As the clock ticks forward, the ghosts of our past often remind us when it’s time to start thinking seriously about our future.

Every person of Ashkenazi descent that I’ve met, and that shares my birth surname “Kurtzman,” traces their ancestry either to Ukraine or to the small town of Zuromin, Poland. Whether these two groups are genetically linked, I don’t yet know. My paternal great-grandfather, Joseph Kurtzman, was born in October 1862 in Zuromin — roughly two hours north of Warsaw today. Later, he moved to the larger city of Mlawa, where he married my great-grandmother, Devorsha, from a family of bakers. Joseph eked out a modest living tanning hides for German buyers and selling yeast to local bakers.

Among their many children was Jack, my grandfather, born in Mlawa in 1893. He recalled the brutal anti-Semitism of the Polish townsfolk. He told me stories of the 1905-1906 pogroms and how Russian troops had to intervene to stop the Poles from killing every Jew in Mlawa.

Joseph immigrated to the United States in 1908, following one of his older brothers whom he had never met before. Jack joined him two years later at just 16 and a half.

A map survives that marks where the Kurtzmans once lived in Zuromin. Many of the Zuromin Kurtzmans emigrated to the US. But those who stayed behind faced doom. In September 1939, the Germans occupied Zuromin and deported the remaining Jews to concentration camps — from which, to my knowledge, none of the Kurtzmans returned. The synagogue, birth and death records, and even the cemetery were destroyed. Virtually nothing remains of that world, save a few records stored in Warsaw or held by families who fled.

Lately, I’ve reflected a lot on the choices people make — especially why so many who stayed in Zuromin never left. I hope, if I ever face a similar moment — my own “Zuromin Hour” — I’ll have the wisdom to leave before disaster strikes.

After last November’s election, I decided it was time to explore my options. I haven’t yet decided if I will leave permanently, but I have decided to make a very serious effort to decide where I will go if I do. In April, I left my home in California and put all my belongings in storage. Rather than rush into a new permanent home, I chose a nomadic lifestyle: traveling to bucket-list destinations worldwide while scouting places that might become home someday. I’m fortunate to run my businesses remotely, be healthy enough to travel full-time, and have the resources to support this freedom.

This journey is about more than adventure. I want to take the time to better understand how large-scale world events might unfold in the coming decades. For instance, parts of Europe appeal to me as future homes — but if Ukraine falls and the US abandons NATO, Europe could face dire challenges. Alternatively, such crises might catalyze deeper unity and strength.

I’m not holding my breath, but it’s still possible that by 2028, the US might reject fascism, authoritarianism, and oligarchy to reclaim secular democracy. I’m watching these currents unfold before making any final decisions.

Since April, I’ve practiced this lifestyle, traveling extensively across the US, Canada, and Mexico—more than 9,000 driven miles, three countries, eight states, and 11 national parks from May through August. Despite the daily depressing news, my adventures have provided a vital balance.

Yet living without a permanent home isn’t easy, and at times it’s been challenging. Still, compared to those suddenly uprooted by disaster, political upheaval, or financial collapse, I have it easy. I planned my escape, secured my belongings, and know they’ll be waiting for me when I am ready for them.

Then this August, I left North America to begin my true global trek. Have laptop, will travel. I’m determined to seek out the good and beauty in this world.

Within the first hour of this journey, I was reminded sharply why I was leaving. On a flight from Texas, I sat next to an elderly man who had placed his bag in the space in front of my seat reserved for my laptop, while leaving the space in front of his own seat empty. When I politely asked him to move his bag, he launched into a tirade of profanities, calling me horrible and disgusting for making the request.

That moment crystallized why I needed distance from what’s happening in the US today.

It’s crucial to remember that Trump and his sycophants are symptoms, not the root problem. To paraphrase George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life: “in the whole vast configuration of things, [Trump is] nothing but a scurvy little spider.” The true crisis is that today the United States is a nation in decline—a country where many support racism, fascism, corruption, sedition and treason. A nation where decency, kindness, and morality have eroded. Where a broken educational system leaves many so uneducated they don’t even realize it.

The 2028 election might remove Trump and his criminals from power, but changing the prejudices and attitudes of millions will take decades of social, political, and educational reform — far more than one election. Yet we must try, for the sake of future generations.

Good can defeat evil, and each of us has a role to play. But the road ahead will be long and exhausting. For me, putting physical and mental distance between myself and the forces of hatred is part of how I preserve my ability to fight.

This isn’t surrender. It’s repositioning so I can engage more effectively in the battles to come.

As @yourauntemma recently wrote on X: “Americans (not all) are in denial because they, unlike Europeans, have never experienced a pathocratic takeover of their nation before. They’ve cultivated the myth of their exceptionality, believing ‘it can’t happen here.’”

But it can happen here.

I don’t know if fascism will prevail in the US — it might not. But each day that passes makes it a more realistic possibility.

We’ve already begun dismantling our educational systems. Our medical infrastructure is being sabotaged. Covid boosters crucial for the elderly are likely to be delayed or discontinued.

So I ask you, dear reader: what’s your plan when your own Zuromin hour comes? When will you say, “This is enough,” and will you be ready to move before disaster strikes? Or will it be too late?

I often think about what it would be like to raise a child in this environment:

What if parents can’t vaccinate their kids against measles, polio, or covid? How would they feel if their choice to stay resulted in the needless death of their child?

What will the next generation be like after our schools rewrite history? And when our schools celebrate bullying and racism rather than reject it?

I fear future leaders supporting a fascist agenda will be more capable than Trump. Imagine when a president creates their own version of the “Hitler Youth” — indoctrinating children to spy on parents and grandparents for signs of disloyalty.

It once happened. And it is hard to imagine something similar won’t happen again if things continue in the direction they have gone over the past nine months.

So for me, right now, the answer is clear: It is time to explore my options with the seriousness that it deserves. I left, on a jet plane, and I don’t know when I’ll be back again.

For others, there are still very good reasons to stay and make good trouble in person. What’s right for me won’t be right for everyone. But I hope you at least have a plan to protect your family if frightening, yet plausible, scenarios unfold — as they did in Europe nearly a century ago.

Yet the situation today is in some ways profoundly different than it was in the 1900s. Today there is no place where one can truly escape the economic and cultural fallout, chaos and anarchy that will propagate around the globe if the United States continues on a path to become a Mafia state, abandoning democracy and aligning with Russia. The best one can do perhaps is find places that are isolated in ways that make them less likely to be adversely affected, yet not so isolated that they lack quality healthcare and modern conveniences.

Until it’s time for me to return, I shall wander. Tolkien’s words comfort me:

“All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.”

I leave you with this beautiful cover of John Denver’s song by my friend Natalie Gelman: