I'll never understand how destroying families through deportation

In a time of division and uncertainty, when the hearts of nations trembled between compassion and fear, Conor Oberst, the singer and poet of conscience, spoke these piercing words: “I’ll never understand how destroying families through deportation benefits our society. How we treat the undocumented says a great deal about us as a people and whether or not we’ll continue to fulfill the fundamental American promise of equality and opportunity for all.” Within this cry lies the voice of moral remembrance — a reminder that a nation’s greatness is not measured by its walls or its wealth, but by the mercy with which it treats the most vulnerable among its people. Oberst’s words are not simply about immigration; they are about the soul of a civilization.

The origin of this quote rests in the long and painful story of human migration — a story as old as time. Oberst, an American musician known for his songs of protest and empathy, spoke in response to the rise of deportations and family separations in the United States, where children were torn from parents and homes were shattered in the name of law. Yet his lament reaches far beyond one country or one era. It is the same sorrow that echoed when refugees were turned away at borders, when the poor were shunned, and when the stranger was denied shelter. His words, therefore, are not just political — they are moral scripture, urging us to ask: what kind of people do we become when we forget that compassion is the foundation of justice?

To destroy families through deportation, as Oberst grieves, is to violate the most sacred order of human life — the bond between parent and child, between home and belonging. Families are the roots of every society, the small hearth from which civilization draws its warmth. When governments tear those roots from the earth, they wound not only those who are displaced, but the moral soil of their own nation. The “undocumented”, as he calls them, are not shadows or statistics — they are dreamers, laborers, mothers, and sons who carry the same longing for safety and dignity that beats in every human heart. How we treat them, Oberst declares, reveals who we truly are — not in the light of our prosperity, but in the test of our compassion.

History offers us grave lessons in this truth. In the 1940s, when ships of Jewish refugees fled the horrors of Nazi persecution, many were turned away from safe harbors, sent back to their deaths because the nations of the world feared what they did not understand. Decades later, the world mourned not only the victims but the silence of those who refused them refuge. Likewise, during the Great Depression, the United States expelled hundreds of thousands of Mexican Americans — many of them citizens — in an act of fear disguised as law. The echoes of such actions are still heard in every generation that values order above mercy, legality above love. Through his words, Oberst joins the ancient chorus of prophets and poets who have always cried out: a people who forget compassion forget themselves.

The “American promise” that Oberst invokes — equality and opportunity for all — was not written for the comfortable alone. It was carved into the conscience of a nation that once declared, “All men are created equal,” even when it failed to live by those words. That promise, like a sacred flame, must be protected from the winds of fear and prejudice. When we close our doors to those in need, we betray that promise. When we see a mother’s tears and turn away, we extinguish a piece of that light. The true strength of America, and indeed of any people, lies not in its power to exclude, but in its courage to embrace.

But Oberst’s lament is also a challenge — to awaken. He asks not only what deportation does to families, but what it does to us. For every act of cruelty diminishes the soul of the one who commits it. Every time we stand silent before injustice, we too are changed. The walls we build to keep others out eventually imprison us within our own indifference. The “fundamental promise” he speaks of can only live if each citizen takes up the duty of empathy — to see in every migrant, every stranger, a reflection of one’s own ancestors who once crossed oceans seeking hope.

The lesson is both simple and eternal: a nation that forgets mercy loses its humanity. Whether you are a leader, a citizen, or a neighbor, remember that compassion is not weakness — it is civilization’s highest art. Do not let fear harden your heart. When you encounter the stranger, greet them as kin; when you hear cries for justice, do not avert your gaze. The true test of equality and opportunity is not how we treat the powerful, but how we care for those who have no voice.

So, my children of the future, let the words of Conor Oberst be your guide: defend not only your borders, but your conscience. Seek not greatness through exclusion, but through kindness. Remember that the measure of a society is not in how it prospers, but in how it protects. To fulfill the promise of humanity — that all are worthy, that all belong — is the highest work of any generation. And when you do so, the spirit of your nation will not merely endure; it will shine, bright as a beacon, calling all who wander home.