Among secular dharma practitioners, it is generally accepted that our practice is to go beyond a personal quest for liberation from worldly suffering, so as to cultivate an ethic of care and compassion that meets the complex social, economic and political challenges of the times we are living in. Many speak about the dangers of climate change. More recently, AI is raising profound questions about what it means to be human and becoming a cause for concern. There are also the threats of armed conflict, repeating patterns of violence perpetrated by humans against humans throughout history and fed by a lucrative arms race. With the rapid pace of developments in military technology, the dimensions of the destruction are greater than ever. It is not unlikely that human beings will ruin each other long before the planet takes its toll.  

These are times of intense change and uncertainty, with potential political repercussions at local, regional and global levels. Anti-democratic forces of religious fundamentalism, chauvinism, nationalism, fascism, racism and supremacy are preaching hatred and the use of brute force. The world over we are seeing backlash against the notion of human rights, freedom, equality and social justice for all, which was the legacy of post-WWII, and against more recent progressive agendas of equity, inclusion and diversity. These are scary times for those who believe in a middle way of moderacy and conciliation.

For myself, living in Israel, the barbaric October 7 massacres by Hamas stirred a collective trauma and an existential anxiety I never knew before. Then came heartbreak from the devastation my country visited on the people living in Gaza, in its attempt to vanquish the evil of radical terrorism. And no less excruciating, we are deeply divided and broken internally - around the release of the hostages and the end of the belligerence against Hamas in the south and Hizballah in the north, as well as our visions for the future of our country, between democracy and totalitarianism.

On the one side, extremist messianics who believe we are eternal victims of antisemitism with the whole world against us, who even advocate an ethnic cleansing of the 'holy' and 'promised' land. On the other side, moderate seculars who hold dear values of universal human dignity, and seek peaceful co-existence between Israelis, Palestinians and our neighbors. For many of us, these are dark times of polarization and confusion, fear and anger, despair and depression. Even inside the dharma world, major western figures like Bikkhu Bodhi and Seth Segal present different perspectives.

It was against this background that I chose to attend this year's Mind and Life Summer Research Institute (MLSRI) in the USA. Its theme, ‘Awakening Compassion in Times of Division – Breaking and Coming Together,’ seemed so relevant to my personal experience. And it was there, on the very first day, that the first speaker quoted Roshi Joan Halifax as teaching that ‘hope is a practice of resistance.’ It was a ray of light in the darkness that resonated deep inside my soul.

Healing the heart

Compassion is a sensitivity to suffering, a warm empathy towards those who suffer, and a commitment to alleviate the suffering. I wonder, how can I bring compassion to an 'external' enemy who wishes me dead? Or to an 'internal' adversary who preaches and practices hateful violence out of prejudice and bigotry? The traditional practice of kindness that Buddhaghosa taught back in the 5^th century, starts with bringing compassion to ourselves and then gradually expanding outwards to family and friends we care about, to neutral persons to whom we are indifferent, and only lastly to persons with whom we have difficulty. So, I start from practicing self-compassion.

I acknowledge the pain I am feeling, the heartbreak, the depression, the despair in face of the war and its costs on all sides, with no end in sight. I allow myself to feel the heart wrenching pain in the tissues of my body, the weight and burden of the sorrow contracting the heart. I express it in words when I write in my journal, and give it voice when I speak to others. What arises? Rage, resentment and feelings of betrayal against the leaders who cultivate the violence. Distress and helplessness in face of the overwhelming political, economic and psychological forces at play. Opening the heart is painful. There's a contraction around the pain. How to create space to hold all those emotions and release the discomfort?

Before coming to the MLSRI, I was apprehensive about how I would be received these days as an Israeli in an academic setting abroad, but I discovered I was in a safe and secure place. Despite the occasional alarm from the firefighting station across the river that sounded almost the same as the missile alerts in Tel Aviv, I could relax and unwind on the banks of the Hudson. There was a shark contrast between the neurotic tension of life back home and the carefree ambience of the days here, the calm and beauty of nature around, the scientific exploration of compassion, the afternoons of guided meditation and silence, and the friendly socializing at mealtimes with a wonderful group of well-wishing people.

I allow myself to actually feel the stress of the recent months, and for the first time since October 7, I cry. The heart swells, the tears well and they keep on coming. I cry my heart out. It is a huge relief, a process of cleansing and healing of my wounded heart.

One morning I ask the question lurking deep inside, about finding compassion in the face of hatred. There is no time for answers, but after speaking out, I feel at peace. The contraction around the heart expands and finds release, the pain no longer weighs on it as a burden. Still, I go through a phase of mourning for my home before I can finally take part in a normal lightheaded conversation and laugh and be happy.

