I have to say, I had to agree with the limitations to the practice of ahimsa. Of course it’s “impossible” (238) and I don’t mean to be offensive, but it seems almost silly to strive for this state of “perfected souls” (235). I have actually found that our world, while sometimes a seemingly cruel and selfish place, is an interesting and fulfilling world to live in.
Ahimsa says that we “should put up with insults, rebukes, criticisms, and assaults [and] never retaliate” (236). However, I have found that arguments and conflict shape the world we live in. It is within the dynamics of a human being and also the relationships we form with others. Conflict is how we can reach solutions and learn to accept one another for their faults. And I definitely know that I have heard more than once that perfection can grow irritating. A world in harmony does seem ideal. However, I really don’t think that’s what we want. No one knows what a world would be like in perfect harmony because that hasn’t ever happened, so why do we think that it would be so wonderful if it actually happened?
I feel like if a person tried to practice ahimsa, they would grow more and more frustrated until finally they would lose patience entirely and act in a completely irrational manner. For example, I had a huge fight with my mother over the winter break. In addition to learning about her insecurity about my relationship with my dad, I also learned some other important aspects of our relationship. She and my dad are divorced, so I came to realize some new things about how she feels and reacts to my dad. I realized that I had to be sensitive when talking about spending time with him as well as her. I also learned the rewards of making up with someone you love. I spent about two months not speaking to her (and vice versa) and then when I saw her again, she apologized and we are on normal terms again. These sorts of things strengthen relationships between people and I’ve realized that if I were to practice ahimsa, I could not have these sorts of fights. My mother and I could not say hurtful (yet true) things to each other and fight. We couldn’t ignore each other (because that would be contradicting ahimsa) and thus I would never realize how much I missed talking to her and being able to share things with her.
My mom and I
Although conflict is what shapes and defines the world we live in, we cherish the actions of those that are kind and sympathetic. Jude could not “bear to hurt anything” (228). It would be nice if “our very survival” did not have to “involve[] violence of one kind of another” and we should strive to be kind to others (247). But differences should be embraced and discussed. If I don’t necessarily agree with something that someone believes in, I can have a talk about why I don’t agree with them. While I embrace the idea of ahimsa and doing good things for the world, I can’t quite agree with the entire concept. Say mean things, think mean things, because at the end of the day we (as human beings) can learn to forgive each other and move forward as a race.
But my friend brought up an interesting concept. He said that maybe the perfection of an idea like ahimsa scares us because we never experience anything like that. It’s out of the norm and thus we shun what’s unfamiliar. So, should we continue to strive for this absolute perfection or merely accept our society’s faults and move forward? I find myself content to work for a state that maybe falls short of ahimsa. I would like people to treat each other well, but I have to admit that I enjoy a good argument and conflicts once in a while.
A compassionate Bible. When I think of religion, I like to associate compassion and love with it. However, throughout history, religion itself has been a source of violence, argument, doubt, and conflict.
The Crusades
Why should something that it supposed to instill compassion in people, create so many problems. We may not all have the same values, but surely at the core of all religions (and those who do not even practice a religion) there is one main idea: that we should love each other and treat each other with compassion.
However, Jesus was hardly brought into the most compassionate environment. From the night of his birth, the world proved to him that it was in need of more compassion. His mother was denied a spot in an inn and forced to give birth in a stable and Jesus himself was “lying in a manger” instead of a bed the night he was born (Course Anthology 128). However, it seems that this could be a source of the meaning of his birth. Jesus came to this world of greed and hate to send a message: “Love one another, as I have loved you” (132). I also particularly appreciated the lesson that the lawyer learned about “who is my neighbor?” (130).In the lesson, it is quite evident who the “neighbor” is. But I got more out of it; I enjoyed reading about the man’s compassion for a complete stranger and found myself wishing that the world could be as compassionate as this story implies it used to be. However, it seems that our society is marked more by the initial part of the story: the part in which the man is robbed and left to suffer. Why should it be, though, that the Bible is the only thing teaching us compassion? It seems like the lessons in it don’t have to be about God, and are often not if you look at it in a certain way.
