be in that “birthday party almost every weekend” phase. It gives our kids something to do during these frigid winter months.  But what should feel like celebrations are merely temporary distractions. This should be the time in our lives when we stress over little things, like whether our kids find a sport or a hobby they love. Wondering when they will meet their first real school friends. Watching them try to break those final baby habits like bedtime routines, meltdowns over whose toy is which, and balancing work and personal life to sneak in a date night or two with your significant other. But those are not the times we live in. The times we live in fill us with these daily questions: Will today be
Because I see you. And you are not alone. You are not crazy. You have every right to feel like things are not okay. Because they are not. But, and I can’t stress this enough, you still have the right to feel joy while also feeling dread. You have the right to fight for the happiness you deserve. And it’s okay to do that right now because we do not have another choice. If the last 10 years have taught us anything, it is that the next 10 years may be our last chance to show our kids that we said, "Enough is enough." That doesn’t mean we always need to attend every protest as the only way to fight back. In fact, I think of the scene from the extraordinary 2025 film, "One Battle After Another," when the character Bob Ferguson, played by Leonardo DiCaprio, tries to remember a password given to him by a fellow revolutionary so he can find his missing daughter. When the revolutionary finally tells him, it’s “time doesn’t exist, yet it controls us anyway.” A frustrated Bob replies with, “You obviously don't have kids, you f****** idiot!” What Bob knows that his fellow revolutionary doesn’t is that a parent’s time is surviving one day at a time, and within that time, our children come first. And sometimes, it isn’t always at the birthday party we envisioned. In fact, lately, it mostly consists of play dates that are half making sure your kids are having fun and the other half having side conversations with other parents that go something like this: How old is your kid now? Six. Wow. So the world is falling apart, huh? You ain’t kidding. It is within those moments of whiplash that we must try not to lose our sense of joy. We deserve to hold on to these memories without doomscrolling and heartache. We will need them later in life to keep going. That said, we need to acknowledge for our own sanity that the world is indeed trying to rob us of the most core time of our lives. To wit, I say to millennial parents: How resilient are we? Every time we think we’ve passed a historical event, another comes right at us. And you know what we do? We fight back by being decent. By calling things out. By saying, "This is not okay, and it never will be." It’s okay if you’re not okay. But what’s also not okay is that we have to wake up every day thinking that our children may not come home because our gun laws are asinine. It’s not okay for ICE agents to come to our neighborhood and terrorize our neighbors. It’s not okay for our children to wake up one day in a fascist state to wonder, “Why did my parents let this happen?” It’s not okay that we have to spend time Googling (yes, we millennials still Google things) “how to move to Canada.” But here we are, trying to stay decent while still finding joy. If anything else, for the millennial parents out there raising young children right now, just know there isn’t a generation I would want to go through this terrifying and magnificent moment with more. Casey LaMarca is a creative director and adjunct faculty at Southern New Hampshire University (SNHU). He has over 15 years of experience in digital video production, communication, and marketing. A graduate of Emerson College, where he earned his bachelor's in visual & media arts, concentrating on writing for film and television, LaMarca also earned his master’s in communication with a concentration in new media and marketing at SNHU. He co-founded a production company and created his first documentary film focusing on America's student loan crisis. Dedicated to his work at SNHU and volunteering with TEDxAmoskeagMillyard, LaMarca is a father of two daughters, Audrey and Ava, who inspired this blog contribution. Please note: We invite members of the greater Global Citizens Circle community to contribute to GCC Voices. The views and opinions expressed in each blog post are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Global Citizens Circle. You are not crazy. You have every right to feel like things are not okay. Because they are not. But, and I can’t stress this enough, you still have the right to feel joy while also feeling dread." - Casey LaMarca  A Declaration of Moral Power RIGHT We affirm that Right precedes Might. As citizens of humanity, we choose Right Action—especially in times when human rights are dismissed, distorted, or deliberately dismantled. We refuse the false doctrine that force determines truth or that dominance confers legitimacy. We bind ourselves to a moral code grounded in the inherent dignity of every human being, without exception—across borders, beliefs, identities, and legal status. Human worth is not granted by the state. It is not earned. It is not revocable. In moments when fear is weaponized and cruelty normalized, we choose conscience over compliance, courage over convenience, and humanity over silence. MAKES Right does not remain an idea. Right becomes real through action. As people of conscience, we take a stand against the erosion of civil liberties, the criminalization of compassion, and the misuse of power, and for the protection of human dignity, due process, and truth. We commit to doing right—now through daily, measurable acts that multiply when practiced together:
MIGHT Might is power—but not all power is equal. We reject domination, coercion, and fear as false strength. We affirm that the only power capable of sustaining human dignity is moral power:
This is the power that outlasts regimes. This is the strength we claim—together. RIGHT MAKES MIGHT.
