No Need for an Island, Darling: Life Lessons from a Cold War Party Girl

Last night, my youngest daughter and I had one of those conversations that start somewhere mundane and end up exposing the layers of generational anxiety we all share.

It began, of all places, with real estate prices and her dreamy musings about buying a small island to live off-grid. (Yes, that’s what passes for escapist fantasy these days – not a mansion in Beverly Hills, but a hermit’s paradise away from civilization.)

But then came the real reason behind her island-shopping: Trump and company.

As she voiced her fears about the current political climate, I couldn’t help but flash back to my own gallery of historical bogeymen.
This perspective comes with being the daughter of a World War II survivor.

I told her about growing up with remembrance days, about witnessing Ronald Reagan through the filter of adult conversations that swirled around my young ears.

I painted her a picture of myself partying in Spain when the Berlin Wall fell – oh, the sweet taste of historical change mixed with sangria! – and later, pregnant and wide-eyed, watching Boris Yeltsin, that master of diplomatic subtlety, screaming atop a car like a drunken rock star.

The Yugoslav Wars stole my chance at fame, as a prestigious journalist had to cancel an interview about my sand sculptures (clearly, war reporting trumps ephemeral art).

I recalled how I knew Bin Laden was behind the Twin Towers while Spanish school moms looked at me blankly, having never heard of this extremist elite.
Then there was my beloved intellectual drinking buddy, who could explain the Higgs boson between beers but feared our village might get bombed for being in a straight line from Syria after Spain picked the wrong side.

“But Mom,” she protested, frustration seeping through her voice, “I can’t do anything about it!”
I nearly choked on my disbelief.
My 2005 baby, a graduate of the Steve Jobs primary school program, which emphasizes creativity, innovation, and the power of individual initiative, is currently studying business and marketing and telling me she’s powerless.

I reminded her about the butterfly effect, a chaos theory concept suggesting small changes can lead to significant and unpredictable outcomes. I used the Arab Spring as an example—how a single tweet can start a revolution—demonstrating the power of individual actions in shaping history.

The fear-mongers and warmongers all come and go.

They strut and fret their hour upon the stage, as Shakespeare would say (though he never had to deal with Twitter).
But here’s the real kicker: while my generation had to make do with underground newspapers and word of mouth, she’s got the entire digital world at her fingertips.

So no, darling, you don’t need that island just yet.

The world’s scariest monsters have always been humans, and humans, as history shows us, eventually exit stage left.
In the meantime, you’ve got more power to create change than I ever did at your age – even if that change starts with a single butterfly-wing flutter of a social media post.
Now, about that island… have you considered a lovely apartment in the city instead?

May Harmony find you

Irena Phaedra