I think that maybe there is a dimension to this that we are forgetting. That is that in most western countries, your free to choose what you want to think. I'm going to use a personal friend as a example for this. His name was Mohammed and he was from Bangladesh. Now one day he simply made a off hand remark about how in his home country they didn't sell alcohol. Now nearly a year later it occurs to me, that in any culture that religion plays such a central in the society, that people are told what to think, and not allowed to think otherwise.
Luckily this didn't seem to be the case with him, as he was very articulate well educated, not to mention he stated several times that they'd basically have to shoot him to make him go back.
But not everyone handles that sort of adjustment the same. Some people after years of being told what to think come over and are totally enamoured with this freedom of thought, but others are scared and what to take the old ways with them. Some people don't want to think and want to be told what to think. Personally I find the idea of someone thinking for me terrifying.
Luckily this didn't seem to be the case with him, as he was very articulate well educated, not to mention he stated several times that they'd basically have to shoot him to make him go back.
But not everyone handles that sort of adjustment the same. Some people after years of being told what to think come over and are totally enamoured with this freedom of thought, but others are scared and what to take the old ways with them. Some people don't want to think and want to be told what to think. Personally I find the idea of someone thinking for me terrifying.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
