If you ever have the chance to go to the Middle East, be sure to visit Jordan (a marvellous, friendly country), go to the Dead Sea, and look at Israel on the other side. You will understand then that peace is both necessary and possible. Below, I give part of the speech I wrote and read during the event, accompanied by improvisations from the brilliant Jewish violinist Ivry Gitlis.
Peace is not the opposite of war.
We can have peace in our heart even in the midst of the fiercest battles, because we are fighting for our dreams. When our friends have lost hope, the peace of the Good Fight helps us to carry on.
A mother who can feed her child has peace in her eyes, even when her hands are trembling because diplomacy has failed, bombs are falling, and soldiers dying.
An archer drawing his bow has peace in his mind, even though all his muscles are tense with the physical effort.
Therefore, for warriors of light, peace is not the opposite of war, because they are capable of:
a distinguishing between the transient and the enduring. They can fight for their dreams and for their survival, but respect bonds forged over time, through culture and religion.
b knowing that their adversaries are not necessarily their enemies.
c being aware that their actions will affect five future generations, and that their children and grandchildren will benefit from (or suffer) the consequences.
d remembering what the I Ching says: 'Perseverance is favourable.' But they know too that perseverance is not the same thing as stubbornness. Battles that go on longer than necessary end up destroying the enthusiasm necessary for later reconstruction.
For the warrior of light, there are no abstractions. Every opportunity to transform himself is an opportunity to transform the world.
For the warrior of light, pessimism does not exist. He rows against the tide if necessary; for when he is old and tired, he will be able to say to his grandchildren that he came into this world to understand his neighbour better, not to condemn his brother.
In San Diego Harbour, California
I was talking to a woman from the Tradition of the Moon - a kind of initiation path for women that works in harmony with the forces of nature.
'Would you like to touch a seagull?' she asked, looking at the birds perched along the sea wall.
Of course I would. I tried several times, but whenever I got close, they would fly away.
'Try to feel love for the bird, then allow that love to pour out of your breast like a ray of light and touch the bird's breast. Then very quietly go over to it.'
I did as she suggested. The first two times I failed, but the third time, as if I had entered a kind of trance, I did touch the seagull. I went into that trance state again with the same positive result.
'Love creates bridges where it would seem they were impossible,' said my white witch friend.
I recount this experience here, for anyone who would like to try it.
The Art of Withdrawal
A warrior of light who trusts too much in his intelligence will end up underestimating the power of his opponent.
It is important not to forget that, sometimes, strength is more effective than strategy. When we are confronted by a certain kind of violence, no amount of brilliance, argument, intelligence, or charm can avert tragedy.
That is why the warrior never underestimates brute force. When it proves too violent, he withdraws from the battlefield until his enemy has exhausted himself.
However, be very clear about one thing: a warrior of light is never cowardly. Flight might be an excellent form of defence, but it cannot be used when one is very afraid.
When in doubt, the warrior prefers to face defeat and then lick his wounds, because he knows that, if he flees, he is giving to the aggressor greater power than he deserves.
The warrior of light can heal the physical suffering, but will be eternally pursued by his spiritual weakness. In difficult and painful times, the warrior faces overwhelming odds with heroism, resignation, and courage.
In order to reach the necessary state of mind (since he is entering a battle in which he is at a disadvantage and could suffer greatly), the warrior of light needs to know exactly what might harm him. Okakura Kakuzo says in his book on the Japanese tea ceremony: 'We see the evil in others because we know the evil in ourselves. We never forgive those who wound us because we believe that we would never be forgiven. We say the painful truth to others because we want to hide it from ourselves. We show our strength, so that no one can see our frailty. That is why, whenever you judge your brother, be aware that it is you who is in the dock.'
Sometimes, this awareness can avoid a fight that will only bring disadvantages. Sometimes, however, there is no way out, only an unequal battle.
'We know we are going to lose, but our enemy and his violence leave us no alternative, apart from cowardice, and that is of no interest to us. At such a moment, it is necessary to accept destiny, trying to keep in mind a text from the wonderful Bhagavad Gita (Chapter II, 16-26): 'Man is not born, nor does he die. Having come into existence, he will never cease to be, because he is eternal and permanent.
'Just as a man discards old clothes and puts on new clothes, so the soul discards the old body and puts on a new one.
'But the soul is indestructible; swords cannot pierce it, fire cannot burn it, water cannot wet it, the wind cannot dry it. It is beyond the power of all these things.
'Since man is always indestructible, he is always victorious (even in his defeats), and that is why he should never be sad.'
In the Midst of War
The film-maker Rui Guerra told me that, one night, he was talking with friends in a house in the interior of Mozambique. The country was at war, and so everything - from petrol to electric light - was in short supply.