ACT NOW: If you believe that Right Makes Might, we encourage you to click through to Change.org and sign the petition with your pledge to act upon this declaration. JOIN US at our next virtual Circle by registering here. Does Might Make Right: The Moral Cost of Power When: January 28, 2026 Time: 12:00-1:00pm EST Where: Zoom Circle  By Theo Spanos Dunfey September 21st – International Day of Peace – Earth, Wind and Fire day – the birth of my first grandchild, Milo. Oh, how the confluence of these events gives me pause to reflect on this past year. You see, I became a grandmother on the 21st of September, a date I had forgotten, until a colleague reminded me, was established in 1981 by the United Nations as the International Day of Peace. It’s also a date that is recognized especially by my generation as the night when the band Earth, Wind and Fire sang and asked the question, “Do you remember/ The 21st night of September?/Love was changing the minds of pretenders/ While chasing the clouds away.” There’s surely something profound for me in this mix of the pursuit of global peace, the music of my late teens, and now the birth of my first grandchild. Though I won’t do justice to describing why it’s profound for me, I will give it a try. The ideal of achieving global peace is something that I’ve worked towards throughout my career. Listening deeply to and learning so much from those who have faced the unimaginable horrors of conflict and war have left me humbled and committed to doing what I can to advance, if only a small bit, the prospects for peace. Those prospects grow when we come together to talk and we pay attention to how we talk to one another. It is with respect and an abiding trust in the inherent dignity of all people that “talk” can lead to understanding and ultimately to peace. It’s not an easy, straight or short line between the two, but history has proven its worth. I think of Northern Ireland and the countless hours, days and years that it took to find a semblance of peace through the Good Friday Agreement. I believe the words of Nelson Mandela when he said, “The best weapon is to sit down and talk.” I respect the insights of Gloria Steinem, when she wrote in her book "My Life on the Road," “If you want people to listen to you, you have to listen to them. If you hope people will change how they live, you have to know how they live. If you want people to see you, you have to sit down with them eye-to-eye.” I’ve seen where prospects for peace expand with respectful, civil dialogue, and I feel hope in the act of nurturing it. I’m no less moved by the power of music to motivate, heal and inspire activism for a more peaceful world. It is a universal language that can sometimes soothe the soul. For me, a child of the 60s and 70s, music that brought me solace in that particular time of upheaval was soft, melodic, and soothing, or happy, lively and fun. Some were undoubtedly moved more by the hard rock of the day, but that wasn’t me. I return to the significance of Earth, Wind and Fire, a band whose songs featured poetic lyrics about universal love, harmony, spirituality, and consciousness. That’s what I liked, that’s what made me smile and sing along. When my grandson Milo was born on the 21st night of September, how I smiled and sang silently in my head the words of Earth, Wind and Fire’s perennially popular song, “September.” Of course I was beyond happy and filled with the peace and joy of knowing Milo and my daughter McKayla were healthy, safe and surrounded by family and friends filled with love for them and Nolan, the proud father and partner.  Theo and her grandson Milo. But, my dearest Milo, my prince of peace, I can’t help but worry. It is what I do best, though I try my hardest to overcome it. The world you have been born into will confront you with great challenges, and that scares me, not because I think your generation will be unable to survive. I believe you will, but it will take great effort, strategic initiative, perseverance and hope to envision and forge a new world of peace, justice and prosperity for all. You will need to work together in a world that tries to divide. You will need to learn the difference between fact and fiction in a world that tries to confuse and conflate the two. You will need stay true to your values in a world that tries to pull you away. I know you and your peers will do it, but the unknown still scares me. Nonetheless, it’s a new year and I refuse to succumb to the messages the world has imposed on me this past year. I can acknowledge and feel the pain of loneliness, the despair of war, the devastation wrought by climate change and the chaos of collapsing democratic values and institutions, but I will not and cannot give up hope for a more peaceful world. I will continue to put that hope into action for my own sweet Milo and for all of the precious new lives that come into our world with nothing but the expectation of nourishment, warmth and love. Theo Spanos