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  • The Betrayal of Pain

    As a child, I recall idyllic holidays in the heartland of Kwazulu Natal. A small farm town with only basic amenities, and a farm with an abundance of natural intrigue, even more than beauty. These are two destinations that merge into one in my mind when I reminisce about the long drives down the rugged gravel roads to the farmhouse and the shop where so many memories were made. We had polite but sincere exchanges with the local Zulus despite barely being able to speak each other’s languages. We made meals out of whole loaves of bread with tinned fish and a haphazard array of vegetables or spices that we could lay our hands on, as we crammed all the ingredients into the cavity we dug out from the centre of the loaf.

    We’d sit by the river and build little dams in which to swim, while we wandered downstream wondering how far the river would take us, eventually turning around to head back to the shop before closing time. The sticky mangoes swelling from the branches of the trees and the smell of fresh cow dung. There was a crispness to those experiences that appear to be lost in the years that followed. Memories abound. It’s easy for memories to surface from times that I associated with innocence and warmth. Warmth of the human spirit reflected in the sincerity of interactions that had no veils of political correctness or courtesy about them. There wasn’t a need for adequate expression of words because the bonds we shared transcended such frivolous qualifications.

    One particular trek down that mountain in my uncle’s Land Rover always stands out more than the rest. The road was one he travelled almost every day of his life while he wrestled with the gearbox of that old car. The steep inclines sometimes felt almost vertical to a child of 6 or 8, while I grabbed the seat trying not to fall through the windscreen as we crept our way down the rock-laden path careful not to get my skinny legs in the way of the gear shift that my uncle cursed. I looked up at him one day and asked quite innocently, “Do you ever get used to this road?” His reply was soft, but terse. “You never get used to pain!”

    I smiled sheepishly without realising the gravity of his statement while I continued to take in the beautiful sights around us. I had seen it many times before but even to this day I still stop and stare in awe at any scene that reminds me of it. Even the smell of the bark of a tree burning in an open fire takes me back to those days. The rocks that he saw as painful obstacles I treasured as a playground during the many times that we’d get out of the car at the river crossing while he drove on to the shop. We hopped over the rocks in the river bed as we chuckled through the path less travelled. My uncle, on the other hand, didn’t see those rocks the way we did. He was looking at it from behind that gear shift, while we felt it beneath our feet giving us the firm foothold we needed to make our way through that majestic land.

    Much later in life I grew to appreciate the reality he was faced with. No matter how familiar we are with pain, it doesn’t ever become pleasant. There may be some comfort that we draw from the familiarity of it, but it never ceases to be pain. Quite ironically though, the pain is usually because of a perspective we embrace rather than the reality that we face. He looked at the rocks as the painful hurdles that offered no respite, while it was the faulty gear shift that in fact tainted the beauty of the rocks.

    I’ve found that when I’m caught up in the rapture of the moments that offer curt reminders of betrayals past, I lose sight of the reality of the beauty around me. The minor betrayals that are in reality not much more than annoyances now hold harsh reminders of the graver betrayals of the past. The annoyances now become my faulty gear shift, while the betrayals of the past in fact inform the appreciation I have of the beauty that life has to offer. Only once both have been experienced, betrayal and beauty, can the one be more fully appreciated in the absence of the other. But it takes more than just the realisation of such dichotomies to remain mindful about the good that we have. It takes a gear shift that isn’t a constant annoyance to avoid the distraction from that which is a blessing.

    Too many times I’ve fallen foul of the procrastination to make the tough decisions from fear of creating a reality that held no certainty. The certainty I desired was the odd comfort that I drew from the familiarity of that pain. Eventually I would reach breaking point, by which time the destruction in my wake was tenfold worse than what it would have been had I acted when I first realised that a change was needed. But each time that I contended with that wake my boldness and confidence to deal with such destruction grew, and so the appeal to delay the inevitable became a taunt that goaded me on to push the limits of my patience to points where the mere contemplation of the potential outcomes of losing it left me lightheaded and weak-kneed knowing that my tolerance was being depleted, while my inclination for flexibility decreased.

    Every decision, whether taken or subdued, is a step closer to the inevitable. The more we resist this reality, the greater the cost when eventually what was intended to come to pass, does.

