The idea of a memoir is to tell the truth. I know that often the

Hear the words of Rohan Marley, son of a voice that once shook the nations with song, yet himself a bearer of wisdom: “The idea of a memoir is to tell the truth. I know that often the truth hurts, but a lie hurts even more.” These are not idle words, but a call to courage, for to write a memoir is not merely to record the days of one’s life, but to open the soul, to strip away illusions, and to lay bare both light and shadow. To speak truth in such a way is to bleed upon the page, yet it is this very bleeding that brings healing—to oneself, and to those who read.

The origin of this saying lies in the very essence of storytelling. From the ancients who carved their victories upon stone, to the poets who sang of both glories and shames, the act of memory has always been bound to truth. Yet mankind is ever tempted to smooth the rough edges, to gild failures, to turn weakness into strength. But such shaping, though comforting, is deceit. A lie, though soft upon the ear, festers like a hidden wound; the truth, though sharp and cutting, cleanses and frees.

Consider the life of Frederick Douglass. Born a slave, he could have written his tale as one long lament, or softened it for those who did not wish to face its horror. Yet in his autobiography, he gave the raw and painful truth: the lash, the chains, the yearning for freedom, the triumph of escape. His words pierced the conscience of a nation. The truth hurt, but it was the hurt that awakened hearts. Had he written lies to spare the feelings of others, the wound of slavery might have remained hidden longer, and healing delayed.

So too with Anne Frank, whose diary told the truth of a young girl trapped in a world of hatred and war. She did not veil her fears or paint herself as perfect. She showed her doubts, her quarrels, her hopes, her despair. The truth was raw and human, and though it ended in tragedy, her words became immortal. The lie would have been silence, or a polished tale that concealed the real pain of hiding. Yet she chose honesty, and in that honesty, her voice lives beyond death.

What Marley declares is a principle for all who remember: that to craft a memoir is not to glorify oneself, but to serve others by showing reality as it was. The truth may wound the ego, it may sting those who hoped for a softer story, but in the end, it liberates. A lie, however kind it seems, poisons trust. It leaves those who inherit the story with nothing solid to stand upon, only illusions that crumble when tested.

The lesson, O children of tomorrow, is plain: embrace truth even when it burns. When you tell your story—whether on paper, in speech, or in the quiet sharing of life—resist the urge to hide behind lies. Speak with honesty, for others need not your perfection but your humanity. The cracks in your story may become the very windows through which others see their own strength.

Therefore, in your daily practice, be a keeper of truth. When memory returns, do not polish it until it gleams falsely; honor it as it is. When tempted to protect yourself or others with falsehood, remember that such shelter is fragile and soon collapses. Better a hard truth that gives life than a soft lie that brings ruin. Let your words, like Douglass’s and Anne Frank’s, bear the power to awaken, to heal, to endure.

Thus remember Marley’s wisdom: a memoir is nothing if it does not breathe with truth. Lies may comfort for a moment, but truth sustains for generations. Tell it, live it, and let it be the legacy you pass to those yet unborn. For though the truth may hurt, it is the only blade that cuts away illusion and reveals the freedom of the soul.