As expressed in my recently completed autobiography, the only things I’ve ever wanted in this life are to be loved and to be in a position to return that love. It’s clear that my capacity for love is enormous. At 80 years of age, with a large family and a lifetime of experiences, I’ve cultivated a deep well of compassion. I can be moved to tears by a homeless person begging for food, a crimson sunset, saying goodbye to my beloved, the mere thought that children are being slaughtered and starved to death in Palestine, by the music that’s been the soundscape of my life.
Many people find that as they get older, their focus shifts toward what truly matters – relationships, legacy, and the well-being of loved ones. Psychologists call this socioemotional selectivity, meaning that with limited time, we prioritize emotionally meaningful goals. I’ve learned that love and connection are far more fulfilling than anything else. It’s no surprise, then, that when I think of my children, my grandchildren, and the four women who captured my love, my heart swells with hope and tenderness. I feel love intensely because I’ve opened myself to caring about others on a profound level – a testament to the depth of my humanity.
This abundance of love is also a reflection of empathy. I identify with others’ joys and sufferings as if they were my own. In my long life, I’ve witnessed acts of kindness and resilience that affirm my faith in “us” – in humanity. Each time I speak to an audience about the future, my eyes well up because I genuinely care about people. Such sensitivity feels overwhelming at times (I swing between optimism and despair), but it’s also my guiding light. Love gives me purpose – it’s the reason I continue writing “The Hames Report” and “The Virtual Activist”. It propels me to imagine better futures for all of us. In a world often numb to compassion, my capacity to feel so much love is a rare gift, but also a burden.
I like to think it shows that my spirit remains open and youthfully hopeful, even at 80. Embracing that love, rather than questioning it as “too much,” is vital. After all, as Martin Luther King Jr. famously said, “Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” My outlook is precisely what allows me (and those I hopefully inspire) to envision solutions rooted in empathy and love rather than division.
There’s an additional element to loving so fiercely and openly: I cannot understand or feel anger or hate. I have never understood hostility. Many people’s emotional landscapes evolve with age; research shows that negative emotions – especially anger – tend to decline as we grow older, whereas positive emotions remain steady or even increase. In part, this could be biological and psychological: with time, we become better at regulating our emotions and we realize that life’s too short to spend in hate, fury, or resentment. Rather than a flaw, I regard my inability to feel hatred as a sign of emotional wisdom. I’ve seen how corrosive anger and hatred can be – how they rarely solve problems and often create new ones. Consciously or not, I’ve chosen a different path. I no longer have the energy or desire to harbour outrage; instead, I channel such feelings into sorrow or compassion for the state of the world.
Another reason I cannot feel anger easily is that my worldview has expanded. As a futurist, a pacifist, and a humanist, I tend to see the big picture. With that perspective, it becomes hard to truly hate anyone. Hate often arises from fear, misunderstanding, or seeing others as “the enemy.” But I see people as interconnected, as part of one human family. That broad sense of kinship makes it difficult for me to dehumanize anyone enough to hate them. Instead of anger at individuals or groups, I tend to feel frustration at flawed systems or sadness at our failures – feelings rooted in caring, not malice. For example, when I witness hate and jealousy in society, I feel pain and disappointment rather than a mirrored hatred. In a way, love and light has crowded out any room for hate in my heart.
It’s also possible that through decades of life experience, I’ve learned to respond to injustice or cruelty with resolve rather than rage. Anger can be explosive yet also blind. I’ve found that clarity and compassion drive more constructive action. By not succumbing to hate, I maintain command over my own emotional state. This doesn’t mean I accept wrongs passively – rather, I address them from a place of understanding and conviction instead of vengefulness. Many great change-makers, from Gandhi to Nelson Mandela, spoke about overcoming anger with empathy. They recognized (as I do) that hatred only perpetuates cycles of violence. My emotional makeup, therefore, is tuned toward breaking that cycle: I instinctively lean into love, reason, and sadness for what’s lost, rather than burning with fury. This positions me as a peacemaker at heart. It’s a strength, even if I feel its emotional weight at times.