To pass the time, they started talking about what they would like to eat. Each of them described his or her favourite food; and when it came to Rui's turn, he said: 'I'd like to eat an apple', knowing that, because of rationing, it was impossible to find any fruit at all.
At that precise moment, they heard a noise, and a beautiful, shiny apple rolled into the room and stopped in front of him!
Later, Rui discovered that one of the girls who lived there had gone out to buy some fruit on the black market. As she came up the stairs, she tripped and fell, the bag of apples she had bought split open, and one of the apples had rolled into the room.
Mere coincidence? That would be a very poor word to explain this story.
The Soldier in the Forest
Climbing a trail up into the Pyrenees in search of some where to practise my archery, I stumbled upon an encampment of French soldiers. The soldiers all stared at me, but I pretended to have seen nothing (well, we are all of us a little paranoid about being mistaken for spies...) and walked on.
I found the ideal spot, did my preparatory breathing exercises, and then I noticed an armoured vehicle approaching.
I immediately went on the defensive and armed myself with answers for any questions I might be asked: I have a licence to use a bow, the place is perfectly safe, any objections are the business of the forest rangers, not the army, etc. However, a colonel jumped out of the vehicle, asked if I was a writer, and told me a few interesting facts about the region.
Then, overcoming his almost visible shyness, he went on to say that he, too, had written a book and explained the unusual way it had come about.
He and his wife used to sponsor a child with leprosy, and that child, who originally lived in India, was later transferred to France. One day, feeling curious to meet the little girl, they went to the convent where she was being cared for by nuns. They spent a lovely afternoon, and at the end, one of the nuns asked if he would consider helping in the spiritual education of the group of children living there. Jean Paul Setau (the name of the colonel) explained that he had no experience of giving catechism classes, but that he would give the matter some thought and ask God what to do.
That night, after h
is prayers, he heard the reply: 'Instead of merely giving answers, try to find out what questions children want to ask.'
After that, Setau had the idea of visiting several schools and asking pupils to write down everything they would like to know about life. He asked for the questions in writing, so that the shyer children would not be afraid of asking too. The results were collected together in a book - L'Enfant qui posait toujours des questions (The Child Who Was Always Asking Questions).
Here are some of those questions:
Where do we go after we die?
Why are we afraid of foreigners?
Do Martians and extraterrestrial beings really exist?
Why do accidents happen even to people who believe in God?
What does God mean?
Why are we born if we all die in the end?
How many stars are there in the sky?
Who invented war and happiness?
Does God also listen to people who don't believe in the same (Catholic) God?
Why are there poor people and ill people?
Why did God create mosquitoes and flies?
Why isn't our guardian angel beside us when we're sad?
Why do we love some people and hate others?
Who named the different colours?
If God is in Heaven and my mother is there too because she died, how come He's alive?
I hope some teachers, if they read this, will be encouraged to do the same thing. Instead of trying to impose our adult understanding of the universe, we might be reminded of some of our own, as yet unanswered, childhood questions.
In a Town in Germany
'Isn't this an interesting monument?' says Robert. The late autumn sun is beginning to set. We are in a town in Germany.
'I can't see anything,' I say. 'Just an empty square.'
'The monument is beneath our feet,' Robert insists.
I look down. I see only plain slabs, all of them the same. I don't want to disappoint my friend, but I can't see anything else in the square.
Robert explains: 'It's called "The Invisible Monument". Carved on the underneath of each of these stones is the name of a place where Jews were killed. Anonymous artists created this square during the Second World War, and continued adding slabs as new places of extermination were discovered. Even if no one could see them, it would remain here as a witness, and the future would end up finding out the truth about the past.'
Meeting in the Dentsu Gallery
Three gentlemen, all immaculately dressed, appeared in my hotel in Tokyo.
'Yesterday you gave a lecture at the Dentsu Gallery,' said one of the men. 'I just happened to go to it and I arrived at the moment when you were saying that no meeting occurs by chance. Perhaps we should introduce ourselves.'
I didn't ask how they had found out where I was staying, I didn't ask anything; people who are capable of overcoming such difficulties deserve our respect. One of the men handed me some books written in Japanese calligraphy. My interpreter became very excited. The gentleman was Kazuhito Aida, the son of a great Japanese poet of whom I had never heard.
And it was precisely the mystery of synchronicity that allowed me to know, read, and to be able to share with my readers a little of the magnificent work of Mitsuo Aida (1924-91), poet and calligrapher, whose poems remind us of the importance of innocence.
Because it has lived its life intensely the parched grass still attracts the gaze of passers-by.
The flowers merely flower,
and they do this as well as they can.
