Confessions of H. My mother had to remind me that my dad loved me, although he was never around, always busy with his political campaigns.I grew to hate his job, his money and his success. I mostly hated his beloved mistress, politics, writes H in her Secret Diary of Political Elite.
Role models— this is what fathers are to their children: protectors in the darkness and saviors in the world. A father will always be his daughter’s first love and his son’s first hero. My story with my father, however, is very different.
Childhood. Confessions of H. “Daddy and Mommy love you.” My mother’s words still echo in my head as this was her bedtime mantra. Every time she repeated those words, hurt crossed her angelic face and my heart at the same time. My mother had to remind her children that their dad loved them although he was never around, always busy with his political campaign. Yet, we still loved him–or rather the image she drew of him, a brave man who was busy supporting the family.
Fifteen years old.Confessions of H.In desperate need of a manly figure in my life, I started complaining about my father’s way of caring. I grew to hate his job, his money and his success. I mostly hated his beloved mistress-politics. I would call him every day and listen to his empty promises of coming home. He ultimately showed up when I was hospitalized for a nervous breakdown. Seeing him in the hospital, staring at the floor as if guilt was pulling his gaze down like gravity, made all the pain go away. I could not bear my excitement as he made his way to my plain bed. I had missed him. I could hear the sound of my heart beating like the thrumming wings of a caged bird. I threw my arms around his waist. I took a deep breath from the crock of his neck, trying to inhale his familiar smell fearing a sudden vanishment. But he stayed, tears swam in my eyes. I was in purgatory.
Eighteen years old. Confessions of H.My father started coming back home for lunch. He would talk to me about his work. I would listen carefully to his sentences full of hints, yet he would not bore me with the political topics because I do my homework every night to impress him. But the more I got to know him, the more I realized he was a stranger. The more I read and developed a passion for politics, the more I disagreed and argued with him.
Twenty-One years old. Confessions of H. The arguing went on and on to become a daily habit. His numerous night shifts made me suspicious about the authenticity of his work. With more than 18 active parties vying for power, his was paying for influence. Assuming he was involved in dirty, back-door deals, I started supporting other parties and accusing him of corruption and dirty politics. I loved the complexity of politics, but I hated his world. This epiphany left me in perpetual darkness, feeling like the sun had set and had never risen since. I do not want to be the next of my father, I want to be me.
Twenty-Three years old . Confessions of H. Life goes on. I read Baudelaire but nothing really changes in my heart. My father contaminated me with his obsession for politics. However, I want to pursue politics on my own terms, one where politics is not about ill-gotten gains. I see a world where politics is the cure, transparent and clear, where we raise children whose heroes are not the bad guys. A world where our politicians are our role models.
Being raised in a political environment my whole life, I came to realize that politics is present in our everyday life. It influences us in every possible way and we can’t help but live with its consequences. We breathe it. It took me time to accept inhaling it, but when I did, it reached my lungs and I could not exhale it. It made me feel alive, kicked off the adrenaline in my body and gave me new dreams and ambitions. Politics is vital. Nothing is wrong with it, the rules and the players are the ones to blame.
Stay tuned for some tell-all confessions. After all, I am H. And this is my Secret Diary of Political Elite.