The collective self

Reggie Hubbard, a dharma practitioner who works with members of Congress and political activists in Washington DC, sounds gongs and bowls to open the next day. They fill the air with waves of solace. We are tired, he says, we are hurting, we are scared, we all know suffering, it connects rather than separates us. As I listen to the discussion that follows, I think of the ways in which we are conditioned by the collectives we are born into – family, religion, ethnicity, nationality. We inherit not only historical narratives but also subconscious views and patterns that are cultural imprints, intergenerational and epigenetic, in our minds and bodies. And we tend to a collective self-centeredness in much the same way as we do as individuals.

Israel was established after six million Jews were murdered in Nazi Germany, and the vow of ‘never again’ became part of the lore of its culture. Survival instincts are natural, but it is tragic when they turn into patterns of expansionist greed and aggression far beyond the call of self-defense. These only breed more cycles of violence, as if a collective karma is caught in the trap of samsara. A homeland provides security and becoming a refugee is not something I would wish on anyone, but the dharma teaches that there is a freedom in nonattachment. In the diaspora, the Jewish people were able to share cultural gifts with peoples different from them, and from time to time they flourished. The same seems true for the Tibetans. Their culture was stagnating when the Chinese came and forced them into exile, and there they brought so much light and wisdom into the world.

Still, much of the anti-Israeli sentiment today is an expression of antisemitism that is fed by purposeful social media campaigns spreading disinformation and misinformation. And, in international circles, Israel is all too often judged by a double standard that is not applied to the sins of other countries, which also reeks of antisemitism. But one of the main lessons I learn at the MLSRI is that there are many forms of hatred in the world which leave their mark on generations to come, of which antisemitism is just one.

I awaken to an understanding of the commonality of suffering as a result of group persecution, such as the heritage of Black Americans from centuries of African enslavement, oppression and discrimination. I gain an appreciation of the injustices of white supremacy that continue to subtly affect social, economic and political conditions all over the world. Our collective selves delineate our perspective and view of the world, and it is natural to identify with those who are closer to us. Yet Jews are not the only people who suffer from blind hatred. Prejudice and bias are universal, though they take different forms, each unique in its own way.

Outer appearances are terribly misleading. Some people look just fine, and I would never imagine they come from a disadvantaged background. There are others I recoil from initially because they are ungainly or poorly dressed; they might have a mannerism I find distasteful, or even a peculiar accent. We tend to objectify others with aversion and condescension just because of the way they look or sound. But when we speak to them at eye level, their personality shines through.

Hearing the other

We also have expectations which generate disappointment if not met. From the title of the MLSRI meeting, I thought it would address the skills we need to come together around the global issues that divide us – democracy, authoritarianism and fundamentalism; relations between the superpowers, war and peace, capitalism and the deadly military industry; and climate change – but that was not the case. I was obsessed in particular with the conflicts in my country. Friends told me there was a bulletin board where I could post an invitation to join an ‘affinity group’ in between the sessions. I called it: ‘Breaking and coming together – bringing compassion to heal conflict and build peace.’ The next evening after supper, a small group gets together.

A friend from Vancouver who had encouraged me to convene the group, shares that she belongs to a Moslem minority that suffered persecution in Afghanistan and Syria. She is concerned about genocide. I first heard the ‘G’ word in the context of Gaza from two friends of mine from the USA who were visiting with me over Passover, and I was terribly shocked, upset and offended. As a lawyer I found the accusation mistaken and unfair, but it was from them I learned that was how people outside Israel were talking and I had to be able to hear and hold it without reacting emotionally.

Another friend, of German origin, from Yale University where I went to school, told us about how dismayed she was when she joined a protest walk against the violence in Gaza on the sidewalks of New Haven, and people driving by in cars slowed down and rolled down their windows to shout insults at them. I don't know whether they were carrying banners or shouting slogans that might have been provocative, but that's beside the point. A violent reaction is offensive and of little use in most circumstances. For any kind of peacemaking we must be willing to come together and listen to each other, however painful it may be.

The conclusion I came to is that in addition to a willingness to build peace, we need to cultivate the skill of listening to things we do not like to hear. If we want to heal and find a middle way to resolve conflict and start afresh for the future, we need to be present and able to hold the complexities, even when we do not see eye to eye and hear disconcerting and unpleasant things. And not only do we need to listen to the victims of oppression and those who speak for them. We also need to engage with those who are the aggressors and believe that God is on their side.

