At this tragic time in the Middle East, where, like previous leaders, Hamas has no concern what-so-ever about the well being of the Palestinians -- how the millions invested in pervasive, underground tunnels could have benefited them!  -- and when Israel, like the US, has a leader devoid of any semblance of character, I was pleased that The Washington Post printed my letter about suffering, traumatized children.

To the editor:

Regarding the Aug. 1 Style article “How Ms. Rachel built her neighborhood”:

Undoubtedly, Rachel Griffin Accurso, better known as Ms. Rachel, is a kind, sensitive talent who well deserves the success of her appealing videos for children. Still, I wish she featured both a Palestinian child and an Israeli child who was taken hostage by Hamas. Accurso says she cares for all children. However, in only featuring a Palestinian child, she seemingly picked a side.

Like Accurso, I adored the comforting messages depicted by “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.” During a horrific divorce process, my little girls, who were 4 and 7, watched the show with rapt attention, and I joined them, never wanting it to conclude. When it inevitably did, I would assure my daughters that Mister Rogers would visit us the next day. (On Fridays, I would show them a calendar and point to Monday.) However, Rogers’s decision to invite a man of color to join the talent of his show is in no way analogous to Accurso’s decision to platform only one side of the horrifying Israel-Gaza war.

SaraKay Smullens
Philadelphia

Published in The Washington Post August 7, 2025

You may be interested in my review of the documentary, “Won’t You Be My Neighbor”. https://www.socialworker.com/feature-articles/reviews-commentary/wont-you-be-my-neighbor-mister-rogers-return-visit-fills-urgent-void/

The following letter was sent to the New York Times on July 24, 2025.

To the editor:

Your recent article by Jennifer Szalai (July 24, C4) referencing books from the right and left noting dangers of empathy have it backwards. Each ignores the important distinctions of researcher Karen Gerdes, emeritus professor at Arizona State University, which are built upon in my most recent book, “Burnout and Self-Care in Social Work: A Guide for Students and those in Mental Health and Related Professions” (ed 2, NASW Press, 2021),

To bottom line: Sympathy, first noted in the 16th century, offers a welcome break from pity, which emerged in the 13th century, originally offering a positive connotation of feeling sorrow for another’s suffering, but today recognized as condescending. Sympathy is derived from the Greek pre-fix syn, meaning “together” and the word “pathos,” meaning feelings. To sympathize is to experience a heightened awareness of another’s suffering, taking on another’s pain as your own, a dangerous state, leading to burnout. 

In contrast to pity and sympathy, the concept of empathy, only 100 years old, reflects one’s ability to develop boundaries — to separate our lives and challenges from others, and in this way, hear, think, and plan with both caring and clarity... 

Empathy helps to prevent burnout, as well as poor judgement. To offer remembered political examples: Sympathy, caring without boundaries, led to poor screening for criminality of those who entered our country from Cuba, a trend that continued, and was blown out of proportion, contributing to the election of our 47th president.

Sincerely,
SaraKay Smullens

Sent to the New York Times, July 24, 2025

I am pleased that The Philadelphia Inquirer gave life to a portrait of my mother. How she would have thrived with the opportunity of an education.

To the editor:

Wherever my mother traveled, if she saw grass, she looked for a four-leaf clover. From my earliest years, I realized her search was symbolic. What she yearned for was a different life, a different husband, freedom. That was not to be, but she kept on looking for hope, for magic. She died more than 15 years ago after a valiant battle with cancer. Her last words to me were, “To be continued.” The source of my mother’s vicious adversary was never medically found, but to me, it was her broken heart. As I stood at her grave, I promised I would find a four-leaf clover and bring it to her.

My mother died a few days before a long-scheduled trip, but I felt compelled not to cancel. In profound mourning, I endured events feeling like I was not really there, only watching myself. But one morning, I spotted a four-leaf clover among the weeds. As a caretaker haphazardly approached, pushing his lawn mower, I asked if I could take the clover home with me, very briefly explaining why. At lunch, one of our hosts asked me to pass the clover to her, assuring its “safe return to me.” As days passed, my low-key requests for this promised return were ignored.

When Jewish family members visit the grave of one beloved, we note our visit by leaving a small stone at the graveside. My plan was to place the clover beneath a stone, where it could remain until it was no more. The next time I visited my mother’s grave, as I left the stone, I shared the story of the missing clover and said I would keep on looking. Inside of me, I felt the words — spoken by my mother once again — to be continued. Life has taught me everything is … until or unless, mercifully, some things are not.

Published in The Philadelphia Inquirer July 18, 2025