Family Portraits: Broken home. Broken lives. Broken kids.

I turn a juicy 30 in a year or so. Not quite the dried out wrinkled raisin but I have enough life under my belt to make some fairly accurate Observations.

Broken homes.

The generation of our fathers were the last of an old stock. In Uganda, they probably are the last to have seen three presidents and lived through Amin’s reign of terror. They are the last of the baby boomers. They still hang on to traditions like going to the village, the opinions of the public still determine how and why they do things.

The mothers of this generation are enduring symbols of strength. Most of them have endured the hardship of raising children in an uncertain times and making due with the little that the ripped economy could offer. They were your everyday run of the mill MacGyver’s. They were cooks able to scrounge up a feast with a tomato, half an onion and some dried out greens. They were doctors and nurses who only rushed to the hospital when all home remedies, both theirs and the supermoms in the neighbourhoods had failed or when sickness and injury dropped on their loved ones like a ten tonne bomb.

They stood tall, like the ageless rocks, filled with so much wisdom, and love but like the other side of the coin they struck terror into our childish hearts when we crossed the line. My mom’s favourite weapon was her hard rubber Bata sandal. Many a Ugandan bottom turned blacker after a few good whacks and when all tears were dried, her voice and hands soothed the skin she had bruised. Moms were everything.

Like the rocks the endured another silent torture, one that only they and their kind could endure. They tolerated marriages that died a long time ago to raise their children and provide a stable environment for their precious buds, the seeds of their labour to grow and blossom, nursing hopes, in their heart that they would not have to go through what their mothers had. They took the tongue lashing and the tongue wagging, braced only by the hope that tomorrow would be a better day…not for them, but for their children.

Fathers of this generation were the last of a patriarchal breed. They were never wrong, they were not to be trifled with and they were as stoic and unmoving as a tick on a buffalo’s rump. They were the lions and the jewels. The roamed the grasslands with no equal. They had those silly rituals they insisted on that showed that they were THE MAN of the house. When they got back, tea was served of course after the dotting young sons had taken off their shoes and brought their slipper.

The slumped in a chair, slurped their tea as they perused the newspaper. They then lumbered to the bathroom where hot water, cooled to just the right temperature was waiting and after they had washed away the grime and tension of a hard day, lumbered back to the sitting room and plumped back into the chair, turned on the TV to watch the news and have their supper. This was their routine.

Most of us remember the whole concept of dads chair, dad’s cup and plate etc. if you do not; well you are blessed and should think on your good fortune.

They had one thing in common, there were never really there and when we grew up we were informed that we were not alone for our fathers had scattered their seeds far and wide. For some this realisation was at their father’s funeral, when the many children and wives gathered all vying for a share of his spoils. For others this realisation was much sooner but none the less abrupt. A stranger invited into the home and you informed that you were going to share your room with a new brother almost your age or older.

For me this came when we shifted and my mom did not join us. My new mother was already ensconced in the new residence and my brothers and sisters from another mother waited me. The rest is history.

Broken Lives.

Could they do things any different? After all their fathers were just like that. They sprouted from the earth of polygamy and conquest. They knew no other. Their mothers were powerless, mere property; they could not alter the course of this tide. Into the mouths of their babes they squeezed their life blood in the hope that their desire would be heard by the ear a child has for his mother. But alas this was not to be...

And so they put together new families like ill cut jigsaw puzzles.   Of course there was to be no discussion. His word was law. This chapter is too long to write but just know when we watched fairy tales we understood because we too had our evil step mothers. Some were mistreated while some were just ignored, left to the hands of neglect.

That is that rock onto which the China Cups that were our little vulnerable lives were dashed never to be gathered again. Our Humpty Dumpty experience was begun. The king’s horses or the king’s men could not put us back together again.

Words I have, but alas patience and time I do not. I could fill a book with the injustices perceived and real I suffered. The physical stuff is easy to get over, humans are made to survive those, but the emotional stuff was just too much.

It is at this point that the heroes our fathers were pulled to the ground. His castle, nothing but a man child apparition, sand washed away by the rising tide of his children’s hurt, hate and resentment.

We soldier on for what can children do? We transformed ourselves into child soldiers, true infantry, for the battle that was our home. Through this we had to live through the chaos and confusion that was puberty, another one of life curve balls.

We soldier on and somehow we make it. We travel forward through time doing school and finally university and then our first job. I cannot even begin to unravel the dilemmas we face on the way as the past; the reality of my parents is washed away by new norms and cultures.

