Guide Stars Lessons: Loyalty isn’t pretty
Loyalty is not a virtue; it is a burden. That is, until we understand its weight. We say we are loyal as if the word alone has power, as if it can exist without proof, without sacrifice. But the truth paints a different picture. Loyalty, in its purest form, is not meant to be easy. It is a bond tempered by adversity, a commitment that always comes with a cost. Loyalty means standing even when it hurts, choosing even when the choice comes at a cost. It is not meant to be flippant or passive. And yet, we continue to dilute it, tossing the word around in friendships, relationships, and allegiances without ever questioning whether we truly grasp the weight of what we claim. Are we loyal because it is easy? Because it is expected? Or do we embrace it fully, understanding the demands it places upon us?
Loyalty, when stripped of its illusions, is an act of will, a discipline, a conscious alignment of one’s principles. It is not something to be given carelessly, nor is it something to be demanded. It is a force, neither inherently good nor bad, but powerful in the hands of those who wield it wisely. To say I am loyal is to say I will not waver when it is inconvenient, I will not retreat when the road darkens, I will not betray even when it would serve me to do so. It is a vow that should shake us before we ever dare to speak it. Because in the end, loyalty is not about standing beside someone when it is easy; it is about standing when every reason tells you to walk away.
The word loyal traces its origins to the Old French loial, meaning “faithful, true, legal,” which itself comes from the Latin legalis, “of the law.” At its core, loyalty is not just a responsibility, it is a duty, a law in its own right, binding individuals to something beyond their own self-interest. And few embodied this burden more painfully than Hiroo Onoda, the Japanese soldier who refused to surrender after World War II had ended.
Onoda was stationed on Lubang Island in the Philippines when the war was nearing its close. In 1945, as Japan teetered on the edge of defeat, he received orders to never surrender and never believe enemy propaganda. He took those words as gospel. The war ended. The world moved on. But Onoda did not. He spent 29 years hiding in the jungle, convinced that the reports of Japan’s surrender were lies designed to trick him into laying down his arms. His loyalty to the Empire, to his mission, to his orders, was absolute. Leaflets were dropped, messages were broadcast, and former soldiers were sent to call him back. He dismissed them all. Even as his fellow soldiers abandoned the cause or were killed, he stayed, unwavering, starving, fighting a war that no longer existed. It was not until 1974, when his former commanding officer traveled to Lubang to personally relieve him of duty, that Onoda finally surrendered. He returned to a Japan that no longer resembled the country he had fought for. The Empire was gone. The war was history. And yet, for nearly three decades, he had endured hardship, isolation, and death all around him, because his loyalty had been sealed with an oath, and in his mind, that oath was unbreakable.
And so, the question is not whether we are loyal; it is whether we understand what loyalty requires. It is easy to pledge allegiance to a cause, to a person, to an ideal when no real sacrifice is demanded. But what happens when the ground beneath us starts to shake? When standing firm begins to cost us something? Loyalty, as history shows us, has never been for the faint of heart. It is not a word to be spoken lightly, because once declared, it holds power over us. It binds us to something greater than comfort, greater than fleeting self-interest. It asks of us patience when it would be easier to walk away, integrity when deceit would be more convenient, and resilience when surrender seems like the logical choice.
Onoda did not break, not because he could not see an easier way, but because his oath left him no other choice. Whether we view his loyalty as misguided or admirable, the fact remains, he was tested, and he endured. And that is the question that lingers, the question we must face with complete honesty: Could we say the same? When loyalty demands more than words, when it comes at a cost we never anticipated, do we remain? Or do we convince ourselves that breaking away is simply “practical”? Do we redefine loyalty to suit our limits, or do we stretch our limits to meet the demands of loyalty? That is the difference between speaking the word and carrying its weight. And that is what we must decide.
She rose before the sun and went to bed long after everyone else. She pawned her sewing machine to pay for school fees. She stretched one meal into twenty. She buried her husband dry-eyed because there was no room for weakness. The mother in For My Mother (May I Inherit Half Her Strength), (written by Lorna Goodison, a Jamaican poet and former Poet Laureate), did not have the luxury of questioning loyalty: she “came in always last.” It was not a word she spoke, it was a life she lived, where duty came before comfort, where sacrifice was not optional. “She could work miracles,” turning scraps into sustenance, silence into laughter, devotion into a lifetime of service. And yet, even after years of unrelenting loyalty, she was given no reward, no recognition; only more to bear. This is what loyalty looks like when stripped of sentiment. No applause, no safety net, just the quiet, brutal decision to endure.
