After class today I got rigged up - reluctantly - to hear the yearly talk to be addressed to the entire academy. I waited in my seat silently psyching myself up to not fall asleep or else I'll get a boot up my ass from every officer standing behind me. A few minutes later a guy in a wheelchair rolled in. His name was Kurt Fearnly. The guy had under-developed legs, being born without a lower spine. At the same time, this guy had won 4 paralympic golds, run probably a thousand marathons, crawled the gruelling 96km Kokoda trail, and has been awarded Young Australian of the Year (you'll have to look him up because I've missed out quite a lot).
I must admit that I'm a bit of a cynic and that I'm my own obsession so I find it hard to find anyone else amazing. But tonight, listening to this guy speak about his experiences and the events that brought him to achieve what he has today, and watching video footages of his races made me change my perspective a little. Never have I been truly inspired. Fearnly's courage, determination, and perseverance were uncanny. He literally crawled through bush and mud and rough ground, down slopes and up hills all because in his mind he just could not not do it. He crawled the 96Km track in 11 days, and everyday seemed harder than the last but each day he got up knowing that it will be over and in the night he would heal so that he could continue the next day.
He said in his speech that being unable to walk has made the choice of pursuing these challenges easier to make, and I suppose that's true. When you're stuck in a high ropes course where the only way down would be to fall and die or plod on towards the finish, it's not fun to choose the latter, but it's the only choice you can make if you want to survive. In this sense a physical diasability should serve to enhance courage. Limitations are not just barriers, they can be motivation to just do or die trying. Another thing he said tonight that I personally identify with was that if he was going to give up his life for something it might as well be something really tough, a challenge really worth the effort. I thought I'd tried my best in college, but now that I think about it I robably didn't, or else I would have achieved so much more; but nonetheless by the end of my senior year I had a whole world of opportunities waiting for me. Did I want to be a doctor? A teacher? a researcher? or... well... a soldier? All these options, all equally good they seemed to me then, and even now I think about the what ifs. Still, we try and face life with minimal regrets. I gave my life up for the military, and so far it has been quite an interesting journey. It has been hard most of the time, but it is not without its perks. I'm able to go to places I'd never even seen myself in, and do things I probably would never have gotten the opportunity to do. I see now that the tougher the climb, the better the view from the top. And every day that we sweat in training just prepares us for something worthwhile in the end.
shadows
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
The Profession of Arms
Another day, another dime; lately I've been feeling the strains of having to work just to barely pass, and the sheer panic when you mull over the day and wonder whether you really are cut out for this shit. Am I just getting too old or are those the pangs of doubt and disillusionment gnawing at my knees, my shins... my sore heels? As I'm running the track for the nth time this week I wonder why I ever leased my life to the state.
In one of the military classes we had a week ago the lecturer stressed upon us the difference between the profession of arms and all other civilian jobs. They say that we uphold the same principles of professionalism, good service, integrity, and responsibility; but why does the military keep such high standards? All professions are expected to clock up early to work, but only in the military can you be charged for being a second late. Doctors are expected to be available when on-call; soldiers are on-call until retirement. Anyone can show up to work in a slightly wrinkled suit, but a misplaced crease on a military uniform can get you extra duties. It just doesn't seem fair, and it isn't. But we do this... the military does this because of the burden of trust placed upon us. While lawyers and policemen can put criminals behind bars; we can virtually blow the crap out of whole masses of insurgents. We are basically given the right to take a life - a job that merits the trust of the people in us as soldiers, as officers, to be firmly ground on what is right and what is just, what is merciful, and oftentimes, what is cruel. And just like continuously trickling droplets of water onto cement dig into and shape it, little habits that enforce discipline will ultimately mold one into a person of steadfast character.
Then again there is to this a more fundamental difference. This is the awareness of our potential losses, and what we have put at stake. What is optional service to all other individuals is demanded of us, that is, our very lives. No, I'm not just talking about dying for God and country on the battlefield. I mean this: Johnny left home at 16 with barely a stubble on his chin, a smattering of maths... and language, well, he wasn't too good at it. Didn't want to work at the local gas station, and guns have always been cool. Joins the army, gets his ass beat for a year, kicks other kids' asses for three. In that time he finds a girlfriend, plus four - the ladies like men in uniform. Little Johnny is a man, out of military school now and is raring to "blow shit up" in Iraq. Two months in the field is nothing like the years of harsh training; it is much harsher. Anticipating a landmine to go boom at every step is nothing like anticipating every blow from an upperclassman; it messes up his spirit. 5 weeks on the job and he gets a call from home. His dad's just died, bad fall. No, he decides to stay. The gunblasts numb his pain; the fear stays his worries. 8 weeks in, girlfriend number one calls to say she saw the discount abortionist, she couldn't possibly raise the kid alone. The night raids become more frequent, his knife slashes the enemy necks a lot deeper. Six months, he pops a few extra rounds into those suicidal fucks just for good measure. Time to go home, Johnny. The world's moved on without him he sees when he gets home. But his world's stopped at every bullet that whizzed by him. He drinks to jumpstart his life, drinks just a little too much. Battery's dead. He remembers the pow pow of the guns and bombs and realizes that he's utterly stuck. The world goes on while his own has stopped.
Giving up our lives doesn't quite stop at that moment of death. That is far too trivial, and we are far too insignificant. Giving up our lives has encompassed giving up little freedoms that had made us part of the normal populace. Self-sacrifice includes giving up memories that could have been made of a sweeter life and a family. But all this we gladly dedicate to mothers and fathers, brothers, sweethearts, friends, comrades, widows, country. I think about this, and I know I'm in the right place.
