Hate and Diplomacy

Hating is a strange element of the constitution of man. Some is understandable,some is illusive, all is destructive.There is the hating borne of some transgression, the hatred borne of jealousy, the hatred borne of association, such as the hating of a race or religion.

The oddest hatred of all is the hate that is generated by the transgressions of the hater. This is the human need to despise he who you have cheated, or lied to, or robbed. It is a trait that, perhaps, acts to protect the perpetrator of such transgression from himself. It is odd, but it is pervasive.

There is a kind of hatred, too that is a byproduct of embarrassment. If I embarrass myself in front of you, I may hate you for seeing my failure or shortfall.Recently a friend, an elected official, told me that someone hated me. It upset me. No one wants to be hated. We all wish to be liked at some level and hate always hurts. I believe that if things are other than how you would have them, it is incumbent on you to make the changes to make those things better. Politics is the vehicle to effect change. I, therefore, involve myself in the political process. Politics, now that is a breeding ground for hate.

What hate does best is to act as a roadblock to discussion, like a virus, replicating and morphing into a disease. The hatred, then, becomes its’ own insulator, polarizing the parties and acting to preclude acts of resolution.

Hate must be addressed face to face. That is how it is beaten. No man ever can hate another who he truly understands. That is a universal truth.With that understanding, Mr. Trump’s openness to discussion with V. Putin becomes a sensible and honorable position. Would any great leader fail to open dialog with another leader of a great power even in the face of significant differences? Was it not the relationship that developed between Mr. Gorbachev and President Reagan that allowed for the wall to come down?

Imagine, if you will, another scenario where Reagan refused to speak to Gorbachev. Surely, we could now be discussing the Third World War.

Discussion and understanding is elemental to politics.It is a greater man who faces his detractor, rather than to retreat and, perhaps, be caught in the same trap. It is easy to hate. It is hard to love and it is hard to understand.

Scott Cahill

Like Watching a Train Wreck

All of us have some capability that is special. Mine is to see the field of data, that is the past, and to understand the web of connectivity that this seemingly disassociated data possesses. It affords me a glimpse of the future beyond the veil of time. It allows me some little measure of understanding of what is yet to be and of what truly is.

My father once asked me “does it make you happy to understand?” It does not. As he said, as we talked “It must be like watching a train wreck” Indeed, dear departed Father, it is exactly thus.

One’s effort at understanding is worth nothing if the resultant understanding cannot change the projected outcome. Why is it so difficult to steer the world from its destiny?

There is a place for corruption and thievery, for it is, and always shall be the retreat of the hopeless. Always, as the Yin and Yang, as Honor and Fear, as dark and light, there exists a balance. As the ancient Chinese hypothesized, there must always be the seed of one in the other, yet, I still hope for perfection of intent, of kindness winning over fear. Shall we forget, forever, the valiant, the selfless, the brave? Do we so simply put to sleep the reasons that prompted such sacrifice? Are we so easily manipulated a race?

I stood in the rain, in the finely groomed grounds of Arlington as a grave was filled, the honor guard left the field, the family retired to a warm home. Shell casings were picked from the grass, and the process of forgetting a hero was, thus, begun. I have seen the triangular-folded American Flag, and medals, that once adorned the chest of a friend, hanging on a wall. I wondered how long it would take for us to forget him, his warm smile, his courage, the pat on the back at the bar.

I still hope for a world of honor. I still strive for it in myself. I suppose that I settle for less, yet it is the striving for perfection of environment and of self that best serves the world. When men settle for less of our government, and of ourselves, all of society is compromised.

I suppose that ignorance is, indeed bliss, in many ways. I have seen more than my fair share of reality, too much death, too much subjugation of the weak. I have seen good men turned bad. I have hoped for men to outgrow war, only to see war embraced as the first response to dispute. I have screamed at the top of my lungs; “Can Mankind Learn Nothing from our Past?” to be answered only by my lonely echo.

We, as a race, and as men, must question ourselves and must test our positions. We must not shirk from the incumbent responsibility of those of us lucky enough to be elemental to a democracy. We must recognize and confront dishonor, fear, and corruption at every turn. As Patrick Henry, who rose from the third row of pews in that little church in Richmond in 1775 said “Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God!”

Many of us have been so cloistered, for so long, in the comfort of our constitutional protection that we no longer understand, there are things far more horrible that the loss of life. Loss of freedom is just such a thing.

I do cry, not for what is, nor for what may yet be, but for that that we never shall see.

