Enlarge / Ralph de la Torre, founder and chief executive officer of Steward Health Care System LLC, speaks during a summit in New York on Tuesday, Oct. 25, 2016. (credit: Getty | )

A Senate committee on Thursday voted overwhelmingly to hold the wealthy CEO of a failed hospital chain in civil and criminal contempt for rejecting a rare subpoena from the lawmakers.

In July, the Senate Committee on Health, Education, Labor, and Pensions (HELP) subpoenaed Steward Health Care CEO Ralph de la Torre to testify before the lawmakers on the deterioration and eventual bankruptcy of the system, which included more than 30 hospitals across eight states. The resulting dire conditions in the hospitals, described as providing "third-world medicine," allegedly led to the deaths of at least 15 patients and imperiled more than 2,000 others.

The committee, chaired by Senator Bernie Sanders (I-Vt.), highlighted that amid the system's collapse, de la Torre was paid at least $250 million, bought a $40 million yacht, and owned a $15 million luxury fishing boat. Meanwhile, Steward executives jetted around on two private jets collectively worth $95 million.

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At the center of the two biggest controversies of JD Vance’s short political career have been cats. The first came from his attacks against the “childless cat ladies” on the left. More recently, the Republican vice presidential candidate has been spreading lies about Haitian immigrants in Springfield, Ohio, eating pets.

One possible conclusion to draw from these missives is that he is an angry man who spends too much time on the internet. Another is that he is a liar. But there is much more to what Vance is doing than mere trolling. 

Vance’s cat rhetoric is a purposeful attempt to simplify Great Replacement hysteria—hoping to convince voters that their fears of a migrant invasion and childless women are an existential threat. The controversies derive from two fixations: the number of children American women are having and the rate at which foreigners are coming to the United States. Vance wants a United States where the birth rate is high and the immigration rate is low.

In championing low immigration, mass deportation, and an increase in fertility, Vance is aligning himself with white nationalists who were once shunned by the Republican establishment. These days, he is spending less time openly espousing his ideas than he used to on podcasts. Instead, Vance—as he has explained is part of his project—is finding uncomplicated ways to get his points across (whether they are factual or not). “I do think that political rhetoric is fundamentally [about] dealing with people at their particular level,” he said earlier this year. “I think you get too deep into the theory, you actually miss a lot of the truth.” On Sunday, he went further, telling CNN’s Dana Bash during an exchange about Springfield, “If I have to create stories so that the American media actually pays attention to the suffering of the American people, then that’s what I’m going to do.”

Lying about Haitian immigrants eating cats and attacking childless cat ladies is a perfect example of this plan. Vance thinks he can sell what critics have called “blood and soil nationalism”—invoking the Nazi slogan—with dumb memes.

Vance has not hidden his influences for this theory of change. “I read this book when I was maybe 15 years old, called the Death of the West by Patrick Buchanan,” Vance said during a 2021 podcast appearance. “And that was a really influential book for me.” Buchanan, a former speechwriter for Richard Nixon and Republican presidential candidate, was not subtle about his white nationalism in the Death of the West. When it came to immigration, he accused Mexican Americans of waging a “reconquista” of land they’d lost to the United States. He spoke of declining birth rates in extreme terms—claiming that “Western women” were committing an “autogenocide for peoples of European ancestry” by having too many abortions.

It is not hard to trace the line between Buchanan’s fears and Vance’s anxieties about “childless cat ladies.” The subtitle of Buchanan’s book cuts to the heart of Vance’s current preoccupations: How Dying Populations and Immigrant Invasions Imperil Our Country and Civilization.

Buchanan’s worldview was rooted in a paleoconservatism that rejected the view that America is an idea and instead saw America as a people. In doing so, he embraced a framework that justified exclusion and a permanent white majority. 

Vance has been emphasizing the claim that Americans are a “people” for much of this year. During a speech to the hard-right group American Moment earlier this year, Vance made a point of bringing up “this thing that increasingly bothers me, which is the concept that American is an idea.” Vance made the same point about Americans as a people in July at the National Conservatism Conference in which he railed about the influx of Haitian migrants in Springfield. But the clearest explanation of this obsession, as my colleague Isabela Dias wrote, came during the Republican National Convention: 

America is not just an idea. It is a group of people with a shared history and a common future. It is, in short, a nation.

Now, it is part of that tradition, of course, that we welcome newcomers. But when we allow newcomers into our American family, we allow them on our terms.

Vance went on to talk about the cemetery plot in Kentucky that he hopes that he; his wife, Usha, the child of Indian immigrants; and, eventually, their kids will be buried in. (Her family came on “our terms” in this formulation.)

“There will be seven generations just in that small mountain cemetery plot in eastern Kentucky,” Vance said. “Seven generations of people who have fought for this country. Who have built this country. Who have made things in this country. And who would fight and die to protect this country if they were asked to.”

Vance was born in Ohio. It was his grandparents who came to the state in search of economic opportunity in the 1940s. His kids would likely be buried in the family plot in Kentucky sometime around 2100—roughly 160 years after any of their paternal ancestors lived there. But for Vance, it doesn’t seem to matter. He believes his blood is connected to that soil. That is what it means for him for America to be a people.

Behind the silly memes of Donald Trump running with cats is a much darker story. Vance sees a rapid demographic shift that is being forced upon the American “people” through immigration and childless women. Vance is determined to stop it. If he has to talk about cats along the way, he will. 

At the center of the two biggest controversies of JD Vance’s short political career have been cats. The first came from his attacks against the “childless cat ladies” on the left. More recently, the Republican vice presidential candidate has been spreading lies about Haitian immigrants in Springfield, Ohio, eating pets.

One possible conclusion to draw from these missives is that he is an angry man who spends too much time on the internet. Another is that he is a liar. But there is much more to what Vance is doing than mere trolling. 

Vance’s cat rhetoric is a purposeful attempt to simplify Great Replacement hysteria—hoping to convince voters that their fears of a migrant invasion and childless women are an existential threat. The controversies derive from two fixations: the number of children American women are having and the rate at which foreigners are coming to the United States. Vance wants a United States where the birth rate is high and the immigration rate is low.

In championing low immigration, mass deportation, and an increase in fertility, Vance is aligning himself with white nationalists who were once shunned by the Republican establishment. These days, he is spending less time openly espousing his ideas than he used to on podcasts. Instead, Vance—as he has explained is part of his project—is finding uncomplicated ways to get his points across (whether they are factual or not). “I do think that political rhetoric is fundamentally [about] dealing with people at their particular level,” he said earlier this year. “I think you get too deep into the theory, you actually miss a lot of the truth.” On Sunday, he went further, telling CNN’s Dana Bash during an exchange about Springfield, “If I have to create stories so that the American media actually pays attention to the suffering of the American people, then that’s what I’m going to do.”

Lying about Haitian immigrants eating cats and attacking childless cat ladies is a perfect example of this plan. Vance thinks he can sell what critics have called “blood and soil nationalism”—invoking the Nazi slogan—with dumb memes.

Vance has not hidden his influences for this theory of change. “I read this book when I was maybe 15 years old, called the Death of the West by Patrick Buchanan,” Vance said during a 2021 podcast appearance. “And that was a really influential book for me.” Buchanan, a former speechwriter for Richard Nixon and Republican presidential candidate, was not subtle about his white nationalism in the Death of the West. When it came to immigration, he accused Mexican Americans of waging a “reconquista” of land they’d lost to the United States. He spoke of declining birth rates in extreme terms—claiming that “Western women” were committing an “autogenocide for peoples of European ancestry” by having too many abortions.