  • Trinkets of Distraction

    As I walked through the ‘sacred relics’ chamber of the Topkapi Palace, I was mesmerised by the melodious recitation of the Qur’an. At first I thought it was a recording because of the consistency of the tone and pitch of the recitation, until I walked past the booth where the reciter set and continued reciting as if there was nothing around him that mattered. It was just him and his recitation of those beautiful verses. But as I walked through those chambers my attention was drawn to the common trend I noticed on so many artefacts. These artefacts comprised of various personal effects of the prophet (peace be upon him), his closest companions, and immediate family. It was a collection of impressively ornate pieces alongside some really rudimentary looking items.

    The embellished ones had two dates indicated, whereas all the more simplistic items that included actual garments worn by some of the earliest luminaries of Islam had only a single date. The difference was painfully clear. In its original state, all those items were plain and practical. They weren’t embellished in gemstones, or silver mouldings, nor gold detail. For example, the drinking bowl of the prophet (pbuh) was a regular wooden drinking bowl that he used for water. The second date I noticed confirmed the period during which the silver embellishment on the outside was attached to the bowl. The differences between the two dates were generally 7th century for the original item, and 13th to 17th century for the embellishment.

    The 7th Century was when the prophet (pbuh) lived, and the 13th Century was when many recognise the end of the Golden Age of Islam. Whether or not that was a coincidence, I don’t know. But what is striking for me is that it does coincide with a period that marks the eventual slide of the Muslims from being at the forefront of progress across almost every sphere of human development. While my views are largely conjecture (since I lack any inclination to conduct a formal study of the subject) the important point that stands out for me is that the embellished and ritualistic way of life that we see among Muslims today was not evidenced in these early artefacts of the greatest personalities of Islam.

    At some point, being so accomplished, we lost our grounding and became obsessed with demonstrating to the world, internal and external to the Islamic empire, the extent of our success. The substance of what we knew or practiced was no longer sufficient. It’s almost blasphemous in my mind.

    I find it difficult to process the arrogance that would go along with the decision to take a humble water bowl of the prophet of Islam and turn it into an ornate mantel piece presumably out of love for its owner? Surely such love should be the preservation of the way of life of the prophet himself, rather than to indulge in excess that he specifically and boldly opposed in everything that he did? But this was no longer the case. Even their swords we encrusted in jewels and gold. Why?

    I found this disturbing to the point where I worked my way hurriedly through the chambers and left. My longest pause was at the display that contained two simple garments, one that belonged to the daughter of the prophet, and another that belonged to one of his companions (may peace be upon them all). These remained in their original humble states, with visible patchwork where it was mended, and a natural wear from its use. This resonated with me. This reflected the simplicity that epitomises the humility with which they lived, despite having the resources of an empire at their disposal.

    Ostentatious displays of religiosity has become the hallmark of many Muslim communities. This is not an echo of the origins of Islam, but rather of its downfall. But this is not a flaw limited to Muslims. Every religion, and every culture I encounter these days has similar failings. The world is full of indulgence and selfish promotion. Even in charity we find ways of promoting ourselves or our businesses. Sincerity comes a distant second place to self-promotion.

    The same is true for life in general. We’re so easily distracted by how we’re wanting to be perceived that we spend more time developing that appearance than investing in the substance that makes the real difference in our lives and the lives of those around us. Islam and Muslims are under attack because we’ve largely departed from this path of simplicity and sincerity in our application of Islamic principles and practices. The same is true for those that are more ostentatious than they are sincere. They are also despised by the people that don’t subscribe to such elitism, so it stands to reason that the same would be true for religious zealots. It’s just a pity that those zealots are the ones defining the perception of a way of life that offers immense peace and moderation for a world steeped in self-indulgence and excess.

  • Cyclic Sanity (Take II)

    Once we obtain a level of realisation regarding the finite nature of life, or rather, knowing without doubt that death is approaching, we will realise the time that is passing without us exploiting its opportunities sufficiently. When we consider that against the knowledge and skills we may have acquired up to that point, we realise how fickle our focus on life may be.

    If we truly believe in the ephemeral nature of life, and we claim to serve a higher purpose, then it dictates that we should endeavour to ensure that every skill or resource that we have that can benefit others must be brought to bear in their benefit. If we don’t, we’re insincere in our conviction of purpose, selfish in our endeavors, and undeserving of investment from others.

