Escaping the Military:
Healing
the Virus of Violence
From
the Book, RADICAL
PEACE: People
Refusing War
by
William T. Hathaway
Published
by Trine Day 2010
To
read Chapter One,
click: HERE
A
young Buddhist
novice contributed
this account,
which we then
revised together.
To protect the
people who have
protected him,
he wishes to be
nameless.
Back
in high school
I'd been good
at languages but
couldn't afford
to go to college,
so I joined the
navy for the language
training. They
have a program
where if you pass
an aptitude test,
they'll send you
to the Defense
Language Institute
in Monterey, California,
for an intensive
course that's
worth almost a
year of college
credit. Plus they
have an active-duty
education program
that offers college
courses. I figured
after my discharge
I could finish
my education on
the GI Bill, and
with my language
skills, I could
get a job in international
business.
The
other military
branches offer
programs like
this too, but
the navy seemed
the best way to
stay out of the
fighting. I was
hoping for a major
language like
Chinese, Russian,
or Spanish, but
they assigned
me to Pashto,
which is spoken
in Afghanistan
and Pakistan.
After training,
I'd be stationed
on a ship in the
Arabian Sea monitoring
phone calls and
radio broadcasts,
listening for
key words that
might give a clue
about where the
Taliban were,
so the planes
from the aircraft
carriers could
bomb them. I didn't
think about this
last part, though.
I was focused
on my future.
The
study itself was
a real grind --
drills, exercises,
and vocabulary
all day long and
a couple of hours
at night. But
no classes on
weekends, so we
could take off.
I
couldn't afford
weekends in San
Francisco, but
in a bookstore
in Monterey I
saw a poster for
a two-day retreat
at a Zen Buddhist
center nearby.
It sounded weird
enough to be a
good break from
the military,
and the price
was right, so
I signed up for
the first of a
two-weekend introductory
course.
The
place was beautiful,
deep in the mountains
and forest. The
course was called
Buddha Breath,
Buddha Mind and
was led by a bald-headed
woman. Instead
of an orange robe
she wore blue
jeans and a sweatshirt.
She said first
we were going
to learn how to
breathe. I thought,
What have I got
myself into?
We
spent an hour
just breathing
in and out, and
you know, it turned
out to be pretty
interesting. When
thoughts came
up, we were supposed
to just nod to
them, then let
them go and return
to our breathing.
Thoughts and breathing,
thoughts and breathing,
and then as I
kept doing this,
I noticed something
more, some part
of me that I hadn't
known before,
that was watching
all this going
on, a quiet, wise
old part who was
just looking at
it all and nodding
OK. He'd been
doing that all
along without
my knowing it.
I thought of him
as an old guy
with a white beard.
But he was me,
that was my Buddha
mind.
The
next hour we were
supposed to keep
breathing and
watching our thoughts,
but at the same
time notice everything
happening around
us right here
and now. That
turned out to
be quite a lot.
It's amazing what
all is going on
that we don't
pay attention
to because we're
shut off in our
thoughts -- worrying
about what happened
in the past and
what might happen
in the future.
Esther, the group
leader, called
this our monkey
mind because it's
always jumping
from one thing
to another. It
gets lost in each
thing and doesn't
have any perspective
on itself. But
the Buddha mind,
that silent witness,
can give us a
peaceful perspective
on ourselves and
the world.
From
that deeper level
I noticed how
much beauty shone
in simple things:
a beaded curtain
of eucalyptus
buds swaying in
the breeze, dust
drifting through
sunlight, a fly
walking on the
wall. Watching
these while quietly
breathing in and
out, I could tell
the buds, the
dust, the fly,
and I were all
part of the Buddha
mind. It wasn't
just my mind but
something we shared.
This was a bit
spooky because
it meant there
was more to me
than me, or there
was less of me
than me, depending
on how I looked
at it.
Esther
said each of us
isn't an autonomous
monad but an aspect
of a larger wholeness.
She compared the
Buddha mind to
the entire light
spectrum, which
is mostly invisible
to us, and individuals
to the colors
we see. Colors
and individuals
appear to be different,
but they're just
sections of the
overall spectrum.
Continuity is
more basic than
differences, but
we don't see it
that way. The
same analogy works
with the ocean.
We are waves that
think of ourselves
as self-contained
units, but we're
really just water
that has temporarily
taken on this
form. Our true
identity, the
water, isn't born
and doesn't die.
It just is. The
wave suffers because
of its delusion
of individuality,
the water doesn't.