I cannot even begin to explain the back breaking nerve racking balancing act to please our parents and fulfil their age old ways and follow the trends of our times. To integrate digital mind-sets to analogue mind-sets.

We were the new kids on the block they the old guys from the village.

Broken kids.

It’s only now, at the threshold of 30, that I begin to deal with some of the baggage from the past. I know what you may be thinking, you may think that maybe I should have done this a long time ago and maybe I would agree. But the past 7 or so years I have been too busy growing and dodging every bullet life has shot at me and its only now, armed with some experience, growth, peace and a knowledge of myself can I go back and look into those trunks packed so many years ago, and one by one deal with the broken kid in them.

The armour is not too big nor the sword too heavy. I am a   man now but I have to deal with the nightmares of a child. There are some dragons in my past that need slaying before I go on.

Hookers, Spies and God

Lately I have been a little enthralled my RAHAB. You can read the story in this unpopular best seller called the Bible. She was a woman of the night who saved enemies of the state in which she lived in just so she could get a cut of the state cake when the new bosses hit town.

Okay, that’s not entirely true telling of the events.

Some commentaries that I have read while researching this subject say she was an inn keeper. The little Biblical record mentions no such thing. It clearly says she was a prostitute.

In dealing with her, many of us just remember that she saved the spies and got them out of a tight spot and for that she and her household were saved…and that was that. But enter the women movement and we remember that she was the mother of Boaz and they both were part of the genealogy of Jesus of Nazareth, Saviour of the world.

In this brief look at her life we miss many things. I have said before that I love the real life stories or the realities in stories and Bible stories are chocked full with them.

Rahab was probable very poor. She lived on the city wall which was reserved for the poor. In ancient times as cities grew so did their fortifications and the poor or those engaged in noxious trades took up these quarters. They were cheaper I would imagine. Sort of like modern day slum dwelling.

She was a prostitute. If it’s hard now you can imagine what it was back then. The emotional and social trauma she suffered must have been immense. It was not hard to understand why the spies chose her house, no one would be surprised to see strange men go in and out of her abode at all manner of the night.

“Rahab was a Canaanite woman who ran an “Inn” in Jericho. It was actually a house of prostitution where men could spend the night with the woman of their choice. Murray Johnson writes:

“It is very important that we understand what the text really says about Rahab. It says Rahab was a harlot. What better place for the spies to hide out than at Rahab’s house? With all the comings and goings of a whorehouse, they could blend in easily. However, these men were on a righteous mission. “

Rahab was a prostitute herself. As a Canaanite, she was also a worshipper of a great number of deities of the Canaan religion, including Baal (god of fertility), Dagon (god of the crops) and Molech (god of fire).”

She was probably a single parent unless of course when she pleaded for mercy for her and her household she meant her 100 pet cats and camel. Who was part of her family we can only guess at but she was not a prostitute for the retirement plan, health benefits of great social standing it offered.

She was a liar and a pretty good one at that. The soldiers did not even bother to check out her story but listened at once and went where she sent them; probably because they were all anxious to get out of her house lest she recognises one of them and call them by name…I don’t know.

But I also suspect she was a strong woman. To take all the stigma that came her way, and make the choices she made to feed her family was not easy feat.

She was industrious. It was probable that she used her house as lodging, with “room service” at extra cost. She was also able to recognise an opportunity to save herself when she met the spies.

She was a mother and compassionate, her batter was for her, her house hold and her mother and father. She honoured them and pleaded for their lives as well.

This for me, not just the saving of the spies are the reasons she is part of that great family tree that brought us a saviour but this also, shows me that value not something that is easily removed no matter our circumstances in life, we can still be more than what “life” hands us.

Now the sermon:

God always calls people as they are just so he can fashion then into who they really were, as he originally created them. No iron worker conjures up a sword from a heap of iron ore but through great skill and process fashions a blade that will one day slay a dragon.

Keep calm and carry on, God isn’t done with you yet.

just in case we forget...

Rahab’s confession of faith.

She declared, “…for the Lord your God is God in heaven above and on the earth below.” – Joshua 2:11

The Bible is about real people not fantastic super heroes. Real people doing everyday things that God elevated. Don't get sucked in by the Christian Super Hero Craze, that's just hype. The "champions of faith" were just believers who lived what they believed every day simply.