It is not hard to trace the line between Buchanan’s fears and Vance’s anxieties about “childless cat ladies.” The subtitle of Buchanan’s book cuts to the heart of Vance’s current preoccupations: How Dying Populations and Immigrant Invasions Imperil Our Country and Civilization.

Buchanan’s worldview was rooted in a paleoconservatism that rejected the view that America is an idea and instead saw America as a people. In doing so, he embraced a framework that justified exclusion and a permanent white majority. 

Vance has been emphasizing the claim that Americans are a “people” for much of this year. During a speech to the hard-right group American Moment earlier this year, Vance made a point of bringing up “this thing that increasingly bothers me, which is the concept that American is an idea.” Vance made the same point about Americans as a people in July at the National Conservatism Conference in which he railed about the influx of Haitian migrants in Springfield. But the clearest explanation of this obsession, as my colleague Isabela Dias wrote, came during the Republican National Convention: 

America is not just an idea. It is a group of people with a shared history and a common future. It is, in short, a nation.

Now, it is part of that tradition, of course, that we welcome newcomers. But when we allow newcomers into our American family, we allow them on our terms.

Vance went on to talk about the cemetery plot in Kentucky that he hopes that he; his wife, Usha, the child of Indian immigrants; and, eventually, their kids will be buried in. (Her family came on “our terms” in this formulation.)

“There will be seven generations just in that small mountain cemetery plot in eastern Kentucky,” Vance said. “Seven generations of people who have fought for this country. Who have built this country. Who have made things in this country. And who would fight and die to protect this country if they were asked to.”

Vance was born in Ohio. It was his grandparents who came to the state in search of economic opportunity in the 1940s. His kids would likely be buried in the family plot in Kentucky sometime around 2100—roughly 160 years after any of their paternal ancestors lived there. But for Vance, it doesn’t seem to matter. He believes his blood is connected to that soil. That is what it means for him for America to be a people.

Behind the silly memes of Donald Trump running with cats is a much darker story. Vance sees a rapid demographic shift that is being forced upon the American “people” through immigration and childless women. Vance is determined to stop it. If he has to talk about cats along the way, he will. 

Enlarge / Zihao Ou, who helped develop this solution, holds a tube of it.

One key challenge in medical imaging is to look past skin and other tissue that are opaque to see internal organs and structures. This is the reason we need things like ultrasonography, magnetic resonance, or X-rays. There are chemical clearing agents that can make tissue transparent, like acrylamide or tetrahydrofuran, but they are almost never used in living organisms because they’re either highly toxic or can dissolve away essential biomolecules.

But now, a team of Stanford University scientists has finally found an agent that can reversibly make skin transparent without damaging it. This agent was tartrazine, a popular yellow-orange food dye called FD&C Yellow 5 that is notably used for coloring Doritos.

Playing with light

We can’t see through the skin because it is a complex tissue comprising aqueous-based components such as cell interiors and other fluids, as well as protein and lipids. The refractive index is a value that indicates how much light slows down (on average, of course) while going through a material compared to going through a vacuum. The refractive index of those aqueous components is low, while the refractive index of the proteins and lipids is high. As a result, light traveling through skin constantly bends as it endlessly crosses the boundary between high and low refractive index materials.

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Enlarge / Harvard Business School was targeted by a faculty member's lawsuit. (credit: APCortizasJr)

Earlier this year, we got a look at something unusual: the results of an internal investigation conducted by Harvard Business School that concluded one of its star faculty members had committed research misconduct. Normally, these reports are kept confidential, leaving questions regarding the methods and extent of data manipulations.

But in this case, the report became public because the researcher had filed a lawsuit that alleged defamation on the part of the team of data detectives that had first identified potential cases of fabricated data, as well as Harvard Business School itself. Now, the court has ruled on motions to dismiss the case. While the suit against Harvard will go on, the court has ruled that evidence-backed conclusions regarding fabricated data cannot constitute defamation—which is probably a very good thing for science.

Data and defamation

The researchers who had been sued, Uri Simonsohn, Leif Nelson, and Joe Simmons, run a blog called Data Colada where, among other things, they note cases of suspicious-looking data in the behavioral sciences. As we detailed in our earlier coverage, they published a series of blog posts describing an apparent case of fabricated data in four different papers published by the high-profile researcher Francesca Gino, a professor at Harvard Business School.

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Enlarge / The final Vega rocket climbs away from its launch pad in Kourou, French Guiana. (credit: ESA-CNES-ARIANESPACE/Optique vidéo du CSG–S. Martin)

The final flight of Europe's Vega rocket lifted off Wednesday night from French Guiana, carrying an important environmental monitoring satellite for the European Union's flagship Copernicus program.

The 98-foot-tall (30-meter) Vega rocket took off at 9:50 pm EDT Wednesday (01:50 UTC Thursday) from the European-run spaceport in Kourou, French Guiana. The launcher headed north from the launch pad on the coast of South America, aiming for a polar orbit about 480 miles (775 kilometers) above the Earth.

The sole payload was Sentinel-2C, a remote sensing platform set to join Europe's fleet of Copernicus environmental satellites. The multibillion-dollar Copernicus system is the world's most comprehensive space-based Earth observation network, with satellites fitted with different kinds of instruments monitoring land surfaces, oceans, and the atmosphere.

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It appears that even the Trump campaign wants the former president to keep quiet.

That’s according to a story published by Politico this morning, which alleges that the Trump campaign is locked in a disagreement with the Harris campaign over microphone rules at the presidential debate on September 10, specifically over whether they should stay live throughout the debate. Politico reports that the Harris campaign wants the mics on, reportedly because they believe it will give Trump a chance to embarrass himself; Trump’s team is reportedly pushing for muted mics, which they say were the terms they agreed to when the debate was scheduled with President Biden before he dropped out.

In a post on X, Brian Fallon, the Harris campaign’s senior adviser for communications, encouraged Trump to “reject his handlers’ attempts to muzzle him via a muted microphone.”

It looks like Fallon may have been right: Later on Monday, Trump told an NBC News reporter who had asked him about reports of the microphone dispute that it “doesn’t matter to me—I’d rather have it probably on.”

“Always suspected it was something his staff wanted, not him personally,” Fallon posted on X over a video of the exchange. “With this resolved, everything is now set for Sept 10th.”

Spokespeople for the Trump campaign and ABC News, the network set to host the debate, did not immediately respond to requests for comment. Jason Miller, senior adviser for Trump, alleged to Politico that the Harris campaign was “looking for a way to get out of any debate with President Trump,” and claimed the Harris campaign wanted both candidates to be seated with access to notes during the debate—which Fallon denied.

But it seems that Trump is the candidate hoping to avoid a debate. In a Truth Social tirade Sunday night, Trump alleged, without evidence, that ABC was biased and questioned whether he would take part in the debate, though he did not mention anything about the microphone controversy.

Harris, on the other hand, appears ready to go: “The VP is ready to debate Trump live and uncensored,” Fallon posted on X. “Trump should stop hiding behind the mute button.”

It appears that even the Trump campaign wants the former president to keep quiet.

That’s according to a story published by Politico this morning, which alleges that the Trump campaign is locked in a disagreement with the Harris campaign over microphone rules at the presidential debate on September 10, specifically over whether they should stay live throughout the debate. Politico reports that the Harris campaign wants the mics on, reportedly because they believe it will give Trump a chance to embarrass himself; Trump’s team is reportedly pushing for muted mics, which they say were the terms they agreed to when the debate was scheduled with President Biden before he dropped out.

In a post on X, Brian Fallon, the Harris campaign’s senior adviser for communications, encouraged Trump to “reject his handlers’ attempts to muzzle him via a muted microphone.”

It looks like Fallon may have been right: Later on Monday, Trump told an NBC News reporter who had asked him about reports of the microphone dispute that it “doesn’t matter to me—I’d rather have it probably on.”

