Courage and Fear and the Refugee Crisis

With the refugees I think about a time a little less than four years ago, when my daughter Olivia and I arrived in a little Spanish town called Las Cabezas de San Juan, a three day walk from Seville. We unloaded our backpacks on a bench in the Plaza Mártires del Pueblo near the church just as it got dark. It was a church evening-- maybe a Saturday-- and several well dressed locals gathered nearby to chat before going to Mass.
"Maybe someone from the church will take us in tonight," I said to Olivia. "If not, we'll sleep on benches the way we did in Dos Hermanas."
"Okay, Dad," she said.
An internet café was located at the other end of the plaza, and after we ate a little bread and cheese I walked over to it to get online and communicate with the world. By the time I had returned to our bench, Mass was over and people filed out of the church. I made sure the sign I carried on my back was visible. 'Peace pilgrimage to Egypt,' it said in Spanish.
"Okay," I said. "Let's see what happens."
But nothing happened. No one even paused to read the sign. No one looked at us. We were invisible.
"Christians!" I said. "Okay Ollie, your turn to use the internet."
"Okay, Dad," she said, and she headed to the internet café.
I watched as the evening Mass participants chatted together and then went home for the evening. It wasn't going to rain, so it wouldn't be so bad sleeping on benches in the plaza.
Before long I noticed a man standing nearby, watching me. He looked rougher than I did, though I'd been a month on the road.
"It's cold," he said.
"Not so bad," I said.
"No, it's cold," he said. "I know how it feels. You need a place to stay tonight."
And he walked away. 
I sat on my bench and watched as the plaza thinned out and people went home for the evening. Olivia and I wouldn't sleep until the plaza was nearly empty, which meant staying up late as there were always some people around.
I noticed the rough looking man who had spoken to me passing by, and then passing by again. He seemed agitated.  Finally, he stopped  in front of me.
"I have a house where you can sleep to stay warm," he said.
I paused to consider this offer. He looked like an addict, or an alcoholic. He looked like someone we might try to avoid. But the people coming out of the church had thought the same of Olivia and me. They had thought we were people to avoid-- people who were dangerous or unpleasant-- and they had made us invisible. I wasn't going to be like them. If this man had the courage to offer his home to us, I would have the courage to accept.
"Okay," I said. "Thanks. But it isn't just me. I am with somebody else."
"That's fine," he said. "You are both welcome."
"In about half an hour my daughter will return and we can go to your house then," I said.

So with the refugees now I think about this man, Francisco, who had once been homeless himself and though he had nothing to feed us with he took us in to his house for the night. I think about all the good citizens of that Andalucian town, well-dressed church-goers who listened to a homily, maybe about helping out the stranger, and then ignored the strangers just outside their church.  I think that they must have been good people, but people who were afraid. They probably put money into the poor box that night, for the church to distribute, but the idea of contact with people in need may have terrified them, and the difference between Francisco, the outcast who helped us, and the church-goers, the good citizens who ignored us, was that Francisco had not only compassion but courage, and the church-goers were afraid.

Before Olivia and I had begun this walk, which began four years ago and ended two years ago in Egypt, she'd asked me about my pacifism.
"What about World War Two?" she had asked. "How could pacifism have stopped the Nazis?"
I'd thought about that before and I didn't know how it could have stopped the Nazis and I had decided then that pacifism wasn't about defeating Nazis in that way.
"I hope I would have had the courage to take in Jewish refugees," I had said. "That's how I would have contributed to defeating the Nazis."

And with this current refugee crisis I think about those who took in Jewish refugees in Europe and risked their own lives and their family's lives by doing so, and how looking back through the safety of time we all believe these people who hid Jewish refugees in their attics were heroes, and we all believe we would have done the same.

Yet so many of us believe that by taking in Syrian refugees, we are acting naively. So many of us believe we must protect ourselves at all costs, like people in a half-full lifeboat kicking away those who are still in the water for fear they will swamp the boat. But I believe that some 30 or 40 years in the future, when the grandchildren of refugees are playing with our grandchildren, history will look on those who helped the refugees as those who stood up against fear, and history will view the  xenophobia of the times as something disgraceful.

As I write this, local police have made several arrests in Alsdorf, a town just 10 kilometers from where I live. Those arrested are suspected of being involved in the recent attacks in Paris. Three kilometers in the other direction, in the village of Bourheim, I have recently made friends with a family of Syrian refugees. I can focus on Alsdorf and what's happening there and see every local Muslim as a potential terrorist, or I can focus on the family in Bourheim, asking myself what I can do to help them. The choice is either fear or compassion. For me it's an easy decision.

Trickle Down Economics as Practiced in Morocco

Along the N2 running from Tanger to Tetouan Olivia and I take a break by the road where the traffic slows for a traffic circle. Several people stand or sit waiting for a bus or a taxi or a ride and we sit among them on our packs drinking from our water bottles. I pull our supply of khobz out of our food bag and hand one to Olivia for her to eat with the triangular processed cheese we bought at the last hanut.