Dunfey is president and executive director of Global Citizens Circle. She has over 30 years of global experience in non-profits, higher education, and international affairs. Dunfey is a graduate of the Fletcher School of Law & Diplomacy at Tufts University, where she earned a Master of Arts in Law and Diplomacy, concentrating on American diplomatic history, international communication, and international development. It was during her studies at the Fletcher School that she first began volunteering with Global Citizens Circle’s Boston programs. She also earned a bachelor’s in international relations and French at Brown University. With a primary focus on global issues, Dunfey taught international development at the University of New England, led student groups on global citizenship service-learning trips abroad, directed the World Affairs Council of Maine, and produced numerous global editorial conferences for The WorldPaper before taking the helm at Global Citizens Circle. Listening deeply to and learning so much from those who have faced the unimaginable horrors of conflict and war have left me humbled and committed to doing what I can to advance, if only a small bit, the prospects for peace."  By Dr. Esperanza Freitchen Webster’s Dictionary defines pivot as: to adapt or improve by adjusting or modifying something (such as a product, service, or strategy). At this stage in my mid-to-late career, after decades in higher education, nonprofits, and K–12 charter schools, I find myself reflecting deeply on that definition. My entire professional life has been rooted in expanding educational access for marginalized and underserved communities. I’ve been doing what we now call “DEI work” long before the acronym existed. Two years ago, I stepped into what felt like the pinnacle of that work — a senior leadership role at a major university in my hometown. It pulled together every thread of my experience: higher education, multicultural student affairs, diversity and inclusion, and community impact. The opportunity felt aligned with my purpose. And as a bonus, my youngest daughter attended the same university, receiving a tuition discount because I was an employee. From the outside, and honestly from the inside too, it looked like I had finally landed the job. I was back on a campus, shaping strategy, rebuilding a team, and steering initiatives that mattered deeply. It was hard at first — my team had been through significant turmoil. They were skeptical, guarded, unsure of my intentions and leadership style. But I trusted my belief in authentic leadership. I showed up every day with consistency, transparency, and empathy. Slowly, brick by brick, trust formed. By the six-month mark, we were healing, rebuilding, and imagining new possibilities. By late summer 2024, I felt confident enough to discuss my role with my supervisor. I was underpaid and carrying far more responsibility than the position reflected. She agreed we should work with HR to re-map and elevate the role. For the first time in a long time, I felt aligned, valued, and hopeful. I was thriving. Then came November. The unexpected results of the 2024 election hit like a boulder. Almost overnight, discussions about growth and promotion evaporated. Higher education nationwide was thrust into upheaval. Policies affecting minority-serving institutions, women’s research, global microcampuses, outreach services, and anything that resembled DEI were called into question or outright dismantled. When the U.S. Department of Education released its “Dear Colleague” letter that February, I felt the rumbling under my feet. Something foundational was shifting. By early spring, the environment in my division grew increasingly tense. Micromanagement escalated. Decisions were increasingly made to dilute, minimize, or erase student-centered initiatives, especially those supporting students of color, queer students, disabled students, and other marginalized identities. It felt like we were being asked to hide our work — as if equity had become a liability rather than a value. And that was the moment I realized my values were in jeopardy. So I began to explore new roles — first casually, then more urgently. Internal postings, other universities, local nonprofits, national organizations, EdTech. I wanted to stay connected to education and community, but I also needed to protect my integrity, my energy, and frankly, my sanity. May confirmed my fears. A meeting between my supervisor and the incoming provost created a tension I couldn’t ignore. Her sudden withdrawal and silence said everything she didn’t. My intuition — that familiar, uncomfortable knowing — pulsed louder and louder. On May 20, my supervisor told me verbally that she would likely not be retaining me — and that my direct reports would be laid off as well. She questioned my work, my capacity, and even my dedication. It was cruel, abrupt, and deeply personal. I tried to reason with her, but the door was closed. The next