Coming together

But how can we come together with fanatic aggressors? Can we sit with such people and listen to them without arguing? How to break the cycle of hatred, ignorance and greed? What if we end up in a civil war that tears apart families? How to come together and transcend the divide between 'us' and 'them', in such a way that we can speak freely, listen to each other respectfully, and engage in constructive dialogue? I share my perplexity with a sangha of friends from overseas who are not enmeshed as I in the intricacies of the violence that shapes the lives of people these days in Israel, Gaza and southern Lebanon. They too, in their own social settings, have contentious and potentially explosive issues, and tensions similar to those manifesting in the Middle East might act out in different ways elsewhere too. And they shared their insights.

It is easy to retreat into a personal bubble, choose friends who are likeminded, and avoid divisive topics when we small talk with family or colleagues at dinner. But there is a fine line between such avoidance and keeping silent on things that matter. Silence might amount to complicity while conversation can release unspoken tensions. It takes courage to raise a subject that is politically controversial, and skill to do so without being provocative. Still, sometimes keeping silent is inappropriate in face of injustice, and we are called to speak out spontaneously. We have to trust our intuitions even if we do so unskillfully.

At the same time, we must beware of discounting the other out of self-righteousness and arrogance. We ought to come from a sincere place of curiosity, not wanting to change minds or hearts but to listen and learn and seek common turf. We could pose questions rather than make statements and explore ideas instead of arguing about who is right and who is wrong. But it takes willingness on both sides to engage in conversation, and if we encounter resistance, we should do our best to maintain our composure.

Sometimes there is nothing to do except to bear witness, to simply note what is going on. Bearing witness is something I learned from Zen peacemaker, Bernie Glassman. Even if there is nothing we can do to make things any better, we can open our hearts to what is going on around us. Hannah Arendt pointed out the banality of evil in the world. But we need to face it if we want to amend wrongs and heal broken spirits. Instead of turning away from the objectionable and insufferable situations we become aware of, we can bear witness and wait patiently for an opportunity to act constructively, if at all. Otherwise, we are at risk of spiritual bypassing.

The view of the witness is not cold, detached and apathetic. When I bear witness, I feel the pain and the sorrow in my heart, because I care. Yet I maintain a certain distance, I do not identify with the pain or make it my own, I just note it and the way it strikes a chord inside me. Because we need to take care of our own wellbeing in order to care for others. We need to maintain our inner stability, our equanimity so that we aren't overwhelmed by the suffering in the world, or else we might get lost in it and collapse.

There is no avoiding the suffering in the world, and we must acknowledge it if we want to suffer less. ‘No mud, no lotus’, is what Thich Nhat Hanh taught – to transform suffering and be happy we must first accept it. We sit and practice mindful breathing, and then we can embrace, hold and soothe the pain until it passes, the mind clears, and we are free to choose how to respond. We can also experience the simple joys of life amidst its discontents. With all the heartache of living in a state of war and the anxiety and misery it causes from one day to another, I can come back again and again to the breath and appreciate the small gifts of being alive in the moment to moment without feeling guilty about my good fortune.

‘Hope is a practice of resistance.’ Hope is not a naïve denial of reality. It is an act of resistance in face of the wrongs and hardships that we see for what they are. The words stay with me as a major insight of resilience and fortitude that I take with me and share with others. They keep my spirit buoyant, so I do not sink again into despair and depression. If there is anything I choose to believe, it is that ultimately the good will prevail over the evil.

Not knowing

The practice of compassion starts with our own unfriendliness and learning to forgive ourselves for our weaknesses and shortcomings. But how to bring compassion to people who consciously wish harm on others?

Reggie Hubbard said, you don't have to like someone to love them, to find compassion for them in our heart, feel empathic concern, and wish to help alleviate their suffering. At an afternoon with Lama Lhundrup (Tilman) last month in Tel Aviv, he offered another answer I have heard before: they too have buddha nature. We can try to understand the causes and conditions of their states of mind, the historical forces that compel them to speak and act as they do. We can try to imagine their injured inner child, the victim who resorts to aggression. We can see these are unskillful ways for them to avoid pain, and beneath it they too seek happiness, just like us. At least that way we do not suffer the discomfort of anger and hatred.

But I find these answers unsatisfactory.

Ever since I first met the dharma many years ago, I have been perplexed by the question: how to bring compassion to perpetrators of harm, those we perceive as villains? At the time it was Milošević, who was then president of Yugoslavia. These days I wonder how I can bring compassion for those jihadists who wish to wipe me and my people off the face of the earth.  And I wonder even more how to bring compassion for my own brethren, the zealots who are likewise spreading hatred and violence and ravishing what I consider to be the most revered values of humanist morality.

Finding compassion for victims of violence seems to come naturally. But I find it really challenging to find compassion for aggressors who cause suffering. And while it seems easier to empathize with victims who are closer to home (friends, family, neighbors, members of our tribe or nation) rather than those farther away, when it comes to the perpetrators of violence, I find it is the opposite.

