Reflections on Peace, Philosophy, and Life
Murder Is Not Murder? A Personal Reflection on the Madness We Justify
Murder is not murder?
That phrase caught me off guard the first time it crossed my mind. It’s double-think at its worst. Every country on Earth has laws that prohibit the taking of another human life. We all nod our heads in agreement when we say murder is wrong. And yet—somehow—we keep doing it. We justify it. We twist it. Not only that, but we even make it heroic.
Why do we have laws against murder in the first place? My own sense is that, at the most basic level, we've observed something about death. Its finality. Its irreversibility. There's a natural understanding, deep in the human heart, that life is precious—and not something to be cut short lightly. That awareness is universal, even among those who have lost touch with their conscience.
And yet, we kill.
And what's worse—we build systems to make it acceptable. We create laws, and then we train lawyers to find clever ways around them. It’s almost as if the purpose of law becomes not to uphold what’s right, but to find legal cover for what is clearly wrong. If the right argument is made in the right courtroom, even murder can become "justified." The very framework that’s meant to protect life is twisted to excuse its destruction.
On an individual level, what drives a person to take another’s life? The usual suspects come to mind—fear, greed, hatred, jealousy. But those are surface-level explanations. I find myself asking a more uncomfortable question: Why do we allow these emotions to overpower the deep knowing inside us—that killing is wrong?
There is something so fundamentally sacred about each person. Not in a religious sense necessarily, but in a profoundly human sense. The uniqueness of each individual is miraculous. Every single person contains within them an entire world of dreams, fears, memories, and hopes. A whole lifetime. And we know this—not abstractly, but intimately. We feel it about ourselves. And at our best, we feel it about others too.
So why do we forget?
My conclusion is this: we’ve been taught to forget. Or at least, we haven't been taught to remember. From early on, we learn to see others as background characters in our personal story. Our culture celebrates individualism, competition, and dominance. Even entertainment normalizes violence. Think of the video games where human lives are reduced to “targets,” and killing them earns you points. Points?! It’s absurd. It's unconscious. And yet it's woven into how many people escape into fantasy.
And it’s not just the games—it’s the language we use. Soldiers are “neutralized.” Collateral damage is “unfortunate but necessary.” We speak in euphemisms to conceal the horror. Orwell was right when he warned us in 1984 about doublethink: “To know and not to know, to be conscious of complete truthfulness while telling carefully constructed lies... to forget whatever it was necessary to forget...”
This isn’t just individual confusion—it’s institutionalized murder. As a society, we’ve found ways to legitimize the killing of others, especially when they are labelled “the enemy.” One of the biggest tools for this is nationalism. The idea that “my country,” “my flag,” or “my way of life” is somehow superior—so superior, in fact, that it justifies killing those who don’t share it.
Isn’t that the rationale behind almost every war?
My bit of land, my inherited myths, my tribe—they matter more than yours. And if you disagree, I’ll kill you. Not personally, of course—I’ll outsource that to someone in uniform and call it honour. But the act is the same. It’s murder, dressed up in ritual and rhetoric.
And what’s truly sad is that this mindset not only devalues the lives of others—it cheapens our own. If we don’t see other lives as special, how can we believe our own is? If we’re all just cogs in a machine, or actors in someone else’s script, then anything becomes possible. Even the most dreadful things.
But there is another way.
There are voices—quiet but clear—reminding us of what it means to be human. I think of Prem Rawat, a teacher I deeply respect, who speaks not about religion or politics but about the importance of inner peace and understanding our own humanity. In one of his talks, he said: “The day you begin to see the value of your own life is the day you will begin to see the value of all life.”
That rings true to me.
We don’t need more ideologies. We need more awareness. We need to reawaken that part of us that knows life is a miracle—ours and everyone else's. Imagine what might change if we actually lived with that awareness day by day. If instead of seeing others as threats or tools or competitors, we saw them as fellow travellers through this astonishing, fleeting journey of life.
Life is short. Too short for hate. Too short for war. Too short for justifying the unjustifiable.