“We’ve got way too much khobz,” I say. “This stuff will get stale if we don’t eat it today. Why don’t we give some of it away?”

“Okay,” she says, and she takes two of the flat, circular pieces of bread from the plastic bag and walks over to a man who is lying on the ground, reclining on his elbow. She holds out the bread to him and he takes it unquestioningly, nodding and speaking a few words to her. Olivia returns and we watch as the man tears a piece of bread from the circle and eats it, still lying on his side on the dirty ground by the highway.

We eat our khobz with processed cheese and it is not very good but we are hungry and don’t care that it’s not good. As we eat we observe the Moroccan transport system at work. Private drivers stop their cars to take on or discharge passengers, either for hire or just for the sake of giving someone a ride, but the man lying on the ground eating khobz seems to be waiting for a particular ride, or maybe he lives nearby and he’s just relaxing on the ground by the highway.

“He just put the bread on the ground,” Olivia says.

The khobz now rests on the ground which wouldn’t be so unusual if the ground weren’t so trodden on and blackened by the road traffic. The man hasn’t discarded the bread though, and he occasionally picks up one of the disks to tear off another piece.

We chew silently and watch as an overloaded car stops and passengers unfold as they clamber out  either silently or laughing and talking. A man who has been waiting for a ride speaks a word or two to the driver before squeezing in with the others who are still inside.

The man lying on the ground is also observing and chewing silently. When a tall, thin man in ragged dirty clothing approaches, the man lying on the ground springs up with the khobz and hands it to him. The tall man nods and speaks a few words and the man who was lying on the ground returns to his spot to lie on it again, again reclining on his elbow and watching the highway activity.  The tall man stands silently eating his khobz as others around him chat. We finish our meal and drink again from our bottles and pack up and move on and everything feels right.  

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A couple of weeks and over 300 walking kilometres later we have taken a break at a petrol station—‘Oil Libya’—not far from Fes, and like so many petrol stations in Morocco it is complete with a mosque and wash basins for those entering the mosque to wash their hands and feet, and hole-in-the-ground toilets with a cleaning woman standing just outside the stall door ready to clean up after you. A large popular restaurant is also a part of the complex, but we sit on a curb near the restaurant to eat our khobz and processed cheese. As we eat we watch the patrons eating at the tables outside as they enjoy their meals, and I can smell grilled meat but I try to ignore the smell.  I notice one man watching us from a table and he has a look on his face that could be a look of unfriendliness, but he brings us khobz and ground meat kefta wrapped in napkins from his table.

“Chokran!” I say and he nods and smiles and returns to his table where everyone there is nodding and smiling and waving to us. I nod and smile and wave back and for a moment I feel like bursting out in tears but that passes quickly.

“Are you sure you don’t want to give up being a vegetarian to eat this?” I ask Olivia. “It’s still hot.”

“I’m sure, Dad,” she says, but the khobz is warm and soft and much better than what we’ve got and Olivia is happy enough with that.

I breathe deeply and close my eyes with the taste of the succulent, savory kefta.

“Man, oh, man, that’s good,” I say. Then I say, “Sorry,” and I shrug, but Olivia seems happy that I’m happy.

Before long a man exits the restaurant and beckons for us to come in. We hastily gather our things and follow him inside. He has us sit at a table and gestures that we should eat there instead of out on the curb. When he orders the waiters about it is clear he is the manager.

“Said,” he says, pointing to himself.

We introduce ourselves and thank him and Said asks if we want coffee, and of course we do. He barks out some orders to a waiter and we soon have more khobz and kefta spread before us as well as olives and spices and our milky coffees. Olivia feasts on the olives and I feast on the grilled meat sausages and we both grin over our coffees.

Said wants to help us further though, and with a little English and gesturing he manages to make it known that he would like for us to stay with his family once we get to Fes. He writes down his phone number and after we’ve eaten as much as we can we thank him again and we take what’s left—two meals’ worth of food— and we pack it all up and get down the road.

We are soon walking on a path between the highway and an olive grove, and the workers in the grove are quitting for the day as the sun has just set. When a little motorbike sputters up the path behind us we turn to see a man driving it and a woman snuggled up behind him and I wave to them to stop. I give them all of the khobz and keftas that are left as I am bloated and the food won’t keep and tonight we should be at Max’s apartment in Fes. The man accepts the food without question—with only a big smile and a nod—and he hands the food to the woman on the back and she puts it in a basket and they sputter along down the path, and Olivia and I smile and we march onward into Fes.

