Instead of a man of peace and love, I have become a man of

"Instead of a man of peace and love, I have become a man of violence and revenge." Thus is the lament of Hiawatha, remembered among the Iroquois as both warrior and peacemaker, and later sung in verse by poets who carried his name. In these words resounds the sorrow of one whose heart longed for harmony, yet who was driven by grief and injustice into the arms of bloodshed. They are the words of a man torn between two destinies—the destiny of compassion and the destiny of rage.

The ancients knew well this conflict. Did not Achilles, in the fury of Patroclus’ death, abandon all thought of mercy to slaughter without restraint? Did not King David, though a man after God’s heart, fall into vengeance and violence in moments of passion? The human soul is divided between its higher calling to peace and love and its lower temptation to violence and revenge. Hiawatha’s cry is the confession of countless men through the ages who desired light but were dragged into darkness by grief, betrayal, or rage.

Yet from Hiawatha’s life also arose a greater story. Tradition holds that after his years of vengeance, he turned his heart once more to peace and became a founder of the Great Law of the Iroquois Confederacy, teaching unity among nations who had long been at war. Thus his lament is not his final word, but a passage, a recognition of how far he had strayed from his true calling. It is the turning point of one who realizes that the sword, though fierce, cannot heal; only peace can mend what revenge forever rends.

History bears witness to others who walked this same path. Consider Ashoka the Great of India, who, after conquering Kalinga in a war that left rivers red with blood, was stricken with remorse. Once a ruler of wrath, he declared himself a ruler of peace and love, spreading Buddhism and building hospitals, schools, and roads. His transformation shows that even those who once chose vengeance may yet return to compassion. Like Hiawatha, he bore the weight of his violence and sought to redeem it with peace.

Children of tomorrow, learn this: when wronged, the heart may cry for revenge, but vengeance only multiplies sorrow. Violence consumes not only the enemy but the avenger, who in striking becomes what he once despised. To be a man of peace requires greater courage than to be a man of war. To hold back the hand that longs to strike, to forgive when the wound still bleeds, to turn grief into compassion—this is the path of true strength.

Practical wisdom lies at hand. When anger surges, pause. Ask yourself whether revenge will heal, or whether it will merely deepen the wound. Seek justice, yes, but let justice be tempered with mercy. Channel your pain into building, not destroying—into words that heal, into deeds that reconcile, into choices that sow peace even where war once seemed inevitable. By this, you honor not only yourself, but all those who come after you.

Thus the lesson is plain: even those who fall into violence may rise again into peace, if they have the courage to turn. Hiawatha’s words are a warning, but also a doorway: they remind us that anger can consume, but they also show us the possibility of transformation. Let us then choose the harder path, the nobler path, that when we are remembered, it will not be as men of revenge, but as men and women of peace and love.