The son of a statesman. The shadow of a war. The weight of unspoken truths. 

Craig McNamara grew up surrounded by power—Sunday lunches at the White House, brushing shoulders with presidents and generals. Yet, beneath the dreamy surface of this life lied an unsettling truth: the man he called “Dad,” his father, Robert McNamara—the US Secretary of Defense, was a key architect of the Vietnam War. He knew the Vietnam War was unwinnable but still pressed on. What does it mean when your father’s decisions send thousands of men to die? How do you reconcile love for the man who raised you with anger for the man who misled a nation?

As Craig grew, he wasn’t only searching for answers about the war; he was confronting the silence that had always lingered between father and son. He was caught between the comfort of family and the gravity of history. He spent years grappling with one question—why did his father lie?

The book “Because Our Fathers Lied” is a story of conflict—between a man and his father, between past and present, and between what was said and what was buried. Find out with us: will the answers Craig finds bring peace, or only deepen the wounds left by a father’s silence?

Growing up as Robert McNamara’s son was both thrilling and lonely. Thrilling because being the son of the U.S. Secretary of Defense during the Vietnam War, he  “had a front-row seat to history.” Lonely, because he was often left out of his father’s life.At fifteen, he was sent off to St. Paul’s, a  strict New England boarding school. His skills on the football field earned him the nickname “Missile McNamara,” but academics were a different story—he struggled.One winter evening, Craig decided to reach out to his father directly. There was a teach-in on Vietnam at school, and who better than his dad to help him understand the war? So, he called his father, asking him to send over materials explaining why America was fighting. His dad cheerfully agreed, but nothing ever arrived. Just silence. It hit Craig hard—a small taste of the growing distance between them, one he didn’t yet know how to bridge.As he got older, Craig sought answers in history books and articles, piecing together a view of his father’s work. One story struck him hard: in 1965, a Quaker named Norman Morrison had set himself on fire outside the Pentagon to protest the war, right below his father’s office window. His dad never mentioned it. Craig often wondered, “Did Dad even look out the window that day?”There were other moments when the shadow of Vietnam fell over the family. During a ski trip, Craig saw his father’s face tighten with guilt as a Quaker couple confronted him about the war. But as always, no one talked about it afterward. Frustrated, Craig began his own quiet protest, decorating his room with symbols of resistance, including a captured Viet Cong flag—a communist symbol from the Vietnam war his father had brought home. It was a small, silent rebellion, one his dad never acknowledged.Before politics, life had felt simpler. In Ann Arbor, Michigan, they were just a family with book club meetings, lively Halloween parties, and close friends. Then came the year 1961 when his father joined JFK’s cabinet as Secretary of Defense. Suddenly, his dad was in the middle of the Vietnam War, while his mother took on the role of peacemaker, supporting his career while keeping their family distanced from the pressures of Washington’s social circles. To Craig, she was the bridge between him and his father—the steady presence that held everything together. And when she passed away...

Craig moved to Stanford, California. His journey there was more than just going to college—it was an escape from the shadow of his father. Ironically though, he had gotten in thanks to his father’s name! But here he had a chance to speak out for himself—to understand the war.By 1969, antiwar protests spread everywhere. His college wasn’t spared either.  One particular protest at Stanford still stands out. It started off peaceful—Craig even found himself trying to calm the crowd, shouting, “Don’t break the windows!” But in the heat of the moment, he too got swept up, smashing a window as frustration poured out of him. It was raw, unplanned, and strangely cathartic. For Craig, protest wasn’t just rebellion—it was survival, a way to channel the mess of emotions he couldn’t name.Another protest at San Francisco Airport left Craig feeling something he hadn’t before: shame. He and other students were reading the names of fallen U.S. soldiers, standing in respectful silence, when some men in the crowd sneered, “You haven’t been there.” Craig froze. He hadn’t been there, hadn’t come close, and here he was, the son of the war’s architect, reading names he knew little about. That remark cut Craig deep. It reminded him of the years he had lived in his father’s shadow.Back at Stanford, Craig was barely in class, spending more time at protests than on homework. But, no matter how many marches, the war dragged on and his father’s involvement haunted him over and over again. “I realized,” Craig would later reflect, “that he must have known all along we couldn’t win.”But soon, the war became very real for him. He received the notice for the draft—a process where young men were required to join the armed forces and potentially go to war, even if they didn’t want to. When he went to his draft physical in Oakland, his stomach ulcers saved him; a doctor deemed him medically unfit, and he was “disqualified.” The relief was immediate, but it didn’t last. He wondered if maybe he should have gone, should have paid some kind of debt for his father’s role in the war. Did his dad ever even stop to consider what all this meant for him?Years later, on his farm, Craig met a truck driver who had served in Vietnam. Craig asked if he regretted going. The man replied, “The worst decision was going, but the...

