Never

I had always been a deep sleeper, but not entirely unobservant. Heaving my heavy eyelids open, the first thing I saw was the rain on my window pane. I quickly looked over at my brother's bed. Empty.

"Huh." I sighed. There'd been a thunderstorm.

I lay on my back a while. I didn't wanna go back to school. The second week of 4th grade was off to a rocky start, but at least it wasn't Monday anymore.

"Four more days til the weekend..." I thought, staring at the ceiling.

My bed and blanket was wrapped around me like a coccoon and I tried to roll back into the comforting warmth. Instead, I ended up rolling off the bed completely and hitting the floor, winding me as the air was driven from my lungs with a groan. I struggled to my feet, tending to my sore back and pulled on a pair of worn jeans and a Sex Pistols T-shirt. Groggily dragging myself into the bathroom, I finished washing up and slumped down the white carpeted stairs with only one thought on my mind: Breakfast. I walked past my parents bedroom, passing long enough to glimpse my baby brother sprawled all over their covers. Lucky bugger didn't need to get up and go to school. I kept going past the kitchen and into the living room.

My parents didn't even turn around to say 'good morning'. Odd. Instead, they were sitting on the edge of their seats on one of the sofas. Mum was close to tears; her face turned away and tucked into my dad's neck. Dad had his giant, tree-trunk arm gently wrapped around her - keeping her safe. Mum began to sob, and that didn't happen often. It was only then that I noticed the tele.

I slowly drew closer to the couches, careful not to make any noise. I let my hands slowly grasp the sofa's soft, supple leather and watched as a pair of jumbo jets flew dead into two towering sky-scrapers. Watched as infernos erupted and piercing screams rang out. Watched as clouds of smoke billowed from the two dying giants. Watched the ensuing chaos. The fear. The terror. The horror.

"Make it stop, Ollie. My god, why? Why?!" sobbed Mum into my dad's royal blue shirt. He said nothing - just held her closer, flinching each time the planes crashed and re-crashed, as the nauseating clips was played over and over.

Something yawned behind me and a small, dazed voice managed to say: "What movie are you guys watching?"

They finally turned around to look at us. "It's not a movie, baby. It's real." struggled Mum.

My eyes never left the screen.



It's been ten years. Ten long years since that day. Some of us remember where we were when it happened, some don't and some of us can never forget.

The opening ceremony of the 9/11 Memorial is a testament to that fact. The two cascading waterfalls, moulded into the once-lost footprints of the two towers, were visually stirring. The rebuilding of of one tower - as of yet not complete, even after ten years - kindles hope. And the aloud-reading of the victims' names lended an emotional hand to their families and friends.

However, when now-Mayor Michael Bloomberg said people should no longer refer to this place as "Ground Zero" because "that's in the past", I shuddered. Why? Why the hell shouldn't we call it that? Why the bloody hell should we forget that this was not a simple tragedy, nor a natural disaster, nor a tragic accident? This was pure, unmitigated evil. There is no other word for it.

Yes, this memorial now stands to commemorate the dead - but history knows no better commemoration than Justice herself in all her beautiful glory. I say, never forget what happened here. Never forget why these innocent people died. Never forget what we still fight for. Never.

Expunging the reason and the truth behind this beautiful testament, this magnificent memorial, is to forget our reason. To forget this reason - while hundreds of thousands Americans and Canadians continue to lay down their lives each day in chilling courage and bravery - is the true travesty. We can never allow this to happen. Never.

We are still neck-deep in this war. It is not over. Churchill didn't tour London during Hitler's blitz with a comforting hand, trying to brush the dirt and debris over the whole mess - he called for victory! Roosevelt didn't just pat the surviving troops on the back after the destruction at Pearl Harbour - he called for triumph! Finish and bring the boys home, I say. 9/11 must never cease to be a day of remembrance and empowerment. Never.

This war is not about gold. Not about god. Not about glory. Not about resources, faith or vengeance. It's about Justice - something we must remember.

A decade it's been now. History will never forget, just as America never has and never should. Never stop remembering. Never.