In one of the military classes we had a week ago the lecturer stressed upon us the difference between the profession of arms and all other civilian jobs. They say that we uphold the same principles of professionalism, good service, integrity, and responsibility; but why does the military keep such high standards? All professions are expected to clock up early to work, but only in the military can you be charged for being a second late. Doctors are expected to be available when on-call; soldiers are on-call until retirement. Anyone can show up to work in a slightly wrinkled suit, but a misplaced crease on a military uniform can get you extra duties. It just doesn't seem fair, and it isn't. But we do this... the military does this because of the burden of trust placed upon us. While lawyers and policemen can put criminals behind bars; we can virtually blow the crap out of whole masses of insurgents. We are basically given the right to take a life - a job that merits the trust of the people in us as soldiers, as officers, to be firmly ground on what is right and what is just, what is merciful, and oftentimes, what is cruel. And just like continuously trickling droplets of water onto cement dig into and shape it, little habits that enforce discipline will ultimately mold one into a person of steadfast character.
Then again there is to this a more fundamental difference. This is the awareness of our potential losses, and what we have put at stake. What is optional service to all other individuals is demanded of us, that is, our very lives. No, I'm not just talking about dying for God and country on the battlefield. I mean this: Johnny left home at 16 with barely a stubble on his chin, a smattering of maths... and language, well, he wasn't too good at it. Didn't want to work at the local gas station, and guns have always been cool. Joins the army, gets his ass beat for a year, kicks other kids' asses for three. In that time he finds a girlfriend, plus four - the ladies like men in uniform. Little Johnny is a man, out of military school now and is raring to "blow shit up" in Iraq. Two months in the field is nothing like the years of harsh training; it is much harsher. Anticipating a landmine to go boom at every step is nothing like anticipating every blow from an upperclassman; it messes up his spirit. 5 weeks on the job and he gets a call from home. His dad's just died, bad fall. No, he decides to stay. The gunblasts numb his pain; the fear stays his worries. 8 weeks in, girlfriend number one calls to say she saw the discount abortionist, she couldn't possibly raise the kid alone. The night raids become more frequent, his knife slashes the enemy necks a lot deeper. Six months, he pops a few extra rounds into those suicidal fucks just for good measure. Time to go home, Johnny. The world's moved on without him he sees when he gets home. But his world's stopped at every bullet that whizzed by him. He drinks to jumpstart his life, drinks just a little too much. Battery's dead. He remembers the pow pow of the guns and bombs and realizes that he's utterly stuck. The world goes on while his own has stopped.
Giving up our lives doesn't quite stop at that moment of death. That is far too trivial, and we are far too insignificant. Giving up our lives has encompassed giving up little freedoms that had made us part of the normal populace. Self-sacrifice includes giving up memories that could have been made of a sweeter life and a family. But all this we gladly dedicate to mothers and fathers, brothers, sweethearts, friends, comrades, widows, country. I think about this, and I know I'm in the right place.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Hate spreads
In my previous post i have written a few things i'm not proud of saying. A testament to the efficiency of the Phelps in spreading hatred and lies. But no, I don't blame just them. I have allowed myself to sink to their level of evil. The thought sickens me, so I have resolved to let it go and focus on all the beauty and wonder that God has created. I know this may be surprising to some who know me, but yes, I do believe there is a God, and that every tiny detail in our lives, He knows. How we worship I believe is irrelevant; what religion we belong to... really, is too petty compared to the immense magnitude of God. The petty little crimes we do... lies, secrets, thefts, wouldn't they all just be specks in the vastness of His mercy. But then again, who am I to know? and who am I to judge.
To hate mongers(The Phelps)
When I first saw you on YouTube I was shocked. No, I was mortified, that in this world such hatred could exist. I read a lot about serial killers and other such perverts but none of them have by far surpassed your degree of evil. At least they were true to their calling. They killed, thus, they deserve our loathing. But you people, you sanctimonious perverted shits... you who mask yourselves as a church, as believers of God, you are something far far more evil. God is Love. God gave His only son Jesus to die for our sins, and you presume to have the authority on who God hates and loves. God immersed himself with the sinners through Jesus Christ and his disciples, or did you miss that chapter? I am from the Philippines and I am in our Navy, and to know that people... no, monsters, like you have the gall to defile funerals of people who gave their lives for love of their country and all the ideals and freedoms that you enjoy is just sickening. When your children die... those children you brainwash to hold placards screaming hate at insanely and even randomly picked out people, will you still think that that was an act of God? That that was God's justice? When you so self-righteously believe that you are the God's chosen ones. When one of your sweet little children is diagnosed of cancer, or AIDS maybe from a contaminated needle, what will you stand for then? Yes, my country is wracked with poverty, corruption, calamity. Haven't you stopped to think that these street children deserve not your condemnation but your used clothes? your canned food? They do not choose that life. Prostitution, corruption... these things are everywhere. It is in your hearts. I thought i'd seen hatred in genocide, but no... you are something more vile. You, your hate mongering, your idol, Fred Phelps (because that is what he is to you), how long until one of you decide that protesting isn't enough, and that maybe you should start killing. Fred Phelps wished that more had died in every calamity and in those mass shootings. Wow. You put Satan to shame, you sorry old man. When you die the rest of the world will wish you got flayed, your corpse got picked at by ravens and dogs, your testicles mutilated, your eyes which see only hate, plucked out of their sockets, and your tongue which has spread so much evil is ripped from your mouth by dogs.
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