I saw an article on getting in touch with my inner Trump and I recalled a time when I was facing something within myself but didn’t really know how to deal with it.
I felt rage—rage at the world—well, mainly the West, because I grew up in Africa knowing that the West was destroying us. I was incandescent with rage at the world’s elite, whom I saw as synonymous with the West, because for these elitists, it was all about control and power and the raping and pillaging of non-Western countries.
When Rhodesia became Zimbabwe, I was so excited. The Rhodesian Bush War was over and we could see a future filled with progress. I wanted to be part of an intelligent and hardworking generation that would participate in building up my country, but the West made sure that this couldn’t be done.
Robert Mugabe was given power over us by the West’s elite and we were powerless to stop the utter destruction of our country. I couldn’t believe all the blocks that were put in our way. I could see them going up and halting progress, and I was incredulous in regard to why “leaders” would do that to us.
At that point, fear replaced excitement and reality replaced dreams. As I woke up to reality, fear started to propel me. My dreams were shattered, and I had my future and that of my family to think about. I had to face the facts: I couldn’t see a future in the country I loved. So, with a heart shattered into millions of pieces, I went to the “Lion’s Den,” as I saw it, to create a life.
The “Lion’s Den” was the West—the people who broke my country. I hated Robert Mugabe for what he did. I hated him for selling out to the elite. I hated him for putting money above human kindness. I hated his murderous campaigns. I hated his lack of humanity. I hated his narcissism, because all he would’ve needed to do was let the people be free to do what they do best and he would’ve been a popular leader of a rich, thriving country. He had to do nothing, absolutely nothing, and we would’ve carried him. We would’ve been proud to carry him, as our leader, towards a peaceful, rich life for all of us.
He was always denigrating the West, and I thought that after 30 years, it was time for him to take responsibility for his part in the destruction of a country he supposedly loved. I was actually ashamed of being African because of the corruption there. Africa could feed itself under white rule, but not under black rule.
Addressing my “shadow”
Thirty years after I left my home to forge a life alongside the enemy, I was taking another step in my spiritual journey when I lost the ability to walk. I was propelled by rage, wondering when the Third World War would start, and I was livid at the elite for not allowing me to live my life in peace.
I sought help from a shaman and she told me to address my “shadow” personality. The process of doing so involves looking at those I criticize and finding a bridge to that place. Once I’m able to identify with those individuals, whoever they may be, my problems disappear.
Facing my inner Mugabe
So, one Saturday, I was connecting with my inner Mugabe, when a question came to me. I asked myself what I’d done differently from him in my own life. As I thought of the choices I’d made and the pains I’d felt, I realized that we weren’t that different, “Uncle Bob” and I.
I’d committed murder, just like he had. I didn’t commit the crime with my own hands. Instead, I had a doctor and nurses do the dirty work of killing my twins. Mugabe didn’t dirty his hands, either, as the Fifth Brigade did his dirty work.
My life was about getting money at any cost, so I’d be able to survive within “The System.” I couldn’t even think of those who weren’t educated like me, who couldn’t command the pay scales I commanded. I couldn’t think about them because I didn’t know how to fix their problems and this caused me too much pain. Thirty years after living in various environments that opened my mind to different ways of thinking, I was still banging on about how corrupt and cruel the West is.
I worked in banks, which are the cause of poverty on this planet. I was proud to be on the cutting-edge of the financial markets, while remaining blissfully ignorant of the corruption within the banking system. It wasn’t until banks and bank employees brought me to the verge of bankruptcy that I woke up to the corruption within this diabolical system and the reasons why it exists.
I was one of “Hitler’s happy little helpers” while working in banking, because as long as I remained in the system, I played a part in enforcing the diabolical regime. Remember, I was there because I wanted money at any cost, so I didn’t care who I walked over to get it.
I just wanted to feel safe and secure. Once I felt safe and secure, however, I stopped thinking. If I’d allowed my thoughts to wander, I would’ve had to recognize the fact that there are millions of people who don’t feel safe and secure within “The System.”
How was I different from “Uncle Bob”?
Once I identified the emotions that had propelled me through life and had defined the choices I made, I broke down in tears.
Why would it have been any different for “Uncle Bob”? He may be a “leader,” but he’s also human. What did he experience that influenced the choices he made? He’s a murderer, just like me. He’s greedy, just like me. After 30 years, he still blames the West for his pain, just like me. He may have done things on a larger scale than I did, but he and I were driven by the same fears and we made the same decisions.
Robert Mugabe is no worse than me. As long as I’m criticizing him, I’m not addressing who I am. I’m playing the victim. I’m fancying that I’m better than him. But given the fact that I’m a murderer, from where am I deriving the right I feel I have to judge others?
I know when I committed murder, I unleashed a hell in my own being that I never knew was even possible. If I’d known what this would be like, I probably wouldn’t have done what I did.
Nevertheless, I craved forgiveness for my actions. As grave as I knew they were, I was desperate to be forgiven. I couldn’t imagine a life in eternal damnation; this somehow felt unfair. Yes, I’d done something awful, but was forgiveness impossible?
When I look at how much I wanted to be forgiven, why would I imagine that others don’t feel the same? So who am I to judge others, given the crimes I’ve committed?
My inner elite
Currently, I’m working on facing my inner elite and finding the bridge to them, which will help me understand that they’re no worse than me, no less perfect than me and no better than me.
After all, if I can’t change my motives for the better, to help create a kinder world, then how can I expect others to change theirs?
Perhaps what I really need to do is stop pointing fingers and focus on my own performance—while striving each day to be whom I prefer to be!