day, she confirmed it: eight positions, including mine, would collapse into two. When I asked about applying, she told me I shouldn’t bother — that even my own team would be “more competitive” than I was. In that moment, my years of work, leadership, and contributions were reduced to nothing. She offered empty reassurances — references, placement support, HR transfers — but I see now they were attempts to soften her own fear and preserve her own position. On June 2, 2025 — my birthday — I received my official layoff notice. I stayed until June 23, closing out projects and packing up my office, holding back tears I didn’t want to shed in a place I once loved. Then began the grind. I applied for over 300 jobs from February through September. I invested in career coaching, résumé rewrites, and new job boards. Out of hundreds of applications, I received nine interviews and three second rounds. One organization took me through three rounds only to tell me I was “overqualified.” I applied in every sector imaginable: healthcare, gaming, utilities, social media, education, defense, even industries I’d barely considered before. I leaned on my transferable skills like they were life rafts. Then, almost randomly, I applied to an EdTech company providing supplemental transportation for McKinney-Vento students — something that still connected to educational access. I moved through a phone screen and three interviews in less than 30 days and received an offer. The speed and efficiency shocked me. I began the role last month. The learning curve has been steep. Shifting from the public sector to the private sector has required rewiring how I think, work, and communicate. I stepped back from leadership into an individual contributor position with a level of oversight and structure that feels unfamiliar. I’ve had to learn new software at lightning speed and adjust to a new culture. But I’m also relieved. I have income again. Health insurance. Stability. The ability to contribute to my household without fear or guilt. I work remotely, which has its own advantages. And while the pay is lower than my previous role, it aligns with the market — and right now, employment itself is a blessing. And yet… I feel lost. I feel disconnected. I miss community. I miss being where the people are. I miss leading, mentoring, problem-solving, and building something greater than myself. I feel grateful, yes — but also restless, conflicted, and hungry for alignment again. This pivot has taken a toll. It has challenged my identity and my sense of purpose. It has forced me to confront uncomfortable questions about what I truly want versus what I can reasonably expect in this job market. And just when I began to wonder whether I should settle into this new reality, three different people — who don’t know each other — sent me two CEO job openings in my local community. Completely unprompted. Maybe it’s coincidence. Maybe it’s intuition. Maybe it’s a sign that the story isn’t over — that this pivot is still unfolding. Time will tell. But for now, I’m learning, adjusting, and listening closely for what comes next. Dr. Esperanza Freitchen is a native of Tucson and a lifelong Arizona resident. She has over 20 years of experience working in nonprofits and higher education organizations in a variety of capacities, including fundraising, grant writing, project management, and executive leadership. As a consultant, she focuses on leadership development and strategic planning for community-based organizations. Her work has led her to speak at statewide conferences and offer training on workplace communication, cultural competence, allyship, and intersectionality. Dr. Freitchen was a first-generation student and has dedicated her career to removing barriers to accessing postsecondary education for historically marginalized populations. She holds a BA in Spanish Literature from the University of Arizona, an MS and MBA from Western Governors University, and an Ed.D. in Leadership and Innovation from Arizona State University. She is a graduate of UC Berkeley’s Executive Leadership Academy, the Hispanic Leadership Institute, Greater Tucson Leadership’s Lead Tucson, CSU Fullerton’s LIFT program, and is a member of the Sunnyside Foundation’s Hall of Fame. She is also a proud Star Wars nerd and shameless Disney Adult. She and her family own Presidio Comics, a Tucson-based comics and collectibles retail store. Please note: We invite members of the greater Global Citizens Circle community to contribute to GCC Voices. The views and opinions expressed in each blog post are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Global Citizens Circle. Decisions were increasingly made to dilute, minimize, or erase student-centered initiatives, especially those supporting students of color, queer students, disabled students, and other marginalized identities. It felt like we were being asked to hide our work — as if equity had become a liability rather than a value." - Dr. Esperanza