Humanity in Public
Health and Safety Act
of 2026
A national blueprint to embed brotherly love and humanitarian values in education and public service.
The Core Problem
The U.S. faces escalating crises in violence, addiction, mental illness, poverty, and institutional distrust.
The systemic failure to teach brotherly love — expressed through empathy,
compassion, and social responsibility — is a foundational driver of nearly every major public health and safety crisis in the United States. Moreover, the absence of brotherly love and humanitarian values in the curricula of schools and in the training and operational principles of public-facing institutions constitutes a public health and safety crisis in its own right.
Purpose of the Act
- To make the teaching of love a national standard.
- To transform public service through human-centered training.
- To prevent harm before it begins — by shaping systems to care.
In the weeks and months to come, we will share example after example of why we need the Humanity in Public Health and Safety Act to become Law.
It’s time for more humanity in public health and safety. Black people in America have suffered horrifying inequities at the hands of broken health and public safety systems for far too long. And we are seeing that same callous treatment now being extended to other people of color, immigrants, women, transgender people, and others during this ICE-age of a humanitarian crisis, where people are being treated as subhuman, without human rights, and guilty even if proven innocent.
It’s time for a change.
It’s time for the Humanity in Public Health and Safety Act.
With L.O.V.E. and Purpose,
A.J. Ali
Founder & CEO, L.O.V.E. Is The Answer
P.S., Download the PDF to see the entire draft of the bill and a state-level version, and follow our progress here on getting the Humanity in Public Health and Safety Act signed into law.
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Why We Need to Do This Together
Exhibit #1: The Death of Kingsley Bimpong
On November 17, 2024, 50-year-old Postal Worker Kingsley Bimpong left work, complaining of a headache. Police found him driving the wrong way. He was dazed and confused. He didn’t know where he worked even though he had on his postal service vest. A drug detection officer refused to follow proper screening protocol, saying it would be a waste of time. Police arrested him and threw him in jail instead of calling paramedics to take him to the hospital.
While in jail, he suffered for hours, lying on the cell floor, urinating on himself, writhing on the floor in pain. Finally, after three hours, when he started foaming at the mouth, he was administered Narcan, to no effect. They finally called for medical help. Some of them made statements on video of how he had been neglected. He was taken to the hospital where they determined that he had no drugs in his system and he had suffered a stroke. He died in the hospital.
A civil complaint filed in U.S. District Court alleges police and jail staff actively ignored the signs of medical emergency and treated him instead as though he was under the influence of drugs. The City of Eagan released a statement: “While Mr. Bimpong’s death is tragic, he was not exhibiting an objectively serious medical condition that was obvious to lay persons at the time he was in the Eagan officers’ custody and there no indication that he required emergent medical treatment.”
Everything about this story demonstrates a complete lack of humanity in everyone from the arresting officers to the numerous officers at the jail who let this innocent man who was suffering a medical emergency die like a dog on a cold hard floor. Their own statements are damning — and point to a total disregard for the pain and suffering of a man who had committed no crime and was in need of medical assistance.
If they had followed protocol, if they had used the L.O.V.E. Is The Answer Principles (LEARN about people, OPEN your heart to their needs, VOLUNTEER to be part of the solution in their lives, and EMPOWER others to do the same), if the pain and suffering of Black people in medical situations was taken more seriously — Kingsley Bimpong would be alive today
Exhibit #2: The Death of Tasha Grant
There’s a kind of silence that settles in after injustice. A heavy quiet that isn’t peace but absence. The absence of care. The absence of courage. The absence of love. That’s the silence that met Tasha Grant in her final hours at Cleveland’s MetroHealth Medical Center.
Tasha was a 39-year-old double amputee, a mother, and a woman living with pain most of us can’t imagine. On May 2, 2025, she was transferred from the Cuyahoga County Jail to MetroHealth, complaining of chest pain. She told hospital staff and officers twenty-three times that she couldn’t breathe. Instead of being believed, she was doubted. Instead of being treated, she was restrained.
“I can’t breathe,” she said again and again—until she couldn’t.
In the videos later released, one officer dismisses her plea: “You’re yelling, so you can breathe.”
That’s a line so many of us have heard in this country’s darkest moments; an echo of a myth that has justified far too many deaths. Experts later confirmed what compassion could have told us immediately: being able to speak doesn’t mean you can breathe.
As Tasha gasped, moaned, and went still, her life was treated like a behavioral problem instead of a medical emergency. An autopsy ruled her death a homicide. But behind that all too common word—homicide—was a person who missed her late mother, who worried about her child, who told a nurse through tears, “Don’t nobody know how I feel.”
Tasha wasn’t just fighting for air; she was fighting to be seen. When someone cries out, “I can’t breathe,” what they’re really saying is: See me. Hear me. Believe that I am human.
This is where our systems fail, not just in policies, but in empathy. When pain is filtered through bias, when race and disability turn compassion into suspicion, when authority feels threatened by vulnerability, tragedy becomes predictable. It’s tempting to believe that accountability will fix it. But accountability without empathy is just punishment. What we need is a cultural transformation, one that treats suffering as a signal to connect, not control.
We talk a lot about courage as standing up, speaking out, taking action. But there’s another kind of courage—the courage to stay present in someone’s pain. To hold space for their fear. To believe their words even when they’re hard to hear.
Tasha needed that kind of courage around her. Instead, she was surrounded by procedure, by paperwork, by people who forgot that humanity comes before hierarchy. The story of Tasha Grant isn’t only about what went wrong. It’s about what we must do right, from now on. Every name like hers calls us to rebuild a system rooted not in control, but in compassion.
If the officers, the deputies, the hospital staff had followed the L.O.V.E. Is The Answer principles:
LEARN about people
OPEN your heart to their needs
VOLUNTEER to be part of the solution in their lives
EMPOWER others to do the same
Maybe, just maybe, the silence after Tasha Grant’s final breath would’ve been filled not with regret, but with love.