The lesson from Luke 10
Many people in the Bible act in a certain way to ensure their spot in heaven someday. What if we just acted out of kindness for the sake of being compassionate? I find myself helping others not because I want to go to heaven someday, but because it is rewarding and gratifying to help others and see the effects of your kindness. I like to help people for two reasons: one, that it is hopefully bringing happiness to the person I am helping and two, that it makes me feel good to do this. So, do we live in a selfish world because I help people for the feeling it gives me as well as for them? I have to be honest with myself: as I read the bit about lending and “hoping for nothing again” (129). Is that possible in our world? It seems like most actions whether compassionate or not benefit the person doing the action. Most people cannot go about their daily lives in a selfless manner. Why do we go to school? To get a good education, prepare ourselves for a job in the future, so that we can support ourselves and live on our own. It doesn’t seem like we go to school to learn how to help others, that’s just something we do on the side—things like community service. And do people even do community service anymore merely for the sake of helping people? I specifically remember something in one of the clubs I was a member of in high school saying “if nothing else, it looks good on your resume.”
Why do we do community service?
However, I don’t want to be a total raincloud on this situation. I think that helping people, whether it’s totally selfless or has benefits for you as well, is something to be valued. I appreciate the lessons taught in the Bible as life lessons, not necessarily lessons in religion. It is interesting to find messages the Bible sends that dictate our actions, even those who are not religious. For example, many vegetarians give up meat because of the poor treatment of animals. Stephen Webb seemed to find in the Bible the very message that these people are trying to convey: that the “abolition of all suffering is confidently hoped for and expected” (135). Also, we do indeed find it hard to “recognize and confront…the suffering of Jesus…[and] animal pain” (137). I’ve talked to many people about the documentary “Earthlings” that tell me straight off “oh, I could never watching something like that.” This is because people are unwilling to accept the pain that they are causing others. To recognize that pain would be inconvenient and perhaps even painful to those people.
There are so many parallels between the morals the Bible teaches to those of our society. You don’t have to believe in the Bible to recognize the value of its lessons. I have actually never read the Bible, and I was surprised at how similar the Bible is to what I believe in concerning my actions to other people and my idea about compassion. So, while the Bible intimidates me a little when it talks of God’s wrath and the anger he/she can have at a sinner, I like the lessons it teaches concerning kindness and compassion.
As I considered our point of view toward nature (about 30 minute ago when I started the reading assignment), I thought back to our perspectives class that evening. There had been strong opinions on the future of sustainability and the environment. The professors were all discussing how we (the students) are the people in the present now and we are the ones who have to be discovering new innovative ways to inspire the public to care about the environment. I felt so excited as I listened, thinking about things I could do to motivate others and movements (or even organizations) I could start. However, my balloon of excitement was punctured slightly as I read the selections from the Course Anthology. To find out that some religions believe that man should have dominion over nature was a strange thing for me to think about. I’m not sure what I’ve believed all my life (maybe I have believed some form of “we should be part of the hierarchy above nature” all along), but lately I’ve been changing so much and having new thoughts about the relationship of people with nature. Maybe it’s the nice weather, maybe it’s being around different people, but I’ve been becoming more and more interested in nature as something that is a part of life, but not a part of life that we rule over. I consider it more as something that we, as humans, are connected with.
I know this may sound silly, because every other soul-searching college student probably goes through this, but lately I’ve been really questioning what religion I should follow, if I should follow one at all. I’ve been wondering what exactly I believe in. I’ve already talked about an idea of a divine being out there, and my uncertainty as to who or what this being is, but in regards to nature, I’ve said very little. I like the idea of Confucianism, “the most life-affirming in the spectrum of world religions” (Anthology 29). I like the idea of being “in harmony with nature” and truly connecting with it (Anthology 29).A nature in which “the earth, untilled, pour[s] freely forth her childish gifts” and “waving corn-crops shall to golden grow” (Anthology 124). A nature in which “justice returns” (Anthology 123).
I noticed that in class when we meditate, I tended to relax and concentrate on emptying my mind better outside. In the classroom, I found myself getting drowsy or else my thoughts would keep reeling around my head and coming back whenever I tried to get them to go away. Outside, however, I felt more relaxed and at ease. I could almost connect my thoughts to a breeze that moved through our group. I let the wind carry them away and felt so in tune with nature, yet also completely free and able to let go as well.
Going along with what I believe, I found God’s vengeance in “the Jerusalem Bible” a little disturbing. He told Eve “I will multiply your pains in childbearing,” among other things for eating the forbidden fruit. I’ve always imagined God as more forgiving than I’ve found lately (probably because I never actually read the Bible). I like to imagine that he or she is compassionate and loving, not so intent on punishing.