“Always suspected it was something his staff wanted, not him personally,” Fallon posted on X over a video of the exchange. “With this resolved, everything is now set for Sept 10th.”

Spokespeople for the Trump campaign and ABC News, the network set to host the debate, did not immediately respond to requests for comment. Jason Miller, senior adviser for Trump, alleged to Politico that the Harris campaign was “looking for a way to get out of any debate with President Trump,” and claimed the Harris campaign wanted both candidates to be seated with access to notes during the debate—which Fallon denied.

But it seems that Trump is the candidate hoping to avoid a debate. In a Truth Social tirade Sunday night, Trump alleged, without evidence, that ABC was biased and questioned whether he would take part in the debate, though he did not mention anything about the microphone controversy.

Harris, on the other hand, appears ready to go: “The VP is ready to debate Trump live and uncensored,” Fallon posted on X. “Trump should stop hiding behind the mute button.”

Shyamala Gopalan Harris did not believe in coddling. Pay her daughters, Kamala and Maya, an allowance for doing chores? “For what? I give you food. I give you rent,” scoffed the woman who would someday launch a million coconut memes. “If you do the dishes, you should get two dollars? You ate from the damn dishes!” Reward the future vice president of the United States—and possible future president—for getting decent grades? Ridiculous. “What does that tell you?” her mother chided as if I had disagreed. (I didn’t.) “It says, ‘You know, I really thought you were stupid. Oh, you surprised Mommy!’ No.”

When the breast cancer researcher and single mother had to work in her lab on the weekends, her daughters went with her, like it or not. “I’m not going to get a babysitter,” Dr. Harris laughed between bites of an utterly unmemorable salad at a downtown San Francisco bistro. 

It’s been 17 years since I interviewed Kamala Harris’ mother, and 15 years since she died from colon cancer at the age of 70. I met her back in 2007, when I was an editor and writer at San Francisco magazine profiling her daughter—the city’s popular district attorney, who was running for reelection. Kamala was also helping her still-largely-unknown friend, the first-term Illinois Sen. Barack Obama, in his race for president. In a city that churned out political superstars—Pelosi, Feinstein, Newsom, Jerry and Willie Brown—Kamala Harris stood out for all the reasons she has energized previously dispirited Democrats as she hit the campaign trail this summer. She was sharp, empathetic, self-assured, funny. Highly polished but not too slick. The child of immigrants, she looked like the future. Her policies sounded like the future, too, progressive enough for her most liberal constituents but commonsense enough to appeal to the moderates who also wanted to feel safe. 

Everyone told me, if you truly want to understand who Kamala Harris is and how she got that way, you need to talk to her mother. I wrangled a meeting with Dr. Harris, then a researcher at Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory. She arrived at the restaurant off Union Square freshly manicured and coiffed, a ferocious bundle of energy and opinions in a tiny frame. If I wanted to know what made Kamala Harris tick, I could see it in this formidable woman—the same piercing intelligence, the same easy laughter, the same withering side-eye.

During that long-ago lunch, Harris’ mother explained why she hauled her two daughters, then still in elementary school, to her lab. “I had to go, we had to go,” she said. “And when they got there, I would make them do something”—maybe label test tubes or help with one of her experiments involving sex hormones and tumors. None of this did much to encourage artsy Kamala’s interest in science, though thanks to her mother she can knit, embroider, and crochet. “She painted, she drew, she did all kinds of stuff,” her mother recalled. “They couldn’t watch TV unless they did something with their hands—even though I controlled the shows as well.” 

The contradictions of the 2007 Kamala Harris intrigued me: A 42-year-old Black and brown woman from the scruffy Berkeley-Oakland flats whose political rise was largely financed by rich white Pacific Heights socialites. A die-hard career prosecutor who often sounded like a social justice warrior. A wannabe thought leader whose brand was “smart on crime,” yet who squandered much of her early political capital by opposing the death penalty for a cop-killer. Harris was also maddeningly elusive, friendly and open even as she firmly latched the door and pulled down the shades on anything remotely private. All of which left me wondering: Who was this person? How could I distinguish the appealing packaging from the authentic self? 

 

I could ask her mother.

Since our conversation, Shyamala’s daughter has been California’s attorney general, a US Senator, a failed presidential candidate, the vice president, and now the first woman of color to be nominated by a major political party for president. Throughout, she has often referred to her mother as her greatest influence and her True North. Shyamala and her aphorisms have become part of the Harris mystique—consider the famous coconut story that’s all over TikTok. Harris was delivering remarks at a White House swearing-in ceremony for Hispanic leaders in May 2023 when she veered into one of those earnest tangents that I remember from her San Francisco days, reaching into her trove of goofy-momisms and pulling out zinger. “My mother used to—she would give us a hard time sometimes, and she would say to us, ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you young people,” Harris recounted with a laugh. “You think you just fell out of a coconut tree?’”

I’m not sure what the vice president was talking about, though it had something to do with communities and context. I do know that it sounded exactly like something her mother would say. What I heard was love and yearning, a daughter honoring the person who, perhaps more than anyone else, helped shape her into what she has become, but who wasn’t there to see how it had all turned out. After Harris secured the presidential nomination, I started going through my computer files and came upon a transcript of my conversation with her mother. In rereading it, I realized that now, when millions of Americans may have the same questions I had all those years ago, revisiting my visit with Shyamala might provide some meaningful clues. 

Shyamala Gopalan was raised in a progressive Brahmin family in southeast India in which everyone was expected to earn an advanced degree and have a high-achieving career in public service. Her father, once part of the Indian movement to gain independence, was a civil servant and diplomat. Her mother, betrothed at age 12, became a fierce feminist, sometimes taking to the streets with a bullhorn to talk to poor women about accessing birth control, Kamala later wrote. Having children whose professional lives were not focused on making money was a point of pride for Shyamala’s father. “Teachers, doctors, lawyers—these are supposed to be service professions,” Dr. Harris told me. “When you make money on people who require legal and medical help, you are taking advantage of the very vulnerable. That’s tacky.” 

Coddling was out of the question. In 1958, after graduating from college in Delhi at 19, Shyamala headed to the University of California at Berkeley to earn her doctorate in nutrition and endocrinology. “My father just put me on a plane. There was not a soul I knew in the entire place. My family has done that with everybody—my sister, my brother, It was all normal.” After she completed her studies, the assumption was that she’d return to an arranged marriage in India. 

But as Berkeley became the center of the Free Speech and anti–Vietnam War movements, that changed. Shyamala fell in love with a fellow grad student and activist, Jamaican-born Donald Harris, who eventually became an economics professor at Stanford. The birth of their daughters—Kamala in 1964, Maya in 1967—did not hinder Shyamala’s studies. She earned her PhD the same year Kamala was born and was working in her lab when her water broke. Should a political rally demand their attention, she and Harris strapped the girls into their strollers and took them along. In her 2018 book The Truths We Hold, Kamala tells the story of when she was a fussy toddler and her mother tried to soothe her. “What do you want?” Shyamala pleaded. “Fweedom!!!” Kamala supposedly replied. 

After the couple’s 1971 divorce, Shyamala and the girls could have settled into one of the area’s vibrant South Asian enclaves. Instead, they gravitated to predominantly Black neighborhoods in Berkeley and Oakland. “I raised them in an African-American community, for a very special reason,” Shyamala told me: racism. “It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference if your color comes from India or African Americans, because this country is racist based on color.” Her children’s Indian identity was secure. Rooting them in the Bay Area’s Black community was an act of pride and protection, connecting them to the civil rights movement’s rich history but also schooling them in “what they need to know…to maneuver [in this country].” She added, “I’m the one who told them to do all that.”

