Mirror, Mirror

Events around the world have caused me to ponder a bit on the general subjects of tragedy, anger, and yes, even hatred. Not pleasant subjects to spend much time with, I admit. But sometimes it’s worthwhile to ponder unpleasant things in order to understand the lessons they teach us. Sometimes it’s worth the time to look in the mirror and find out what’s really being reflected there.

As I mused on this general subject, one particular day came to mind that I would honestly prefer to forget. It’s not a fun memory, I’m afraid, but a powerful one just the same. And it drove home an important lesson I will never forget.

One day in Rome

My father’s job provided our family (four of us: parents, my sister and me) the opportunity to spend six months in Europe back while I was still in high school. And what a fantastic experience it was, yielding a host of wonderful memories that have stayed with me for a lifetime.

We lived in The Hague, Netherlands, and naturally traveled all over Europe every chance we got (practically every weekend; we must have logged at least a million miles kilometers by car that summer). During our visit to Rome, as was our custom, we planned to see the sights via walking tour. Armed with a map showing everything within reasonable walking distance (reasonable to a 16-year old, that is – I seriously doubt I could walk the same route today! *sigh*), the next morning we headed out bright and early.

I’m positive we hit every one of the typical tourist spots: Coliseum, Fountain of Trevi, Spanish Steps, Vatican and much, much more (OK, there were a few bus rides in there somewhere; the memory is a little foggy, but I remember we saw a LOT). Along about midafternoon, though, as we were planning our route back to the hotel, it seemed like a last bus ride back would be a really great idea. We stopped a friendly policeman and asked him which buses we should take. Gee, were we ever glad we asked!

He told us all city buses would stop running about three o’clock that afternoon due to a big anti-American protest march planned for the large avenue that ran in front of the American Embassy! (This was back during the Vietnam War era.) City officials expected a large traffic jam as a result, so they decided to simply get the buses off the street and back to their respective night depots.

Out of the frying pan…

Unfortunately, it turned out the march route was directly between us and the hotel. With a little head-scratching, though, we figured out that by taking this street instead of that one, we should be able to avoid it, so while the afternoon shadows grew longer and longer, we made the long trek back.

As evening grew deeper, the streets began to fill with people. We had almost reached our destination when, turning a corner we were suddenly greeted with the very unwelcome and disturbing sight of literally hundreds of demonstrators (many armed with assorted anti-American signs and placards). Most were shouting as they made their way up the street in our direction. Despite our best attempt to avoid it, we had walked right into the middle of it!

What could we do? It was getting late and we couldn’t see a better alternative than to just try to get past. So we kept moving along the sidewalk, trying to go as quickly as we could without looking like we were hurrying. All the while, the animated and chanting crowd marched past us on the street. To say it was not a fun experience is an understatement of gargantuan proportions.

An object of hatred

Now, my father was the quintessential tourist: loud shirt, crew-cut blond hair, sunglasses, two cameras strung around his neck. Unfortunately it also made him quite easily identifiable as an American tourist. On the other hand, because of my mother’s Mediterranean influence, I could quite easily pass as a local in most European countries if I wanted to.

As we hurried along, I suddenly realized I had (quite unintentionally, I assure you) lagged behind a bit from the rest of the family; perhaps 30 feet or so. But just as I was about to hurry and rejoin them, I began to notice many of the marchers shouting angrily at them, waving their arms threateningly and generally “talking tough”, as demonstrators often do. (I’ve often considered most protest marches as excellent examples of groupthink gone very, very bad).

Time seemed to slow to nearly a crawl. I could hardly breathe as we worked our way through the crowd on the sidewalks. Eventually, though, we got past the marchers (there was a line of armored police following right up behind them, making their presence known in a very obvious way) and finally made it back to our hotel.

We slept very poorly that night, and departed Rome early the next morning.

The fundamental question

I could never forget that day. I even clearly remember asking myself, “Why do these people hate us so much?” In the many intervening years since that night, however, the question has evolved into a different, more fundamental one: “Why would anyone choose hatred?”

That’s the real question, isn’t it? Why, indeed, is hatred their choice? Come to think of it, why is it even an option? After all, it’s no mystery: if left unchecked, hatred simply begets even more hatred. It’s a cancer of the heart.

Make no mistake about it, my friends; you must make a conscious decision. So I ask you again, why would anyone deliberately choose hatred?

Mirror, Mirror

Well, a lot of years have flowed under the bridge of time since that frightening walk in Rome. In spite of it, though, I can assure you I don’t hold any bad feelings about the city of Rome, the wonderful people of Italy, or pretty much most folks everywhere for that matter. No permanent damage done. I did learn an important lesson, though.

It’s a given that in life, we (that’s you and me) must make choices. Like it or not, it’s just the way life is, you know? And what’s more, we have to live with the consequences of those choices as well. There are no “do-overs” in life like there are in video games. The fact is, every single decision we make is reflected, like a mirror, in ourselves. Over time, each one will contribute to who we become.

The question you must ask yourself is this: Who do you want to be?

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Photo by Johanna Ljungblom

Robert Hruzek writes at Middle Zone Musings