What Would Anne Say? Reflections from One Grandmother to the Next Generation

I woke up this morning thinking about a girl whose voice helped shape my childhood:

Anne Frank.

I grew up reading The Diary of Anne Frank in English schools, absorbing her words long before I understood the brutality of the world she lived in. Today, in a world shaken by a pandemic, political division, racial injustice, and state controls like ICE, I find myself wondering:

What would Anne say to us now?

Anne Frank lived under conditions most of us can barely imagine: confinement, surveillance, fear, separation, and the daily threat of violence. And yet, through it all, she wrote with clarity, courage, and a belief — sometimes fragile — in human goodness. If I extend her spirit into this moment, here is what I imagine she might tell us.

1. Beware of dehumanization.

Anne understood how whole groups of people can be turned into labels — “immigrant,” “prisoner,” “addict,” “other.”

She might tell us: “When you remove someone’s humanity, you make their suffering seem acceptable.”

From ICE raids to the treatment of Black people in the justice system, her warning feels painfully familiar.

2. Be gentle with yourself — and with others — after isolation.

After the pandemic, many of us emerged changed: quieter, lonelier, more fragile, more aware of what we’ve lost.

Anne knew what it meant to be shut away from the world. She might whisper, “The quiet changes you. Let that be okay.”

At fifty-nine, after griefs I never asked for, I’m learning to let that be okay.

3. Question leaders who sow fear, division, or cruelty.

History taught her — and teaches us — that societies do not crumble all at once. They erode slowly when fear replaces compassion.

She might warn: “The danger is not only in those who lead unjustly, but in the silence of those who know better.”

In this era of political extremism, her voice would cut through the noise.

4. Small acts of goodness still matter.

Even in hiding, Anne wrote about kindness, about helpers, about believing in the human spirit.

She might remind us: “Do not underestimate the power of one kind act. It may be the only light someone sees today.”

I think of this often — how even the smallest truth-telling, care-giving, or boundary-setting is an act of resistance.

5. Remember the cost of forgetting.

Anne’s diary survives because it insists we remember: what happens when empathy dies, when policies become weapons, when institutions fail to protect the vulnerable.

She might say: “My story was not meant to be repeated. Please, remember.”

And perhaps — gently — she would encourage me, too: “Your voice matters. Your story is part of the remembering.”

Why did this reflection find me today?

I have lived through losses that rearranged the entire architecture of my life.I have witnessed systems fail me in moments when I was most vulnerable.I have felt grief, betrayal, and isolation — and yet I continue to seek meaning, truth, and connection.

So this morning, as I enter my fifty-ninth year to be lived, I reached for a voice that survived the unthinkable and still believed in possibility.

And maybe that is the lesson she leaves me with today:

Hold onto hope — not blindly, but bravely.

Tell the truth — not loudly, but steadily.

Remember — not with fear, but with purpose.

These were the thoughts that shaped my morning ritual.

I raise my cup of coffee and say thank you to Anne — for still speaking.