Shyamala would not have been at all surprised by Donald Trump’s attacks on her daughter’s racial identity—he was exactly the kind of person she was teaching her children to stand up to—or by Harris’ deft dismissals of someone she considered beneath contempt. “If you don’t define yourself, people will try to define you,” Shyamala told me. “One of the first rules I taught my children is, don’t let anybody tell you who you are. You tell them who you are.”  

Thanks to their far-flung extended family, her girls had many opportunities to escape the stultifying American attitudes towards race and gender. “When Kamala was in first grade,” Shyamala recalled, “one of her teachers said to me, ‘You know, your child has a great imagination. Every time we talk about someplace in the world she says, Oh, I’ve been there.’” Shyamala quickly set the teacher straight: “‘Well, she has been there!’ India, England, the Caribbean, Africa—she had been there.” In their travels, and in the examples of the matriarchs in their own family, Kamala and her sister saw something that, in America of the 1960s and ’70s, was relatively rare: women wielding power. 

Another Shyamala life lesson: Don’t just sit on the sidelines and complain, and definitely don’t expect anyone to come to your rescue. In a 2007 interview for my profile, Harris told me that from the time she was little, “I’d come home with a problem, ‘Oh, Mommy, this happened, that happened.’” Instead of consoling her, “my mother’s first response was always, ‘What did you do?’” The young Kamala hated this. “You’re not coming to my defense! I want a mother to come to my defense!” Later she felt empowered. “If you can see where you fit into a problem, you can figure out where you could fit into a solution,” Harris told me. Perhaps as a result, she said, “I love problems, because they’re an opportunity to fix something— there’s nothing more gratifying.”

When I shared what her daughter had said, Dr. Harris offered a slightly different spin. “I wanted to know the situation. Always,” she confirmed. “But I’m not going to put on a Band-Aid when I don’t even know what the problem is. Because it could be a problem for a Band-Aid or it could be a problem for a [bigger] treatment.” And lest I missed her deeper motivation, she added, “I also think that it is patronizing from a mother’s point of view to underestimate the intelligence and the resilience of children.”

Dr. Harris brought the same tough love to the many students she mentored over the years. “It’s a very simple rule: You would not be in my lab unless I thought you were good,” she said. “Because I don’t believe in charity.” She believed they could succeed at whatever she threw at them, so they usually did. But not always. “My bottom line is just do it, and if you fall, I’ll pick you up. Because when else are you going to have this opportunity?” She could not abide young people being ruled by their laziness, or insecurity. “I’m not doing this because I’m being given millions of dollars to do this. It’s my time. And because my time is worth a lot of money, and I’m putting that time into you, you got to understand how good I think you are!” This, by the way, is the same hard-ass attitude her daughter has displayed as a boss and mentor—one of the reasons she’s sometimes been called “difficult” to work with. (Her mother’s description was “really strict.”) When it came to their expectations of the people around them, Shyamala said, they both wanted “the good stuff.”

Around 1976, Dr. Harris got a job at a research hospital at McGill University and moved the girls, then 12 and nine, to Montreal. Kamala hated being uprooted, but eventually she made some good friends. One of the recurring stories she tells is about what happened when she discovered that one of them was being molested by her father. “I said, ‘You have to come live with us.’ My mother said, ‘Absolutely.’”

Kamala had long known she wanted to be a lawyer like her idol, Thurgood Marshall, attending Howard University like he had. Given her family’s progressive world view, the assumption was that her focus would be civil rights, perhaps as a defense attorney. (Years later, her sister and close adviser Maya Harris headed the Northern California office of the ACLU.) But after returning to the Bay Area for law school, Kamala surprised her mother by announcing she wanted to become a prosecutor and champion victims like her high school friend. “She told me, ‘If you’ve not been unjustly prosecuted, you don’t need a very hot-shot defense lawyer, do you? That is only necessary when the prosecutor doesn’t do their job.’” Kamala insisted she would be a different kind of prosecutor—one who understood that “a criminal is much more than the crime he or she commits,” Dr. Harris said. “Crime in a society doesn’t occur in a vacuum. Therefore you have to integrate law enforcement in the context of the society.” When you lose sight of the context, she said, “you lose sight of humanity.”  

Then she launched into a story—another entry in the Kamala canon—about her daughter’s first job in the Alameda County DA’s office, which includes Oakland. An innocent bystander, a woman with kids, had been rounded up during a drug bust. If the woman didn’t get out that day, she’d be stuck in jail all weekend. Harris spent the afternoon looking for someone to approve the woman’s release, finally plunking herself down in a courtroom until the judge relented and signed the necessary paperwork. As Shyamala recalled it, Kamala was particularly distraught by the potential impact on the woman’s kids. “Because they are the future,” Shyamala said. “You don’t destroy them.” 

In 2007, campaign season was already in full swing and the Democratic frontrunner was Hillary Clinton. Shyamala didn’t have much to say about the presidential race, other than to grumble that the idea of a woman leading the ticket was hardly worth the hoopla. India’s Indira Gandhi had served as prime minister for almost 15 years. What about Margaret Thatcher? “And people here think it is such a big deal that they’re going to nominate a woman?” Dr. Harris said dismissively. “Please! I’m supposed to be impressed by that? No, I’m not.” As for Obama, who’d visited the Bay Area to fundraise with Kamala, “I didn’t spend that much time with him,” Shyamala told me. “He’s a great guy, but I don’t know him enough. But on my limited exposure to him, there is nothing about him that offends me.” If that seemed like faint praise—well, that’s who she was. “Anybody will tell you, I am not that easily impressed about anything.”

And now, former Secretary of State Clinton, and former President Obama, have given soaring speeches at the Democratic National Convention in praise of Kamala Harris, the Democratic presidential standard bearer. In November, Shyamala Harris’s oldest daughter could become this country’s first woman president.

In our long-ago conversation, it didn’t occur to me to ask Dr. Harris about the very American myth that anyone can grow up to be president. But it doesn’t sound like something she would have believed. Certainly she never pushed her daughters in any particular direction, with any particular goal. “To some extent, I believe that life takes you,” she told me, waxing philosophical. “You let life take you without putting up enormous resistance.” 

All Shyamala Harris wanted to do was to give her girls the emotional tools—toughness and discipline and a deep-down belief in themselves that came from knowing they were truly loved—to take on whatever life threw at them. In that, she seems to have succeeded. “What my children tend to do, I have noticed, is when they see a challenge in front of them and they feel they can take it, they will go for it,” she said proudly. “Because [if] you’re affirmed in that manner, you think, ‘I’m not going to be afraid…. I can do this.’”

Shyamala Gopalan Harris did not believe in coddling. Pay her daughters, Kamala and Maya, an allowance for doing chores? “For what? I give you food. I give you rent,” scoffed the woman who would someday launch a million coconut memes. “If you do the dishes, you should get two dollars? You ate from the damn dishes!” Reward the future vice president of the United States—and possible future president—for getting decent grades? Ridiculous. “What does that tell you?” her mother chided as if I had disagreed. (I didn’t.) “It says, ‘You know, I really thought you were stupid. Oh, you surprised Mommy!’ No.”

When the breast cancer researcher and single mother had to work in her lab on the weekends, her daughters went with her, like it or not. “I’m not going to get a babysitter,” Dr. Harris laughed between bites of an utterly unmemorable salad at a downtown San Francisco bistro. 