Scott Cahill

 

I Set Out To Change the World

 

I set out to change the world. I saw it falling from understanding.

I studied science, looking in the aether for some grain of knowledge that may spark, again, the imagination of man. I found a system of education that was organized to exclude. I was told what was, and what was not, only to see it all fall apart over time. I was tested on the beliefs of others, others who failed to understand, each stating the accepted fact, until, at last, through difficulty, the falsehood of the truth was exposed, and the bow-tied, sweater-vested changed their drone to reflect that of the latest hero, perverting science for medals and titles. Regurgitating the latest belief as if science was religion.

And so, I looked to religion, hoping for a way for mankind to live together. I saw many beliefs, each certain, each absolute, each unwavering. They hated the sinner, though we all are sinners. They hated those who thought differently, though most do. They told of the hell that awaited them, the burning of a soul for eternity by its loving creator. Each had a set of rules. Each ran in the face of humanity. Each perfection, unattainable. God, himself, cast as human, reflecting the least of humanity, himself, breaking the rules, jealous and petty, requiring servitude and loyalty, threatening at a whim, the eternal soul. At last, I saw them for what they are, men, greedy for dollars, cars, mansions. Their perfect hair and their robes, their molestation, their secrets held in convent walls. Like science, religion was not a place for one who would heal the wounds of man. It, too, was a manifestation of the failures that had been allowed to manifest for so long. Still, we sat in rows, bowing to the unseen, kept in place by fear. I left and never returned.

I looked to politics to find the podium for my message. There I found men in rooms in buildings, flags and pictures, structure and procedure. I spoke with them, one at a time, they sent me to the bottom, from there I could enter the conversation, still every door led to another. The cost of being heard was prohibitive, and there were so many others passing through doors, paying their way, to be heard. Soon I saw that my resources and my time could never persuade the system. It was too massive, and others held every key. I left the city and the grand buildings, frustrated and disgusted by what I had seen.

I am a man of words, I thought. I shall find the words to change the world. I looked to the past, to great men who went before, men who tried to save us. I read the words of Martin Luther King, who, after being threatened by our agencies, given the opportunity to end his own life, said that he had seen the promised land. I read the words of Kennedy, and Gandhi. I could see, in their words the frustration, the struggle. Each great man stood on a pulpit and stated the obvious. Each stood fearlessly, then was shot dead. The promised land was not as King had seen it. The same evil that threatened his life took it. His words were stopped by a bullet to his head, telling us all to stay in line and do as we are told. John, then Bobby, men who stood forward, unafraid, shot by cowards who’s only action was murder in the face of decency. We obliged, serving the evil that took them, by staring at television screens, manipulated by coordinated evil, through Operation Mockingbird, believing lies. We preferred safety to freedom, and we took it. Still, there is no safety in cowardice, only ever increasing fear. They use that fear to herd us to condos and malls, factories and mines. We are slaves, cowardly drones doing as we are told, while professing our freedom. I read words in old deep books that smelled like mold. In them, I saw men struggling to find truth. From Beowulf to Einstein I looked in the folds of paper for a clue. Still, in the old books, there was nothing for me, and I set them aside.

I set my own words to paper, trying with all of my intellect to pierce the veil of ignorance. I spoke the truth and left the unproven. I kept my integrity and tempered my rage. I hammered the keys to send a message, to steer us from losing all that is good. It sat on the paper, unopened.

Time has taken my fair skinned boyhood. It has taken my hopeful attitude. It has stripped me of my passions, replacing them with less aggressive attributes. Through these many years I have watched as men failed to become what we should be. I have seen honorable men sell that honor for nothing. I have watched men sell what they were entrusted for a pittance. I have seen the worst of man.

Now, perhaps, you will say that I am a bitter old man. I suppose that I am. I was born with the aptitude and the tools to change the world. I tried with all of my tenacity and will, still, I failed. Perhaps if I had been more brave, if I had sacrificed myself as so many great men have done, in an effort to lift mankind, we may have become what we should have been. I am devoid of hate for men with different colors of skin. I am devoid of men who have differing beliefs. I am the man who I set out to become, yet, I have failed through communication or example to sway the direction of mankind. I have failed to act as an example. I have failed to act as a leader.

If you wonder why the world that we hand our children is less than what we were given, if you look to find blame for our collective embarrassment and failure, it is I. I am the one who failed this world so miserably. It is I who allowed the corruption and greed to strip our children of their right to freedom and equity. It is my failure and mine alone, and I shall shoulder this burden for all of my remaining days.

Scott Cahill