The craziness is never justified. Not when we pause long enough to remember what it really means to be human.
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I am always astounded—though by now I really shouldn’t be—by the arrogance of politicians. The assumption behind so much of their rhetoric and action is twofold: first, that they know what’s best for everyone, and second, that they have the power to deliver it by controlling circumstances, people, and outcomes. It’s a kind of hubris so embedded in modern political life that we barely notice it anymore, yet when I pause to reflect, it still jars me.
The world we live in is in constant motion. Every single day, we discover that what we thought was true yesterday is already being revised, undone, reshaped. Yesterday’s static image of reality has morphed—quietly but completely—into something else. That’s not a metaphor. It’s a fact observable in everything from the molecular level of biology to the largest structures in the cosmos. Change is not a feature of life—it is life. Yet somehow, politicians, with all their polished speeches and staged debates, continue to behave as if reality can be frozen, manipulated, and marched into compliance with their latest policy frameworks.
It’s laughable, really. Picture someone trying to freeze the ocean, not by technology, but by standing at the shore and commanding the waves to stop. As, it is said, that King Canute attempted. That’s the level of absurdity we’re dealing with when someone says, “We’ll eliminate inflation by next year,” or “We’ll fix the global climate through this summit,” or “We have a ten-year plan to end poverty.” Noble intentions, perhaps. But these promises are often blind to the sheer complexity—and unpredictability—of the systems they claim to control.
We live on a tiny chunk of dirt spinning around a relatively average star, in what appears to be an unremarkable arm of a rather ordinary galaxy. And even so, the forces that keep this planet going are mind-blowing in their scope. Gravity, electromagnetic fields, tectonic shifts, solar winds. The energy that powers this vast and intricate dance is the same energy that flows through every single human being. It moves us, inspires us, shapes us. Not one of us is separate from it—not even the politicians. And yet, we continue to entertain this strange, antiquated belief that power can harness life and bend it into submission.
Science has been showing us for centuries that this isn’t how the universe works. Think of the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle—a foundational idea in quantum mechanics. At the subatomic level, it’s not possible to precisely measure both the position and the momentum of a particle at the same time. The act of observation changes the outcome. In other words, even in the realm of pure physics, control is an illusion. And yet we still trust in five-year plans, campaign promises, and public inquiries to bring about neatly predictable outcomes.
Just look at the COVID-19 pandemic. It was a global masterclass in humility. Suddenly, nations boasting the world’s most sophisticated health systems were scrambling. Leaders who just months earlier were speaking with certainty about economic growth found themselves pleading with citizens to stay home, and trying to model viral behaviour with charts and projections that changed week by week. Despite all our tools, all our data, all our planning, the virus made a mockery of our sense of control.
And yet, what did many politicians do? They doubled down. Some began blaming scientists, others blamed other nations, some even blamed their own citizens for “not complying enough.” At no point did the political class pause to say: Maybe we don’t know. Maybe life is too vast, too interconnected, too dynamic to be managed like a company spreadsheet.
Even on a smaller scale, the desire to control extends into our personal lives. City councils draft zoning laws assuming they can predict how communities will evolve. Educational boards create rigid curricula, thinking they can predefine the needs of children who will be adults in a world we can’t yet imagine. And individuals, too, try to script their lives down to the minute, only to find that love, loss, illness, joy, or inspiration show up uninvited and throw the whole plan into question.
So where does this strange idea come from—that anyone can manage life itself? Perhaps it’s fear. Chaos frightens us. Change unsettles us. And control, or at least the appearance of it, offers a temporary comfort. But it’s a lie, and deep down we all know it. Real wisdom lies not in pretending to master the ocean, but in learning to sail—and even to dance—with the waves.
I don’t want leaders who claim certainty. I want leaders humble enough to admit when they don’t know, curious enough to listen, and wise enough to respond with flexibility rather than force. The same goes for how I want to live my own life: not according to rigid plans, but in relationship with the ever-changing now.
Because the truth is, life doesn’t obey blueprints. It grows, it shifts, it surprises. And that, in the end, is what makes it so breathtakingly beautiful.