It’s been 17 years since I interviewed Kamala Harris’ mother, and 15 years since she died from colon cancer at the age of 70. I met her back in 2007, when I was an editor and writer at San Francisco magazine profiling her daughter—the city’s popular district attorney, who was running for reelection. Kamala was also helping her still-largely-unknown friend, the first-term Illinois Sen. Barack Obama, in his race for president. In a city that churned out political superstars—Pelosi, Feinstein, Newsom, Jerry and Willie Brown—Kamala Harris stood out for all the reasons she has energized previously dispirited Democrats as she hit the campaign trail this summer. She was sharp, empathetic, self-assured, funny. Highly polished but not too slick. The child of immigrants, she looked like the future. Her policies sounded like the future, too, progressive enough for her most liberal constituents but commonsense enough to appeal to the moderates who also wanted to feel safe. 

Everyone told me, if you truly want to understand who Kamala Harris is and how she got that way, you need to talk to her mother. I wrangled a meeting with Dr. Harris, then a researcher at Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory. She arrived at the restaurant off Union Square freshly manicured and coiffed, a ferocious bundle of energy and opinions in a tiny frame. If I wanted to know what made Kamala Harris tick, I could see it in this formidable woman—the same piercing intelligence, the same easy laughter, the same withering side-eye.

During that long-ago lunch, Harris’ mother explained why she hauled her two daughters, then still in elementary school, to her lab. “I had to go, we had to go,” she said. “And when they got there, I would make them do something”—maybe label test tubes or help with one of her experiments involving sex hormones and tumors. None of this did much to encourage artsy Kamala’s interest in science, though thanks to her mother she can knit, embroider, and crochet. “She painted, she drew, she did all kinds of stuff,” her mother recalled. “They couldn’t watch TV unless they did something with their hands—even though I controlled the shows as well.” 

The contradictions of the 2007 Kamala Harris intrigued me: A 42-year-old Black and brown woman from the scruffy Berkeley-Oakland flats whose political rise was largely financed by rich white Pacific Heights socialites. A die-hard career prosecutor who often sounded like a social justice warrior. A wannabe thought leader whose brand was “smart on crime,” yet who squandered much of her early political capital by opposing the death penalty for a cop-killer. Harris was also maddeningly elusive, friendly and open even as she firmly latched the door and pulled down the shades on anything remotely private. All of which left me wondering: Who was this person? How could I distinguish the appealing packaging from the authentic self? 

 

I could ask her mother.

Since our conversation, Shyamala’s daughter has been California’s attorney general, a US Senator, a failed presidential candidate, the vice president, and now the first woman of color to be nominated by a major political party for president. Throughout, she has often referred to her mother as her greatest influence and her True North. Shyamala and her aphorisms have become part of the Harris mystique—consider the famous coconut story that’s all over TikTok. Harris was delivering remarks at a White House swearing-in ceremony for Hispanic leaders in May 2023 when she veered into one of those earnest tangents that I remember from her San Francisco days, reaching into her trove of goofy-momisms and pulling out zinger. “My mother used to—she would give us a hard time sometimes, and she would say to us, ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you young people,” Harris recounted with a laugh. “You think you just fell out of a coconut tree?’”

I’m not sure what the vice president was talking about, though it had something to do with communities and context. I do know that it sounded exactly like something her mother would say. What I heard was love and yearning, a daughter honoring the person who, perhaps more than anyone else, helped shape her into what she has become, but who wasn’t there to see how it had all turned out. After Harris secured the presidential nomination, I started going through my computer files and came upon a transcript of my conversation with her mother. In rereading it, I realized that now, when millions of Americans may have the same questions I had all those years ago, revisiting my visit with Shyamala might provide some meaningful clues. 

Shyamala Gopalan was raised in a progressive Brahmin family in southeast India in which everyone was expected to earn an advanced degree and have a high-achieving career in public service. Her father, once part of the Indian movement to gain independence, was a civil servant and diplomat. Her mother, betrothed at age 12, became a fierce feminist, sometimes taking to the streets with a bullhorn to talk to poor women about accessing birth control, Kamala later wrote. Having children whose professional lives were not focused on making money was a point of pride for Shyamala’s father. “Teachers, doctors, lawyers—these are supposed to be service professions,” Dr. Harris told me. “When you make money on people who require legal and medical help, you are taking advantage of the very vulnerable. That’s tacky.” 

Coddling was out of the question. In 1958, after graduating from college in Delhi at 19, Shyamala headed to the University of California at Berkeley to earn her doctorate in nutrition and endocrinology. “My father just put me on a plane. There was not a soul I knew in the entire place. My family has done that with everybody—my sister, my brother, It was all normal.” After she completed her studies, the assumption was that she’d return to an arranged marriage in India. 

But as Berkeley became the center of the Free Speech and anti–Vietnam War movements, that changed. Shyamala fell in love with a fellow grad student and activist, Jamaican-born Donald Harris, who eventually became an economics professor at Stanford. The birth of their daughters—Kamala in 1964, Maya in 1967—did not hinder Shyamala’s studies. She earned her PhD the same year Kamala was born and was working in her lab when her water broke. Should a political rally demand their attention, she and Harris strapped the girls into their strollers and took them along. In her 2018 book The Truths We Hold, Kamala tells the story of when she was a fussy toddler and her mother tried to soothe her. “What do you want?” Shyamala pleaded. “Fweedom!!!” Kamala supposedly replied. 

After the couple’s 1971 divorce, Shyamala and the girls could have settled into one of the area’s vibrant South Asian enclaves. Instead, they gravitated to predominantly Black neighborhoods in Berkeley and Oakland. “I raised them in an African-American community, for a very special reason,” Shyamala told me: racism. “It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference if your color comes from India or African Americans, because this country is racist based on color.” Her children’s Indian identity was secure. Rooting them in the Bay Area’s Black community was an act of pride and protection, connecting them to the civil rights movement’s rich history but also schooling them in “what they need to know…to maneuver [in this country].” She added, “I’m the one who told them to do all that.”

Shyamala would not have been at all surprised by Donald Trump’s attacks on her daughter’s racial identity—he was exactly the kind of person she was teaching her children to stand up to—or by Harris’ deft dismissals of someone she considered beneath contempt. “If you don’t define yourself, people will try to define you,” Shyamala told me. “One of the first rules I taught my children is, don’t let anybody tell you who you are. You tell them who you are.”  

Thanks to their far-flung extended family, her girls had many opportunities to escape the stultifying American attitudes towards race and gender. “When Kamala was in first grade,” Shyamala recalled, “one of her teachers said to me, ‘You know, your child has a great imagination. Every time we talk about someplace in the world she says, Oh, I’ve been there.’” Shyamala quickly set the teacher straight: “‘Well, she has been there!’ India, England, the Caribbean, Africa—she had been there.” In their travels, and in the examples of the matriarchs in their own family, Kamala and her sister saw something that, in America of the 1960s and ’70s, was relatively rare: women wielding power. 

Another Shyamala life lesson: Don’t just sit on the sidelines and complain, and definitely don’t expect anyone to come to your rescue. In a 2007 interview for my profile, Harris told me that from the time she was little, “I’d come home with a problem, ‘Oh, Mommy, this happened, that happened.’” Instead of consoling her, “my mother’s first response was always, ‘What did you do?’” The young Kamala hated this. “You’re not coming to my defense! I want a mother to come to my defense!” Later she felt empowered. “If you can see where you fit into a problem, you can figure out where you could fit into a solution,” Harris told me. Perhaps as a result, she said, “I love problems, because they’re an opportunity to fix something— there’s nothing more gratifying.”

When I shared what her daughter had said, Dr. Harris offered a slightly different spin. “I wanted to know the situation. Always,” she confirmed. “But I’m not going to put on a Band-Aid when I don’t even know what the problem is. Because it could be a problem for a Band-Aid or it could be a problem for a [bigger] treatment.” And lest I missed her deeper motivation, she added, “I also think that it is patronizing from a mother’s point of view to underestimate the intelligence and the resilience of children.”

