humans are funny

Category: buddhism

  • Can’t someone just start a war over there or something?

    Remember when I said I hated the Vietnamese government and talked shit about them (here)? Well, they’re back to their old games, they are. Those bastards.

    Thich Nhat Hanh is a Vietnamese monk. And he’s not part of the government, so I like him. Even MLK Jr. liked him and nominated him for a Nobel Peace Prize. Visiting his monastery is what got me interested in meditation and sparked my interest in taking this very trip.

    But the Vietnamese government has hated him since the 60s. During the Vietnam war, he called for peace. This was speaking out against the government, so they kicked him out of the country. For good. For calling for peace! Then, years later, the Vietnamese decided they needed foreign investors and wanted off the US’s blacklist regarding religious freedom. Yes, even though they have museums dedicated to blaming the US for every Vietnamese malady in current civilization, the government wanted to be friends again.

    So…. Forty years after kicking him out, they invited Thich Nhat Hanh back to his homeland. He came, established Bat Nha monastery in the mountains, and began to give peace a chance. People flocked to him and his interpretation of what Buddhism should be (slightly less superstitious than the Buddhism the government likes). Soon he had 400 monks and nuns living there. He encourages people to stop when they hear a bell ring, take a breath, be thankful that they’re alive, and go find a flower. Of course he’s gonna have followers. The man lulls your brain into a peaceful trance at just the sight of his gentle eyes:

    “Uh oh,” said the Socialist Vietnamese government. “Young people have power, and most of Thich Nhat Hanh’s 400 monks are young and well-educated.” I can just imagine some 3-foot Vietnamese version of Glen Beck saying, “We can’t let those capitalists capitalize. They’re terrorists. They’re not even born in Vietnam. We better get ‘em.”

    Now, after Vietnam has been taken off the US religion blacklist, become a member of the WTO and attracted more foreign investment, they can send a group to destroy Thich Nhat Hanh’s Bat Nha monastery.

    And that’s what they did on Sept 27th. They busted in and tore Bat Nha to the ground.

    A mob 150 deep grabbed the meditating monks and forced them outside “like animals.” They kicked in doors, threw supplies and books into the rain, and tore up all monastic property. What did the monks do? They continued meditating. The nuns locked themselves into their hamlets, but the mob persisted, forcing them out with weapons. Most of the monastics are from 15-25 with nowhere to go.

    The Thich Nhat Hanh camp says:

    Our goal is not to condemn the instigators of violence. Experience teaches us that judging and demonizing are counter-productive. All human beings experience suffering and seek a way to attain well-being: some through power, others through spiritual pursuits. Without judging or imposing our point of view, we can legitimately affirm our need to live in peace and harmony and seek deeper understanding.

    For goodness sake, the man is a beacon of peace. I heard this story and wanted to go kick some dictatorial ass. I could too. I was taller than every man in that there country. What he’s asking is that we all stay informed at helpbatnha.org and spread the word. Also, since the U.S. has decided to remove Vietnam from the list of Countries of Particular Concern (CPC) regarding religious freedom, we need everyone to urge the U.S. to change that status! Please email Hillary Clinton directly; a sample letter is here.

    I will now go await a truck of small Vietnamese men who will surely be waiting for me with rice sacks the moment I hit ‘publish.’ Nice knowing you.

  • Excuse me, Mr. Monk… My butt is asleep.

    Luckies!

    I wrote up a whole big thing about how the Theravada Buddhism retreat truly awakened me, how I grew to understand and love the cement bed and wooden pillow, how I have now learned to be much more accepting of others (except, of course, those who wear Hard Rock Cafe T-shirts), and how I now completely grasp and follow Buddhism.

    But then I realized it sounded just like the pamphlet about Islam I received upon crossing the Malaysian border. So, I will refrain from subjecting anyone else to such a harrowing affair.

    Instead, since today lies somewhere between Mother’s and Father’s day, I will recount a story I heard from a nun at the retreat. Imagine this spilling from the lips of a very frail, gentle woman with short choppy hair, frameless spectacles, and funny English :

    In the seventies, Tom, now a monk, graduated high school in England and wanted to see the world. He left on foot, despite his mother’s protests, and headed East. He hitchhiked and found odd jobs and made it all the way to Iran. Unfortunately, he found himself without money, food, or work. For the first time, he was stuck. He went two days without food and began to worry. Forced to beg, he reluctantly set up on the street in the rain. After almost a third day without anything to eat, a Persian woman saw him and told him to follow her. Instead of fearing a boy twice her size, she brought him into her house and cooked him a hearty meal. Then, she found him some clothes to wear and washed the ones he was wearing. He offered to help her around the house, but she declined. She gave him leftovers and sent him on his way. Nobody saw her be kind to this stranger. She did it only because she thought it was the right thing to do.

    Of course, he was more than grateful. His heart swelled with love and an undying urge to repay this most generous woman. He sat for hours in shock at the sheer kindness he received, and since that day has never forgotten that woman.

    But then it hit him. She gave him one outfit and cooked him one meal.
    Her generosity seemed monumental. But in how many outfits have our parents clothed us? How many meals have they cooked for us? Their generosity spans our lifetimes, and we don’t see it so clearly because they never let us reach that dreadful point of desperation.

    I like that story.
    It made me feel horribly guilty for insisting the outfits my mother provided be of a specific brand. I believe I cried and moaned for Z. Cavariccis. And my mother, the provider that she was, took me to Gurnee Mills and found me an outlet pair!
    Thanks mom and dad!