After the missionaries came the young radicals. It was capitalism that killed your father, they said. These new times pose a threat to all of us, we must come together in order to fight those who want to exploit us.
These young men were rabid and impatient, always searching for an enemy, real or imaginary, to defeat and destroy. But my father was tired of those perpetual battles, tired of destructiveness and the use of force over thought. He only saw an intellectual dishonesty and another form of hypocrisy in those people who called themselves progressive. What ever was so forward moving in the idea of demolishment and war?
He found himself trapped between these various formations who all tried to kidnap him with different versions of the same moral justifications. They all wanted the same thing: to wear him down mentally and use him as a tool for their own gains, like a cult. He was never going to be that person, he had already seen what the selfless struggle had done to his father. He might have thought he was an independent man fighting for a good cause, but when he failed no one was there to pick him up and say thank you for trying.
He had seen it happen, he was there, on the inside, to witness it with his own two eyes. That was plenty. He was never going to be that person.