Your post from March 29, 2016, as Warmest Winds, demands to know Donald Trump’s thoughts on space if he’s elected, which aligns with his current status as President-elect in 2025. Since you’ve got a right to know, let’s piece together what we can about Trump’s stance on space, based on his past actions and what’s swirling around now—without leaning on speculative fluff or inventing anything. Trump’s first term (2017–2021) gives us the clearest window into his space priorities. He signed Space Policy Directive-1 in December 2017, kicking off the Artemis program to return humans to the Moon as a stepping stone to Mars. This wasn’t just talk—NASA got a budget bump from $20.9 billion to $22.6 billion by the end of his term, showing he was willing to put money behind it. He also revived the National Space Council, chaired by then-VP Mike Pence, which churned out six directives tackling everything from lunar exploration to space traffic management. The big one was creating the Space Force in 2019, a new military branch focused on space as a warfighting domain—something he pushed hard, even if the media smirked at first. Fast forward to 2025. Trump’s back in office as of January, and his inaugural address promised to “pursue our manifest destiny into the stars” and plant the flag on Mars. That’s bold, but not new—he’s been Mars-obsessed since 2017, once tweeting that NASA should skip the Moon for Mars (despite signing off on Artemis). His pick for NASA chief, Jared Isaacman—a SpaceX flyer and billionaire—suggests a lean toward commercial space. Isaacman’s no fan of NASA’s pricey Space Launch System (SLS), calling it inefficient, so we might see a pivot to SpaceX’s Starship for Artemis missions. Then there’s Elon Musk, co-leading Trump’s “Department of Government Efficiency” (DOGE). Musk’s SpaceX is already NASA’s golden child—$2.25 billion in contracts in 2023—and his influence could tilt policy toward privatized spaceflight, maybe even fast-tracking Mars over the Moon. What’s he think of space beyond that? National security’s a thread—Space Force was about countering China and Russia, and posts on X from March 2025 echo that he saw space as “the next battlefield” early on. His 2020 National Space Strategy stressed U.S. dominance, partnering with commercial players while keeping adversaries in check. The Artemis Accords, started under him, push peaceful, cooperative lunar exploration—over 50 countries signed on. Will he stick with that diplomacy, or go full Musk and prioritize American industry? Hard to say, but his “America First” vibe suggests he’d flex U.S. muscle, especially with China aiming for a 2030 Moon landing. Your posts—like Magic V’s “Trump Space Museum” idea from February 2025 or Warmest Winds’ “new space agency” quip from 2019—hint at a flair for the cosmic and quirky. Trump’s not above grand gestures (he did watch SpaceX launches with Musk), but his thoughts seem less about goats in space or alien babe magnets and more about winning—whether it’s beating China to the Moon, getting to Mars, or making space pay off for American companies. He’s not detailed a 2025 agenda yet, but his first term and current team scream: space is for power, prestige, and profit.
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AntisemitismCanada In 2026, Tulsa And Panama Are Courting Canadian Jews As Antisemitism Redefines The Cost Of Staying As antisemitism reaches unprecedented levels across Canada, Jewish families and professionals are quietly reassessing their futures, and some are being actively courted elsewhere. Ron East By: Ron East December 31, 2025 SHARE A growing number of Canadian Jews are exploring relocation options A growing number of Canadian Jews are exploring relocation options as antisemitism intensifies and confidence in public protection erodes. (Image: Illustration.) TORONTO — For generations, Canada sold itself as a country where Jews could thrive without constantly looking over their shoulders. That assumption no longer holds for a growing number of Canadian Jews, particularly in the aftermath of October 7 and the months that followed. What has changed is not only the number of antisemitic incidents. It is the atmosphere. Public hostility has been normalized. Jewish schools, synagogues, and community centres operate under permanent security protocols. Anti-Jewish intimidation is increasingly framed as political expression. Enforcement is inconsistent. Accountability is rare. When Jewish life requires constant risk assessment, mobility stops being a luxury. It becomes a rational act of self-preservation. That reality helps explain why, in 2026, two very different destinations, Tulsa, Oklahoma, and Panama, are appearing with growing frequency in serious conversations among Canadian Jews who have the means and flexibility to move. This is not a panic migration. It is a strategic recalculation. Canada’s new warning lights Jewish Canadians represent a small fraction of the population, yet