Sullivan’s discussion in “Jainism and Ecology” really struck a chord in me that I’ve contemplated before. He said that people have a “sense of loss or nostalgia for earlier, seemingly less complicated eras when the constant questioning of religious beliefs and practice was not so apparent” (Anthology 28). I feel like our society is constantly coping with issues related to differing religions. Can religion be taught in school, should our nation observe religious holidays, should churches have to pay property taxes? All these things are issues that are extremely prevalent in political discussions now whereas before, were they really such a problem? Did they used to have big discussions about religion in class like we do now? I remember in my senior year of high school, we had big arguments about religious views and it was a very passionate subject. I have some kind of vision of how things used to be (which is probably more idealistic than it actually was because I wasn’t actually there), but in that vision, religion seemed much less of a problem in the past.
For me, this isn’t about a “story that will make you believe in God.” It is a matter of having faith. Maybe it’s faith in some greater force or just simply faith in the will to live. For some, you could say that belief in God is what helped Pi continue each and every day. The belief that someone greater up there is watching out for you. I like the idea of having someone watching out for me, personally, and if I clung to that little fact then I would have a much greater confidence in my life—maybe because it’s out of my hands and in someone else’s. So, if I die, is it my fault? "We are all going to die" (Anthology 26), but we definitely all have a different perception as to how/why we die. Sometimes I feel like believing in something greater is just someone’s attempt at blaming others for what happens to them. They can’t take their own lives into their hands, so they leave it up to this greater being to decide for them. Sure, it is comforting to believe that someone’s out there for us, but maybe it isn’t who you think. There are people out there each and every day looking out for us, but it doesn’t have to be God. It can be your friends, family, teachers, random strangers. In the end, I really think that this is a story that will make you believe in the will to live and survive. But also in love and companionship.
(Me surrounded by people, as usual)
I am a firm believer in having people around. I hate being alone more than anything else. I love having fun with people, working with people, exercising with people, watching movies with people, I could go on and on. For me, the will to survive would depend upon having someone else there with me. Life alone, for me, isn’t a life at all. I’m not sure why this is. Maybe I define my life by how others react to me. Which is a sad thought, but as accurate as anything else I can think of. I like seeing the reactions of other people and reading other people. I like interacting and having discussions and seeing different points of view. But it’s more than that. It’s just the presence of another person. So, for me, that is the will to live. To meet people and to make relationships with people. Not even people—it can be animals as well, like for Pi. Without companionship, I do not believe that Pi could have survived with Richard Parker. So, what is it that keeps us alive? Why do we want to continue living? That is up to you to decide. We all have our different reasons for wanting to live—our passions you might say. It’s as if all those tiny little things in life make up the will to live—for me, people, music, nature, among other things. Why would this story make me believe in God any more than these beautiful aspects of life? If I believed in God (and I’m not saying I don’t), I would believe in the beauty of life that he/she creates. I would thank God for the people around me, the music created by myself and others, and the peace and happiness that nature brings to me. I feel like something like surviving out in the wilderness is not something you can judge your faith by. Faith is just something that is there—a little presence in your mind of a divine being. And sure, small miracles can make you even more certain of this feeling, but those who do not believe in any sort of God can easily contradict God’s intervention in these matters. These people could say that Pi survived because he was a willful, strong person. They could say that he was resourceful and intelligent. They could say he was lucky.
They could also say that Pi’s sentimentality saved him. He has a "refined and elevated feeling" for others and a strong appreciation for life—for his own life, Richard’s life, the lives of the animals he had to eat to survive. This appreciation for life might have been what made him so intent on remaining alive. He kills to stay alive, so if he were to die, he would have killed in vain. He would have “blood on [his] hands” for no reason (183). Also, his appreciation for Richard’s life would die along with him and then Richard would perish as well without someone to care for him. “Life is hard to believe, ask any scientist. God is hard to believe, ask any believer” (297). It’s true. Life is hard to believe, especially when it is so hard to live as Pi did. But what makes something so hard to believe? Is it because it isn’t what we perceive as “normal”? Because if that is true, then we are not on our way to a very open-minded world. God or no God, you can believe in something based on other things. The people interviewing Pi do not believe him because his story is indeed a crazy one. But this sort of scorn is upsetting. There can be miracles in life just because miracles can happen sometimes. It’s true that “very few castaways can claim to have survived so long at sea as Mr. Patel, and none in the company of an adult Bengal tiger,” (319) but just because the story is “unparalleled” (319) doesn’t have to mean it’s fake. It all comes down to what you believe how much you are willing to have faith. What you have faith in is entirely up to you.