I can find forgiveness in my heart for aggressors who are farther away, who I can imagine grew up under conditions of oppression and brainwashing. I can find forgiveness even for those closer to home who desire revenge and retribution, because they fear that otherwise they will suffer more hurt and trauma. But I am most challenged and frustrated with people from circles I grew up in, whose minds appear to be poisoned with what I consider to be ignorance, greed and hatred, and whose views are for me a betrayal of the Jewish values I hold most dear. I try to engage them in an exploration of "what is Judaism?" but they do not respond. They have no wish to dialogue. What can I do to penetrate their blind self-righteousness?

I'm no prophet, but in the midst of the madness and chaos that is our present lot in Israel, I see the external violence as it unfolds and escalates, as well as the moral disintegration of our internal political system, and I can project its likely ruinous outcome. What can I do to prevent the looming disaster?

In the end, I am left in the emptiness of not-knowing.

Hope is a practice of resistance

Lama Lhundrup mentioned the Tibetan tradition of ‘wrathful’ deities, who use the energy of anger for the benefit of all. Larry Ward, who led the afternoon dharma sessions at the MLSRI, spoke similarly about a ‘fierce compassion’ that sets our hearts on fire with rage when we confront appalling wrongdoing. The practice is to acknowledge the fury and allow it to subside before acting. Then, from a place of balance and integrity that is calm, selfless and fearless, we can choose how to respond so that we don't make matters even worse. We can be present in face of injustice, ground our bodies in the earth beneath our feet, and from a space of inner equanimity that too comes from the heart, find the courage to act as best we can to remedy the inequity.

Someone asked Lama Lhundrup: How to respond to situations of danger to life, whether to my own or to the lives of others I care about? He said he had often wondered, had he been alive in the 1930s, would it have been right action to assassinate Hitler and accept the karmic consequences? It would have saved the lives of millions. And if the Tibetans had a military, what would or should they have done in self-defense against the Chinese invasion?

It is one thing to contemplate such matters with the wisdom of hindsight, and another to ponder what to do in real time. We live in the suspense of existential uncertainty from day to day. There is an incessant chain of inter-reactive events that herald regional warfare in ever widening circles of devastation that might be apocalyptic. This week it is the threat of an Iranian offensive. From doom to doom, the dynamics also portend the demise of a Jewish democracy, no matter how imperfect, that was based on ‘freedom, justice and peace as envisaged by the prophets of Israel’. I have no option but to accept there is little I can do on the large scale. I do what I can to find relief, reprieve and respite for myself so I can make my small world a somewhat better place. 

We continue to experience shock and trauma for the suffering on all sides of the ongoing conflict. It is futile to seek security in conditions of such radical uncertainty. But there is a middle way between taking care of our own peace of mind and running away from the miserable reality. We need to open to the pain without identifying with it, allow ourselves to feel it, let the waves of feeling sweep through our body, come back to the present moment, and continue living in the face of catastrophe.

History repeats itself. Human beings have been killing each other for at least ten thousand years. But we also have the potential to evolve and transcend the testosterone-driven patterns of violence. One thing I learned years ago from A.T. Aryiratne, a dharma teacher from Sri Lanka, is that we need to think long-term. He spoke in terms of 600 years. Maybe in this day and age it is more like 60 years, but it isn't a matter of days or even weeks. We are in for the long haul, and hope is a practice of resistance.

We need to acknowledge the human folly that is causing so much unnecessary suffering and keep our faith in the triumph of good over evil. We have it in the wisdom of our hearts to be kind and caring. We need to persevere in seeking creative ways to live side by side with mutual tolerance and respect. It isn't always easy, there are moments in the day when the hope gives way to angst. Still, we can remember over and over again to come back to the inbreath and the outbreath, the small joys of being alive, the connection with friends and the beauty of nature. And we need to reach out to likeminded others, and to believe that small gestures of kindness can make a difference in the interconnected web of life on this planet.

Postscript

The day I finish writing these impressions I begin reading The Choice by Edith Eger, an autobiography about the Holocaust. Its subtitle is ‘Even in hell hope can flower.’ The day she arrives in Auschwitz, when she is sixteen years old, Dr. Mengele enters her barrack and asks who can dance. She is trained as a ballerina and the girls near her push her forward. He orders her to dance to the music of the orchestra outside playing The Blue Danube. She dances for love and for life, and a moment of grace and insight brings her compassion for him. These are her words of wisdom:

I can see that Dr. Mengele, the seasoned killer who just this morning murdered my mother, is more pitiful than me. I am free in my mind, which he can never be. He will always have to live with what he's done. He is more a prisoner than I am. As I close my routine with a final, graceful split, I pray, but it isn't myself I pray for. I pray for him. I pray, for his sake, that he won't have the need to kill me.