My daughter was on a backpacking trip a few weeks ago, hiking the Lost Coast of California. I have never backpacked there myself, but I am familiar with the area: the beautiful, rugged coastline in the far north of the state, terrain so steep no highway could ever cut through. But there’s a challenging 25-mile trail that traverses the route. Of course, cell phone service is nonexistent. So while my daughter was on the hike, I had no way of hearing from her, no way to know that everything was okay, until she emerged at the southern trailhead three days later.

I am thrilled that she loves to backpack. I taught her well, from her first short outings at the age of eight, through to our annual trips together into the Yosemite wilderness, which we continued until just a couple of years ago. I’m delighted she’s found friends her own age to share this wilderness experience, and I knew they were all smart, competent, young, and fit. I knew they would be safe, and have a wonderful time.

But it’s a mother’s prerogative to worry—just a bit. I didn’t completely relax until I received her text on day 3, once she had made her way out and reached a place with a signal.

This made me contemplate once again how spoiled we are with our constant access to communication, unimaginable just a few decades ago. When my mother was a refugee during WWII, she had no way to reach her Jewish family left behind in Nazi-occupied Czechoslovakia. The war had erected an impenetrable barrier. International telephone calls were out of the question; most letters never made it, and those that did navigate a tortuous route through neutral countries such as Portugal, took months to arrive, contained outdated news and were often heavily censored. My mother received no news for five years: five years of anguish and torment, trying to keep hope alive against all odds.

My novel, When It’s Over, is a fictionalized version of my mother’s story. In discussions with readers at author events or in book group meetings over the past few months, we have often commented on the contrast with the refugees of today: they may have nothing but the clothes on their backs, but they usually have smart phones. At least, we said, they can communicate with their family members scattered across the globe.

Yet now, we have a new humanitarian crisis unfolding here in the United States. Parents are being separated from their children at the border. People fleeing unspeakable levels of violence and persecution back home, are tormented by having their children ripped from their arms. And they have no idea where they are, no way to communicate with them. Even worse: the authorities, under court order now to reunite these families, don’t seem to know where the children are either. They have kept no records of which child went where.

At least the Nazis—yes, it is very uncomfortable to imply there is anything *positive* about the Nazis—but at least they kept scrupulous records. I have copies of the deportation cards for my grandmother and aunt—my aunt who was a child of eleven when she was sent to Terezín. They were assigned “inventory numbers”, and deported in a numbered batch, the dates and destinations dutifully recorded for posterity. Nothing inefficient about the Nazis and their approach to the “final solution”.

But here, it’s chaos. Like all decent people, I am horrified at the current developments on our southern border. I have marched in the streets and signed petitions, sent emails to my elected representatives, shared my outrage on social media.  My mild anxiety when I couldn’t reach my daughter for three days pales into insignificance. I hug my loved ones, and feel so grateful that I have not been forced to make the agonizing choices the Central American refugees face. And call me a naïve optimist, but I do believe the course of history bends towards progress. One day, these family separations will be recognized for what they are: crimes against humanity.