The Human Race – How Different Are We?

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“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”

This was a quote by William Shakespeare, and it has a very good meaning behind it.

There are 7.6 billion people on this planet, and we have different backgrounds, culture, heritage, religions, skin colour, eyes, hair, fingerprints, but we have one thing in common: we are one race – THE HUMAN RACE.

Have you been in that situation where you’ve seen someone do something you found impolite, rude, or some other negative thing like that? Well, did you acknowledge the fact that their culture could be much different than yours? Almost every day, someone in the world judges another person without respecting their differences. In my eyes, this is quite cruel and careless, for not only are we judging them, but we are also claiming that they should be the same as us! We are all unique; God has made us this way, and this way is PERFECT!

Speaking of differences, here are some strange customs from around the world.

  • Cutting a potato with your knife in Germany will insult the host of a dinner party
  • In Saudi Arabia, burping after a meal is considered a compliment to the cook
  • In Cambodia, Egypt, Jordan and the Philippines, leaving a little bit of food on your plate is polite; giving back an empty plate will be taken as an insult, suggesting that you were not given enough food
  • To show that you have enjoyed a dish of noodles in Japan or Hong Kong, it is best to slurp loudly whilst eating
  • The Greeks throw baby teeth on their roofs
  • Nicaraguan people point with their lips
  • To ward off evil, people in Greece spit on the bride at a wedding
  • Sikhs wear a bangle all the time, even in the kitchen. Some Sikhs also carry a ceremonial dagger (not intended to harm others, but a sign that they should stand up for goodness)

Shocked? Me too. But, all this goes to show that we all do things for a reason, however strange or contrasted to our customs they may be. So we should all stop judging people and instead show some kindness to them by respecting their culture, customs, religion and basically who they are as a person. So next time, before you are about to judge somebody, remember that each of us is unique, and keep in mind that ‘there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so‘, because if we do, then TOGETHER WE CAN CHANGE THE WORLD!

p/s: What do YOU think about this? Does your opinion differ? Feel free to drop a comment and share your thoughts!

*Media Source: Google Images

He Came Back To Cornwall

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He came back to Cornwall.

He came back from the war with a bloody arm, a bandaged leg and a few scars on his face. He came back from the war to find his dear family in their little village. He came back from the war, but he wasn’t expecting this.

The year was 1919. After spending a few more months in London, he finally decided to travel back to his hometown. He needed to feel warmth again, he needed to feel love and happiness, and his lovely little Cornwall was just the place for that.

Lugging his rucksack on his back, he walked into St Mawes, not knowing what to expect when he knocked on the door of his house. Maybe shouts of his name or crying or laughing and hugging. He walked through the streets filled with desolate but running shops, and many grey houses. They were tilted and uneven, like buildings from a fairy tale.

He walked further into the village, people eyeing him strangely as they passed him. Then he found it. Right in front of him was his childhood home, still standing as it had been 27 years ago.

Shuffling nervously up to the wooden door, he gave it a slow tap, creating a deep, hollow sound. There was a sudden scrambling inside, and then the lock clicked. The door creaked open, and the face of a middle-aged woman, wet with tears, met him. It was his mother, and as he looked over her shoulder, he spotted his father, sister and brother.

Hastily, his mother wiped her tears away. “Oh, hello,” she sniffled, “Um, who are you?”

He was puzzled. Why wouldn’t his own mother remember him? “It’s me, Mum. Your son!”

“Son?” she repeated, “My dear boy, you must be mistaken!”

“Who is it?” his father coughed.

“It’s a young man. He’s come back from the war. He says he’s our son!”

“Son? Poor thing, you can’t be! It’s all that war business getting to your head! Old Matthew, he…he, um, he died.”

Surely this was a dream, or some kind of practical joke! How would his own family forget him, and, what’s more, say that he was deceased? He simply couldn’t believe it.

“But…” he whispered, “But I’m Matthew!”

“Matthew was killed at the start of the war by a bomb in London.” his mother said firmly but not unkindly. “Do come in though, dear. You must be worn out!”

Silently, he stepped through the doorway, shutting the door behind him. “Thank you.” he murmured.

“This is Sarah and John.” his mother said, gesturing to his sullen-faced brother and sister. He did not respond.

Later on, they all sat down at the table in the kitchen, which was very familiar to Matthew. They had a dinner of corned beef and morsels of bread, and then they all retired to their bedrooms.

He had some trouble dozing off, and it seemed like a few seconds when he woke up again, realising that something was shaking his side. He widened his eyes and turned his head, only to find his ginger cat, Oliver. It was early dawn, and it would need feeding. He got up and walked into the kitchen, the floor making the occasional creak. Then he remembered. Oliver had died before the war.

He dropped the bowl he was holding onto the floor. It made a loud crash, sure to wake someone up. He turned around. The cat was not there. Frantically, he ran up the hallway to the other bedrooms, not finding anyone. He ran outside, meeting with cold, icy air biting into his cheeks. The village looked deserted. Then he saw something coming up the street. Oliver. He was dazed, confused, not understanding what was happening. He turned back to return to the house, only to be pushed to the floor by another man. It was his father, and he was armed with a gun.

“Heil Hitler.” he whispered. The family followed: “Heil Hitler!”

Then the father pulled the trigger, and then it was the end. If only he hadn’t felt the urge to come back home. If only he was ordered to stay in London. But he still arrived. He came back to Cornwall.