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Who am I?
It sounds like such a simple question, but when I really sit with it—quietly, honestly—I realize it’s anything but. And yet, it's the question that has quietly shaped my life, nudging me deeper into an understanding of what it actually means to be me.
So let me begin not by answering, but by eliminating.
What am I not?
Well, I’m not my body. That much is clear. My body has been in a state of continual change since the day I was born. Every cell has regenerated, replaced, reformed. I look nothing like the child I once was, and yet I still feel like “me.” The body is a vehicle, yes, but not the driver.
I’m not my name. That was given to me before I could even speak. It’s a label, a convenient way for others to identify me, but it isn’t me. One of my brothers didn’t like the name he was given and simply changed it—including the family name. Did he become a different person? Of course not. The name is a badge, nothing more.
I’m not my job. I’ve had many roles throughout my life, but I wouldn’t dream of defining my core self through any of them. Jobs come and go. Titles are worn and shed. What stays?
I'm not the stuff I own. Over the course of my life, I’ve collected and discarded a small mountain of belongings—especially since I’ve moved house more than sixty times. Each time, I left behind bags, boxes, furniture, books… things. If I lost everything today, I wouldn’t lose myself. My stuff is not me.
I’m also not my understanding of the world. I’ve read thousands of books and earned many qualifications, but knowledge is just accumulation. It's helpful, of course, but it doesn’t define who I am at the core. Paper and ideas aren't identity.
Nor am I my gender. That, too, is shaped and filtered by layers of cultural, biological, and personal experience. When I arrived on this planet, I had no idea what gender was. It was taught to me, as were so many things. And what I’ve come to understand is that human identity is far more nuanced than binary boxes. Sexual orientation, gender identity—none of it fits neatly into a single explanation. As Nietzsche said, "Man is the animal whose nature has not yet been fixed." We are born with potential, not certainty.
So who am I?
That question has followed me like a quiet companion for most of my life. And what I’ve come to see is that we are all born into systems—of belief, of family, of culture—that tell us who we should be. Most people, it seems to me, never really recover from that early indoctrination. They spend their lives trying to live up to someone else’s script. The result? Just read any newspaper.
But I’ve also come to realize something deeper: that beneath all those layers, I have the potential simply to be human. Fully human. What does that mean?
It means recognizing my fellow human beings as my equals—each one a variation on the same theme. We’ve all landed here, briefly, on this spinning rock in a far-flung corner of the universe. We’re made of the same elements, animated by the same breath. And we all carry within us the gift—and the burden—of consciousness.
This consciousness allows me to see the choices I have. In any moment, I can choose between the polarities that shape human experience:
Joy ↔ Sorrow
Love ↔ Hate
Hope ↔ Despair
Courage ↔ Fear (not absence of fear, but action in spite of it)
Generosity ↔ Selfishness
Gratitude ↔ Resentment
Clarity ↔ Confusion
What makes me who I am is not the name I was given, the body I inhabit, or the roles I’ve played—but the choices I make. Every day, I have the opportunity to choose kindness over cruelty, calm over chaos, love over fear. And in those choices, I become more truly myself. I am very grateful to Prem Rawat for pointing this out to me and for helping me to become more conscious of the miracle we call life as a human being.
So wish me luck. Not in becoming someone else, but in becoming a human being—the best version of this strange and beautiful thing I call “me.”
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To what extent is a person truly aware of "The Truth" as it relates to reality? It’s a profound question, one that keeps resurfacing for me—especially as I observe the current state of affairs in the USA and beyond. "Truth" is a word that gets thrown around constantly, yet when I try to pin it down, it slips through my fingers.
Let’s start with the dictionary: Truth – the quality of being true, genuine, actual, or factual. But that’s barely helpful. It amounts to saying something is true if it is… true. It’s circular, tautological—resting on unexamined assumptions. This vague definition opens the door to all manner of self-proclaimed truths, each jostling for supremacy in public discourse.