The white lily, blooming unseen in the valley, Does not need to explain itself to anyone; It lives merely for beauty.
Men, however, cannot accept that 'merely'.
If tomatoes wanted to be melons,
they would look completely ridiculous.
I am always amazed
that so many people are concerned
with wanting to be what they are not; what's the point of making yourself look ridiculous?
You don't always have to pretend to be strong, there's no need to prove all the time that everything is going well, you shouldn't be concerned about what other people are thinking, cry if you need to,
it's good to cry out all your tears
(because only then will you be able to smile again).
Sometimes, on TV, I see tunnels and bridges being inaugurated. Usually, a lot of celebrities and local politicians stand in a line, in the centre of which is the minister or local governor. Then a ribbon is cut, and when the people in charge of the project return to their desks, they find lots of letters expressing recognition and admiration.
The people who sweated and worked on the project, who wielded pickaxes and spades, who laboured all through the summer heat or endured the winter cold in order to finish the job, are never seen; those who did not work by the sweat of their brow always seem to come off best.
I want to be someone capable of seeing the unseen faces, of seeing those who do not seek fame or glory, who silently fulfil the role life has given them.
I want to be able to do this because the most important things, those that shape our existence, are precisely the ones that never show their faces.
Reflections on 11 September 2001
Only now, a few years on, can I write about these events. I avoided writing about it at the time, to allow everyone to think about the consequences of the attacks in their own way.
It is always very hard to accept that a tragedy can, in some way, have positive results. As we gazed in horror at what looked more like a scene from a science fiction movie - the two towers crumbling and carrying thousands of people with them as they fell - we had two immediate responses: first, a sense of impotence and terror in the face of what was happening; second, a sense that the world would never be the same again.
The world will never be the same, it's true; but, after this long period of reflection on what happened, is there still a sense that all those people died in vain? Or can something other than death, dust, and twisted steel be found beneath the rubble of the World Trade Center?
I believe that the life of every human being is, at some point, touched by tragedy. It could be the destruction of a city, the death of a child, a baseless accusation, an illness that appears without warning and brings with it permanent disability. Life is a constant risk, and anyone who forgets this will be unprepared for the challenges that fate may have in store. Whenever we come face to face with that inevitable suffering, we are forced to try and make some sense of what is happening, to overcome our fear, and set about the process of rebuilding.
The first thing we must do when confronted by suffering and insecurity is to accept them for what they are. We cannot treat these feelings as if they had nothing to do with us, or transform them into a punishment that satisfies our eternal sense of guilt. In the rubble of the World Trade Center there were people like us, who felt secure or unhappy, fulfilled or still struggling to grow, with a family waiting for them at home, or driven to despair by the loneliness of the big city. They were American, English, German, Brazilian, Japanese; people from all corners of the globe, united by the common - and mysterious - fate of finding themselves, at around nine o'clock in the morning, in the same place, a place which, for some, was pleasant and, for others, oppressive. When the two towers collapsed, not only those people died: we all died a little, and the whole world grew smaller.
When faced by a great loss, be it material, spiritual, or psychological, we need to remember the great lessons taught to us by the wise: patience, and the certainty that everything in this life is temporary. From that point of view, let us take a new look at our values. If the world is not going to be a safe place again, at least not for many years, then why not take advantage of that sudden change, and spend our days doing the things we have always wanted to do, but for which we always lacked the courage? On the morning of 11 September 2001, how many people were in the World Trade Center against their will, following a career that didn't really suit them, doing
work they didn't like, simply because it was a safe job and would guarantee them enough money for a pension in their old age?
That was the great change in the world, and those who were buried beneath the rubble of the two towers are now making us rethink our own lives and values. When the towers collapsed, they dragged down with them dreams and hopes; but they also opened up our own horizons, and allowed each of us to reflect upon the meaning of our lives.
According to a story told about events immediately after the bombing of Dresden, a man was walking past a plot of land covered in rubble when he saw three workmen.
'What are you doing?' he asked.
The first workman turned round and said: 'Can't you see? I'm shifting these stones!'
'Can't you see? I'm earning a wage!' said the second workman.
'Can't you see?' said the third workman. 'I'm rebuilding the cathedral!'
Although those three workmen were all engaged on the same task, only one had a sense of the real meaning of his life and his work. Let us hope that in the world that exists after 11 September 2001, each of us will prove able to lift ourselves out from beneath our own emotional rubble and rebuild the cathedral we always dreamed of, but never dared to create.
God's Signs
I sabelita told me the following story. An old illiterate Arab used to pray with such fervour each night that the wealthy owner of the great caravan decided to summon him so as to talk to him.
'Why do you pray with such devotion? How do you know God exists when you don't even know how to read?'