In a country built on the dreams and accomplishments of an

Here is a deeply evocative, ancient-style reflection on Maryanne Trump Barry’s quote:

The Wound to the Dream

In the halls of judgment and the hearts of nations, there are moments when a single act — cruel or careless — can tear the fabric of what a people hold sacred. When Maryanne Trump Barry spoke, “In a country built on the dreams and accomplishments of an immigrant population, a particularly severe wound is inflicted on that principle when an immigration matter is not conducted in accord with the best of our tradition of courtesy and fairness,” she spoke not merely of law, but of soul. Her words summon the conscience of a nation to remember its origin, its promise, and the sacred duty to honor those who seek refuge and renewal beneath its banner.

For the foundation of every great civilization is not stone nor sword, but dreams — fragile things that cross oceans and deserts, bearing hope within weary hearts. From such dreams are born cities, inventions, and songs. When a nation forgets this — when it treats the stranger with contempt or indifference — it forgets its own beginning. A wound thus opened is not to the body of the nation, but to its spirit. For how can a land built by wanderers deny compassion to the wanderer? How can a people descended from seekers of freedom turn away those who seek it now?

In the days of old, even kings who ruled with iron knew that hospitality was a mark of the divine. Among the ancient Greeks, Zeus Xenios, the god of guests and strangers, watched over all who sought shelter in foreign lands. To mistreat a traveler was to invite the wrath of heaven itself. So too, in our time, when we abandon courtesy and fairness, we anger not the gods, but the eternal justice that watches unseen — the justice that measures nations by how they treat the most vulnerable.

Recall the story of Emma Lazarus, the poet whose words grace the Statue of Liberty. She was not born into privilege, but she understood the sacred covenant between the land of freedom and those who arrive at its gates. “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” she wrote. These were not mere lines of verse, but a promise — one carved into the heart of America itself. Each time that promise is broken, as Barry reminds us, the wound deepens. It is not the immigrant who is diminished, but the nation that forgets its mercy.

The principle of fairness is not a gift we bestow — it is the mirror in which we behold our own humanity. To act with courtesy toward the stranger is to remember that we too were once strangers somewhere. Every act of kindness toward an immigrant renews the covenant of our collective past; every act of cruelty betrays it. Justice, if it is to endure, must be both firm and compassionate — the sword and the open hand together.

Let it be known, then, that a people are judged not by their wealth nor armies, but by their treatment of the powerless. History remembers with reverence those who built bridges of understanding, and with sorrow those who raised walls of fear. When Rome welcomed the foreigner, it grew in glory; when it turned inward, it decayed from within. The lesson is eternal: strength and compassion are not enemies but allies, each sustaining the other.

Therefore, O children of tomorrow, remember this teaching: If you inherit a land of plenty, share its blessings wisely. When one knocks upon your door seeking hope, open not with suspicion but with dignity. Insist upon justice, yet temper it with empathy. For the measure of a nation — and of every human heart — lies in how it treats those who arrive with nothing but trust in its goodness.

And if ever the time comes when courtesy and fairness grow dim, may you be the one to rekindle them. For the dream of a nation, like the dream of a soul, lives only so long as there is kindness enough to sustain it.