Why does this matter? Because so much of what we think we know—what we believe—isn’t based on direct knowledge or personal understanding. It’s based on what we’ve been told. Accepted truths often stem not from inquiry or experience, but from repetition. We’re taught to believe certain things and discouraged, subtly or not, from asking too many questions.
Indoctrination and Brainwashing: Two Faces of the Same Coin
Here we arrive at a crucial distinction: indoctrination vs. brainwashing.
Indoctrination is the gentle, pervasive process by which a person internalizes beliefs, values, and norms—usually from a young age. It happens at home, in school, through culture and media. It says: This is how things are because this is how they’ve always been. It’s rarely questioned, and when it is, the challenger is often met with confusion, derision, or hostility.
Take religion, for example. Why do we have so many religions, especially among those who all claim allegiance to one God? If there is indeed only one God, why must the expression of that belief diverge so radically based on geography or heritage? A child born in Riyadh becomes a Muslim, while one born in Rome becomes a Catholic. The deity might be the same in essence—an unknowable divine reality—but the structures built around that essence are often exclusive and contradictory.
That’s indoctrination: the transmission of "truth" as a package deal you don’t get to inspect.
Brainwashing, on the other hand, is more coercive. It involves pressure—sometimes subtle, often brutal—until the subject surrenders to the preferred worldview. Think of cults, authoritarian regimes, military boot camps, or even abusive families. In brainwashing, deviation from the prescribed truth invites punishment, exile, or worse. While indoctrination depends on emotional attachment and repetition, brainwashing uses fear.
But in the end, both lead to the same place: accepting beliefs without real understanding. The danger is not just that we adopt these "truths," but that we defend them as if they were self-evident, even when the evidence is missing or contradictory.
The Politics of Truth in the USA
Which brings me to the United States and the political mess unfolding there. We are witnessing a public battle between competing versions of truth, none of which seem grounded in much more than ideology or raw self-interest.
Take Donald Trump. A man whose educational credentials may be polished on paper—a B.A. in Economics from the University of Pennsylvania—but whose public statements reveal a striking ignorance of history, science, and basic civics. More concerning is his apparent belief, passed on from his father, that if you repeat a lie often enough, it becomes the truth. This is not speculation. It’s well-documented behaviour. His repeated falsehoods—from the size of his inauguration crowd to the integrity of the 2020 election—have not only gone largely unchallenged within his base but have been embraced.
Why? Because people want to believe them. Trump offers a return to an imagined past—“Make America Great Again”—a seductive idea for those disillusioned by modern complexities. But this golden age never really existed. It's a fantasy, a nostalgic mirage of simpler, more stable times—often for white, male, Christian Americans—while ignoring the reality of inequality, racism, and injustice.
And this is not unique to the USA. Right-wing populists across the world—from Viktor Orbán in Hungary to Narendra Modi in India—have capitalized on similar strategies: redefine truth to suit the narrative, and make the past seem glorious, even if it wasn’t.
The Legacy of Short-termism
So how has this worked? Why has it worked?
Because politicians everywhere have become obsessed with short-term goals—winning the next election, delivering the next economic bump, surviving the next scandal. Meanwhile, long-term issues like climate change, social cohesion, and the mental health epidemic are swept aside. The price of this short-termism is staggering. Forests are cleared, oceans are poisoned, and societies grow more fractured by the year.
We are seeing the results in real time: devastating weather events, increasing nationalism, collapsing trust in institutions, and a growing sense that society is unraveling.
It is no longer a hypothetical concern. For many, hell is already here.
The Weaponisation of Religion
Religion, meanwhile, has not escaped this trend—it has been weaponized in countless conflicts. Take Zionism, for instance. Not Judaism, not the Jewish people, but political Zionism—the movement that has, in its more extreme forms, sought to justify mass violence and occupation through a divine claim to land.
Or consider the way militant Islam has been manipulated by warlords and extremist clerics to inspire suicide bombers and justify the murder of innocents. In both cases, spiritual truth has been co-opted by political agendas.
And it’s not just the big, headline-grabbing religions. Even within so-called peaceful nations, Christianity is being used to enforce ideologies that deny others dignity, rights, or inclusion. It’s no longer about spiritual insight—it’s about power.