Freitchen  By Mariam P. When people hear about Afghanistan, they often think of war, loss, and restrictions. But behind all the headlines, there’s another story that is less told but deeply true. It’s the story of Afghan youth who, despite living in crisis and uncertainty, continue to find strength, hope, and purpose. I have seen this resilience in the faces of young people around me — friends, classmates, and even strangers online. Many of them have lost access to schools, jobs, and even basic freedoms, yet they still find ways to learn, to dream, and to stay connected. Hope has quietly become our form of resistance. For many Afghan youth, mental health has become one of the biggest challenges. The constant fear of the unknown, not knowing what tomorrow will bring, often leads to anxiety, sadness, or hopelessness. Yet, we rarely talk about mental health openly. In Afghan culture, these topics are still surrounded by silence. People are taught to “be strong,” to not show emotion, and to move on. But strength doesn’t mean hiding pain. Sometimes, real strength is found in facing it and choosing to grow from it. Learning as Healing Education has always been more than just lessons and grades for us; it has become a lifeline. When girls’ schools were closed and universities restricted, many young people turned to online learning. They joined free virtual programs, watched lessons on YouTube, or created small online study circles. These moments of learning make us feel alive again. Even though our opportunities are limited, we try to create our own. Some teach younger students at home, some start small study groups, and others volunteer online. Through these efforts, we remind ourselves that education cannot be fully banned, not when it lives inside us. Community as a Source of Strength In difficult times, community becomes everything. In Afghanistan, we rely on each other to survive — emotionally and practically. But for girls, this connection has a deeper meaning. We often say that we are all we have because society doesn’t protect or support us the way it should. Patriarchy still controls every part of our lives, from what we wear to whether we can study or work. So we lift each other up. We share resources, lessons, and opportunities. When one of us learns something new, we teach the others. We encourage each other not to give up, even when everything feels unfair. This sisterhood among Afghan girls is one of the strongest communities I have ever seen. It’s where we find hope, love, and the courage to continue. Online spaces have also created a kind of global community for Afghan youth. Through digital programs and leadership fellowships, we meet people from other cultures who remind us that we are not alone. Intercultural dialogue gives us a sense of belonging that many of us have lost in our own country. Learning from people who listen, understand, and support us helps rebuild our confidence and reminds us that our stories matter.  Finding Purpose Amid Pain When your country is in crisis, it’s easy to lose sight of purpose. But Afghan youth continue to prove that purpose can grow from pain. Many young people are using their voices to raise awareness about mental health, equality and education rights. Some start small campaigns on social media, while others join global programs or local volunteer groups. We don’t have perfect systems or many resources but we have determination. Our hope doesn’t come from comfort; it comes from the belief that one day things can be different. Resilience isn’t something we are born with; it’s something we build, piece by piece, through every hardship we face. For Afghan youth, resilience has become a quiet revolution. It shows in how we keep learning, helping and dreaming even when the world feels heavy. The Role of Global Solidarity Support from international communities matters more than many realize. When global organizations open doors for Afghan youth to learn or share their voices, it gives us visibility and hope. It reminds us that our stories are not forgotten. Intercultural dialogue and inclusion are key to healing divided societies. When people from different cultures listen to one another, stereotypes begin to fade and understanding grows. That’s why spaces like Global Citizens Circle are so meaningful. They bring people together not just to talk but to truly see one another as human beings with shared struggles and dreams. A Message of Hope Despite everything, I still believe in the power of youth especially Afghan youth to create change. Even if we can’t always change our environment, we can change how we respond to it. We can continue to learn, support each other and speak up for those who cannot. One day, I hope mental health will no longer be a taboo topic in Afghanistan. I hope that every young person, especially girls, can study freely and chase their dreams. Until then, we will keep doing what we can: learning, teaching, connecting, and hoping. Because