This principle
simultaneously
destroys our concept
of ourselves and
gives us a greater
one.
What
she was saying
was heavy-duty
stuff, but it
clicked in me
because it described
how I was feeling
just sitting there
breathing and
paying attention.
I signed up for
the next weekend.
During
the week I practiced
mindful breathing
and awareness
as much as I could,
which wasn't very
much. It was almost
impossible while
I was listening
to Pashto in the
language lab.
I could sort of
do it during the
regular classes
between having
to give answers.
I could do it
best when I was
alone, but I was
hardly ever alone.
We did everything
as a group. At
meals people wanted
to talk, and if
I would've told
them I just wanted
to pay attention
to my breathing,
they would've
thought I was
crazy. Finally
I came up with
the trick of putting
my MP3 in my ears
but with no music.
During meals I
could eat in silence,
and no one bothered
me because they
thought I was
listening to rock
songs and that
they could understand.
Some of the people
I usually ate
with did think
I was being unfriendly,
but I didn't know
how to explain
it.
One
night as I was
doing mindful
breathing trying
to go to sleep,
all these scenes
of war came rushing
out at me -- people
getting blown
up, crippled orphans,
survivors filled
with a grief that
turns into hatred.
They took me over
like an invading
army. My throat
tightened, and
I started to hyperventilate
-- gasping for
air, feeling like
I was suffocating.
Not exactly the
desired effect!
I kept with the
mindful breathing,
though, and rode
the turbulence
through into calmness
again. Gradually
I stopped trembling,
and the thoughts
backed off, but
I knew the war
was still out
there waiting
for me.
The
second weekend
was called Buddha
Heart, Buddha
Hands. We did
walking meditations
where we integrated
our breath with
our steps, walking
slowly and noticing
everything happening
in and around
us from the deep
inner peace of
mindfulness. Now
we did more than
observe it. We
tuned in to the
feeling level
of what was going
on. Esther told
us first to feel
our own emotions
as we were walking,
to open up to
them, accept them,
and embrace them
with compassion.
When we can accept
our pain without
resentment, we're
ready to love
our whole self,
warts and all.
Sad
feelings came
up in me, as if
they'd been waiting
for this invitation.
Rather than just
nod to them, I
asked them what
the trouble was.
They started complaining
about all sorts
of things from
long ago, or they
were afraid of
things that maybe
might happen.
I felt like a
parent listening
to a child tell
its problems,
but my parents
had never listened
to me like that,
and I'd never
listened to myself
either. I was
in a lot more
pain than I'd
wanted to admit,
and I just walked
along feeling
sorry for myself
for a while. But
the more I listened
to the pain, the
quieter it got
until it sort
of talked itself
out, and in the
silence I could
feel compassion
without really
feeling sorry
for myself. I
just accepted
what was there
without judging
it. This was the
way it was. This
was me.
We
expanded this
technique to the
people around
us. In sitting
meditation we
held the image
of each of us
in our minds and
tried to feel
what the other
was feeling and
to embrace that
with love. Then
we did this with
all of humanity,
practiced being
aware of their
pain, accepting
them and loving
them.
In
walking meditation
we applied this
to all creatures
and the environment
they exist in.
We felt the suffering
of the spider
starving because
no one comes to
its web. We felt
the suffering
of the fly caught
in the web of
another spider.
None of us is
separate, Esther
reminded us, we
are all held together
in a web of suffering
and love. The
differences between
us are a surface
illusion.
As
I was walking,
I gazed out at
the Ventana Mountains
-- they reminded
me of home in
West Virginia.
Then they looked
like Afghanistan.
I realized West
Virginia was the
same as Afghanistan.
Lots of suffering
in both places
-- people caught
in hardscrabble
poverty, intolerant
religion, rigid
family roles,
creating more
suffering because
they don't know
any other way.
My family and
the Taliban --
the same. I started
to cry because
I was training
to help bomb my
kinfolks.
In
the Buddha Hands
sessions Esther
talked about acting
on these principles
to change the
world and reduce
suffering. She
described Buddhist
projects to help
battered women
defend themselves
and forgive their
attackers, to
help prisoners
find inner freedom,
to help former
child soldiers
rediscover their
childhood and
heal their trauma.
She played a video
about Thich Nhat
Hanh, the Vietnamese
Buddhist monk
who opposed the
violence of both
the communists
and the anti-communists
and was therefore
persecuted by
both sides. Suffering
is caused by ignorance
of our true nature,
he explained,
and violence is
acting out that
suffering onto
others. We need
to both overcome
the ignorance
with mindfulness
and to end the
violence with
social action.