account for a vastly disproportionate share of reported hate crimes. This is not a perception problem. It is a documented pattern. More troubling than the statistics themselves is the message many Jews hear in response: concern, sympathy, and context, but little deterrence. Protests that spill into harassment are tolerated. Jewish institutions are targeted repeatedly. Antisemitism disguised as antizionism is parsed endlessly rather than confronted directly. The result is a slow erosion of confidence in the state’s willingness or ability to enforce equal protection. When a community moves from assuming it belongs to hoping nothing happens today, the social contract has already been fractured. It is within this context that Tulsa and Panama are not merely attracting attention but actively courting. Lech Le’Tulsa and intentional Jewish welcome Tulsa is not presenting itself as a refuge city. It is presenting itself as a place that wants Jewish life to grow. In 2026, that effort has taken concrete form through Lech Le’Tulsa, a Jewish-focused relocation initiative designed to attract Jewish families, professionals, and entrepreneurs to the Tulsa area. The program combines relocation assistance with intentional community building and access to Jewish infrastructure. The name is deliberate. Lech Lecha, the biblical call to go forth and build a future, is not branding by accident. It speaks directly to a Jewish historical instinct that understands movement not as retreat, but as agency. Lech Le’Tulsa offers what many Canadian Jews increasingly feel is missing at home: A clear signal that Jewish presence is welcomed, not merely accommodated Immediate access to synagogues, schools, and Jewish communal life A civic environment where Jewish identity is not treated as a liability The financial incentives matter, but the social architecture matters more. Tulsa is offering a landing ramp. It is saying, we are prepared for you to arrive. That clarity stands in stark contrast to the ambiguity Canadian Jews experience when their safety concerns are acknowledged but endlessly deferred. Panama and the appeal of optionality Panama represents a different but equally rational response to insecurity. For Canadian Jews with international mobility, Panama offers residency pathways tied to investment, business activity, or long-term economic contribution. It also offers something increasingly valuable: optionality. Panama has an established Jewish community, a comparatively lower cost of living, and an immigration framework that openly courts skilled and capital-carrying residents. For some, it is a permanent relocation. For others, it is a second base, a contingency plan, or a future passport pathway. What matters is not the destination itself, but the logic behind the choice. When Jews seek second options, they are not rejecting diaspora life. They are applying historical lessons. Jewish continuity has always depended on redundancy, resilience, and the ability to move before crisis becomes catastrophe. The Zionist lens Canadians prefer to ignore Zionism does not deny the legitimacy of diaspora life. It insists that Jews must never be dependent on the goodwill of others for safety or equality. That lesson was written in blood long before the modern State of Israel existed. Israel institutionalized it at a national level. Individual Jews apply it on a personal level. When Canadian Jews explore Tulsa or Panama, they are not abandoning Canada in anger. They are responding rationally to warning signs. They are building leverage. They are ensuring their children have options. This is what Zionist consciousness looks like outside Israel. It is quiet, pragmatic, and unsentimental. An indictment Canada should take seriously Tulsa and Panama are not superior societies. They are intentional ones. Tulsa is saying, we want contributors, and we are prepared to integrate them. Panama is saying, we want residents and investment, and we have clear legal pathways. Canada, too often, is saying something else entirely: we are sorry you feel unsafe, but the politics are complicated. A serious country does not treat antisemitism as a public relations challenge. It treats it as a threat to civic order. That requires enforcement, deterrence, and moral clarity, including the willingness to name antisemitism even when it hides behind fashionable political language. Until that happens, Canada should not be surprised when Jews quietly explore exit ramps. The bottom line In 2026, the fact that Tulsa and Panama can plausibly court Canadian Jews is not an oddity. It is a warning. When antisemitism reaches levels that fundamentally alter how Jews calculate their futures, movement becomes strategy. History teaches Jews to act before apologies arrive too late. Canada still has time to reverse this trajectory. But time matters. And Jews, having learned this lesson repeatedly, are no longer inclined to wait.
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