Yesterday, I had the opportunity to do something remarkable: I shook hands and spoke with Colonel Tom Moe, a retired Air Force fighter pilot who spent five years as a POW in North Vietnam. He’s a soft spoken, warm man who had the strength to survive unspeakable torture.
The opportunity to meet Tom came about because my wife, Debbie, and I attended the Memorial Day commemoration at the National Veterans Memorial and Museum, here in Columbus.
Being a POW during the Vietnam War meant you didn’t know if the U.S. government was aware you had been captured, and you had no idea when, or if, your captivity would end. And all the while, you were regularly tortured. You lost all control over your life—except for your inner will to survive and conduct yourself with honor.
Tom’s story is remarkable, not just because of his courage and fortitude but because of his message concerning hate. Here’s an excerpt from his story:
“As I grew more and more weary, I had to cope with one of the most corrosive elements of the human spirit — hate. Hate is a terrible distraction, a horribly destructive human enterprise. Hate invades the consciousness when the mind’s reasoning power fades. Hate is a way we assign blame for our plight when our faith weakens and our resolve becomes clouded. Pain intensifies hate, making us want to strike out at something.
“I stumbled into this blackness and, with vivid flashes of bitter invectives, cursed everything I had held sacred. I bathed in self-pity and resolved all my sufferings with the most wicked solutions. Although I drew some strength from hate, I finally realized I was drawing it from the devil. I journeyed into the lowest point in my life. And then I was truly exhausted.
“I ‘came to’ after a particularly horrific torture session, alone, lying on a stone floor, more naked than clothed, bruised, filthy, gaunt, and panting in little puppy breaths. I felt surprisingly free of pain and acutely aware of every inch of my surroundings. I knew I wasn’t very healthy, and I was startled at how my body looked like a bag of leftover chicken bones.”
“I can’t say I love those people,” Tom told me, “but I don’t hate them.”
I’m grateful to Tom for being so generous in giving his time to me.
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Jack D’Aurora writes for Considerthisbyjd.com
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