sometimes, resilience is not about winning. It’s about refusing to give up. Mariam P. is a young Afghan woman passionate about technology, education, and creating opportunities for women. She continues her studies online while volunteering and participating in global leadership programs. She enjoys reading, exploring art, and engaging in a variety of extracurricular activities, including digital projects. Living through years of conflict and restrictions has shaped her belief that learning, commitment, and community are powerful forms of healing and hope. Please note: We invite members of the greater Global Citizens Circle community to contribute to GCC Voices. The views and opinions expressed in each blog post are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Global Citizens Circle. Resilience isn’t something we are born with; it’s something we build, piece by piece, through every hardship we face. For Afghan youth, resilience has become a quiet revolution. It shows in how we keep learning, helping and dreaming even when the world feels heavy." - Mariam P.  By Steve Dunfey As a member of the Dunfey family, I feel privileged to write about two people who have influenced my life for the better. One is my father Jack and the other is Manny Diaz. We all knew Jack as the leader of the Dunfey family business enterprises. He also built bridges in many foreign countries. Most significantly were his efforts in Cuba and dealings with Fidel Castro. Manny Diaz is the former mayor of Miami and has been a close friend of mine since 1976. He served two terms as mayor and became the president of the U.S. Conference of Mayors. My father was introduced to Castro by Congressman Mickey Leland, who unfortunately died in a plane crash in Africa in 1989. He continued meeting with Castro close to a dozen occasions and I was lucky enough to join him on one of those visits. We started out in Santiago de Cuba in Cuba’s east end. While there, we visited Boniato Prison and interviewed several political prisoners. Then on to Holguin, where we were treated to inspecting the tourist industry.
 Fidel Castro with Steve Dunfey  Jack Dunfey with Fidel Castro Global Citizens Circle made a trip to Cuba in 2001. The delegation met with government officials, activists and the famous Cuban writer Miguel Barnet. It would be great to hear any feedback about that trip from those that were there. Manny Diaz was born in Cuba and came to the United States with his mother in 1961. His father was a political prisoner and came to the U.S. when he was released. I met Manny when I worked for Mike O’Donovan who ran for State Representative in Miami in 1976. Manny was Mike’s campaign manager. Unfortunately Mike died soon after losing a close election. But Manny and I remained friends. He became an attorney and also a businessman working for Terremark, a real estate development firm. He also became co-owner of Monty Trainer’s, a popular Miami restaurant. Manny got into politics in a big way in 2001 when he ran for mayor of Miami, his first attempt at elected office. He wrote a book about his experience titled “Miami Transformed: Rebuilding America One Neighborhood, One City at a Time.” According to the former Mayor of Chicago Richard M. Daley, “Miami Transformed is the story of a doer, a big thinker with a passion for improving the lives of people. Manny Diaz is undaunted by the challenges that inevitably arise in government and business but always squarely focused on the agenda he has carefully set to reach his goals. That’s the definition of a good leader, and that, based on my experience, is Manny Diaz.” Dr. Eduardo J. Padron, president of Miami Dade College, said, “Manny Diaz became the mayor of Miami during a critical time, when professional leadership was needed. He took the city to new heights and also represented Miami nationally and internationally as president of the U.S. Conference of Mayors. Manny is a visionary leader who has never lost his footing or his roots. He epitomizes the immigrant success story and the fruition of the American Dream.” Steve Dunfey is a freelance writer, writing primarily for InDepthNH and the Seacoast Jazz Society. Dunfey has extensive background in politics having served as State Representative and Assistant Democratic Leader in New Hampshire. He was appointed by Governor Hugh Gallen to serve as Vice-Chairman of the New Hampshire State Port Authority. He also has experience as a professional musician and writer for Modern Drummer magazine. Dunfey has been a member of several boards of directors and as a Taxi Commissioner for the City of Portsmouth. Please note: We invite members of the greater Global Citizens Circle community to contribute to GCC Voices. The views and opinions expressed in each blog post are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Global Citizens Circle. Through his efforts my father helped nearly 100 prisoners obtain their freedom." |
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