What was the scariest experience you ever had?

A shout out to Immanuel for asking me to answer this question. I have had many scary experiences, so it was difficult to choose which one was my scariest experience. When I come across these questions about personal experiences, I have 100s of real-life stories swimming around inside my head all based on 17 years of teaching English and 21 years of being an international business consultant.

However, before attempting to answer this question let me give you some background. Many years ago, in my travels around the world, I spent a few years living in South Africa. This country is one of the most beautiful countries on this planet, its people are truly amazing, and it is blessed with an abundance of natural resources. However, this beautiful landscape is beset by terrible crime and tragedy. I lived there before and after Nelson Mandela was released from prison and became the country’s first black president. I still believe that he was one of the greatest global statesmen of all time. While many people wanted to avenge apartheid, he insisted on forgiveness and reconciliation. While I lived there, I made many friends, both black and white. One of my best friends was a white Afrikaner farmer, and another one of my best friends was the son of Zulu prince, John Zulu. These two South Africans came from opposite ends of the political and social divide. And yet like I, both of these two men loved the hot African soil, loved the sounds of the night, loved God, loved their country; yet these two men hated each other, or at least this was true if they lived true to their tribal cultures.

One night, I was awoken by screams and shouts. I grabbed my gun and rushed outside and saw an elderly couple lying on the ground outside their front door, bleeding and in need of medical attention. I also saw three guys running down the road, so shaking with rage I set off after them. I caught up with the first one, tripped him and conducted a civilian arrest. I asked him in Zulu, why he had attacked an unarmed elderly couple. He glared at me in hate, and I understood why because there was a war at that time between blacks and whites, and old people were easy meat, or easy targets. Moreover, he was just a kid... about the same age as many of my middle school (SMP) Indonesian students who I now teach English online.

The community formed a neighbourhood watch, and almost every night a bunch of us would have to rush out and try to catch these armed gangsters breaking into homes. Within a short time, I had lost all sense of fear, in fact I sometimes found that I enjoyed the hunt, I loved the chase, I felt invincible... it simply became addictive. For a short time, I considered black people as bad people, and yet I had many black friends. I was caught up in a cocktail of violence and hate, and simply forgot about caring and loving those who were trapped in a societal prison. I became a hunter and humans became my prey. For that I am now deeply ashamed, but at that time that is what happened. I have no right to judge anybody, only God has the right to judge. I now know, that as humans we are capable of the worst inhuman acts, and yet we are also capable of sharing our love to all those in need regardless of their cultures, religions, backgrounds and ideologies.

What I’m about to tell you was inevitable... it had to happen. I’m not trying to scare any of you Quoran readers because there is a lesson and a message behind what I’m going to tell you regarding one of my scariest experiences. It was a hard lesson for me, and I’m glad it happened, despite even now, I sometimes still get nightmares about what happened.

Late one autumn afternoon, I got a radio message from a police station located over 10 kilometres away. They told me that a house alarm had gone off. I rushed there along with another neighbourhood watch member and upon arriving at the house, we discovered that the thieves had already left; this obviously because they could hear us racing up to the house. We both knew that there were two intruders and that they had both jumped through the bathroom window to escape. One of them had caught his arm on the broken glass and I could see from the blood on the ground that he was bleeding heavily. My friend followed the uninjured man because he was younger and quicker than me. I set off after the injured guy... It was easy... I just followed the trails of blood.

Within two minutes, we were both inside the forest tracking these two intruders. Normally, my friend and I would stay within sight of each other, but this time it was getting dark and I suddenly found myself on my own armed with a Smith and Weston pistol and a 12-bore shotgun. What I didn’t know then, was that the guy I was tracking had been a trained jungle fighter during the Rhodesian war. I began to realise that something was wrong when I found myself going around in circles, and I soon realised that I wasn’t tracking the usual type of suspect, but someone who was experienced in jungle warfare. I soon realised that I was no longer the hunter, instead I had become the hunted... the prey.

Surprisingly, I wasn’t afraid, my adrenaline took care of that. When faced with a life and death decision, it’s amazing the extraordinary lengths to which we will go to cheat death. However, this guy was really smart because despite the huge amount of blood which he had lost he had managed to come up behind me like a ghost. I couldn’t see him nor could I hear him, but I could smell him. I swung around 180°, blasted off a shot in his direction and then ran. I didn’t know where I was running, it was so dark, yet I could see the moon high up in the trees, so I had some direction... I just didn’t know where I was going. I had heard many stories around African campfires about these Rhodesian jungle fighters, but this is no story, as I was about to become another statistic. I ran so fast, I ran into bushes, trees; you name it, I hit it. At one point, I tripped and as I was scrambling up, I sensed something whistling past my ear and a knife buried itself just inches from my face. Then I really began to run, forget Olympic gold-medallists, nothing equals life versus death desperation. Suddenly I burst out of the forest onto the road, and the place was crawling with police and soldiers.

