What we really lose if we do not fund discovery

Science funding and the national imagination

Raj Ladher, a professor at the National Center for Biological Sciences in Bangalore (now known as Bengaluru), recently called the U.S. “the best research ecosystem in the world.” The phrase is somewhat bittersweet, appearing as it does in an article in The New York Times about how the current administration is creating an unwelcoming climate for international researchers to come to this country to pursue their work, a development that threatens America’s capacity to remain a global leader in scientific research. Since taking power, the federal administration has pursued cuts to the funding of scientific institutions, threatened the autonomy of universities, and, on the issue of immigration, embraced exclusionary rhetoric and policies that threaten to close America off from the rest of the world, including from international students and those who seek to come here to participate in, and enrich, its research ecosystem.

It is difficult to see this happening and not think of the many who have come to the U.S. to be part of our scientific ecosystem, and how much we stand to lose by closing the door to those who wish to do so now. I think, for example, of Benoit Mandelbrot. Born in Poland and raised in France, he developed a new visual approach to math, exploring irregular shapes and patterns in nature. In the 1950s, he moved to the U.S. and took a position at IBM, an unusual choice for a theoretical mathematician. At IBM, he was given space to develop his science, including his work on fractals, leading to his 1982 book, “The Fractal Geometry of Nature,” which sparked widespread interest across disciplines, from physics and biology to economics and art. Today, fractal geometry has influenced fields including computer graphics, financial modeling, medicine, and environmental science. There are countless examples like that of Benoit Mandelbrot — of scientists who came to the U.S. to do their work — from Albert Einstein, to Katalin Kariko, to Rita Levi-Montalcini. Such scientists, and many others, chose to pursue their work in this country because this has long been a place that welcomes discovery science.

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Equanimity in a fraught moment

Is staying calm in challenging times complicity?

n the past few months, I have written about how I am organizing my thinking in the context of changes being brought about by the new federal administration. While I have been clear about the importance of calling out cruelty, and have noted where I see federal actions risking or harming health, I have tried very hard to be open to new perspectives and ideas, recognizing that a new administration has a remit to do things differently, and that we should both give space for that and have capacious tolerance and generosity of spirit with respect to the motives of those involved in this effort. That has seemed the right approach to me and still does. I have, however, in the past weeks received notes from several colleagues that more or less ask, “How can you suggest that we should be open-minded, accepting, when we see terrible things happening?” and, “Are you not being complicit in allowing bad things to happen?” Inspired or informed by these challenges, I thought I would here address these questions — in particular, why I have tried to lean into equanimity in thinking and writing — and also address the perhaps uncomfortable additional questions: Is a measured, calm approach in the moment helpful, or does it verge on complacency? When is equanimity a moral virtue, and when does it slip into complicity with actions that harm?

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The underrated value of sincerity

Reflections on a quiet revolutionary value

We live in what can often feel like insincere times. In this world of spin, “fake news,” and performative social media, sincere honesty can feel like it is in short supply. Much of what is said is said for effect—to drive online engagement, to be liked, to gain advantage—rather than for the purpose of sincerely expressing something. This is particularly true in today’s charged political climate, where words may or may not correspond to the true feelings of those who speak them, and the purpose of speech can just as easily be to obfuscate or confuse as it can be to convey deeply held principles. As individuals, we can sometimes find ourselves avoiding sincerity in favor of projecting irony, cleverness, or some other trait we deem more socially attractive. We may also avoid sincerity simply to avoid the vulnerability that can come with it, echoing Shakespeare’s Iago when he said:

“For when my outward action doth demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart
In complement extern, 'tis not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For daws to peck at…”

We, too, may hesitate to wear our hearts on our sleeves, avoiding the daws (which, by the way, refers to Jackdaws, birds in the crow family), and preferring to keep our sincere feelings safely unexposed. Yet, even as we may drift away from sincerity, most of us have an ineffable sense that this drift is not good, and that sincerity is a virtue to which it is worth aspiring. At some core level, we do not like encountering insincerity, or even well-faked sincerity. This is clear in the world of politics, where voters place a high premium on “authenticity,” and it is frequently the candidate who best conveys a sense of speaking with sincerity that wins elections.

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Learning from disasters

A reflection on the EF-3 tornado that hit St. Louis on Friday.

Last Friday, an EF-3 tornado struck the city of St. Louis, where I live, and tornados struck other parts of the central US, including Kentucky and Wisconsin. The Missouri storm, which was the strongest to hit St. Louis since 2011, cut through the city at 55 mph, with winds up to 152 mph, destroying thousands of homes, injuring 38 people, and killing five. As of last Sunday, 23,000 homes and business were without power.