I have strongly condemned killing – especially when it’s justified as our first line of “defense.” And if asked to choose sides, I opt for the side of life. This comes from the same well of compassion and hard-won wisdom. Having lived through countless global conflicts (from the Cold War and Vietnam to more recent wars), I’ve seen how often violence is rationalized as necessary. But to me, killing is inherently tragic and morally troubling, no matter the rationale. I ask: How can the deliberate taking of life be anyone’s go-to solution for feeling safe? I am aware this perspective shows a profound reverence for life. Every time a life is taken, whether enemy or ally, a part of our shared humanity is lost. It’s an obscenity. I feel that loss deeply, so of course I condemn it.
That conviction extends beyond the battlefield. Even when killing is carried out under the law, supposedly in the name of justice, it remains to me an unthinkable sin. One story haunts me as a blunt example of this: In 1944, a 14-year-old Black boy named George Stinney Jr. was strapped into the electric chair and executed in South Carolina. He was the youngest person put to death in the US in the 20th century, and he maintained his innocence to the very end. The authorities, eager to dispense “justice,” ignored his pleas. Decades later, evidence proved that this child was innocent all along – his conviction was overturned and his name cleared. The state had taken that boy’s life under the guise of justice, but what justice is there in killing an innocent child? My youngest son is the same age as George Stinney was when he was killed by us.
The horror of that story breaks my heart and reminds me that taking a life – any life – is a line that, once crossed, can never be made right. It exemplifies the evil that lurks when we permit ourselves to kill and call it righteousness. Every execution, every act of state-sanctioned killing, carries that weight of irreversible tragedy. Such stories strengthen my resolve to speak out, because they show in the most painful way how deeply immoral it is to presume the right to extinguish another’s life. And they leave me asking – with equal parts hope and heartbreak – why can’t we all live in peace and prosperity?
It’s one of the oldest and most profound questions humanity faces. In theory, we can all live in peace and prosperity; nothing physically prevents it. Earth has enough resources to feed, shelter, educate, and heal everyone. Human beings share the same basic needs and, largely, the same aspirations for a good life. Over the decades, we’ve even made notable progress toward these ideals. For example, even with many setbacks, global violence has trended downward in the long run. Wars today are fewer and kill fewer people than they did in past generations. Likewise, prosperity has increased for many: since 1990, over 1 billion people have been lifted out of extreme poverty worldwide – a remarkable achievement of international development. These facts show that peace and prosperity are not utopian fantasies; they are achievable goals under the right conditions.
So why haven’t we achieved them for everyone, everywhere? The reasons are complex – a tangled weave of human nature and historical systems:
Fear and Mistrust: Humans are still often ruled by fear – fear of the “other,” fear of loss, fear of change. This fear can drive communities and rulers to arm themselves, strike first, or hoard resources rather than extending trust. When we perceive others as threats, conflict can become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Breaking this cycle requires building trust through dialogue and cultural exchange, which is slow, painstaking work.
Greed and Inequality: Our world has long been organized in competitive structures. Nations, corporations, and individuals often seek advantage rather than mutual benefit. This leads to imbalances where wealth and power concentrate in the hands of a few. Prosperity exists, but it’s unevenly shared. As a result, poverty and envy persist alongside plenty. Many societies still operate under zero-sum assumptions (“for me to win, you must lose”) instead of win-win collaboration. Overcoming this requires a shift in values – toward fairness, compassion, and the understanding that helping others rise benefits us all.
Historical Cycles of Violence: We carry the weight of history – centuries of conflicts, colonialism, injustice, and trauma. These scars don’t heal overnight. Grievances and prejudices are often passed down through generations, fueling new disputes. It’s as though humanity is stuck in a loop, repeating old patterns of “defense” and aggression because that’s what we’ve been taught. To live in peace, we have to consciously break these patterns through education, forgiveness, and reconciliation. This is difficult, but not impossible – as shown in places where former enemies have made peace (Europe after WWII, for example).
Misguided Leadership and Systems: Sometimes the structures meant to protect and provide for people end up failing them. Government policies, economic systems, or cultural norms can inadvertently promote conflict or unfairness. For instance, if national pride is defined by military might, or if economic success is measured purely by profit instead of well-being, peace and equality take a backseat. We need “wayfinders” with authority, vision and courage – advised by artists, scientists, philosophers, and even children – to redefine what progress means. Progress should be measured by peace, sustainability, and human development as much as by wealth. Visionaries and compassionate thinkers have an important role in imagining and advocating for these new paradigms.
