Vori and Kradin: Star Trek Voyager, Us vs Them, and Me

Spoiler alert for the episode "Nemesis" from Star Trek: Voyager, Season 4

"I wish it were as easy to stop hating as it was to start." — Chakotay

That line haunted me.

In the Star Trek: Voyager episode Nemesis, Commander Chakotay is marooned on an alien planet and slowly indoctrinated by the Vori—an alien race who look and speak much like humans. At first, Chakotay refuses to join their war. He’s cautious, skeptical, and determined to remain neutral. But bit by bit, through poetic language, emotional storytelling, and shared trauma, he starts to see the Vori as noble and the Kradin—dehumanized and grotesque—as savage monsters.

By the end, Chakotay has become emotionally committed to the Vori cause and is ready to fight. Then comes the shocking reveal: it was all engineered. A Vori-run simulation designed to manipulate him psychologically. Even after Janeway rescues him and tells him the Kradin have their own version of the story—accusing the Vori of the same inhumane acts—Chakotay finds it difficult to shake off what he has come to feel.

The hatred had settled in.

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Arguments of division—no matter how much one side seems more “right” than the other—can poison the mind. Mine is no exception. Listening to either side of a political or social debate, I found myself believing what one side said about the other. I still think my voting choice in the last election was a correct one, based on values I align with—especially policies that support merit.

But getting involved is something else entirely. And I realized I wasn’t ready for the toll it would take.

Having dipped in—engaging, reacting, following—I realized I needed to step back. And what helped me do that was one thing: remembering my mission in life.

I listened to a Heartfulness talk by Daaji, where he shared a story from his time with Babuji, the grandmaster. On a cold winter day, Babuji called him and traced a line in his hand. Then he drew smaller branching lines.

“What is this?” he asked.

Daaji didn’t respond. Babuji explained (paraphrased): “The main line is your goal. When you keep that central, your energy flows in one direction. But when you allow distractions—*also as goals*—you become like a canal with many leaks. The strength is gone.”

That image stayed with me.

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My own purpose has always been to live in a way that unites the mind with the self. Some call it enlightenment, or surrender, or God-realization. I simply call it making my heart a garden of love.

But that garden needs protection.

Within each of us are tendencies we like and others we dislike. When the world shouts in division—accusing, blaming, dehumanizing—it amplifies the divisions we already wrestle with inside. We’re working to integrate our fragments, but the noise pulls us apart. The accusatory rhetoric about “them” out there echoes the parts of “me” I’ve yet to understand or heal.

To stay grounded, I’ve trained myself to withdraw emotional energy from distractions that don’t serve my deeper purpose—and redirect it toward what does. That doesn’t mean disengaging from the world. I vote. I express. I care. But I’m not an activist or a politician. I’m a citizen who chooses to contribute where it counts and within the scope of my responsibilities.

Janeway’s reminder to Chakotay—*“The Kradin say the same things about the Vori that the Vori said about the Kradin”*—is perhaps the most important moment in the episode. It’s a wake-up call: us vs them narratives are usually mirror images. And when you become emotionally entangled in those stories, you lose the ability to see clearly.

So I’ve learned this: the best thing I can do is stay away from the stories, do my own research, and act where I can—without forgetting the rest of my life, my purpose, my relationships, and the beauty I want to grow within.

This is how I’m learning to detangle from the web of hate.

And Chakotay’s words echo still:

> “I wish it were as easy to stop hating as it was to start.”

Truth Begins with Seeing

A Sunday Reflection I Did Not Expect

Two months ago, during a Rotary training program, a shock awaited me. It didn’t come from a keynote speech or a breakout session, but from a quiet conversation during a break. A gentleman—composed, kind—brought up an issue I had never connected to my immediate world: human trafficking, right here in Northern Virginia.

I froze.

Like many, I had assumed such horrors were confined to borders, faraway places, or shadowy underworlds. I believed—wrongly—that victims were mostly foreign, smuggled across checkpoints. I had no idea how deeply domestic this tragedy is, how close it lives—often hidden behind suburban curtains, school doors, or glowing screens.

The Wake-Up Call

That night, I couldn’t shake it off. I began watching news segments and documentaries. One episode of Dr. Phil stood out—a young girl, rescued just eight days after her abduction. She spoke of being drugged, relocated every few hours, stripped of stability and identity. Her story wasn’t just disturbing—it was gut-wrenching.

Then came a meeting with our Rotary District Governor, Amelia—a fierce advocate, a change agent in every sense. What she shared next left me breathless.

She explained that many abusers don’t abduct physically—they groom emotionally. They find vulnerable teens—especially from minority communities—and draw them in through false affection. They encourage them to share secrets, provoke self-harm, then trap them in silence with shame and blackmail.

A Pattern Emerges

It all clicked when my team member, Abi, casually mentioned a trend among his friends: private Instagram accounts for “venting.” These accounts—raw, uncensored, full of provocative language and images—feel safe to the teens. But they’re also goldmines for predators.

Just one manipulator watching that space can do irreversible harm.

One message.

One child.

One family in turmoil.