    Why then are we so easily distracted from this purpose? I believe it lies in the continued cycles of sanity that we subscribe to. We have developed an unhealthy fixation on time. Everything we do is measured in hours, minutes, or seconds. We see our lives through the cycles of birthdays that pass, and relationships in the context of anniversaries to determine its success. More recently we’ve been distracted by the annual commemorations of days earmarked to recognise the value of significant others in our lives. Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, and the insanity continues. But none of this would be an issue if it wasn’t for the distraction it instills in us.

    I’ve always believed that if it was not for entropy, time would be irrelevant. Yet we’re still more focused on time spent, than the progression of entropy in everything inside and around us. Coupled with this distraction is the conditioning that leads us to believe that there is age appropriate behaviour that is expected of us. Those that wish to be accepted by society willingly subscribe to these stereotypes, while those that don’t are often shunned or inadvertently isolated, or at the least, become entertainers.

    The combination of such conditioning and the distraction of time robs us of the very essence of life. Imagine a world where time was in fact irrelevant? Entropy would still exist, but then our measure of the quality of our lives will not be in how much quality time is spent with our family, but rather how much of our health and wellbeing did we expend in their benefit or enjoyment. Yet, we are caught in a cycle that insists that the best years of our health must be expended in amassing enough wealth so that our twilight years which are most often accompanied by ill health and fatigue is available for our indulgences in life. The logic is simply illogical.

    The reality is, we do live in a world where time is irrelevant, except when we give it significance. It’s yet another distraction that we use to ensure that we’re apparently not distracted from the task at hand. And that’s part of the problem. We’re so task focused, and time aware, that most of what we do eventually becomes a chore, the cycles bed down deeper, and freedom of expression and indulgence is considered within the norms that we subscribe to in order to be accepted, validated, affirmed, or all of the above all the while bemoaning the constraints that society places on us.

    When will we realise that we are society. We defined the rules that burdens our souls. The same rules weaken our resolve and discourage individual accountability so that we constantly shift the blame to the collective, while denying that we form part of it.

    I do not subscribe to age appropriate behaviour, nor do I believe in a work life balance the way it is traditionally perceived. But that is a topic for another day. Right now, it feels like I’m wasting too much time bleeding my thoughts into a post that will largely go unnoticed leaving me lacking in affirmation or validation, resulting in the stress of unfulfilment building in the bile that slowly erodes the lining of my stomach leaving me aching for acceptance so that I won’t have a need to feed on myself while denouncing my significance in a world that doesn’t care. Because I don’t care. And that is exactly the point we miss. Each day, every day, as we continue on that treadmill now fitted with an interactive LED display to feign the experience of movement while running like a hamster in our efforts to be at the top of the pile (pun intended).

    Life awaits.

  • Mental Masturbation

    Walking through the city of London (while attending a conference recently) and observing the locals and tourists alike, I found myself contemplating a lot of truths we take for granted back home. I use the word ‘truth’ lightly in this case because much of how we perceive the world is based on conditioning and indoctrination rather than inherent truths. If we are to assume that the perception of our reality remains to be true for us at least, then let us accept that that is the truth that we all hold ourselves to serve.

    This would beg the question as to how those truths are informed. Hence conditioning and indoctrination. The reason these two points are so important is because very few of us are products of our traditional upbringing these days. Even those traditional upbringings are questionable because of influences that they inherited in centuries or eons passed. And so the waters that provide bouyancy to the truth become muddied even further. But back to London.

    I stood in awe, quite literally, at how many tourists were smitten by the old buildings that hold absolutely no significance in their lives. More than this, I was also flummoxed by the crudity that I saw around me that was being celebrated as dignity. Before you accuse me of elitism, or being judgemental, please refer to the previous paragraph. Growing up as an Indian in South Africa and therefore having been conditioned by the simultaneous brainwashing of an educational system with roots in English colonialism, and the cultural force of apartheid, I was also raised to believe in the superiority of the white race and the radiant historical significance of monuments like the Voortrekker Monument and Big Ben, or the nobility of purpose in the founding occupational forces that landed in the Cape of Good Hope so many centuries ago, or the present occupational force of reverse racism that lands it butt in the butter each day that it takes its seat in parliament. And that’s when it struck me, not for the first time though, that the significance attached to these icons are simply notions that we subscribe to.