De·pres·sion

There are a couple of things I would like to write about today. One of them is depression.

de·pres·sion  

/diˈpreSHən/

Noun 1.      Severe despondency and dejection, accompanied by feelings of hopelessness and inadequacy. 2.      A condition of mental disturbance, typically with lack of energy and difficulty in maintaining concentration or interest in life. Synonyms dejection - hollow 3.        This has never been something that I am comfortable talking about. I am not even sure why I am writing about it cause some of these things are too close to heart to leave to the whims of the internet nor am I the talking type…especially on such matter. Perhaps it’s because I had my second minor episode recently and I have had lows most of my life after that. I never even knew I was depressed until I got out of it. I don’t know how I got into it and even how I got out of it. I just know that I was in it. I have witnessed my own shares of sadness of life experiences but non as dark as the one I suffered while at university. It was one of the darkest times of my life and I say that with no hyperbole. I am dead serious. Even now I can remember what I felt, what my days were like. I wondered where the sun had gone and that when it came out how come I could not feel its hear. I remember being a zombie of sorts in that period, I went to class but after a few minutes I was bored senseless. At first I was confused as hell. I could not explain what this was all about. I had never been out of control and laughter had never been far from my lips but here I was despondent as a wet feline. I felt had just taken residence in the orbit of a black hole and all my life was just being sucked out and every minute of the day. Funny how i was always up early during this time something that I struggled with all my life. I was almost always up with the first rays of the sun. I was highly organized and neat. I don’t think my various abodes have suffered such meticulous cleaning since. I showered, had breakfast, washed up and cleaned my room and then just went back to bed, curled up into a the nearest possible fetal position my stocky frame would allow and drift in and out of sleep, a kind of swing between ponderous waking thoughts and twitchy dreams. I can remember my room quite well, small, and quaint almost, with no ceiling, revealing the underside of the clay tiles on the roof. I remember wondering how it never leaked as I expected it to when it rained. I remember the grey metal framed office chair with the think cushions and how it matched with my monochrome grey tv. I remember the yellow painted walls with the uneven plaster and the brown of the custom table-shelf, the only other furniture in my room. I vividly remember all these things because I spent almost a month within those four small walls, withdrawn from friends and all the things I loved only coming out when I was too hungry or my bread had run out. Those were dark days. And then recently an old familiar despondency descended. I was up early as usual but that same lifelessness had crept up on me. I just lay there…I did not want to do anything. It was then that I decided, “hey, maybe it’s time to face this again and maybe, just maybe admit that I could be prone to depression”. That maybe I should be doing something about it. I called up a very close friend, and she was terrified. In fact I texted her and she called back worried. I was touched. Looking back I have had my moments and near missed but I have soldiered on. I have refused to allow my life be ruled by something that I believe the God I believe in can help me not just deal with but eventually overcome. But I need to continually realize that this is something that can happen and that I need to be on my watch and on my guard and I need to constantly watch for patterns and triggers. There is so much more to this tale than I can bear to remember and type, perhaps in many more post to come. In case you have some of these symptoms it does not mean you are depressed but I shall highlight the ones that I did have and I think are real indicators. Again, please note that some of these symptoms occur in other scenarios as well so I guess professional help may be a good Idea. It was important for me to not lose hold on my faith so I read my Bible diligently during this that in the hopes that when God did move, he would kind some kindling stored up within me from which to start a fire to get be all warmed up inside and back to sanity. I don’t know if it worked, but I know those words were a line that I gripped on tight and the fear of total insanity in some strange way kept me sane.

Psychological symptoms include: continuous low mood or sadness feeling hopeless and helpless having low self-esteem  feeling tearful feeling guilt-ridden feeling irritable and intolerant of others  having no motivation or interest in things finding it difficult to make decisions not getting any enjoyment out of life feeling anxious or worried  having suicidal thoughts or thoughts of harming yourself Physical symptoms include: Moving or speaking more slowly than usual  change in appetite or weight (usually decreased, but sometimes increased)  constipation  unexplained aches and pains lack of energy or lack of interest in sex (loss of libido) changes to your menstrual cycle disturbed sleep (for example, finding it hard to fall asleep at night or waking up very early in the morning) Social symptoms include: not doing well at work taking part in fewer social activities and avoiding contact with friends neglecting your hobbies and interests having difficulties in your home and family life   NOTE TO TEENAGERS READING THIS Just because you are “having difficulties in your home and family life” does not mean you are depressed though I do admit such scenarios can be depressing.

