Learning Honor and Pride...
I started reading the Kite Runner today.
I have never been so touched by a book before…
Hosseini’s prose is so familiar, so at ease, it feels as if I am being told a story by a brother, a story we have both shared.
Honor and Pride. I’m up to chapter 12, where a key description of Pashtun men is honor and pride... not so different from Persian men, then.
I’ve tried to live my adult life by these two ideals. In truth, I cannot say I have been very successful at all… That is not to say that I have not had my share of proud moments; moments I have had the courage of my convictions, moments when I have relied on my pride positively in order to have an impact for others benefit… yet I know those moments have been fleeting. I understand now the source of my mother’s seemingly constant frustration at me; though there have been glimpses, I have never shown a constant resolve in standing for something, in “growing up”, to borrow from a previous post.
And yet time is not lost. These last few weeks have had to endure my constant self-analysis, far more than usual. I find that I becoming more confident in how I evaluate my principles, not to mention my own self-understanding.
There’s nothing quite like taking away everything you have grown accustomed to in order to refocus.
The opening passage of the Kite Runner sunk in from the moment I read the words, and has been constantly dancing in front of my mind ever since;
“…it’s wrong what they say about the past, I’ve learned, about how you can bury it. Because the past claws its way out.”
In many ways I have been trying to bury the past, trying so hard to let it go and move on. Yet the past has dictated every action I have taken, has been an influence over every decision, far more than the past usually should, precisely because I have been trying so hard to bury it away… over 2 years ago this realization almost made it out of me… I have barely slept at nights since then, sometimes avoiding sleep altogether in order to avoid confronting the truth.
Isn’t it funny how ridiculous some ideas or actions seem in hindsight?
I know I’m still waking up. Knowlsey says there are so many levels to wake up to, sometimes you just have to be aware they exist and settle on where you end up. With the caveat, of course, that some people just have to keep searching… and so here I am, in Bangladesh… damn. [For those that don’t know me, the correct pronunciation of the previous word is (D – aaaaaaaaaaaa – mmmmnnnn). This lesson brought to you by the number 5.]
We went out to a “western” restaurant last night. We have all been eating local food for 2 weeks, it was nice to have a burger. On the way to the restaurant, which is conveniently only around 5 minutes walk from my place, I was surrounded by 6 beggar kids, boys and girls, no more than 4 or 5 years old at the very most, following me and holding on to my hands, pleading for me to buy them some food.
My response to all beggars the last couple of weeks has been “No”. The immense reach of the poverty here means there literally hundreds of beggars on every street; even a simple donation can cause a huge crowd to gather, all pleading for money or food or clothing. Most are quite determined; they will follow you for as long as they possibly can, even coming to your front door.
I have not had a problem with beggars before. I feel comfortable in my role here, I know I am doing good, and I give money every now and again, especially if the children are very young, or the person is very old. As a rule, however, I do not allow myself to get personally attached, or affected, by those that approach me; in this country, it is a recipe for driving oneself to depression at the seeming hopelessness and vastness of the level of poverty here.
And yet…
These kids really got to me… I don’t know what it was about them, but for the first time I really had a hard time dealing with it… with what exactly, I couldn’t tell you... I felt physical pain at their situation, I felt mentally miserable that these beautiful, tiny kids with such wonderful smiles sleep in the street, drink contaminated water, and spend their lives the same way, every single day…
I wish I had taken a photo of the restaurant staff when I ordered 10 packs of kebabs to give to the kids on the way out…
Not that it makes a difference in the long run, and not that I am under any delusion that I have changed those kids lives in the slightest, but at least in that moment I did what I could, gave what I had…
Now see isn’t that a dichotomy? I’m all for giving to the less privileged if you have it, and yet I’m happy to pay more cash to have wood grain on my laptop, to have a dvd player in my car… I buy designer suits and limited edition kicks, yet give up a high-paying job to work as a volunteer… is it any wonder I’m still trying to figure myself out?
Maybe this isn’t the best forum to think out loud. Or maybe it is.
Mom, if you’re reading this, thanks for the book. It makes me miss dad, though. Man, I miss dad so much right now.