The heart of these events is always in the stories of the people who are most affected—stories of loss of loved ones, of homes destroyed, of the challenge of coping, as a community, in the near- and long-term. And, in particular, such stories are, here in St. Louis today, and always after such events, more acute in already economically precarious neighborhoods, including, today, neighborhoods like Fountain Park and the Greater Ville that have long faced a range of challenges before the storm struck, now made worse by the moment.

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Acknowledging challenge, engaging with hope

Some thoughts, inspired by the class of 2025, on the challenges and opportunities of the moment.

Last Monday, I had the privilege of attending the Commencement ceremony at Washington University in St. Louis, where I serve as dean of the School of Public Health. I have long felt that graduation is the happiest day of the academic year, an enduring source of inspiration and joy. Coming together as a community to recognize the achievements of our graduates always ends the academic year on a hopeful note.

That perhaps fits uneasily in times of challenge and disruption, such as the current moment. It has been a disorienting few months. The election of a new administration has led to an array of proposed changes, some countermanded shortly after being introduced, some leading to court challenges and stays that change little but leave a policy Damoclean sword hanging over a lot of the work we do. Some of these actions directly affect what we do both in the academic world and in a world where we are aspiring to promote the health of populations. While I have written about where I see these policies endangering the health of populations, I also have tried hard to keep an open mind about the remit that should be afforded any administration to implement the agenda it feels it was elected to pursue.

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“We must disenthrall ourselves”

On letting go of habits and ideas that do not serve us in this moment.

In his second annual message to Congress, Abraham Lincoln wrote:

“The dogmas of the quiet past are inadequate to the stormy present. The occasion is piled high with difficulty, and we must rise with the occasion. As our case is new, so we must think anew and act anew. We must disenthrall ourselves, and then we shall save our country.”

I have been reflecting on these words lately. This moment, for all its challenges, is not the same as the one with which Lincoln contended — we do not face a crisis of slavery and civil war, though the legacy of both continues to echo through history. However, our occasion is “piled high with difficulty,” and our case is indeed new. We face a range of intersecting, novel challenges that has made this an era unlike any other. Political disruptions, climate change, technological developments such as AI, and global conflict have made this a time of difficulty, a stormy present. These challenges beg important questions: How should we respond in this moment? What should we — can we — do to build a better world when the one we have seems to be so much in extremis?

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What is the worst that could happen (for U.S. health)?

Thinking about the potential consequences of a policy landscape in flux

This piece was co-authored by Dr. Nason Maani.

The U.S. stands at a moment of uncertainty regarding its future health and well-being. The current administration has now sought to act on a range of fronts in advancing its policy agenda. These early actions have affected almost all levels of government, many of which will have an attendant impact on health. What this impact might be in the long term remains to be seen, a view that is complicated by both the speed and breadth of the federal actions, and the extent to which these actions are directly affecting our capacity to measure their effects — as in the case, for example, of enforced pauses on health agencies’ communication.

With this in mind, we ask, considering what we know, what is the worst that could happen to U.S. health, what challenges should we be most aware of and anticipating? In asking this question, it is important to note the importance of adjusting for our biases and avoiding a reflexive engagement with the emotions of the moment. It is on us to make an effort to be dispassionate, because dispassion supports the reasoned, fair-minded perspective that helps us to do and say only what is constructive at a time that calls for approaches that build, not break. We have written before about the importance of maintaining this perspective, recognizing that we have just had an election in which the American people chose a particular vision for the US and—while they could not have foreseen all of what has happened since and may well not support much of it—we need to recognize that many of the policy changes of the moment would likely be considered at least directionally correct by roughly fifty percent of the country.

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What we owe, and do not owe, the past, Part 2 of 2

We owe the past much, but do we owe it everything?

In last week’s essay, I engaged with the question, “What do we owe the past?” I began by accepting that the past matters for the present, that we have a responsibility to remember the past both for moral reasons and from a recognition that we cannot fully understand the present without understanding what came before and why. We owe the past, and those who lived in the past, our remembrance of the history that shapes all we do, and are, in the moment. In remembering the past, we should also be learning from the past, recalling the wisdom of our forebearers and trying to avoid their mistakes as we work to build a better world in the present.

We should also try, to the extent we can, to rectify the injustices of the past. While it is true that there is much about the legacy of the past that cannot be changed, there are still ways we can reckon with the past to address some measure of the injustices we inherit, and, where we can do so, we should. These all reflect obligations we owe to the past that should inform all we do in the present, so that even what is bad about the past can in some way — through a process of remembering, learning, and informing the work of rectifying historical injustice — help to create a better present and future.

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