One of the soldiers, rugby-tackled me down to the ground and I passed out. It turned out that I was covered in blood and dirt and they had initially thought I was a suspect. When I woke up, I climbed to my feet and just meters away was that guy I have been chasing. Instead of the usual fury and anger, I felt respect for him. His arm was in a terrible state, and he was covered in blood, yet he looked up at me and smiled. I called a medic and asked him to fix the guy’s arm. An officer approach me for a statement but somehow, I didn’t want to add to the suspect’s problems. The officer got angry with me and insisted I go with them to the police station.

When we arrived there, they first questioned the suspect, and again they insisted I sign a statement. Again I refused, instead I requested that I should first be allowed to talk to the suspect. It was against the rules, but who cares. I sat down opposite him asked him his name. Ironically, his name was Lucky. Again he surprised me because he reached out to shake my hand, and as we shook hands, I felt a sense of shock because he shook my hand as he would shake the hand of a Zulu. I knew of this unique handshake because of my friendship with John Zulu the son of a Zulu prince. Up to that point, I never really understood how two boxers could smash into each other for 12 rounds, and then at the end of the fight, hug each other. Then I understood very clearly... we were just two guys, one from England and one from Africa, one was white and one was black, one was privileged and one was unprivileged, and yet a few moments before, we had just been trying to kill each other. Somehow, against the odds, our respect for each other evolved into friendship.

That night, I couldn’t sleep, nor the next. In fact, when I did eventually sleep a few nights later, I had my worst nightmare. It was so bad that I was terrified to even go to sleep anymore. Over time, the nightmares went away, however occasionally Lucky would visit me in my sleep and terrify the hell out of me. It was like he was trying to teach me a lesson and for that I’m deeply grateful to him. Two months later, he was shot dead trying to escape from prison. I went to see John Zulu and he understood. It turned out that Lucky had three wives and seven kids of which the youngest had leukaemia. I subsequently read in a newspaper that Lucky had turned to crime to pay for treatment. Was it true? I really don’t care. Who am I to judge? He was, still is, and will always be my friend, my blood-brother.

Here’s what I want to share with you the reader.

I really believe that there are no coincidences or accidents in life.

There is a reason why a baby is born with brain damage.

There is a reason why some guys look like Ade Rae (an Indonesian bodybuilding champion), and some guys look like Mr Bean. BTW... I sometimes communicated with Ade and he used to speak excellent fluent English.

There is a reason why some guys are like Jusuf Kalla (ex-Indonesian Vice President) who has one of the smartest business brains I have ever come across, and why some guys are just like me... they struggle to learn anything.

There is a reason why many people can love someone... for a while, and why a few people can fall in love with someone... forever.

There is a reason why your parents were Muslim, or why your parents were Christian.

There is the reason why you were born into a poor home, or a rich home.

None of the above happens by chance.

When Lucky and I met in a death struggle inside an African forest, it was no chance or accident... it was meant to happen.

If the trajectory of that knife had been a few millimetres to the left in that forest, you would not be reading this answer. It was no accident that he missed, and it was no accident that he died attempting to escape from custody. Somehow, our Supreme Judge and Creator chose the outcome... hence why I’m writing to you.

So enough about me, what about you?

What about someone who hates you?

What about someone who has betrayed you?

What about someone who has been unfaithful to you?

What about someone who cheated you?

What about someone who will never talk to you again?

What about someone who will never love you again?

Can you tick any of the above?

I most certainly can.

So what’s the underlying message?

We have no right to judge anybody... everybody should have a second chance, and if you have been blessed with the ability to forgive... many chances.

Despite what anybody has ever done to you, just remember this... there was a time when that person you hate or never want to see again was essentially without sin... they were totally innocent. Yes, you have guessed it... they had just emerged from their mother’s womb... just another innocent baby born into a kaleidoscope world of conflict and peace, and of hate and love.

So what happened to that person who you hate or dislike so much?

Was it their fault?

You will never know, so how about leaving that judgement to your Creator.

So how do you fix that problem, how do you fix the hate?

Here’s one lesson Lucky my African friend taught me...

“You find a solution to hatred in the place where you least want to look”

Do you have a problem with your wife or husband, do you have a problem with your friend, do you have a problem with your neighbour, or... do you have a problem with yourself?

Then look in the most unlikely and most difficult place. That’s where love, forgiveness and peace are waiting for you.

For me, it was a night of terror in an African rain-forest. It was the last place where I would want to go to and experience. But, thanks to my black friend, it was absolutely a part of my education and life-lesson which taught me that behind cold hatred and fear... lies love and forgiveness.

Sometimes, when I’m faced with the choice of whether to hate someone... I think of Lucky.

What about you? Maybe he’s out there somewhere. Why not ask him, miracles can happen, right?

If miracles don’t happen, then I wouldn’t be here, nor would you be reading this.

I would love to know what you think and feel...

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