Faint rays of sunlight pierced the slats of our roof. It was that type of light that isn’t quite real. The light was punctured by the haze that lay over Xi’an and, well, most other cities in China. Stretching, I sat up from the pallet that served as my bed for the time being. They were all about the same—built for conveniently serving as sleeping quarters for boys of about the ages eight to ten. The other kids remained asleep, but not for long. I knew that the roaring voice of Gang would be startling them out of slumber any minute now. Sure enough, his sharp voice could be heard as he made is way up the stairs, yelling for us to wake up. After all, we had a quota to fill today—and every other day so long as we wished to live with a roof (no matter how slatted and leaky) over our heads.
I leapt up from my pallet, straightening the small strip of cloth that served as my blanket. As if I needed one in this weather. Already, I could feel sweat collecting on my brow and at the tighter parts of my scrappy shirt and shorts. I slipped my dirt-covered feet into thin-strapped sandals and grabbed a small straw hat from next to the pallet. Jamming it on my head, I raced down the stairs with the other children, scrambling for a bag of merchandise I could sell today. The faster down the stairs you are, the more likely you’re going to get a good bag of stuff to sell. Thus making it far more likely to fill your quota for the day. Sometimes I didn’t even get down there in time for a bag. Then, you were really in trouble. Begging was the worst. Grappling with the others, I managed to get the bag with the little Terracotta Warrior figurines. Looks like I’d be doing some trespassing today. However, I guess it could be worse. At least Gang fed us and housed us. I’m not sure what I’d do if I didn’t have him. The occasional beatings are worth a guaranteed living space in Gang’s circle.
After a hurried breakfast, I made my way out into the heat. Upon leaving the house, a blanket of sticky heat enveloped me. The change was instantaneous. My clothes began to stick to my body. My uneven bangs clung to my forehead as I made attempts to brush them out of the way repeatedly. The thick straps of the heavy backpack cut into my thin shoulders. As I made my way down the busy street, my senses reeled with activity around me and my constant need for caution.
Cars whizzed past, coming inches away from grazing each others’ bumpers and horns blared in quick repeated blasts. Jostled by the crowd, I turned the pack around so that it rested on my chest. Protecting the figures was most important. If they broke, not only would I fail to raise as much money as I needed, but I’d be in debt to Gang for breaking valuable merchandise. Clutching the backpack in my arms tightly, I continued to make my way through the crowd of impatient civilians hurrying to their various jobs. And if they weren’t civilians, they were frustrated tourists looking for the next bus stop, the next museum, the next restaurant where they could actually read the menu. The stench of the city rose up in my nostrils, filling them with the smell of car fumes, trash, and sweat. As I made my way toward the museum, I tripped over the expensive shoes of a Chinese businessman. Angry cries followed me as I tried desperately to save the fall. Too late. I flung out my hands to protect the soldiers, and cut my hands on the hot pavement beneath me. Dust rose in my face and I coughed heavily. Scrambling to my feet, I swung the pack once again to my back, feeling those straps rubbing against my already raw shoulders.
The sandals’ soles were too thin. I could feel each and every pebble that I stepped on and the bottoms of my feet were soon throbbing from the hard ground. I jogged the rest of the way to the steps of the formidable looking museum. Despite the early hour, hordes of people were milling around the long walkway to the entrance and at the doors themselves. I made for the parking lot, near the latest cluster of tourist buses. I made for the tall figures of the Caucasian tourists—the easiest targets.
They couldn’t resist the face of a small Chinese boy and his unfortunate position in the field of begging. I reached inside the backpack and drew out a small rectangular box that held about four of the little soldiers. They were cheaply made and upon touching them, black dust came off onto your fingers like soot. I propped open the lid, which was covered with cheap, Asian patterned fabric.
Holding the figures out in front of my (on display if you will), I approached the nearest group of white people. I tapped the plump shoulder of a middle-aged woman. She looked my way grumpily. There were patches of sweat at her underarms and her brow was soaked. I offered the box of Terracotta clay figures and spoke one of the few English phrases I knew: “Cheaper for you, lady. Twenty yuan.” She considered and then shook her head. “Okay, okay, fifteen yuan.” Looking more satisfied, she reached for her purse. The trick with these people was offer a price far above what the actual item was worth. They had no way of knowing how much these things should cost and if they were displeased with the initial price, you were still breaking even at the end of the haggling. She thrust out the correct number of bills and I offered the box. As she made to inspect them closer, I slipped easily into a nearby crowd. Better to be far away while they find out just how cheap the merchandise is that you just sold them.
