Over the weekend, a bilateral family tradition was lost. It remains unclear if it will ever return. It got me thinking about what our roles are when we step up to the mantle bearing the weight of generations. To what extent does whatever modicum of free will we think we have reign over the voices of ancestors?
Thirty-five years ago, I was born into a place and time of curfew. The story goes that the chaos delayed the registration of my birth. The accounts vary about the causes of the chaos. Few even agree over a proper moniker. Were they riots? Was it an insurrection? Was it a rebellion? Were they simply “the troubles”? Depending on who you ask, accounts will also vary about the extent of the chaos and the nature of the violence. Occasionally over the years there have been a few voices that contextualized the events by relaying the motives in an objective light. But the majority of voices did not feel any need to be objective. Fear does have an uncanny ability to distort perception.
The chaos and curfew that welcomed me to the world was also a dominant theme of my early childhood spent in a place where civil war raged. It is no surprise then that when I read Hobbes in college his famous retort struck a cord, “My mother gave birth to twins: myself and fear.” Despite having escaped the chaos by that point, the fear reigned, real and relevant, as I clung to the gospel of the Leviathan.
Over the years, however, the fear dissipated. I credit curiosity and the desert. Curiosity made me reach out and ask questions from the world that had seemed so scary. Curiosity gave me opportunities to make alliances with those who held likeminded visions of a purposeful life rooted in a deep love for humankind. Curiosity made History, at least the study of those elements which move the masses to action, an obsession. The desert showed me that one has to accept an unforeseeable future. The desert made it clear that the journey will require an acceptance of not making it to the destination. The desert cherished the curiosity and made the fear disappear.
Six years ago, I made the decision to return to the place of my birth. I could not have known it then how significant that move would be for this soul born into chaos. I’m not sure I still understand it. What was clear over the weekend was that regardless of what happened thirty-five years ago, an element of free will must exist even at the mantle. Family traditions cannot dictate terms in the context of the raging battle that is currently waged while the privileged remain oblivious. I could have been among those oblivious. I was born into a family tree where both branches unequivocally condemned the chaos. They saw no reason for it. Many still subscribe to the status quo, holding on for dear life. They probably would have preferred I see things their way.
But alas, sometimes family traditions must end.