For Craig, settling down and joining the establishment that his father was a part of felt like a betrayal, so he barely hesitated to say yes to the trip. He and his friends—Will, a boarding school buddy, and Rob, a farm kid from Baltimore—bought three BMW bikes and set off carrying a map, a little more than curiosity and a few phrases of Spanish. Sounds like freedom, adventure, and escape—all in one.Their journey reached a literal dead end in Panama when they hit the Darién Gap—a hundred miles of impenetrable jungle. But they didn’t give up.Each mile felt harder, more distant from his father’s world, but somehow closer to understanding himself.Some time later, Will and Rob decided to head back but Craig chose to continue alone. He rode into the highlands of Ecuador, then Peru, and finally Chile. He hitchhiked, rode in the back of trucks, shared meals with locals, and spent nights in quiet solitude. There was clarity in being alone. And FINALLY, he felt like he was leaving his father’s shadow behind. But soon after, he received a reality check!Craig recalls an incident from when he was still in Chile. Craig had learned that radicals in Berkeley had plotted to kidnap and kill his father, Robert McNamara. The police report detailed the radical group's meticulous surveillance of the McNamara family, including maps of their Snowmass home and physical descriptions of Craig himself. Seeing himself reduced to just "Mr. Mac's son" in the eyes of these would-be assassins was a jarring reminder of how he could never fully escape his father's shadow, even as he tried to forge his own path. Years later, when his father asked him to testify against one of the conspirators, Craig found himself torn between loyalty to his family and people he had once felt aligned with.Arriving in Santiago, Craig found the city alive with the spirit of change. Craig settled down; renting a home with other travelers, roaming the markets, indulging in fresh seafood and cheap Chilean wine. Life was free, unburdened, though the U.S. sanctions on Chilean President Allende’s government meant jobs were scarce. He felt no rush to leave; here, he was just Craig—not the son of Robert McNamara. One day, he spotted his father’s name in the local paper. His dad, now head of the World Bank, was in Santiago for a U.N. summit. This made Craig realize how even...

Returning to the States in 1973 felt strange to Craig, like stepping into a whole new world. He thought about how the Vietnam veterans must have felt coming back to the country: not welcomed but judged for the war and the defeat.Washington brought him joy with family and friends, but it was brief. To Craig, the normal world felt almost absurd. Grocery stores seemed endless! Aisles packed with processed foods, and massive refrigerators seemed just wasteful after his time in South America. Back in his old room, surrounded by “Vietnam souvenirs,” he realized he was a changed man in a world that was exactly the same.If there was one thing Craig knew for sure, it was that he wanted to become a farmer. Farming grounded him, a life worlds away from his father’s life. His love for farming had grown from watching indigenous communities plant the “Three Sisters”—maize, beans, and squash—in South America. So, back in the U.S., he decided to study agriculture at UC Davis. Craig couldn’t help but think of the farmers in Latin America who did it out of necessity, with no choice. It was Julie, a no-nonsense fellow student who helped him feel accepted for who he was. After graduating, Craig set off on a road trip across America, searching for land to call home. Stopping at his parents’ place in Washington, for once, he didn’t feel overwhelmed by the American consumerism surrounding him.Quietly supportive, Craig’s father even sent his résumé to agricultural leaders, including former Secretary of Agriculture, Orville Freeman, hoping to help Craig break into the industry. Discovering these letters years later reminded Craig that his father had tried to be there for him in his own way, even if it couldn’t heal the deeper rifts between them.Eventually, Craig started his farming journey. In 1980, at 30 years old, he became a walnut farmer. With the farm underway, Craig and his father grew closer in a unique way. They had early morning calls—4:45 a.m. in California—about the farm’s finances. His dad’s focus was on profit margins, while Craig was more interested in sustainable practices. Still, Craig yearned for his dad to walk the fields with him, to experience the daily grind of farming. And while they couldn’t bridge everything, their ski trips became a peaceful ritual and Craig held on to these moments.Craig loved visiting Tomendán—a small village in Mexico where he spent time...

The closest Craig and his father ever came to truly connecting was at the Telluride Film Festival in 2003. His father had invited him to see The Fog of War, Errol Morris's documentary about his life and choices during the Vietnam War. Craig could sense his father’s vulnerability; the film threatened to expose the more vulnerable, self-doubting side of the usually stoic Robert McNamara. But Craig felt sidelined as Robert remained distant, focused on the festival and not really on their time together. In Craig’s words, “I became just another face in the crowd left to experience the festival on my own.”After the screening, a stranger, full of anger, approached him at dinner and called his father a “war criminal.” The encounter left Craig feeling exposed and unsettled, and that night, he lay awake wondering if anything would ever bring him closure. At another screening however, Craig saw some of his father’s humanity. After the film, at dinner with Alice Waters—an American chef and food activist, Robert placed a single walnut from Craig’s farm in her hand. This simple, genuine gesture was forCraig saw a small symbol of his father’s love for him.As the time wore on, Robert’s health declined. After an accident left him with a broken neck, he was confined to rehab, and Craig began visiting him more often. One day, he gently asked, “Are you happy, Dad?” Robert’s answer was as elusive as ever: “Very happy,” he replied, leaving Craig feeling as disconnected as before.During his father’s final months, Craig often sat by his bedside, trying to reassure him that he hadn’t been abandoned. He even tried to bridge the gap by planning family hikes to remind his father of the good old times. In July 2009, Robert passed away and was buried alongside his wife on Martha’s Vineyard as per his last wish.After Robert passed away, Craig gained more insight through Errol Morris’s interviews with his father, conducted during the making of the documentary The Fog of War. As he did so, he found himself wrestling with his own emotions—admiration, love, anger, and a lingering sadness. “It would be easier,” he admitted, “to just be angry at him.” Robert had spent his life shielding Craig from the darker parts of his legacy, but Craig now realized that shield had only cast shadows over their relationship.It wasn’t until 2017 that Craig considered finally making the journey to...

Craig McNamara’s journey isn’t about finding all the answers—it’s about coming to terms with his father’s complex legacy. His father’s ambition and silence left scars, but they also shaped Craig’s path, pushing him toward farming and self-discovery. Through protests, travels, and quiet moments, Craig learned that healing often comes through acceptance, not resolution. His story reminds us that while we may never fully escape our past, we can learn to live with it and even find meaning in carrying it forward.