    A flag is only a piece of cloth that has a pretty design on it until the ones in power imbue it with a symbolism beyond its innate nature. Those that are subservient will therefore defend this symbolism to the death and lose sight of the truth behind it. And so my mind wandered as I wandered while I noticed the conflicts welling up inside of me. As I walked through St James’ Park I kept thinking ‘Zoo Lake’ in my mind. (The Zoo Lake is the equivalent destination in Johannesburg). Then I walked down the streets of perfectly manicured trees that lined both sides with a beautiful shade of green and I was reminded of the northern suburbs of Johannesburg. And as I continued my travels through the city I kept finding myself drawing parallels between what I experienced in this foreign land and what I have available to me in my own homeland. With one key difference. Access to resources.

    That realisation was accompanied by its own conflicts. On the one hand, we couldn’t compete with the global investors that pump wealth into this region in order to gain more wealth out of it, but on the other, we probably have proportionally equal amounts of wealth being squandered through corruption and incompetence. The difference? While walking through London I got a distinct sense of a collective pride that everyone had in what their country offered. It was in fact nauseating to flip through channel after channel in the hotel room only to see some or other aspect of the English lifestyle being celebrated as superior to anything else. That’s what we lack. Collective pride.

    And so, in the absence of such pride, we turn on each other. We become opportunists looking to get what we can from what is available, with very little focus on giving back. We tolerate corruption by contributing to it, and we condone poor service delivery by squeezing the blood out of our labourers. There is no nation, let alone nation building. We bicker, we complain, we criticise, and we loathe, and the contradiction in this statement does not escape me, which brings me to the title of this post.

    We’re a nation of mental masturbators. Extremely eloquent in defining responses or solutions, but lethargically poor at building unity and serving each other. And I noticed this same tendency building up inside of me as I walked through the streets of London, forming essay after essay in my mind about how we could be even greater if we had access to the same kind of resources, etc. all the while knowing that that is not true. If we had access to more resources than we already have, we’d just take corruption to a greater level, and dish out incompetence in greater portion sizes.

    Watching the madness around Nkhandla and seeing the president laugh mockingly at the same nation he is supposed to be serving, and juxtaposing that against the American president that was dragged through the coals simply for getting a blow job, and it becomes plainly clear that we view illicit sex that others envy as infinitely more detrimental to society than showing the middle finger to the poor and downtrodden, and then speaking of it as if you are above it. That, in my mind, is the worst form of mental masturbation. The ability to speak authoritatively of morals and values when you’re the same scum that sets the standard and consistently raises the bar for such despicable norms, and then still insisting on dignity while robbing the very same people that put you in power of the dignity that they actually pay for.

    Sitting back and decrying our state because of the legacy of apartheid is again, mental masturbation. 21 years. That’s enough time to raise a child, put them through school, followed by university and pretty much obtain a degree, yet we have adults (read ‘idiots’) in power who are supposed to be educated while surrounded by the best advisers of their choice that still think that their downright incompetence and moral corruption is a result of apartheid. No, it’s simply self-loathing greed. Self-loathing because no one with an ounce of self-respect will conduct themselves as despicably as our leaders do. Unfortunately they are the icons that the masses subscribe to. But I recall my initial reaction to Big Ben when I first saw it. I also flipped out my cell phone to take that first pic, with the realisation of its impotence only dawning on me later.

    So I find it difficult, as frustrating as it is, to judge harshly those that continue to vote for the cancer that is eroding the fabric of our nation. It leaves me with one defining realisation. While the non-white in South Africa may not have enjoyed much dignity in the eyes of the ruling elite at the time, we had dignity among ourselves. Now that apartheid is gone, it seems we gave up that dignity in our pursuit of the trinkets that propped up our apartheid masters but sinking one level lower. That lower level that we’ve succumbed to is because at least during apartheid we all took care of our own kind, both the whites and non-whites alike. Now, we’re too selfish and morally depraved to do even that.

    So any criticism of the moral decay that we see around us is nothing more than mental masturbation from a nation that has sold its soul in favour of the aspirations of its apartheid masters. Ubuntu? Did I hear someone mention Ubuntu? Don’t make me laugh. We’ve lost even that simple truth and traded it in for individual enrichment.

  • Carrots And Sticks

    I recall, with some discomfort, a time in my life when I was painfully focused on how I was received by others. I recall simple moments when I made someone laugh quite unexpectedly, and then found myself feeling compelled to continue focusing on possible behaviours or witty statements to solicit more of the same. It took a long time for me to realise that it wasn’t just the laughter that I enjoyed, but the attention.

