Water from the Well

Water from the Well

Sunday, April 21, 2013

Thoughts after the Marathon Bombings


The day after the bombings at the Boston marathon, I went to my yoga class. Our teacher invited us to hold the people of Boston in the peacefulness of our breathing. I thought about the vulnerability of breath—how quickly it can be extinguished, and how quickly life can be no more. We so often take it for granted, but in that moment, I did not. When we breathe we are a part of a great rhythm and flow of life. The air invisibly connects us all. Zen teacher Thich Nhat Hanh has said, “We are here to awaken from the illusion of our separateness.”

This week I have been thinking about a poem he wrote many years ago, “Call Me By My True Names.” He wrote it after hearing a tragic and horrible story of a young girl, one of the boat people trying to escape from Vietnam. She had been raped by a sea pirate, and jumped in the ocean and drowned. He felt very angry at the pirate. But looking more deeply, he realized that if he had been born in the village of the pirate, and raised in the same way, he too might have become a pirate. He tells us we are all responsible for the circumstances that create the pirate.

I have been thinking about the bombings in Boston, and about two boys. First of all, my heart broke when I saw the picture of the eight year old who was killed, Martin Richard. I think all of our hearts broke. In the picture, he was smiling and holding a poster—“No More Hurting People—Peace.” How do we take in the horrible tragedy of his young life cut short?

A couple days later, other pictures appeared, of two young men who were suspects in the bombing. We learned that they were brothers, originally from Chechnya and Dagestan, but living in Massachusetts for the past decade. People who knew the younger brother talked about their surprise that Dzhokhar could have done such a thing: he was only nineteen, a normal kid, friendly, a good student, he had been involved in sports at Cambridge Rindge and Latin. As the cities around Boston were locked down in the search to find him, I felt a sense of bewildered compassion for this teenager, now alone, wounded, who for some inexplicable reason had thrown his life away into violence. As President Obama asked on Friday, “Why did young men who grew up and studied here as part of our communities and country resort to such violence?”

We don't know the answer to that question. So many young men in our country have exploded into senseless killing. Columbine, Sandy Hook, Virginia Tech. But I also thought about Chechnya and Dagestan and the violence and war of that region in which they spent their early childhood. The people there tried to form an independent state after the dissolution of the Soviet Union, but were violently repressed by the Russian government.

Of course, I felt relief and gratitude when Dzhokhar Tsarnaev was captured. People could rest easy now. It is natural to feel compassion for the victims of violence. But I don't think we can end terrorism without beginning the difficult process of opening to compassion for its perpetrators as well. Violence is a cycle that we are all caught inside. We must move beyond dividing the world into us and them. We must move beyond the practices of empire, where nations force other peoples to do their bidding through the use of war and weapons. The only real way to fight terrorism is to recognize our common humanity.

Thich Nhat Hahn wrote his poem Call Me By My True Names, after a long meditation on the unity of all beings. He says, “In the poem there are three people: the twelve year old girl, the pirate, and me. Can we look at one another and recognize ourselves in each other.” In my heart today there are three people: eight year old Martin, nineteen year old Dzhokhar and me. Can we recognize ourselves in each other?

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