Dr. Harris brought the same tough love to the many students she mentored over the years. “It’s a very simple rule: You would not be in my lab unless I thought you were good,” she said. “Because I don’t believe in charity.” She believed they could succeed at whatever she threw at them, so they usually did. But not always. “My bottom line is just do it, and if you fall, I’ll pick you up. Because when else are you going to have this opportunity?” She could not abide young people being ruled by their laziness, or insecurity. “I’m not doing this because I’m being given millions of dollars to do this. It’s my time. And because my time is worth a lot of money, and I’m putting that time into you, you got to understand how good I think you are!” This, by the way, is the same hard-ass attitude her daughter has displayed as a boss and mentor—one of the reasons she’s sometimes been called “difficult” to work with. (Her mother’s description was “really strict.”) When it came to their expectations of the people around them, Shyamala said, they both wanted “the good stuff.”

Around 1976, Dr. Harris got a job at a research hospital at McGill University and moved the girls, then 12 and nine, to Montreal. Kamala hated being uprooted, but eventually she made some good friends. One of the recurring stories she tells is about what happened when she discovered that one of them was being molested by her father. “I said, ‘You have to come live with us.’ My mother said, ‘Absolutely.’”

Kamala had long known she wanted to be a lawyer like her idol, Thurgood Marshall, attending Howard University like he had. Given her family’s progressive world view, the assumption was that her focus would be civil rights, perhaps as a defense attorney. (Years later, her sister and close adviser Maya Harris headed the Northern California office of the ACLU.) But after returning to the Bay Area for law school, Kamala surprised her mother by announcing she wanted to become a prosecutor and champion victims like her high school friend. “She told me, ‘If you’ve not been unjustly prosecuted, you don’t need a very hot-shot defense lawyer, do you? That is only necessary when the prosecutor doesn’t do their job.’” Kamala insisted she would be a different kind of prosecutor—one who understood that “a criminal is much more than the crime he or she commits,” Dr. Harris said. “Crime in a society doesn’t occur in a vacuum. Therefore you have to integrate law enforcement in the context of the society.” When you lose sight of the context, she said, “you lose sight of humanity.”  

Then she launched into a story—another entry in the Kamala canon—about her daughter’s first job in the Alameda County DA’s office, which includes Oakland. An innocent bystander, a woman with kids, had been rounded up during a drug bust. If the woman didn’t get out that day, she’d be stuck in jail all weekend. Harris spent the afternoon looking for someone to approve the woman’s release, finally plunking herself down in a courtroom until the judge relented and signed the necessary paperwork. As Shyamala recalled it, Kamala was particularly distraught by the potential impact on the woman’s kids. “Because they are the future,” Shyamala said. “You don’t destroy them.” 

In 2007, campaign season was already in full swing and the Democratic frontrunner was Hillary Clinton. Shyamala didn’t have much to say about the presidential race, other than to grumble that the idea of a woman leading the ticket was hardly worth the hoopla. India’s Indira Gandhi had served as prime minister for almost 15 years. What about Margaret Thatcher? “And people here think it is such a big deal that they’re going to nominate a woman?” Dr. Harris said dismissively. “Please! I’m supposed to be impressed by that? No, I’m not.” As for Obama, who’d visited the Bay Area to fundraise with Kamala, “I didn’t spend that much time with him,” Shyamala told me. “He’s a great guy, but I don’t know him enough. But on my limited exposure to him, there is nothing about him that offends me.” If that seemed like faint praise—well, that’s who she was. “Anybody will tell you, I am not that easily impressed about anything.”

And now, former Secretary of State Clinton, and former President Obama, have given soaring speeches at the Democratic National Convention in praise of Kamala Harris, the Democratic presidential standard bearer. In November, Shyamala Harris’s oldest daughter could become this country’s first woman president.

In our long-ago conversation, it didn’t occur to me to ask Dr. Harris about the very American myth that anyone can grow up to be president. But it doesn’t sound like something she would have believed. Certainly she never pushed her daughters in any particular direction, with any particular goal. “To some extent, I believe that life takes you,” she told me, waxing philosophical. “You let life take you without putting up enormous resistance.” 

All Shyamala Harris wanted to do was to give her girls the emotional tools—toughness and discipline and a deep-down belief in themselves that came from knowing they were truly loved—to take on whatever life threw at them. In that, she seems to have succeeded. “What my children tend to do, I have noticed, is when they see a challenge in front of them and they feel they can take it, they will go for it,” she said proudly. “Because [if] you’re affirmed in that manner, you think, ‘I’m not going to be afraid…. I can do this.’”

Far-right influencers are standing by their man—but not his campaign.

The Washington Post on Sunday detailed how several far-right figures with large online followings—including white supremacist Nick Fuentes and activists Laura Loomer and Candace Owens—have been stirring discord by publicly criticizing the Trump campaign, arguing that he needs new leadership who will direct him to take harder-line stances on topics like race and immigration.

Fuentes dined with Trump at Mar-a-Lago in 2022 and demonstrated how much influence he gained since his beginnings as a “fringe YouTube star,” as my former colleague Ali Breland reported. Just last week, Trump’s running mate Sen. JD Vance (R-Ohio) called Fuentes “a total loser.” But Fuentes posted on X earlier this month, “We support Trump, but his campaign has been hijacked by the same consultants, lobbyists, & donors that he defeated in 2016, and they’re blowing it. Without serious changes we are headed for a catastrophic loss.”

Fuentes, who has more than 390,000 followers on X, has made racist attacks against Vance’s Indian-American wife, Usha, and pilloried Vance for his past criticism of Trump. He has also slammed the Trump campaign for disavowing Project 2025—though probably to Fuentes’s delight, the links between the former president and Project 2025 are deep and likely durable. He called for the campaign to get rid of chief strategist Chris LaCivita and senior adviser Susie Wiles. Fuentes claimed “victory” this week after the Trump campaign hired 2016 campaign manager Corey Lewandowski.

The Post reported that two days before Fuentes’s tweet, Laura Loomer, who has 1.2 million followers on the platform, said Trump surrogates looked “weak” on television, adding that the campaign “needs to change FAST because we can’t talk about a stolen election for another 4 years.” A year ago, Loomer posted a video to X with Trump from his Bedminster golf club in which he called her “very special” and said he appreciated her support.

Then there’s Candace Owens, who has 5.4 million followers on X and who Trump previously hosted at the White House. She said on her podcast this week, “I’m just not sure who is driving the MAGA bus anymore.”

His most extreme supporters are joined by top Republicans who also think Trump needs to change his strategy—but their prescription differs. Former UN Ambassador and one-time aspiring Republican presidential candidate Nikki Haley and former Trump adviser Kellyanne Conway are among the top Republicans who have said Trump should refrain from launching ad hominem personal attacks and focus more on Harris’s policy positions. On Meet the Press on Sunday, even Trump acolyte Sen. Lindsey Graham (R-S.C.), said, “Every day we’re not talking about her policy choices…is a good day for her and a bad day for us.”

But both the far-right activists and top Republicans might take some comfort from Trump’s list of extremist priorities should he be reelected. The former president has pledged to carry out mass deportations, for example, and recently signaled his openness to banning medication abortion—though his campaign subsequently denied it. And this week, Trump’s campaign account on X generated controversy after it posted a photo of Black men on a street with the caption, “Your neighborhood under Kamala.”

In much the same way that the GOP has not softened its stance on abortion—despite what they may try to make you believe—Trump has not really softened at all. The problem for his supporters is that Americans—even including those who are advising him—just seem less and less interested in his hard-line policy positions.