Truth, If It Exists, Must Be Lived
So, again: what is truth?
It cannot simply be what we are told. It cannot be the loudest voice or the most repeated slogan. Truth, if it is to have meaning, must arise from direct experience, from critical thought, from quiet introspection. It must be discovered, not delivered.
This is why I resonate so deeply with spiritual teachers like Prem Rawat, who focuses not on belief but on experience. He does not ask you to believe in a system, a dogma, or a saviour. He asks you to go within—to find peace, to find clarity, to find your own inner knowing. Not the truth, but your truth—free from the noise, free from fear.
Because in the end, perhaps the real battle isn’t between competing ideologies, but between inner clarity and outer confusion. The clearer we become inside, the more resilient we are to manipulation, fearmongering, and deception.
A Final Thought
This planet is astonishing—perhaps unique in the universe. And yet we are ravaging it in our pursuit of illusions, driven by greed and fear. The lies we tell ourselves, and each other, are not just words. They have consequences. Species die. Oceans rise. Societies fall.
The truth—whatever it is—matters. But it must be uncovered, not inherited. Lived, not legislated.
Let that be the challenge for each of us.
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There are times when the noise of the world—the power games, the iron fists, the declarations of permanence—becomes deafening. And in those moments, I’m reminded of how many have come before, how many have tried to hold onto power as if it were theirs to keep.
To Donald Trump, Elon Musk, Vladimir Putin, Viktor Orbán, Benjamin Netanyahu, Kim Jong Un, Isaias Afewerki, Xi Jinping, Alexander Lukashenko, Ali Khamenei, the House of Saud, Nicolás Maduro, and the many others like them, now or in ages past:
You are not permanent.
As so many have said over thousands of years, all is change. All is in flux. What is today will not be tomorrow—including you.
1900 years ago, the Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius, ruler of a vast empire, wrote the following note to himself—not to flatter the ego, but to temper it:
"The wind scatters one year's leaves on the ground... so it is with the generations of men. Your children are no more than 'leaves'. 'Leaves' too, these loud voices of loyal praise, these curses from your opponents, this silent blame or mockery: mere 'leaves' likewise those with custody of your future fame. All these 'come round in the season of spring'; but then the wind blows them down, and the forest 'puts out others' in their stead. All things are short-lived - this is their common lot - but you pursue likes and dislikes as if all was fixed for eternity. In a little while you too will close your eyes, and soon there will be others mourning the man who buried you."
And again, from his Meditations, another timely reminder:
"Reflect often on the speed with which all things in being, or coming into being, are carried past and swept away. Existence is like a river in ceaseless flow, its actions a constant succession of change, its causes a constant succession of change, its causes innumerable in their variety: scarcely anything stand still, even what is most immediate. Reflect too on the yawning gulf of past and future time, in which all things vanish. So in all this, it must be folly for anyone to be puffed with ambition, racked in struggle, or indignant at his lot - as if this was anything lasting or likely to trouble him for long.
Think of the whole of existence, of which you are the tiniest part; think of the whole of time, in which you have been assigned a brief and fleeting moment; think of destiny - what fraction of that are you?"
These are not words meant to shame, but to awaken. To call forth the possibility of humility in the face of something far greater than self-preservation or legacy. We each have been given a tiny moment. The question is not how long we can stretch it—but what we do with it.
Another voice from the past—Rumi—reminds us with gentleness and fire:
"Try not to resist the changes that come your way. Instead, let life live through you."
And from Lao Tzu, this truth, so easy to dismiss, so hard to live:
"Those who know do not speak. Those who speak do not know."
Power, praise, punishment, propaganda—none of it lasts. The wind takes it all. The forest always grows new leaves.
So why cling?
Let the moment you have be one of grace, not grasping. One of service, not dominion. One of awakening, not ambition.
Because soon enough, even those who now shout your name—whether in reverence or in rage—will themselves be gone, and new leaves will fall.
—
Written in the spirit of remembering what matters.
All things change. Even emperors.
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