The day continued in the exact same manner, ten minutes, then twenty, an hour, two hours. The sun rose, it’s hot rays penetrating the smog and continuing to grow warmer. My back was soon soaked in sweat from carrying around the backpack. Mercifully, it was growing lighter as I got rid of box after box of little clay figures. Around noon, I grew brave. Slipping off to the side of the huge building housing the great warriors, I made my way to a row of bushes surrounding a courtyard behind the museum. Struggling through the leaves, I yanked my way through, pulling the pack behind me. This part of the museum was lovely, with small man-made ponds and stone benches off to the side. A large party of white tourists was just exiting the building. A girl walked about the courtyard, chatting animatedly with two other girls, about her age. She had short brown hair, frizzed up in the intense humidity, dark brown eyes, and modest (but nice) clothing. A shoulder bag hung on her shoulder, and she clutched the bottom of it protectively as though fearful that the contents could be stolen. Good idea. She wandered from the other two and I made a quick decision. Ducking out of the bushes, I approached her.
She looked a little alarmed at the sight of me. I’m sure I looked pretty raggedy to her. My patchy clothes were disheveled from crawling through the tight bushes and I was covered in sweat and dirt. My feet were more brown black than tan and I could feel the grime clinging to my face. I held a box of statues before me, repeating my mantra.Her face relaxed, but still had a slightly suspicious tone behind her eyes. As I considered lowering my price, a shadow crossed my vision. A long shadow belonging to an even longer person. Uh oh. The guard swooped down on us suddenly from behind her, arm raised. WHACK! His hand came across my cheek with a resounding slap that echoed across the courtyard. Silence followed. Hardening my jaw, I reached for her outstretched money, pressing the box of soldiers into her hands, which I noticed were shaking uncontrollably. Her sweaty face had turned stoney and drawn and before averting my eyes, I noticed they were filled with tears.
***
The little boy disappeared through the clump of bushes, his backpack disappearing with him. I clutched the box of clay warriors in my trembling hands and found I was having difficulty swallowing. What I wanted to do more than anything was throw them as far from me as possible. The guard had disappeared, back to his post no doubt, and my nearest family members had grown silent. The tears began flowing steadily, running down my already moist face. I couldn’t get the image of that little boy out of my head or the noise of the guard’s large hand coming across his face. The boy had seemed so unfazed. Or resigned perhaps. No tears had come and no cries of pain had escaped his lips. The way he had averted his eyes in the end and the way he had trudged wearily off the museum property was too much for me. I could feel the injustice of this child’s life welling up inside me. How could that sort of treatment toward children be tolerated? My mother approached me. She looked at me sternly and scolded my behavior, claiming that this sort of situation was no unheard of. She reminded me of all the stories of abuse present in America. I retorted angrily that child abuse in America happened to be illegal and continued to cry for this poor little boy. Of course there was child abuse everywhere. I wasn’t completely naïve. But the question remained: is it tolerated, or even encouraged, everywhere? I knew that in America striking a child in public was severely frowned upon. Here, however, it seemed perfectly acceptable for this guard to hit this child. A child that wasn’t even his, at that. I spent the next hour at the Terracotta Warrior museum in reflection. Why had this affected me in such a way and affected my family so little? I couldn’t understand the lack of compassion here. I couldn’t bear to see this poor little boy struck for doing something that I’m quite sure he had no choice in. Unless he wanted to starve, that is. On top of everything, what could be done for a situation like this? Knowing very little about politics and foreign affairs, I had no way of knowing how we could help out kids in countries like this where physical punishment was so popular.
So, what if I could do something? Say, end this acceptance of child abuse and labor all over the world. I could make people see that hurting a child is a sickening action and, since children are our future, see how to constructively shape our world’s youth. I realize that goals like this are silly, almost unattainable. However, it is important to have an idealistic picture in my mind. If I were to launch some kind of campaign, I want a dream to strive for. Like Martin Luther King Jr., I can set these kind of goals which may someday be attainable, but right now are just inspiring thoughts.
I know there are some things I personally could do as well, however. Just like how I spoke out against my family, who failed have sympathy for this poor child, I can speak to others how don’t understand that this treatment shouldn’t be tolerated. Starting small, I can speak of the topic only when it is relevant or brought up in a conversation. Later though, I could inspire organizations to raise money and do awareness campaigns about child abuse and children worldwide. I could find speakers who are respected by the public to give speeches promoting awareness of this issue. To truly have plan (and I mean on greater level than my own personal efforts), I feel like I need to start now and see where my efforts take me. Remembering this little boy will always be my inspiration, however. The feelings that I felt when I saw him struck in front of me will remain with me forever and the image of his defeated face as he quickly averted his eyes will flash before me as I work to give this boy and all other children a shot at a better life.
My mom and I
