Breaking the Cycle: Honoring the Past, Healing the Future

A Journey of Awakening: From War to Healing and Faith

I was born into a family where law enforcement was more than a job—it was a legacy. My father served as a deputy sheriff, and my grandfather was a police lieutenant before his retirement. Growing up, honesty and integrity weren’t just virtues; they were requirements. My father’s words still echo in my mind: “The only thing worse than a thief is a liar. Tell the truth, even if it makes you look bad. It’ll be worse if you get caught in a lie.”

Those lessons shaped me, but as I’ve grown older, they’ve also driven me to reflect critically on the systems my family and I once served and, in some ways, benefited from. I now feel a responsibility—a moral obligation—to speak out about what I see as systemic oppression. This sense of duty stems from the values of accountability and truth my family instilled in me. Speaking out isn’t easy, but staying silent would betray those core values I was raised to uphold.

At 17, I enlisted in the army. The 9/11 attacks had shaken the country, and like so many others, I felt called to serve. My family tried to talk me out of it, but my reasoning was simple: “If not me, then who?” If I didn’t go, someone else would have to.

When I was deployed to Iraq at 20, I was nervous but prepared. Training had made me confident in my abilities, and I trusted my battle buddies with my life. But nothing could prepare me for the visceral realities of war. The moments that stand out most vividly are the aftermaths of extremist attacks—seeing human beings torn apart by violence. Those images seared into my mind the dangers of religious extremism and fundamentalism, not just in their physical violence but in how they can warp human hearts and minds.

Identifying Hate Speech, Symbols, and Ideologies

During my military training, we were taught to identify hate speech, symbols, and ideologies. As part of my OSUT (One Station Unit Training), I spent nine weeks in basic training and eight weeks in law enforcement training—nearly double the length of training many law enforcement officers receive. This part of my training introduced me to concepts I had never considered before: coded language, dog whistles, and symbols used to propagate hate.

One example still widely used today is “1488.” We were taught how “14” refers to the 14 words in a white nationalist slogan, while “88” is a coded reference to “Heil Hitler.” These lessons weren’t just about recognizing these symbols; they were about understanding how hate can be embedded into language and imagery in ways that are both subtle and powerful.

That training prepared me for the propaganda I saw in Iraq, where flags, posters, and extremist symbols were plastered everywhere. Jaysh al-Mahdi and Al-Sadr banners marked territory and declared allegiances. Religious fanaticism, extremism, and fundamentalism were rampant, with rhetoric designed to stoke division and inspire loyalty. It was exactly what we were trained to recognize.

But what truly shaped my understanding of propaganda wasn’t just what I saw in Iraq—it was a moment when I became the subject of misinformation. A report falsely claimed I was killed in action, not by name but as part of a group of soldiers declared dead. Of course, I wasn’t. But seeing how quickly information could be manipulated, even in an age of advanced technology, shifted my perception of truth and how easily it can be distorted.

Parallels Between Iraq, Nazi Germany, and the U.S.

The more I reflected on what I saw in Iraq, the more I noticed disturbing parallels at home. The flags and banners that draped houses, cars, and neighborhoods during Donald Trump’s presidency reminded me of the symbols I saw overseas. In Iraq, those flags weren’t just symbols of pride—they were tools of dominance, meant to intimidate and divide.

The rhetoric, too, felt eerily familiar. In Iraq, extremist leaders used religion and nationalism to unite their followers while vilifying others. Trump’s speeches relied on similar tactics, creating an “us vs. them” narrative. Immigrants, minorities, and the media became scapegoats, just as the Jews were scapegoated in Nazi Germany. The parallels were undeniable: the exploitation of fear, the stoking of division, and the use of symbols and slogans to solidify power.

Seeing these patterns in my own country was heartbreaking. I had been trained to dismantle these systems abroad, but now they were unraveling the fabric of democracy at home.

Reckoning with the Past: A Journey of Discovery

Healing is rarely a straight path, and for me, it’s been deeply intertwined with uncovering my own family history. One of the most humbling parts of my journey was learning about James and Elizabeth Burroughs, ancestors of mine who once claimed ownership of approximately ten human beings. Among them was Jane, the mother of Booker T. Washington.

The weight of this discovery hit me like a gut punch, but what truly shattered me was a particular passage in Washington’s autobiography, Up From Slavery. He described the circumstances of his birth, noting how he was sold as an infant to a neighboring farm. No one knew who his father was, but it was always suspected to be a white man from the neighboring Burroughs farm. That connection—between my ancestors and a man I had always admired for his resilience, leadership, and strength—was almost too much to bear.

Another story from his autobiography sticks with me to this day. Washington wrote about William “Mars Billy” Burroughs, James and Elizabeth’s son. He described how Mars Billy would often come home stumbling drunk and beaten. Washington and his family, despite having so little themselves, would take him in, tend his wounds, and share what meager scraps of food and water they had. The grace, compassion, and humanity they showed to the very family that oppressed them is a testament to a kind of strength and love that I can only hope to emulate.

Learning these stories filled me with disgust—not just at my ancestors’ actions but at the broader system that allowed such atrocities to exist in the first place. That disgust, however, also sparked something deeper in me: a resolve to honor those who came before me, not by erasing their mistakes but by taking responsibility for the legacy they left behind.

Faith, Healing, and Hope for the Future

Through all of this—my military service, my reckoning with history, and my journey of healing—my Christian faith has been my anchor. The teachings of Jesus—compassion, humility, and love for others—have guided me through the pain of confronting these truths and the challenges of speaking out. At first, I was consumed by anger. Anger at the systems that perpetuate oppression. Anger at myself for unknowingly participating in them. Anger at the world for allowing it to happen.

But my faith transformed that anger into something more powerful: love. Love for the oppressed, love for those still trapped in cycles of division, and even love for those perpetuating harm, with the hope that they, too, might one day see the truth and change.

Healing isn’t easy. It’s messy and uncomfortable. But it’s also liberating. When we choose vulnerability, when we face the truth about ourselves and our history, we create the possibility for real transformation. That transformation starts within us, but it doesn’t end there. It ripples outward, shaping how we treat others, how we engage with the world, and how we build the future.

For those who are just beginning this journey, I want you to know this: it’s okay to feel lost. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed. But don’t give up. Keep seeking truth, keep choosing love, and know that you are not alone. There is a community of people walking this path with you, ready to support you, challenge you, and stand beside you as we work together to create a world that reflects the values of compassion, justice, and hope.

This journey isn’t about rejecting our pasts—it’s about taking responsibility for them. It’s about learning, growing, and doing better. And it’s about carrying forward the courage and grace of those who came before us so that one day, those who come after us will have a better world to inherit.