Farewell

A while ago I had a deep conversation with my son while we spent 24 hours camping alone in the bush of south-western Australia. I told my son how much it hurt me that my own father chose not to love me. Ever since my son was born, it was even more difficult for me to comprehend how anyone could choose not to love their children. Was I so unlovable that my own father wouldn’t want me?

When I was 10 years old, however, another man chose to love me and call me his son. For this I will always be grateful. He changed my life, and gave me one of the greatest things I was longing for. I was a small little boy who needed a strong man to shape my life. A hero, a big strong man who was not afraid of anything.

He taught me that real strength was not just in physical appearance or status, but in how you treated those who were weaker than you.

He always loved children, and seemed to prefer the company of laughing children to that of adults. I’ve never seen children who didn’t love Oom George.

I remember walking down the street with him. He would greet complete strangers as if they should know him, and would make jokes wherever he went. He never considered the possibility that anyone he walked into would not know who he was, and enthusiastically greeted them and asked about their welfare.

My dad would interrupt the middle of any conversation and point us to the nice sound of the clarinet or trombone in the song that was playing in the background.

Music was his life.

This was the language of my dad – scales and notes and melodies. He spoke this universal language and understood it well.

It is a great honour when someone is chosen to be the son of a hero. I was chosen – and I honour you as my father. May you rest in peace.

I salute you, Sammajoor.