Brave the Fear

"It's really not so bad once you get up there, you know."

Caleb strained his neck to see the top of the towering structure. Just looking at it made his head spin.

"I don't think I ca-"
"Then don't think! I've done that for you." laughed his older brother, slapping his back. "This is just one of those things, bud, that you can't think about... until it's too late."

Caleb's head whipped around. "Too late for what?!"

"Ermm, to... uhhh..." Calvin struggled.

"To realize how much fun you're having." supplied their dad, stepping in and shooting his eldest boy a look that said "Just keep your mouth shut."

"It's OK, Caleb." offered his mother, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Take your time and do it when you feel ready. There's always next year."

The little boy looked down at the ground, then back up at the giant structure. Massive neon letters blared red, green and blue all at once. And it always seemed to go the same way for him. Walk up, look down, walk down - rinse and repeat. Why do people feel the need to do something so dangerous? Strapping yourself into a rickety metal body and then shoot high and low through loops and falls... it just didn't seem sensible. Hell, didn't seem sane. Looking around, names like 'The Obliterator' and 'Killing Machine' didn't make it seem any more appealing.

A dad carrying his little boy on his shoulders waltzed through the entrance; the tiny youngster laughing the whole way through. That kid couldn't have been older than seven or eight! Damnit!



"I can't." he said, keeping his eyes on the ground.

Before Dad could stop him, Calvin crouched down and looked his little brother in the eye. "Look. It's ok to be afraid."

Caleb looked up. "You're not afraid."

The older teenager grinned. "Everyone's afraid, bud. But the only way to deal with it is face it."

"I'm not as brave as you are."

Calvin laughed and put his hand on the younger boy's shoulder. "You think so? Why?"

Keeping his eyes on his feet, he mumbled "Because you have more courage than I do."

A slight pause, as his older brother ran his hand through his hair. "What is courage, Caleb?"

"Not being afraid." he answered, eyes still on the ground.

"No." Calvin replied, shaking his head. "Courage is choosing to face the fear. Choosing to overcome it. It's the feeling. Being brave is just sticking with that feeling, going through with it - the actual act of facing fear wherever it might be."

Caleb lifted his head to look his brother in the eye.

Calvin continued: "Whether it's slaying a fire-breathing dragon..." He nodded his head at the entrance. "... or bunging it out on a roller coaster."

Caleb thought for a moment. "How do you know?"

Grinning, the teenager looked up at their dad. "'Cause a very wise man told me that when I was your age."

Two parents beamed down at their kids, and Caleb followed his brother's inspired look.

"Now." started Calvin, taking a breath and getting to his feet. "Whadyeh say?" He held out his hand. "Let's put 'scary' to the test."

Caleb smiled shyly, shoved his fists in his pockets and walked ahead of his brother. "Put that hand away, everyone'll think you're some scaredy-cat."

Calvin shot his eyes to the sky, but jogged after his brother and through the coaster's brightly-lit entrance.

Breaking the Mould

The context may change, but the question seems to remain the same. What do you want to be when you grow up?

On my way to Botswana, I stop over in Germany to visit some relatives in the Fatherland. I take a call at my hotel and a thick german accent on the other end asks me if I "vood like to have some-sing for supper". It's been almost three years since I last saw my Dad's family, so I think to myself: Why the hell not? I take the U-Bahn to a small restaurant and cafe looking out onto the Rhine, with a beautiful view of the Petersberg and the Drachenfels. The food's good (albeit a little expensive, but what isn't in Europe?), the dessert's great and the beer's bloody brilliant. The conversation seems to wander everywhere at once, from deteriorating politics to the German behind us with the perma-grin and hideous accent. But eventually, as it always seems to with people my age (no matter the language), comes the classic question: Welche Facher nimmst du in der Schule? (loosely translated - "Which subjects are you studying in school?").