As the Post reports:

Some campaign officials previously argued that the far-right influencers offer value by amplifying political messages to their audiences. But the more overt recent attacks of Fuentes and his followers, who call themselves “groypers,” have become a “noisy” and counterproductive distraction to the campaign, said a person familiar with its operations, who spoke on the condition of anonymity to discuss private conversations.

“If anything, [Fuentes] is hurting the idea of getting fresh blood into the campaign, because it makes it far more difficult for Trump if it looks like he’s responding to the groypers,” the person said.

Asked for comment, Trump’s campaign referred to a Truth Social post on Aug. 11 in which Trump said he was “leading in almost all of the REAL polls” and that his team was “doing a great job.”

The Trump campaign did not immediately respond to a request for comment.

Far-right influencers are standing by their man—but not his campaign.

The Washington Post on Sunday detailed how several far-right figures with large online followings—including white supremacist Nick Fuentes and activists Laura Loomer and Candace Owens—have been stirring discord by publicly criticizing the Trump campaign, arguing that he needs new leadership who will direct him to take harder-line stances on topics like race and immigration.

Fuentes dined with Trump at Mar-a-Lago in 2022 and demonstrated how much influence he gained since his beginnings as a “fringe YouTube star,” as my former colleague Ali Breland reported. Just last week, Trump’s running mate Sen. JD Vance (R-Ohio) called Fuentes “a total loser.” But Fuentes posted on X earlier this month, “We support Trump, but his campaign has been hijacked by the same consultants, lobbyists, & donors that he defeated in 2016, and they’re blowing it. Without serious changes we are headed for a catastrophic loss.”

Fuentes, who has more than 390,000 followers on X, has made racist attacks against Vance’s Indian-American wife, Usha, and pilloried Vance for his past criticism of Trump. He has also slammed the Trump campaign for disavowing Project 2025—though probably to Fuentes’s delight, the links between the former president and Project 2025 are deep and likely durable. He called for the campaign to get rid of chief strategist Chris LaCivita and senior adviser Susie Wiles. Fuentes claimed “victory” this week after the Trump campaign hired 2016 campaign manager Corey Lewandowski.

The Post reported that two days before Fuentes’s tweet, Laura Loomer, who has 1.2 million followers on the platform, said Trump surrogates looked “weak” on television, adding that the campaign “needs to change FAST because we can’t talk about a stolen election for another 4 years.” A year ago, Loomer posted a video to X with Trump from his Bedminster golf club in which he called her “very special” and said he appreciated her support.

Then there’s Candace Owens, who has 5.4 million followers on X and who Trump previously hosted at the White House. She said on her podcast this week, “I’m just not sure who is driving the MAGA bus anymore.”

His most extreme supporters are joined by top Republicans who also think Trump needs to change his strategy—but their prescription differs. Former UN Ambassador and one-time aspiring Republican presidential candidate Nikki Haley and former Trump adviser Kellyanne Conway are among the top Republicans who have said Trump should refrain from launching ad hominem personal attacks and focus more on Harris’s policy positions. On Meet the Press on Sunday, even Trump acolyte Sen. Lindsey Graham (R-S.C.), said, “Every day we’re not talking about her policy choices…is a good day for her and a bad day for us.”

But both the far-right activists and top Republicans might take some comfort from Trump’s list of extremist priorities should he be reelected. The former president has pledged to carry out mass deportations, for example, and recently signaled his openness to banning medication abortion—though his campaign subsequently denied it. And this week, Trump’s campaign account on X generated controversy after it posted a photo of Black men on a street with the caption, “Your neighborhood under Kamala.”

In much the same way that the GOP has not softened its stance on abortion—despite what they may try to make you believe—Trump has not really softened at all. The problem for his supporters is that Americans—even including those who are advising him—just seem less and less interested in his hard-line policy positions.

As the Post reports:

Some campaign officials previously argued that the far-right influencers offer value by amplifying political messages to their audiences. But the more overt recent attacks of Fuentes and his followers, who call themselves “groypers,” have become a “noisy” and counterproductive distraction to the campaign, said a person familiar with its operations, who spoke on the condition of anonymity to discuss private conversations.

“If anything, [Fuentes] is hurting the idea of getting fresh blood into the campaign, because it makes it far more difficult for Trump if it looks like he’s responding to the groypers,” the person said.

Asked for comment, Trump’s campaign referred to a Truth Social post on Aug. 11 in which Trump said he was “leading in almost all of the REAL polls” and that his team was “doing a great job.”

The Trump campaign did not immediately respond to a request for comment.

On July 28, millions of Venezuelans went to the polls to vote in the country’s highly anticipated presidential election. For the first time in years, there was hope that the opposition would unseat the long-ruling antidemocratic leader Nicolás Maduro and restore a sense of future post-Chavismo—late President Hugo Chávez’s populist political project of a “socialist revolution” that has slid into authoritarianism—to a once-prosperous nation wrecked by prolonged economic collapse, political repression, and a massive exodus of people that has had repercussions across the region.

But in the wake of the vote came terror. The electoral authority—controlled by a pro-government majority—declared Maduro, the political successor of Chávez, the winner, despite questions about the integrity of the process. The opposition disputed Maduro’s claim with evidence that their candidate, little-known former diplomat Edmundo González, had won by a wide margin. (The United States government agreed.) The Carter Center, which sent an expert group to Venezuela to observe the election, said it “did not meet international standards” and couldn’t “be considered democratic.”

The fraudulent election has sharpened the focus on the utter collapse of what used to be the richest nation in South America. Deadly antigovernment protests have since erupted across Venezuela, and several countries have pressured the Maduro government to present verifiable proof of his reelection to no avail. “Venezuelans are ready to throw off the dictatorship,” the popular leader of the opposition, María Corina Machado, who was barred from running and backed González, wrote in an op-ed. “Will the international community support us?” Back in 2023, Machado had predicted two possible outcomes for the election: “landslide victory or an obscene fraud.”

Venezuela’s fate is not restricted to South America but has been bound up in the US election this year. With the southern border as a central issue, much has been made of the spike in migration from Venezuela to the United States during the administration of President Joe Biden. On the right, the surge has been played up as a way to hit the left twice: a socialist government in Latin America failed; the poor policies of a Democratic administration led to the border being overrun. At the Republican National Convention in July, Donald Trump suggested Venezuela—as well as El Salvador—was sending “criminals” to the United States.

But that misses a far more complex story, one that ranges from the long history of US involvement in the region to the specifics of the Trump era, when, as the Washington Post recently reported, despite warnings that it would cause massive migration, President Donald Trump pushed devastating sanctions onto Venezuela. (Trump also appointed Elliott Abrams, who played a role in the Iran-Contra affair and was linked to a failed coup attempt against Chávez in 2002, as the special envoy to Venezuela.)

The results of years of economic mismanagement, exacerbated by US policies cracking down on the country, have been dramatic. One poll suggested as many as one-third of Venezuela’s population was considering migrating if Maduro, who has been president for more than a decade, held onto power for another six years. They would join the more than 7.7 million Venezuelans who have already left the country of fewer than 30 million since 2014. Most have fled to neighboring countries such as Colombia and Brazil, but thousands of others have made their way through the treacherous Darien Gap to the US-Mexico border. Many have been bused to cities like New York and Denver, where politicians have turned them into political pawns.

Since fiscal year 2021, US Customs and Border Protection (CBP) has registered more than 837,000 encounters with Venezuelan nationals. (The number of migrant apprehensions at the border has fallen significantly as of late in part as a result of increased enforcement by the Mexican government.) There are also currently 242,000 Venezuelans in the United States who benefit from Temporary Protected Status (TPS) and hundreds of thousands more who, according to the Department of Homeland Security, are potentially eligible based on “Venezuela’s increased instability and lack of safety due to the enduring humanitarian, security, political, and environmental conditions.”