    Being noticed for the same reasons we wish to be noticed is more addictive than any drug you’ll ever find. Ironically, it’s the absence of this validation that drives many to drugs to escape the reality of their insignificance, relative to their needs of course. But that’s not the point of this post. The eventual realisation of what I was getting from such experiences confirmed a painful truth that I only realised was painful much later on. I’m slow like that, fortunately so. It was the realisation that my self-worth, and therefore my actions, we’re largely defined by what I wanted from people rather than what I wanted to contribute.

    Being driven by the fickleness of others is a good way to erode any sense of purpose or fulfilment in life. No wonder so many enter their twilight years feeling betrayed and bitter, and often disheartened at the thought of all that they didn’t achieve, or that they don’t have. That’s what being a whore to society does. It robs you of your dignity while you’re trying to appear dignified.

    Against that backdrop, I always find it curious when I see people motivating themselves to improve themselves by tying such motivation to someone around them. They’re effectively saying that only if you do x for me, then only will I do the right thing for me. Stated differently, I’m improving myself so that you can be proud of me or accept me for the person I can be, but I’ll stop doing it if you’re not around, or if you reject me because then it’s not worth being a better me. In other words, you will be my carrot and my stick, without which I have no purpose in life.

    When you’re focused on acceptance, you become a consumer. Consumers are good for the economy, but they’re rarely the beneficiaries. The same way they make businessmen richer while indulging in trinkets to distract themselves, needing validation makes the attention you receive the trinket that distracts you from being you. I’ve often heard, and said, that many people exist only, and then they die without having lived much at all. I now think that there is a fate worse than this. Many people live a life of subservience to others while fooling themselves into believing that they’re in fact serving humanity, or some other higher purpose. They’re the ones whose eyes light up when they’re showered with attention and affection but become almost entirely mute in its absence.

    By design, fulfilment and purpose is only ever realised when we serve a cause greater than ourselves, or larger than our lives. Self indulgence is an insatiable cycle, even more so when we don’t realise that it’s our ego that we serve. Service to a higher calling is what connects us. No one ever connects with others when they’re focused on their own needs before anything else. Just because that pursuit of the self may appear sincere or subservient doesn’t suddenly make it meritorious. In fact, the more adept we are at disguising it, the more detrimental it is to our sense of self.

    For me, beauty lies not in being attracted to those that accept me, but more in connecting with those that are passionate about the spheres that I hope to influence, or embrace. Anything else is simply a pacification of my unwillingness to accept my inability to influence change in the world around me.

  • Look Behind Their Eyes

    The one who judges is most often reflecting their bitterness rather than the merits of the subject of their judgement. There is a simple but important difference between judging and understanding. In seeking to understand we are compelled to make judgement calls about what we observe. Those judgement calls are in the form of observations or assumptions we make relative to what is visible to us, what we know about the subject, and what we think relates practically to it. In other words, our frame of reference is brought to bear on what we are faced with. We all do this. It’s a normal cycle we go through sub-consciously in order to make sense of the world around us.

    The challenge lies in what we do with this information. The worst among us assume that this set of information is absolute and authoritative and therefore feel confident enough to use it as a basis of judgement against others. The lesser contemptible among us realise that it is only true within our current frame of reference and could change substantially if new information were to come to light. But there must be a simple reason that tells us why we respond so differently, and it cannot be external either. So what is it about how we perceive ourselves that gives us reason to be either arrogant and judgemental, or grounded and understanding?

    I believe it lies in that septic space called self-worth. The lower our self-worth, the greater our inclination to judge, and vice versa. Those that despise themselves seek affirmation in the fact that others are lesser beings than they are. It’s an easy fix to stave off the contempt we feel for our shortcomings when we lack the strength of character required to face it, and deal with it. It’s significantly easier for me to slander the efforts of another than it is for me to raise my game and be as competent or benevolent as they are, all the while fearing insignificance with the current audience if I am seen to be the weaker one.

    The challenge in expecting such bitter souls to reflect is that their bitterness is exactly the distraction that prevents them from reflection, and in turn, mindfulness. I still believe that those that may be bitter but are inherently good, and strive (albeit internally only) to improve their character and humanness, will ultimately attract the right set of circumstances that will force them to set aside the bitterness for long enough to see the truth of themselves that they tried to wish away.

