A Two-Hour Refuge from a Divided World

Why we need more face-to-face and fewer feeds.

I think I’ve officially entered a toxic relationship—with my smartphone. Specifically, the news apps and social media feeds that lure me in like a siren and leave me emotionally bloated and spiritually constipated. And I know I’m not alone.

Want to read one political story? Congratulations—you’ve just unlocked ten more, each designed to remind you that our country is about as united as a group text with your in-laws.

Curious how the markets are doing? Fantastic! Here come the AI bros promising to automate your trades—right before ushering you into a scammy WhatsApp group run by a guy named “Crypto Dave” who lives in his mom’s basement.

And I eat it all up. You do too. We all do—right up until our eyes glaze over and our phone smacks us in the face for the third time in bed.

Call it doom scrolling, call it digital masochism, but I somehow end each session feeling like I’ve taken a slow sip of human despair (especially after reading the comments section). It's a dull, queasy feeling—sort of like the one people report after looking at Ted Cruz for more than 30 seconds.

Maybe you’ve felt it too. That creeping ache that starts online and then, like the smell of freshly spread manure on a summer lawn, follows you offline. You carry it into your day like a tragic cologne: "Eau de Existential Crisis."

Sabri Agachan during his tenure in El Paso.

Which is why last Thursday night was exactly what my brain—and soul—needed.

It was a simple two-hour gathering of people I’d never met before, organized by my longtime friend Sabri Agachan, a Turkish native I met through my cousin years ago. Sabri is one of those rare people who radiate warmth and hospitality like it’s a full-time job—fitting, since he was the Executive Director of the Raindrop Turkish House/Dialogue Institute of El Paso, a nonprofit dedicated to promoting Turkish culture and bridging communities through friendship and shared understanding.

Sabri moved to Jackson, Mississippi six years ago, but on a recent visit back to El Paso, he pulled a very Sabri move: he built a tight schedule of two-hour “mini reunions,” like a social Tetris master, making time to reconnect with as many people as possible.

Our little gathering started with Turkish tea and trays of delicate pastries—and the kind of polite, slightly awkward introductions you expect when you toss strangers into a room together. But slowly, thanks to Sabri’s thoughtful storytelling and his uncanny ability to connect people like a spiritual LinkedIn, the energy began to shift.

It became something more. Something… beautiful.

We weren’t just sipping tea anymore. We were Muslims, Jews, Christians, and Agnostics swapping stories, laughing, crying, and finding unexpected common ground. Sabri guided it all like a master conductor—his baton replaced by a tea glass, of course.

One woman teared up as she recalled her first trip to Turkey. She’d visited a town near the Syrian border and was struck by how much it reminded her of El Paso—another desert city shaped by migration, sharing a border with Cd. Juárez, Chihuahua. Her story landed with everyone in the room like a warm wave of familiarity.

Then there was a young man, preparing for his freshman year in college. His father had left his hometown at 17, not knowing the language or the culture of the new country he entered.

“Knowing my dad was my age when he made that move just blows my mind,” the boy said.

Another guest, a professor originally from Iran, shared how she fled to Turkey seeking asylum.

“I waited long enough to finish my degree... and then get two master’s degrees and a doctorate!” she said with a proud laugh. That same woman now teaches students in El Paso—my hometown. I couldn’t help but feel a quiet, soaring pride. I hope her students know just how lucky they are.

And there were my daughters, sitting beside my wife and I—nibbling on Turkish Delight, sipping tea, listening closely. For two hours, they got to be part of something rare and genuine. We all did.

No swiping. No scrolling. No angry comment threads or sponsored crypto tips from shirtless influencers named “Zane.”

Just stories. Just people. Just connection.

And here’s the thing: when I finally picked up my phone again later that night, it hit different. The headlines were still there. The division. The drama. The algorithm whispering, “Would you like to be upset again?”

But this time, I had a little resistance in me. A little peace. A little immunity to the chaos—like my spirit had downloaded its own popup blocker.

Turns out, the best way to unplug might be to plug into something real.

So here’s my prescription: every now and then, put down the doom and pick up the tea. You might just remember what it feels like to be human again—and not just a thumb with opinions.

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I'm on Substack now! :)