Given all these factors, how did one of the region’s most prosperous and stable nations fall apart? The answer is more complicated than “extreme socialism,” as Elon Musk tweeted.

Once Venezuela was one of the richest countries in the world. By 1970, it had a higher income per capita than many European nations. But during the last quarter of the 20th century, Venezuela entered a period of economic contraction.

“There were a number of things that happened during that very long period,” says Francisco Rodríguez, a Venezuelan professor at the University of Denver’s Josef Korbel School of International Studies and author of the forthcoming book The Collapse of Venezuela: Scorched Earth Politics and Economic Decline, 2012-2020. “Mostly they had to do with the country not being able to adopt reasonable economic policies and policy reforms because of conflict between its elites.”

Home to the most proven oil reserves in the world, Venezuela enjoyed a boom from exporting its oil. But then global prices plunged, going from $100 a barrel in 2014 to less than $30 two years later. Chávez, who led Venezuela from 1999 until his death in 2013, directed oil revenue to massive social spending programs that benefited the poor. But heavily dependent on that commodity, the country hadn’t sufficiently saved or invested and fell into debt. After Maduro took over in 2013, the economy went into free fall.

In the years since, Venezuela has experienced some of the highest inflation rates worldwide—with a staggering 130,060 percent in 2018. Compounding the crisis for Venezuelans has been a devastating shortage of basic goods, food, and medicine. An estimated 80 percent of the population lives in poverty and the monthly minimum wage of 130 bolivars is equivalent to about $3.60 in the United States. A survey in 2017 found that 75 percent of Venezuelans lost an average of 19 pounds due to lack of nutrition. Between 2012 and 2020, the economy contracted by 71 percent—more than any other country in modern history not in war and more than double the magnitude of the Great Depression. Crude oil production by the state-owned company Petróleos de Venezuela, S.A. (PDVSA) also plummeted, reaching a 75-year low during the pandemic.

Adding to the economic downward spiral was government mismanagement and corruption. As Marcela Escobari, who served as assistant administrator for USAID’s Bureau for Latin America and the Caribbean, explained, years of “expropriations, underinvestment in the oil industry, massive foreign indebtedness, and the gradual undermining of institutions overseeing government expenditures” have hurt the economy badly.

But so did the various sanctions imposed by the United States over almost 20 years. While the Obama administration resorted to targeted sanctions against Maduro’s allies, Trump opted for a “maximum pressure” strategy. He broadened economic sanctions in response to escalating human rights abuses and corruption by the Maduro government. In 2018, Maduro secured a second term after what was generally considered illegitimate elections. Dozens of countries, including the United States, recognized Juan Guaidó as interim president. In late 2022, amid waning support for Guaidó, Venezuela’s opposition National Assembly voted to dissolve the shadow government. Guaidó went to exile in Miami, while an unpopular Maduro has stayed in power and replicated his 2018 response to the 2024 elections.

Starting in 2017, Trump barred the Venezuelan government from borrowing from financial markets, blocked assets, and prohibited US businesses from dealing with PDVSA, the state’s largest source of revenue. At the time, then–national security adviser John Bolton said the measures were necessary to mitigate “the poverty and the starvation and the humanitarian crisis.” But the United Nations human rights chief warned even then that the sweeping sanctions would more likely have the opposite effect and harm the most vulnerable groups.

“It’s one thing to sanction certain regime officials and not let them travel internationally and freeze their bank accounts in the United States,” Rodríguez, who estimates sanctions have contributed to around half of Venezuela’s economic contraction, says. “It’s another thing to hurt the Venezuelan economy because if you hurt the Venezuelan economy, you are hurting ordinary Venezuelans. You’re not hurting Maduro.”

According to the Washington Post, the Trump administration had been warned that sanctions could heighten Venezuela’s economic and social crises and incentivize more migration, including potentially to the United States. “This is the point I made at the time: I said the sanctions were going to grind the Venezuelan economy into dust and have huge human consequences, one of which would be out-migration,” Thomas Shannon, undersecretary of state for political affairs under Trump, told the Post.

Just how much the sanctions have pushed Venezuela to the brink is a subject that continues to be debated. Some analysts have argued that even before the 2017 sanctions, the economic recession, living conditions, and oil production in Venezuela were already on a negative trend and that pre-sanction underlying factors played a greater role in contributing to the country’s collapse than sanctions. As researchers with the Brookings Institute and the Harvard Center for International Development wrote, “Rather than being a result of US-imposed sanctions, much of the suffering and devastation in Venezuela has been, in line with most accounts, inflicted by those in power.”

Others argue that even if true, sanctions have only exacerbated existing problems. In a country heavily dependent on oil—accounting for 90 percent of all exports—the sanctions have been linked to a decline in production “of a dimension seen only when armies blow up oil fields,” one report about the human consequences of economic sanctions by the Center for Economic and Policy Research states. Diminished oil exports have had a negative impact on the country’s revenue and ability to import food and other essential goods with foreign exchange.

A US government watchdog report concluded that sanctions “likely contributed to the steeper decline of the Venezuelan economy, primarily by limiting revenue from oil production.” The UN Special Rapporteur found that no “strata of society has been untouched” by the negative impact of unilateral sanctions.

In a 2019 paper titled “Economic Sanctions as Collective Punishment: The Case of Venezuela,” Jeffrey Sachs and Mark Weisbrot argued that the sanctions imposed by the Trump administration “reduced the public’s calorie intake, increased disease and mortality (for both adults and infants), and displaced millions of Venezuelans.” By making it nearly impossible to stabilize the economy, they wrote, sanctions contributed to “an estimated more than 40,000 deaths” from 2017 to 2018.

In the months before Venezuela’s presidential election, the Biden administration offered conditional energy sanctions relief in a stated effort to pressure Maduro into committing to a free and fair electoral process. But the White House later reinstated the sanctions because the Venezuelan government failed to uphold their end of the bargain on a deal that included allowing top opposition candidates to run in the presidential race.

“The [Biden] administration has thought of sanctions relief as a ‘switch’ that could increase Venezuela’s economic prospects and keep people in place,” says Ryan Berg, director of the Americas Program and head of the Future of Venezuela Initiative at the Center for Strategic and International Studies. That strategy has failed, he adds, and lifting sanctions “would be to reward Maduro for what is being called the mother of all electoral frauds in Latin American history.”

For some observers, the path forward is a transition to democracy that allows for the normalization of relations with other countries and economic recovery—without sanctions. There have been some fragile signs of improvement. Inflation, while still high, was down to 190 percent last year and Venezuela’s oil exports increased by 12 percent. Luis Oliveros, an economist at the Universidade Metropolitana in Caracas told El Pais that oil production can continue to increase if sanctions stay flexible.

But uncertainty remains as Maduro tightens his grip on power despite the will of voters, blaming the unrest on “North American imperialism and the criminal fascists” and saying he wouldn’t “hesitate to summon the people to a revolution.” Rodríguez at the University of Denver sees one possible scenario where the pariah Maduro regime collapses in the face of mass protests. But more likely, he says, the “viable way out to avoid the consolidation of a full-fledged autocracy” is through a power-sharing agreement. Meanwhile, the US government has reportedly discussed extending Maduro a pardon offer to convince him to step down.

“The polls showing that large numbers of Venezuelans will migrate if Maduro remains in power prove that it isn’t about the economic situation so much as it is about Maduro,” Berg says. “That is to say, it’s about regime type. Without a change in government, Venezuelans will lose hope and migrate. Absolutely nothing changes in Venezuela until Maduro leaves.”