    The clutter in my space is making this thought process very difficult to articulate. When we see someone behaving despicably, our most common response is to despise them and to shun them. We distance ourselves from them from fear of contamination of their vile ways, or at the least, from fear of being associated with them. The former is a lack of our sense of self, and the latter being our need to be perceived well by others. In other words, our need for significance. If we didn’t fall victim to these two obsessions, I would guess that our response to vile behaviour would be very different.

    Instead of shunning or despising, both of which are inherently judgemental, we would seek to look behind the eyes of the contemptible one, and instead of responding harshly, we would see the weakness that drives them to behave the way they do. But this demands of us that which we are most loathe to acknowledge. It demands an embrace of our own weaknesses, and more importantly, our gravest failures. In order to look behind the eyes of another, we need to recognise in them what we once subscribed to as well. Look behind the eyes of anger, and you’ll see a desperate need for significance. Just because they may be demanding that significance in the workplace doesn’t mean that it’s their colleagues that are the root cause of their desperation. Most often we tend to project our aggression on those that are least likely to resist or challenge it, while avoiding such aggression in the presence of those that we wish to appeal to instead. It’s the path of least resistance that enables such behaviour. We are more likely to show aggression in those spheres of our lives where we hold more authority because the coward in us directs us away from those settings where we know the repercussions will be costly. The cost being relative to what we desire.

    It’s for the same reason that parents may vent their anger in the home but be docile and compliant at the office, or vice versa. As despicable as such behaviour may be, the moment we recognise that need for significance, or the need to appear competent, or simply to be liked, we will be able to see the weakness that provokes the brute, rather than believing that the brute is a lesser being than ourselves.

    When we judge prematurely, we recede into a space of arrogance that eventually convinces us that we’ve arrived at the point of awareness in our lives where all we do is impeccably informed, and all we challenge is of a noble cause. That’s when we become the aggressors, and it is then that we should pray that there is one in the audience that will take the time to look behind our eyes so that they may be able to sensitise us to the weakness that has driven us to become the contemptible one.

    If we look behind the eyes of the aggressor, we’ll see that there are no bad people in this world, only weak ones.

    [Yet another incomplete thought process]

  • The Art of Insincerity

    One of the most common observations that people share about me is that they know where they stand with me. I’m the one that usually speaks everyone else’s mind for them when they lack the courage to be bold. I don’t do this deliberately, I do it out of frustration. That frustration stems from the realisation that whining in private never changes what irks us in public.

    Initially my inclination to speak out is based on a belief that those that are silent are in fact oppressed in some form or another. It’s a belief that drives me to be convinced that if given a shoulder to lean on, or a support structure from which to draw strength, people will inherently find more reason to be true to themselves, and in so doing, act with greater conviction in the face of obstacles, or oppression. Such idealism has never served me well.

    The reality is closer to people wanting to be liked more than they care about fighting any good fight. Popularity is what drives us more than conviction. Perhaps this is why leaders are despised in the making, but revered in office. We judge harshly those that push for change when such change disrupts our own comfort zones, but feel no qualms about indulging in the benefits of the new realities created by the same people we once despised, often even proudly claiming affiliation with the struggle that brought about the much needed change.

    Glory hunters. That’s all we are. To be associated with that which is perceived as popular or meritorious by those we idolise is what drives our conviction. Pride of association. It’s a powerful tool to influence the masses. But it comes at a price. The price we pay for it is the isolation we feel when we realise that we’re simply the pawns of the masses in the run up to the turning of the tide.

    The art of insincerity is best displayed in that final phase of a tough project when all the naysayers suddenly rally around being fully supportive as if they were by your side all along, drooling with the anticipation of sharing in the glory of the achievement that everyone thought you insane to pursue in the first place. That’s when the ambivalence sets in because despite the obvious hypocrisy, you need them to appreciate the benefits of the endeavour, because without those very same consumers, the outcome will be redundant no matter how brilliant the solution.

    This is true in both work and life. The fact that we still have good reason to differentiate between the two is sad, but that is a topic for another day’s ramblings. So it seems the art of insincerity is a reciprocal one. It’s one of the times when holding fast to higher principles will erode the value of the outcome. Sanity can only be salvaged through the adjustment of our expectations. If we expect sincerity, we’ll be distracted from our purpose. But that demands a reciprocation of insincerity, because if we don’t have an expectation of sincerity, then by default we accept that demanding less than what we would ideally want is in itself insincere relative to our convictions. In so doing, we too will master the art of insincerity that we so vehemently despise in others.

