The family never spoke of him: He was an objector.
You won’t find him in any records, either—history never remembers those with the greatest impact.
One night, while the others slept, he quietly packed his rifle and bag, grabbed his dog, and disappeared into the darkness.
His parents and siblings reviled and shunned him: they were ashamed, embarrassed, and thought him a coward.
In fact, he had enormous courage—more guts than any of them could ever hope for.
He saw clearly the clan’s madness and rebuked their self-righteous cruelty. They, in turn, made him a pariah for obeying his conscience.
With enormous bravery, he traversed the treacherous terrain alone to higher places, finding safety in the absence of familiar support.
The clan continued their warring, and when death came for each of them, it was with thrashes and terror—every last one gripped with horror as they realized, in their final moments, that they had wasted their lives in violence.
But death came gently for the objector—the cause of his passing is unimportant. He died in peace, his soul at rest, having accomplished his life’s purpose.
The objector’s name has disappeared as quietly as he did—to leave no hint of your existence is the greatest marker of a life well-lived.