The Other Prodigal Son

The Other Prodigal Son

Luke 15:28

My life would be an almost perfect picture of the obedient son. When people come and share their lives with me as they often do, some of them say, “it’s now your turn” and I look at them glumly. Granted, from my exterior expressions and perhaps the “legend” that has grown around who I am one would think my past is filled with many a tale of reckless adventure, wanton enjoyment and hedonistic pursuits of every kind.

Like the sad realisation that a movie trailer was more exciting than the movie itself, I have nothing to offer in way of exciting life stories. I never drank or clubbed or did any of the things that rebellious teenager do. I was not one to fool around with girls. I was too shy and many times occupied with all my books and fantasies.

Past teenage years was the post puberty/campus scene where you had the freedom to do as you please for as long as the term persisted. This stage was supposed to be defined by multiply sexual conquest for those that may have not started in high school. This was not the case. My whole three years in university and only 3 girls visited my room.

Come work and even there I was as docile as a blind rabbit…or even more. 9 months in a foreign country, the longest I had been away from home, did not produce any wonders either except the challenges of a growing man striving to please God.

All this time I was absolutely straight as an arrow could be. Was a leader in church, tried to live responsibly and do all that good church boys do ad infinitum.

My only major quirks were my long hair, dirty baggy jeans and rather uproarious laughter couple with all the traits of a sanguine-choleric personality. Nothing to world changing I would say.

Fast forward a little and I am in my early “adulthood”. I have worked a couple of jobs, quit one and labour through the other. I have developed both as a person, a writer, an artiste and more. I have even made the transition into full time ministry, the holy grail of service to God in the church. From what people say I shall be joining the ordained ministry soon or at least eventually. I am the “PERFECT CANDIDATE”. God help the church.

But deep down I feel like the other prodigal son.  I feel unappreciated and unaccomplished. I feel like Jeremiah who cried, “I have been deceived and greatly deceived”. Like Job I feel like I have toiled in vain. Like Ezekiel I feel frustrated and like Jeremiah again I feel like my words from the Lord bring me nothing but grief. This prodigal son feels so unappreciated…isn’t there some good to be reaped from walking the straight and narrow this side of heaven.

I read the story of the prodigal son again today and I even looked through some commentaries. There is all this jazz about him representing the Pharisee and that is well but I am not a Pharisee both physically and metaphorically. I am at “good” boy feeling low, low, low. I want my calf to share with my friends or at least some respite from this burden of being un-accomplished. Ah??

I view this story from a totally human perspective, or real perspective and I see where the brother is coming from. We do not see his response after what the dad says but I suspect his answer would have been something like even so I still feel this way.

Word Power.

Being a lover of words and a lover of women...and friendships with men (hehehe) and the internet you can imagine my excitement to "land" upon this article that i have copied and pasted below. You can read it here.

I particularly liked Cafuné because i imagine doing it to her, La Douleur Exquise because its what i have experienced on many an occasion and Ilunga because its Bantu(African) and i am a Pan Africanist and because i understand the emotion they speak of. Enjoy

Mamihlapinatapei (Yagan, an indigenous language of Tierra del Fuego): The wordless yet meaningful look shared by two people who desire to initiate something, but are both reluctant to start. 

Oh yes, this is an exquisite word, compressing a thrilling and scary relationship moment. It’s that delicious, cusp-y moment of imminent seduction. Neither of you has mustered the courage to make a move, yet. Hands haven’t been placed on knees; you’ve not kissed. But you’ve both conveyed enough to know that it willhappen soon… very soon.

 Yuanfen (Chinese): A relationship by fate or destiny. This is a complex concept. It draws on principles of predetermination in Chinese culture, which dictate relationships, encounters and affinities, mostly among lovers and friends.

From what I glean, in common usage yuanfen means the "binding force" that links two people together in any relationship. 

But interestingly, “fate” isn’t the same thing as “destiny.” Even if lovers are fated to find each other they may not end up together. The proverb, “have fate without destiny,” describes couples who meet, but who don’t stay together, for whatever reason. It’s interesting, to distinguish in love between the fated and the destined. Romantic comedies, of course, confound the two.

 Cafuné (Brazilian Portuguese): The act of tenderly running your fingers through someone's hair.

 Retrouvailles (French):  The happiness of meeting again after a long time. 

This is such a basic concept, and so familiar to the growing ranks of commuter relationships, or to a relationship of lovers, who see each other only periodically for intense bursts of pleasure. I’m surprised we don’t have any equivalent word for this subset of relationship bliss. It’s a handy one for modern life.

 Ilunga (Bantu): A person who is willing to forgive abuse the first time; tolerate it the second time, but never a third time.