I quickly list off a few of the courses I'm taking. They cock their heads and ask the expected follow-up: Und was machst du damit? ("And what are you doing with that?"). I grin - sardonically, because I know what must surely follow - and calmly tell them. A few forced smiles, a pat on the back, and being Germans with no sense of subtlety, one of them swallows their pride and asks the question that they're all trying hopelessly to suppress:Wie verdienst du Dir damit Dein Auskommen? ("How are you going to make a living with that?").

"The apple falls far from the tree". It's an expression that seems to define my life and follows me like a second shadow. As the eldest son of two respected doctors, med-school was the be-all, end-all and expected pinnacle of my academic career. And it's not as if I arbitrarily tossed the idea aside! I shadowed doctors, from family-clinic to OR, for several days - and neither appealed to me.

To give you an idea why, picture this. I'm following my dad's friend, a GP, for about a week. An elderly patient walks into his examination room near the end of the first day. I'm standing in the back, clipboard in hand, watching and ready to learn. She greets me, shakes my hand vigorously, and takes a seat on the sterilized bed. Dr. John Smith calmly and routinely asks her how she feels. She suddenly and unexpectedly breaks into tears. I'm taken aback, but the doctor keeps his composure and gently puts his hand on her shoulder, asking her what's wrong. She keeps blubbering, making it difficult to tell what the hell she's trying to say. But somehow, again, he understands what she's on about. "Where?" he asks, pulling out a box of Kleenex and handing it to her. She grabs a handful in her wrinkled hands and almost shoves them in her eye-sockets. She then rolls up her sleeve and proceeds to poke her left arm in different places, squealing in pain at every plushy prod. "Doctor," she sobs "I read up on Google that leukaemia manifests with easy bruising, and my entire arms hurts. See?" And she keeps poking and prodding at her arm. "Doctor," she starts to cry again "am I going to die?". Dr. Smith, straight-faced, holds out his hand. She shoots him a confused look, until he quickly asks her for her right arm. "But it's my left!" she explains hurriedly. He nods, and says simply "Your right, please." Through her sobs, she reluctantly extends her right and he slowly grabs her hand. He then gently squeezes her right index finger and she screams in pain, looking at him as if he had just escaped an insane asylum. "You've broken your finger." The good doctor explains, "Give me a minute, while I get my prescription pad and a splint."

Trying (and failing) desperately not to laugh, I think to myself that if I have to spend my life listening to that kind of half-assed, cathartic complaining - I'd end up giving a gun a blowjob by age 30. Maybe that makes me a selfish person, but I believe there's more than one way to help people. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate what it means to dedicate your life to the wellbeing of others. I know better than most that doctors give their lives (not literally, but figuratively) for others. As a kid growing up in the UK, I barely saw my parents. Nannies came and went, as my parents spent days at a time at the hospital just to keep food on the table - not for a third BMW. However, medicine isn't for me. Both my parents admit that medicine is no longer the noble profession it once was. Lawyers and giant firms sit on the sidelines scrutinizing your every case, waiting and hoping for that one tiny mistake that they can screw you for. Medicine's no longer a calling, my dad often says, it's become a membership card.

So, back to the dinner table, the entire table looks at me wide-eyed as I explain my reasoning. Jaws drop as I explain my career-intentions. For Christ's sake, I'm not selling my body! (Although it would probably pay better...) My Grandmother swallows her cheesecake and manages to say "Aber, deine Eltern, sie sind beide Artzte!" (But your parents are both doctors!).

Yeah, in a way, I'm breaking the mould. My mum was born and raised in an apartheid South Africa, drilled ad nauseum to believe that she was worth less than a bottle of scotch. She was expendable; existing only to perform the menial tasks deemed below the Whites. Her family, a tight-knit bunch, never strayed from their own race, let alone the country itself. But, where most of her family was limited to teaching, she worked her ass off and was accepted into med-school, as a non-white woman in a paternalistic, apartheid system. Not only did she become a widely respected anaesthetist, but she married my dad: a towering, white, pure-bred German who had disobeyed his class-conscious, neo-conservative family by running away to marry my mother. They weren't supposed to meet, let alone marry, but those two rebels have been married over 20 years now and from that point of view I have to ask myself: am I really breaking the mould?