During
the week I had
a hard time back
in the navy. I
could see I'd
been deluding
myself by thinking
I'd be away from
the fighting if
I was sitting
on a boat out
in the ocean.
I'd be an assistant
killer, an accomplice
to murder. I thought
about the bombs
being dropped
right now, people
blown apart, families
destroyed. And
for what? Because
our government
didn't like their
government. It
was obvious to
me now that the
whole thing was
insane, and I
couldn't do it.
No way could I
spy on people's
phone and radio
conversations
and send a jet
to kill them and
anyone else who
happened to be
around. It wasn't
just that I didn't
want to, it wasn't
possible. They
were all me. I
couldn't even
be in the navy
anymore because
killing was the
purpose of the
whole show. But
the certainty
of this decision
scared me. The
military is kind
of like the Mafia
-- you can't just
quit. They come
after you.
Needing
time and a clear
head to figure
out what to do,
I cut classes
(a crime in itself)
and did a walking
meditation on
the beach. I took
off my shoes to
connect to the
earth and water.
Thoughts are like
shoes: they're
useful in certain
situations but
cut us off from
contact with the
deeper dimension,
so I tried to
get rid of them
too. Our senses
isolate us in
our egos, so I
closed my eyes
and walked blind.
As long as I walked
from my Buddha
mind, I knew where
to step. I just
had to trust that.
It was a good
exercise in living
in the moment.
I got my pant
legs soaked and
stumbled over
some driftwood,
but I belonged
to it all. I wasn't
afraid and alone
anymore. Selfless,
I had the strength
of the universe
and was filled
with a calm determination
to refuse to obey
military orders.
I knew that would
mean prison, but
I would treat
that as a stay
in a monastery
and would practice
mindfulness through
it all. With this
decision came
a rush of freedom.
That
evening I told
some of my classmates
what I was planning,
in hopes a few
of them might
join me. If several
of us refused
to obey orders,
that would have
a lot more effect
than just one
person. One they
can just shove
away in prison
and write off
as a fluke. But
a group would
get press coverage,
and we'd have
a chance to explain
why we were doing
this. It would
encourage other
people, and the
discontent would
spread. I'd read
about the Presidio
27 mutiny during
the Vietnam War,
how that helped
turn the country
against the war.
When they refused
to obey orders,
the army threatened
to execute them
all, but because
of public pressure
it released them
after a year and
a half in prison,
and they came
out as anti-war
heroes.
But
instead of solidarity,
I ran into solid
hostility. The
group turned against
me. Some of them
said I was on
the side of Osama
bin Laden, others
that I was making
all of them look
bad.
I
was disappointed
but said, "If
that's the way
you feel, forget
I mentioned it."
But they didn't
forget it. That
night they gave
me a blanket party.
I
woke up to a towel
being crammed
into my mouth.
I tried to scream,
but I was gagged.
Someone punched
me in the stomach.
I tried to get
away, but I was
held tight by
a blanket pulled
around me. They
pounded me with
all their might,
working from the
chest to the knees
with particular
preference for
the groin. They
didn't say anything
so I couldn't
tell who it was.
They just hit.
Hard.
Finally
they stopped.
I was crying and
shaking; I hurt
all over, not
just from the
beating but from
who it was that
did it. These
were my mates.
We'd been through
a lot together.
I'd thought we
were friends.
I
tried to come
back to my breathing.
Although each
breath hurt, I
managed to calm
myself. The pain
was still there,
but now I had
some distance
from it.
I
could see that
the guys probably
thought I'd betrayed
our friendship
too -- one of
their mates turned
traitor on them,
made them feel
immoral for being
in the military.
Seeing it from
the point of view
of their pain
helped me get
back to mindfulness.
This was just
another example,
like war, of people
acting out their
suffering by inflicting
it on others.
I could feel these
guys' pain at
being working-class
dorks, Bush's
pain at being
a rich loser,
the Taliban's
pain at their
helplessness to
stop the world
from changing.
Through
my own pain I
could feel the
huge mass of collective
pain that explodes
into wars which
then generate
more pain, infecting
more people with
hatred. I could
see that violence
reproduces itself
like a virus,
and the way to
stop it is to
relieve suffering
wherever we find
it so it doesn't
build up.