Apparently, in 2004, this word won the award as the world’s most difficult to translate. Although at first, I thought it did have a clear phrase equivalent in English: It’s the “three strikes and you’re out” policy. But ilunga conveys a subtler concept, because the feelings are different with each “strike.” The word elegantly conveys the progression toward intolerance, and the different shades of emotion that we feel at each stop along the way.

Ilunga captures what I’ve described as the shade of gray complexity in marriages—Not abusive marriages, but marriages that involve infidelity, for example.  We’ve got tolerance, within reason, and we’ve got gradations of tolerance, and for different reasons. And then, we have our limit. The English language to describe this state of limits and tolerance flattens out the complexity into black and white, or binary code. You put up with it, or you don’t.  You “stick it out,” or not.

Ilunga restores the gray scale, where many of us at least occasionally find ourselves in relationships, trying to love imperfect people who’ve failed us and whom we ourselves have failed.

 La Douleur Exquise (French): The heart-wrenching pain of wanting someone you can’t have.

When I came across this word I thought of “unrequited” love. It’s not quite the same, though. “Unrequited love” describes a relationship state, but not a state of mind. Unrequited love encompasses the lover who isn’t reciprocating, as well as the lover who desires. La douleur exquise gets at the emotional heartache, specifically, of being the one whose love is unreciprocated.

 Koi No Yokan (Japanese): The sense upon first meeting a person that the two of you are going to fall into love. 

This is different than “love at first sight,” since it implies that you might have a sense of imminent love, somewhere down the road, without yet feeling it. The term captures the intimation of inevitable love in the future, rather than the instant attraction implied by love at first sight.

 Ya’aburnee (Arabic): “You bury me.” It’s a declaration of one’s hope that they’ll die before another person, because of how difficult it would be to live without them.

The online dictionary that lists this word calls it “morbid and beautiful.” It’s the “How Could I Live Without You?” slickly insincere cliché of dating, polished into a more earnest, poetic term.  

 Forelsket: (Norwegian):  The euphoria you experience when you’re first falling in love.

This is a wonderful term for that blissful state, when all your senses are acute for the beloved, the pins and needles thrill of the novelty. There’s a phrase in English for this, but it’s clunky. It’s “New Relationship Energy,” or NRE.

  Saudade (Portuguese): The feeling of longing for someone that you love and is lost. Another linguist describes it as a "vague and constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist."

It’s interesting that saudade accommodates in one word the haunting desire for a lost love, or for an imaginary, impossible, never-to-be-experienced love. Whether the object has been lost or will never exist, it feels the same to the seeker, and leaves her in the same place:  She has a desire with no future. Saudade doesn’t distinguish between a ghost, and a fantasy. Nor do our broken hearts, much of the time

The Peg and the Hole Problem

There are several ways to approach this whole problem. But just in case we are not on the same page maybe a Wikipedia or some other internet resource definition will help so Google it.

For you lazy people or those with no internet access here is a breakdown. “A square peg in a round hole is an idiomatic expression which describes the unusual individualist who could not fit into a niche of his society”

There are so many variations on this but they are all somewhere within the vicinity of the above description. When I speak of pegs and holes I am speaking mostly about how a person feels about his place in this world. The questions of purpose and or destiny hound most of us, subtly or conspicuously and viciously like the famed headless horseman.

Pound the peg till it fits

Of course before we go on I am working on the assumption that the whole purpose is for pegs to plug holes. Like I stated there are several ways that this can be dealt with all this.

You could pound the peg into the hole with all you might and make it fit. This damages the hole and the peg and wears out whoever does the banging.

Whittle away till it fits

You could whittle away the peg until it fits into the hole. But this leaves very little of the peg especially if the hole is small. The peg may fit but it shall never belong.

You could find a bigger hole in which the peg could fit but it will never full plug the hole cause it’s not meant for that.

You could perhaps fit the right peg on the right hole but life never really gives up perfect pegs or holes. The world is not filled that way.

You could also give up and say you don’t need the hole or the peg but well you will be left with lots of useless pegs and still many holes.

You could even expand the whole...but the results will be similar is fear.

modify the hole you could

I find that many times some of these methods achieve a modicum of success but I also believe that there is a perfect hole for every plug or vice versa and that we should never really give up or give in until we find that perfect spot.

From a faith point of view, perhaps this seems very eastern religionish, and perhaps it is but in my walk with God I have tried so many things and then some more especially in my later more adult year. I find that many times we are so keen to fit in that we quickly surrender to the “status quo” or whatever is popular at that time.