    I guess the test of life might lie in being a better hypocrite than the next. I think we call that political correctness, no?

  • When Family and Friends Collide

    Being torn between my loyalties towards family versus friends was never pleasant. I recall specific events where I was treated with disdain after returning from an afternoon with a friend in my neighbourhood. It was not just from my father, it was pretty much from the whole family. Having a social life seemed wrong, and being socially awkward was my default disposition. I suspect the two went hand-in-hand.

    The insecurity of a family unit that grows insular by default rather than necessity is often a reflection of the insecurity of those that yield the most influence on them. It’s almost cult-ish by nature. The indoctrination that suggests that choosing the company of others automatically implies that you place less significance on your own family members is unnatural and stifling. Having to choose between your absolute loyalty to family that precludes any other bonds from being established and wanting a space for free expression unattached to your family should not be a choice that anyone should have to make. It sets the scene for a precedent that can rarely, if ever be met.

    The underlying principle is a simple one. If you impose limitations on others, limitations that don’t shape their moral or ethical standing but instead is aimed at defining their movement and free association with others, you need to be damn sure that you’re in a position to offer them what they would otherwise get from those social circles. Family can be toxic as much as they can be a blessing. Often, in a less healthy environment, they stifle the growth of each other and root themselves in a point from the past based on the belief that they need to protect each other from a perceived, but often unrealistic threat. Simply stated, a family of victims of society are more likely to restrain the social activities and affiliations of its members than one that is secure in their collective individuality.

    But that begs the question as to how do we become a family of victims to begin with? Again, I look towards the most influential members of the family, typically the father, or the mother, or both. They set the tone for what is perceived to be healthy and balanced, versus what is unacceptable or intolerable. Their fears and insecurities are often passed on as truths and realities, while preventing sufficient exposure for any of their children to determine the veracity of such claims themselves. This ensures that the established authority in the household remains unchallenged, and that the balance that is comfortable for the insecure, remains above reproach. Despite its best intentions, it is a sick environment in which to raise a healthy mind.

    I’ve often witnessed first hand how such environments yield common chronic health conditions. The kind of conditions for which most are happy to blame faulty genes, while remaining oblivious to the stress and strain our bodies face when subdued in such an unnatural way. Occasionally one member of the family will be free from that condition. They will generally have a more optimistic or healthy outlook on life, including a healthier social experience. However, the inclination under such circumstances is for the rest to believe that that one individual is fortunate, and since they are not afflicted with the same ill-health, it is therefore possible to live a healthier and more meaningful life. That is simply rubbish.

    When we stop to consider the impact of our emotions on our physical wellbeing, and stop writing everything off as a disease that attacks us from without instead of within, then hopefully we’ll stand a chance of breaking the cycle. The stress coping techniques that we adopt as we grow are learned from those we’re most exposed to. When that exposure is limited to only an insular family unit, it stands to reason that the resultant ill-health will be a common experience as well, hence being misconstrued as a genetic inheritance.

    The cycle can be broken, but it requires exposure to other frames of reference for us to develop any reason to question the truths that we hold dear about life. Of course the reverse is also true. If that insular family unit is balanced in its embrace of life, then it also stands to reason that the individuals that it spawns will be balanced by nature. This is unfortunately rare, if not impossible, because a healthy balance would unwittingly provoke broader inclusion in society, including the necessary contribution towards remedying the ills of that society.

    The greatest irony of society is that it is most severely criticised by those that are in fact an inherent part of its make-up. When we assume a level of aloofness and distance ourselves from the ills of society, we become party to the problem, rather than the solution. Too often those that break the cycle extract themselves from the environment that spawned them. While it may be healthy for the individual to do so, it robs the very same society of the resources and influences that are needed to uplift its social fabric to be one that is healthier and more wholesome. That societal structure can be as small as a single family, or as big as a community of families. Either way, we are an inherent part of it, even if we remove ourselves from it. That absence defines our contribution, whether we like it or not.

    The test of our character therefore arises when we find ourselves needing to hold on to the new-found freedoms experienced external to that sick cycle, while acknowledging our responsibility to assist others to see that there is a life that is possible beyond the unhealthy indoctrination that defined our reality before that point. Empowerment lies not in liberating yourself only, but in liberating those with a similar affliction as your own.