Cases That Haunt

Amelia shared case after case. In one, a child was coerced into harming—and eventually killing—her own pet. In others, children were trafficked not for weeks, but for just a few hours at a time. Some teens sneak out after dinner, obey a blackmail demand, and return home late—undetected, sleeping in their own bed, while the parents remain unaware.

Even more painful was hearing that young boys are often trafficked for longer durations than girls, simply because boys tend to stay silent longer—shamed into silence.

I was speechless.

Where Did We Lose Connection?

What bends a mind toward such cruelty?

What breaks in a family, a school, or a society that allows a child to suffer silently just a room away?

The answer, I suspect, is disconnection.

We’re losing the threads that once bound families together—mealtimes, eye contact, conversation. We are surrounded by digital noise but starved of meaningful presence.

The Game That Shocked Me

Then came Amelia’s final revelation. Her child had asked to install a game—hugely popular, millions of downloads, five-star reviews. Curious, she checked. The game’s premise?

“Relaxing torture.”

A toy is placed in a chamber and suffers increasing harm. As the levels progress, the toy becomes more human—so the torture becomes more real. And we call this “fun.”

Amelia reported the game to federal authorities and is actively working to have it taken down.

Where Are We Headed?

To what end are we entertaining ourselves?

The senses—sight, sound, touch—are meant to guide us, not enslave us. When pleasure, unchecked, becomes the dominant motivation, ethics quietly leave the room. And when ethics fall, humanity follows.

What Must We Do?

So I sit here on a quiet Sunday, lost in thought.

How do we recover from this?

How do we reclaim the safety of our children, the strength of our homes, the dignity of our communities?

This world is one family. And today, some among us are hurting others—not because they are monsters, but because something inside them has broken, often long ago.

We cannot look away.

I can think of no better use of a Sunday than to reflect, to share, and to act—with compassion, with courage, and with conviction.

We owe that much to the children we haven’t yet met—

And to those whose suffering we’re just beginning to understand.

A Gatekeeper of Kindness

The Wait

My daughter and I had been waiting for more than an hour at the dental clinic. We weren’t angry, just… tired. There was a quiet concern building in us — about the missed appointment we had scheduled after this one, about the unpredictability of the delay.

The receptionist at the front desk — a young woman — wasn’t rude or careless. She just repeated herself like a programmed message: “The doctor will see you soon.”

Neutral face. No emotion. She wasn’t doing anything wrong — she was simply not with us in the moment.

The Shift

Then K walked in.

Let’s just call her that, to keep it anonymous. But honestly, she deserves more than just one letter.

She immediately sensed something was off. She looked at us, not just with eyes, but with empathy. She expressed concern — real concern — about our long wait, and calmly explained that the dentist was caught up in an emergency case.

And then, without fuss, she offered us two Starbucks gift cards.

Each was for $5. It wasn’t the money. It was the gesture. The shared moment of humanity. The quiet way of saying: I see you, and I care.

This Wasn’t a One-Time Thing

This wasn’t an isolated event. I’ve watched K again and again gently ease patients’ pain and confusion — not the physical pain that the dentist treats, but the emotional kind: waiting, financial anxiety, fear of procedures, frustration with insurance.

Let’s be honest — no matter how good your insurance plan is, dental visits always come with a hint of dread.

How much is this going to cost me today?

Will this go beyond my budget again?

And who sits between the anxious patient and the dental chair?

The admin assistant. The front desk. The bridge.

It’s a role few notice, and even fewer appreciate.

More Than a Job

I remember another time when K carefully laid out a treatment plan for me. She broke it down into what insurance would cover, what I’d need to pay, and what would require pre-approval — and she offered to handle the insurance calls herself.

Another time, I had a major tooth extraction. A few days ago, there was a tragic plane crash that took 240+ lives — most of them from India.

As I checked in, K looked up and gently said, “I saw the news. That’s terrible. I was thinking of you.”

It was just a sentence. But it landed deeply. It was human. Thoughtful. Shared grief, even if quiet.

That extraction ended up taking nearly three hours. When I was done, sore and dizzy, K handed me a small pack of painkillers — just in case the pharmacy delayed their delivery. A small act, full of care.

And the next day, when I had a concern about my stitches? She didn’t say they were too busy. She found a way to get me in.

A Thankless Job That Deserves Thanks

We often assume that doctors are the only ones who heal. But those who manage the fears before the treatment even begins — they play a quiet, crucial role.

People like K handle a thousand invisible details:

• Breaking down costs with clarity

• Preventing surprise bills

• Explaining insurance paperwork

• Responding to anxiety with patience

• And sometimes, just being kind when you need it most

It’s a job most of us take for granted. But it’s also a job that holds the emotional atmosphere of the clinic together.

A Quiet Thank You

This post isn’t about dentistry.

It’s about a kind of human grace that shows up in small moments — in a gift card, a soft voice, a thoughtful gesture, a quick solution, a warm glance.

To K — and to others like her, holding the line at the front desk — thank you. You make something heavy feel a little lighter. You help us walk in and out of those doors feeling a little more cared for.

You are the unsung gatekeepers of kindness and reassurance.