We ignore our gift, talents, loves, interest, preference, personality and character. We ignore all that we are created in pursuit of fitting into a hole forgetting that ever peg was cut from a block and every block is missing a peg…and sometimes each peg has to find IT’S hole, its home, its place.

Hearken to me, ye that follow after righteousness, ye that seek the LORD: look unto the rock whence ye are hewn, and to the hole of the pit whence ye are digged.

Isaiah 51:1

King James Bible

No Seriously..what the French

I have just spent the better part of the last two hours scrolling/flipping/tracking forward through several series. I have one question, “who the heaven writes this stuff and why the heck do they get paid?”

But also, “ what sort of retard actually enjoys these things and thinks they have anything worthwhile to ingest?” or do they just need something to keep their brains tuned awash in silly goo as they take in their daily dose of stupid.

Then why do people go to the US. That’s where everything goes to die. Most of their music is crap. So is their art. The architecture is punctuated with excess and absolute Picasso style abstractness that is good for nothing except perhaps as an icon for the proper targeting ICCBMs.

Sorry. I did not mean to questions why people go to us. We all know why they do….i think.

But I really meant why do all these show go to the US or come from there?

But I have scrolled through a couple of series and one that I started out liking was an American version of a british show “Sherlock” and it was named rather deviously “elementary”. It was great, the first few, okay the first three episodes then they just started dragging us through the usual American drama and same old same old clichéd tired worn out story lines and I was like…click…on to the next.

The came, “last Resort” which I will not bother with here except to say it was a military coup in paradise with the usual shadowy enemies manipulating government and we a small band of heroic honourable soldiers are here to save it. Yeah, I know, BORING. I intend to share this with other people at which point I shall promptly delete it afterwards.

“Newsroom” on the other hand does not seem so bad. The first episode is pretty explosive and its about…you guessed it…journalist…or newspeople. So far its funny. I like it. But that’s just the first episode. Ask me after I have watched a couple more episode.

P.S. this is a tirade and your usual programming shall resume shortly.

Proud to be a man...

I am tired of apologising for being a man. I am honestly tired of defending my sex before women who do more to damage their own standing in life and squander the years of good their forebears have brought them.

But this is not about women. So I shall conspicuously ignore them.

I recently stumbled upon a facebook page called Dads on Duty that shares pictures and storied of fathers around the world but mostly the USA who are defying all the stereotypes of men all over the net and more.

These pictures stir my heart; they encourage me on the journey I am taking towards a fuller manhood and maybe someday fatherhood. They tell me that the situation may be dire but I am not alone in the ideals that I espouse and that I have companions on this road that is many times lonely and filled with despair. I salute them. I guess its extra encouraging that most pics on this page are posed by mothers, sisters and wives. Granted a picture is not a full story but you will not deny the emotions that wells in your heart when you read the captions on each picture. Check it out here

Message from Holly Hermida-Lopez:My girls have the BEST DAD there is (part II)... Francis Lopez also does nails, hair and all the other things a little girl may want their Daddy to do for them... I may be a lucky woman but they have a one-in-a-million DAD...

The other thing that has caught my eye is the military and the sacrifices these men take for our safety and security. I have loved the military and on many occasions I almost joined the forces only for my mom’s instructions never to step in her house or even talk to her if I joined up.

I have watched countless movies and read many books and real life accounts plus articles on soldiers and why they do what they do. The closest I have come to that level of camaraderie is as part of a sports team. You become naturally a band of brothers where team work and the pride of the man next to you becomes bigger than winning, which dulls in comparison and is just the bonus of what you all went through on the pitch. I understand why grown men weep when something goes wrong with the team, cause that loss is a subtle judgement on the team and hence its members. It tells him that there is something wrong, lacking; that his brotherhood is ill and in need of help.

I respect these men, who take my rhetoric step further and take up arms to defend that which is sacred against enemies equally passionate or worse with no moral code and fight with absolute disregard for the “rules of war”.

. Members of The Old Guard have guarded the Tomb every second, of every day regardless of weather or holidays since April 6, 1948.

"This is the best job in the Army because each one of us has given our best to provide the Unknowns the proper dignity and respect they deserve..."

And so every day, I steel my face to the world, adorn my best soldier face and go out resolved to fight my battles to the bitter end and not flinch or Blanche at responsibility or shy away from standing up for the truth or defend the weak.