I’ve begun reading Scott Galloway’s bestselling Notes on Being a Man, and one passage instantly triggered memories long buried:
“…there is nothing more dangerous than a lonely, broke young man. It’s a malevolent force in any society, and a truly terrifying one in a society addicted to social media and awash with guns and loutishness.”
Mozambique is a long way from the society Galloway describes. Yet ever since that day in April 1990—when my wife, Sandy, our children, Tammy (8) and Seth (5), and I were confronted on a Mozambican beach by five boy soldiers from the Renamo rebel group and taken captive—the ease with which boys and young men can be manipulated into becoming instruments of violence has haunted me.
That first night, the same boys who had captured us killed two fellow hostages with a brutality that remains beyond my understanding.
Much time has passed since then. My family survived and flourished, and our period of captivity is now a distant, seldom-revisited memory. Yet the unease endures—the recognition of how easily hope can be stripped from young lives, leaving them vulnerable to indoctrination and hate. What we experienced in that war was an extreme manifestation of what Galloway warns about. In America, it may emerge as alienation and rage; elsewhere, it manifests in migration, extremism, and civil conflict—each born from the same root: hopelessness.
When I think back to those seven weeks in captivity, what I remember most is not the constant fear, but the deep despair that came from my inability to protect and provide for my family. That hopelessness was so consuming that death sometimes seemed a release. Paradoxically, when the camp came under attack and missiles and bullets tore through the trees, life suddenly had purpose again—a primal instinct to survive.
Galloway speaks of a man’s need to protect, provide, and procreate. In my experience, the order of protect and provide should be reversed. Those boys were fighting because their society had denied them the means to provide—to build lives of worth and dignity. Without hope or opportunity, their need to protect warped into violence. If they had been able to provide, they would not have needed to fight to protect.
While Galloway writes of America, his insight applies far beyond its borders. The real antidote to male despair—whether in the streets and cellars of America, or the war zones of Africa—is hope: giving young men the means to build, contribute, and protect in meaningful ways.
There is, thankfully, hope for hope. Even those boys who killed showed flashes of kindness, compassion, and gentleness. Dr. Neil Boothby, who has studied the reintegration of Mozambique’s former child soldiers, found that with care and support, many heal, reintegrate, and become responsible citizens and loving parents.
That innate desire to give back is one my family understands deeply. In my book Not Child’s Play, I’ve tried to tell the story of children caught in war—to reveal their tragedy, but also their humanity. It’s a story far removed from the world Galloway describes, yet in its essence, our stories touch: both remind us that without hope, the human spirit falters.
You can read more at notchildsplay.co.za