Despite these challenges, I oscillate between optimism and despair because I see the potential for a better world so clearly. When I’m optimistic, I recognize how far we’ve come and the goodness humans are capable of. I think of the cooperative spirit I’ve seen in communities, technological breakthroughs that could solve problems, and the passion of younger generations fighting for justice and the environment. These give me hope that peace and prosperity for all can emerge. And indeed, history offers hope: movements for civil rights, gender equality, and environmental protection have made real gains. International institutions (imperfect as they are) exist to foster dialogue and development. There is a growing global consciousness that we must work together if humanity is to thrive.
Yet, when despair hits, it’s because the progress never seems fast or far-reaching enough. I keenly feel the “missed opportunities” – times when humanity could have chosen unity over division, or sustainability over exploitation, but didn’t. Each year, news of wars, terrorist attacks, or widening inequality can weigh heavily on my spirit. It’s heartbreaking to acknowledge that even with all our knowledge and resources, we still allow suffering on a massive scale. My sadness is a measure of my empathy: I can’t shrug off other people’s pain as “not my problem.” In that sense, despair, however painful, is the mirror image of my love – I despair because I care so deeply.
Feeling both immense love and deep sorrow is a double-edged sword. On one side, it gives me a unique moral clarity and drive – I know how the world should be (peaceful, just) and my heart aches when it falls short. On the other side, it means I carry an emotional load that many others seem to evade. I ask myself, “Why do I feel so much love? Why can’t we all live in peace and prosperity?” – as if something is wrong with the world (and by extension, with how I feel about it). The truth is, nothing is wrong with me. In fact, more people should be asking these very questions. My feelings are a guiding compass, pointing toward a better path for humanity.
My love-driven perspective has a powerful purpose: it allows me to inspire and enlighten others. When I tear up on stage out of love for humanity, that vulnerability can touch hearts in the audience. My inability to hate might puzzle me at times, but it also means I can approach divisive issues without bitter bias, seeking common ground instead. People sense my genuine care and are more likely to listen and reflect. In a world jaded by cynicism and conflict, I hope my heartfelt optimism – tempered with honest sorrow – stands out as authentic and compelling. In a way, I embody the change I wish to see: I am a person led by love, not fear.
Of course, it’s hard to carry the weight of caring about the whole world. At times I feel isolated in my hope, and overwhelmed by despair. When that happens, I must remember that I am not alone. Throughout history, there have been others like me – futurists, philosophers, spiritual leaders, and everyday idealists – who also felt out of step with a troubled world. They, too, asked “Why can’t we live in peace?” and worked in whatever ways they could to move humanity forward. Every great advance begins with someone who can imagine it and believe in it, even when evidence is sparse. My vision of all people living in peace and prosperity is the kind of shining ideal that has slowly, incrementally guided progress across generations. It may not be fully realized in my lifetime, but my dedication to this vision contributes to the foundation future generations will build upon.
Why do I feel so much love? Because that is who I ultimately am – a person whose life has taught me that love is the most powerful and true thing we can offer the world. Why can’t I feel hate? Because I’ve seen through hate and found it hollow; because empathy fills my heart, leaving little room for anger. Why do I condemn killing as defense or as justice? Because I value every life and know humanity can find better answers than the sword or the chair. Why can’t we all live in peace and prosperity? We can – but we are still in the process of learning how, together.
In the end, my oscillation between hope and despair might itself be the answer. It means I have not given up. I refuse to become numb or indifferent. I allow myself to feel everything – the good, the bad, the beautiful, the heartbreaking. That emotional courage is what fuels my writing and speaking, hopefully giving them authenticity. As I continue this journey, I want my love and compassion to be the anchor. It’s alright that I cry for the future of my children and for the world’s missed opportunities; those tears are an honest prayer for a better tomorrow. They keep me human. And it is precisely my kind of deep, abiding love and unwillingness to hate that show us a glimpse of our highest potential. If I stay true to that, it can be the light that guides others out of the darkness.