I
thought about
military prison
and the suffering
that awaited me
there. I wouldn't
be locked up with
pacifists but
with regular criminals
who could be a
lot meaner than
the guys tonight.
I might get beat
up, humiliated,
raped.
A
few hours ago
during walking
meditation, going
to prison to uphold
my principles
seemed noble.
Now lying here
trembling in pain
it seemed nutty.
I didn't need
any more suffering.
Been there. Done
that. Got the
T-shirt.
I
was going to do
more than just
refuse to obey
orders; I was
refusing to go
to prison too.
I was deserting.
Right now.
Aching
all over, I tossed
my few civilian
things into my
bag, hobbled out
of the barracks,
drove off the
base, and spent
the night in a
motel outside
Monterey. In the
morning my body
was bruised, swollen,
stiff and sore,
and my piss was
pink, but my mind
was clear and
free. As soon
as I thought about
the future, though,
I got scared.
Now I was a fugitive.
I
soaked in a hot
bath, then meditated
to bring the mind
back to right
now, where all
the problems seemed
manageable. For
the first time
since joining
the military,
I felt like a
warrior, but a
different kind
-- for peace.
I
drove to the Zen
center and told
them what happened.
They said they'd
help, but we agreed
I shouldn't stay
there because
I'd mentioned
the place to a
couple of the
guys. Esther called
around to other
centers and found
one where I could
stay. Their roof
needed mending,
and I could earn
my room and board
that way.
I
bowed to Esther
in thanks, and
she bowed back
to me. She'd taught
me an amazing
amount in two
weeks, really
changed my life.
I
sold my car so
it couldn't be
traced and took
a long bus ride
with lots of other
poor people. Looking
around at them,
I knew that some
of the younger
ones were probably
thinking of joining
the military.
They'd still be
poor, but at least
they'd have something.
In exchange for
a bit of security,
they'd help their
government kill
people. That was
their best chance
in life. What
does that say
about our society?
Working
on the roof at
my new Buddhist
center was a great
way to experience
the interconnectedness
of all life. Up
there in silence,
I could feel how
the sun was becoming
part of me. It
was also giving
life to the plants
in the garden
that would then
give life to us,
and later our
bodies when buried
would give life
to other plants.
I thought about
how the atoms
of my body had
been formed in
the core of other
suns. The people
downstairs were
cooking food for
me while I was
keeping them dry.
I thought about
my family and
the people who
would come after
me, and I knew
we were all more
closely tied together
than I'd ever
imagined. At the
most basic level
we weren't separate,
we were all just
cells in this
great body of
God called the
universe. That
body was held
together by the
laws of physics
but also by laws
of love and compassion,
the need to treat
each other kindly
and not generate
more suffering.
Once we see the
interconnections,
killing anything
becomes suicide.
That
made me think
about how our
economic system
is based on ignoring
these connections.
People are deluded
that they are
separate, and
that makes them
so insecure and
frightened that
they have to grab
everything they
can to defend
themselves, build
walls of property
they can hide
behind, then armies
to guard the walls.
I
could see all
that from up on
the roof as I
was nailing shingles
mindfully, breathing
mindfully, and
occasionally screaming
mindfully when
I banged my thumb
with the hammer.
After finishing
the roof, I worked
in the garden,
where it became
even clearer that
the plants and
bugs and dirt
and I are just
the same divine
energy temporarily
expressing itself
in different forms,
all of it sacred
and fragile and
worthy of care.
I've
been here a year
now. Eight of
us are working
on staff, and
many more come
for courses. We
do sitting and
walking meditations
together and try
to live in each
moment because
that's all anyone
has, but that's
enough since each
moment is eternity.
At night we read
and discuss the
scriptures with
our two monks,
chant the Pali
suttas, and go
to bed early.
One
of the monks is
from Japan, and
he's teaching
me Japanese. It's
a beautiful language.
*
RADICAL
PEACE: People
Refusing War presents
the first-person
experiences of
war resisters,
deserters, and
peace activists
in the USA, Europe,
Iraq, and Afghanistan.
Just released
by Trine Day,
it's a journey
along diverse
paths of nonviolence,
the true stories
of people working
for peace in unconventional
ways.
William
T. Hathaway's
other books include
A WORLD OF HURT
(Rinehart Foundation
Award), CD-RING,
and SUMMER SNOW.
He is an adjunct
professor of American
studies at the
University of
Oldenburg in Germany.
A selection of
his work is available
at www.peacewriter.org.
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