“Whether we think each other right or wrong on the issues of the day,” said the late Sen. John McCain, “we owe each other respect.”
McCain’s philosophy on relationships is just one of the things that reminds me of my dad, Capt. Jim Shively. He and McCain were both fighter pilots, shot down over Hanoi in 1967, and badly injured. They were both captured and imprisoned in the Hanoi Hilton, beaten severely, underwent routine and systematic torture with ropes, and were bound in iron stocks in isolation.
As McCain wrote in the foreword of my book about my dad, Six Years in the Hanoi Hilton, the prisoners of war shared a very special unity and loyalty. They lost years of their lives, but came away with a fierce brotherhood, forged in the fire of brutality and starvation and dehumanization. It was for each other that they did their best to resist and to stay alive.
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When you are forced to bow every morning to the same captors that tortured you within an inch of your life the night before, it does something to your soul. In the case of McCain and Shively, it made them stronger for life.
For starters, it gave them the capacity to withstand insults and abuse without internalizing them. My dad used to actually laugh when telling stories of the torture he endured. It was his way of saying, “They tried to kill me, but they did not succeed.” Likewise, one of my favorite attributes of John McCain was his refusal to be bullied. His confident soul was like the iron stocks to which they clamped him. Poisonous words bounced right off. The idea that a mere man could instill fear in him made him chuckle. His self-composure makes me think of the scripture: “If God is for us, who can be against us?”
The two POWs also possessed a similar spirit of gratitude. McCain referred to himself as “the luckiest person on earth.” After all he had been through, he was so appreciative of each and every moment of the day. Every bird that visited his feeder was worthy of attention and excitement. His gratitude for the little things in life reminds me of my late father, who used to say, “Any day you can turn the handle on a door and walk out of a room is a good day.”
McCain also had a strong sense of right and wrong. He refused an early release, even though it meant many more years of the hell he was living in. He was humble enough to admit when he was wrong and to own up to his mistakes. He was debased in prison, and it gave him a keen understanding of the inherent dignity of people. He could disagree on policy without cutting others down personally.
When I interviewed him for my book, McCain shared with me his faith in God, and gave specific examples of when he was undergoing torture and felt a sense of God’s presence and relief. He told me that he often wished he discussed his faith more in public. He also mentioned that besides his own family, there was no one he loved more in the world than the men he spent time with in prison. It makes me smile to think of him up there with God now, face-to-face with the one who pulled him through, and having a happy reunion with the war comrades who preceded him into heaven.
John McCain, you are a man of wisdom, excellence, truth-telling, and courage. A hero forever, and in more ways than one. America is grateful for your service and leadership at a time when we needed it most. Thank you for showing us the way. Rest in peace and rise in glory, senator.
And please give my dad a hug for me when you see him.
Amy Shively Hawk is the author of Six Years in the Hanoi Hilton.