Honor and Pride. I guess all great men live by those tenets.
I have never been so touched by a book before…
Hosseini’s prose is so familiar, so at ease, it feels as if I am being told a story by a brother, a story we have both shared.
Honor and Pride. I’m up to chapter 12, where a key description of Pashtun men is honor and pride... not so different from Persian men, then.
I’ve tried to live my adult life by these two ideals. In truth, I cannot say I have been very successful at all… That is not to say that I have not had my share of proud moments; moments I have had the courage of my convictions, moments when I have relied on my pride positively in order to have an impact for others benefit… yet I know those moments have been fleeting. I understand now the source of my mother’s seemingly constant frustration at me; though there have been glimpses, I have never shown a constant resolve in standing for something, in “growing up”, to borrow from a previous post.
And yet time is not lost. These last few weeks have had to endure my constant self-analysis, far more than usual. I find that I becoming more confident in how I evaluate my principles, not to mention my own self-understanding.
There’s nothing quite like taking away everything you have grown accustomed to in order to refocus.
The opening passage of the Kite Runner sunk in from the moment I read the words, and has been constantly dancing in front of my mind ever since;
“…it’s wrong what they say about the past, I’ve learned, about how you can bury it. Because the past claws its way out.”
In many ways I have been trying to bury the past, trying so hard to let it go and move on. Yet the past has dictated every action I have taken, has been an influence over every decision, far more than the past usually should, precisely because I have been trying so hard to bury it away… over 2 years ago this realization almost made it out of me… I have barely slept at nights since then, sometimes avoiding sleep altogether in order to avoid confronting the truth.
Isn’t it funny how ridiculous some ideas or actions seem in hindsight?
I know I’m still waking up. Knowlsey says there are so many levels to wake up to, sometimes you just have to be aware they exist and settle on where you end up. With the caveat, of course, that some people just have to keep searching… and so here I am, in Bangladesh… damn. [For those that don’t know me, the correct pronunciation of the previous word is (D – aaaaaaaaaaaa – mmmmnnnn). This lesson brought to you by the number 5.]
We went out to a “western” restaurant last night. We have all been eating local food for 2 weeks, it was nice to have a burger. On the way to the restaurant, which is conveniently only around 5 minutes walk from my place, I was surrounded by 6 beggar kids, boys and girls, no more than 4 or 5 years old at the very most, following me and holding on to my hands, pleading for me to buy them some food.
My response to all beggars the last couple of weeks has been “No”. The immense reach of the poverty here means there literally hundreds of beggars on every street; even a simple donation can cause a huge crowd to gather, all pleading for money or food or clothing. Most are quite determined; they will follow you for as long as they possibly can, even coming to your front door.
I have not had a problem with beggars before. I feel comfortable in my role here, I know I am doing good, and I give money every now and again, especially if the children are very young, or the person is very old. As a rule, however, I do not allow myself to get personally attached, or affected, by those that approach me; in this country, it is a recipe for driving oneself to depression at the seeming hopelessness and vastness of the level of poverty here.
And yet…
These kids really got to me… I don’t know what it was about them, but for the first time I really had a hard time dealing with it… with what exactly, I couldn’t tell you... I felt physical pain at their situation, I felt mentally miserable that these beautiful, tiny kids with such wonderful smiles sleep in the street, drink contaminated water, and spend their lives the same way, every single day…
I wish I had taken a photo of the restaurant staff when I ordered 10 packs of kebabs to give to the kids on the way out…
Not that it makes a difference in the long run, and not that I am under any delusion that I have changed those kids lives in the slightest, but at least in that moment I did what I could, gave what I had…
Now see isn’t that a dichotomy? I’m all for giving to the less privileged if you have it, and yet I’m happy to pay more cash to have wood grain on my laptop, to have a dvd player in my car… I buy designer suits and limited edition kicks, yet give up a high-paying job to work as a volunteer… is it any wonder I’m still trying to figure myself out?
Maybe this isn’t the best forum to think out loud. Or maybe it is.
Mom, if you’re reading this, thanks for the book. It makes me miss dad, though. Man, I miss dad so much right now.
Honor and Pride. I guess all great men live by those tenets.
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