Ten Days of Vipassana

Day One:
Noble Silence is interesting. No words, no gestures, no eye contact. When someone cuts in line at lunchtime I want to glare at the guy, but just look at my shoes. The anger passes. So what if someone cuts in line? I want to ask my roomate a question, compare meditation experiences, but can't. When we're not meditating there's nothing to do but walk around quietly while looking at the ground, or to lie down in bed.
The meditation is a bit boring at this point, and my mind wanders a lot. Also the long hours of meditation are painful. I'm experimenting with different sitting positions. We can stretch a bit if we really need to, but I am trying to keep as still as this guy in front of me who sits like a statue of Buddha. Pain, boredom, I'm probably wasting my time but I'll see it to the end no matter what.
I am a bit depressed when dinner at 1700 is a piece of fruit and tea. I hoard a banana and smuggle it to my room.
Day Two:
One of the days that people most often run away. I have no intention of doing that.
Woke up at 0400 to the sound of a gong. It was a nice way to wake up, despite the ungodly hour.
Started meditating at 0430.The meditation is more interesting now, as we are focusing on sensations in the nostril. I often feel a nose hair move. Great success.
Nevertheless, I am probably still wasting my time here. My legs hurt, my ass hurts, my knees hurt.
Day Three:
The excitement of feeling a nose hair move is gone as we are now focusing on the little area beneath the nostrils. Sometimes I can feel the breath coming out of the nostrils and hitting the upper lip, but meditating on the inside of the nose was more exciting.
I still haven't found a suitable sitting position. I have to adjust my position every 20 minutes while the guy in front of me only moves once every 40 minutes.
My upper back is killing me. Pain, boredom. Also, lack of sleep. I've had nightmares the last two nights. I wake up at 0300 and lie there waiting for the gong at 0400.
Day Four: 
After lunch we start real Vipassana insight meditation.
Goenke tells us we can't move now. We have to sit still for an hour at a time.
And the meditation is wild and wooly after focusing on the upper lip for a day and a half. We are to observe sensations throughout the body, from the top of the head to the tip of our toes. After 25 minutes I'm in pain and I want to move and I can't concentrate on sensations in little areas of my body. There is only one big sensation. Pain. After 40 minutes I am sweating profusely. I take note of this sensation to go along with the block of pain. After 45 minutes I have to move a little. It does me no good. I want to run, run. Pain, pain, pain. To hell with Vipassana. After the hour is up I unfold myself and stand and I start to black out and I am toppling but I get to the wall in time to support myself. Outside I curse under my breath for voluntarily torturing myself. I fight back tears from the pain, and from anger but also because I suddenly think of our little dog, Piglet, who was poisoned and suffererd horribly for three days before she died, and I think my one hour of pain was excrutiating but what about Piglet's pain? So I cry from compassion for all creatures suffering excrutiating pain. But mostly for myself. Just a few tears that go unnoticed.
Day Five:
At the 0800 meditation session I march into the meditation hall with the idea I'm going to kick Goenka's ass-- I'm going to sit the hour without moving-- he can torture me all he wants and I won't react to the pain.
I do it, for the most part. Once or twice I hunch my shoulders forward a little. The pain is there, but not as bad as before and what there is I keep at a distance-- it is only temporary pain, not crippling pain-- it is only pain. Go to hell pain.
By the end of the day I am sitting through the hour without moving one centimeter and I am observing the sensations throughout my body and the overriding sensation is still pain and some hard pain too but I'm pushing it farther and farther away.
I talk to myself, thusly:
"Oh, looky here, we have a block of searing pain just below the right shoulder blade, isn't that interesting? That must be very painful for our subject. But let's not linger here, let's move on to the next area. Ah. More searing pain! So very interesting. Ah, here it's just a knot of tension, and here it is numb, and here... more pain! Isn't this sensational!"
But I feel the day is a success. I showed Goenka a thing or two.
Days Six and Seven:
Observing the pain, but also finding the pain isn't as much as I had thought it was. The block of pain is actually a fingertip sized area of pain, and all around it it is tense, numb, heavy feeling... but not exactly pain. I am observing all of these unpleasant sensations with a degree of equanimity now. I feel I have really accomplished something here, though the whole process is unpleasant.
Also, I am well accustomed to the silence now. In fact, I dread the day we can speak. There will be a return to obligatory sociability. I enjoy walking around all day looking at the ground, which will be rude or weird back in the talking world.
Also, I am completely out of touch with what is happening in the world beyond, and I find this refreshing.
Day Eight:
At the morning session I am observing the pain. There's old faithful-- the searing pain beneath the right shoulder. Good morning, Old Faithful.
Then, my left hand starts tingling. Really tingling. A zippy tingling sensation then moves up my left arm. It feels very nice, but I wonder if it isn't some permanent nerve damage from all the sitting.
No matter, as it is quite a blissful sensation. As I observe the sensations all around my body, the tingling follows. Soon, I am one big tingling entity. I am tingling in space. I realize that the universe is tingly. I am tingly too. I am the universe. There is that pain, Old Faithful, but Old Faithful is far away, buried under all the tingling. I know I am smiling. Is this what it's really all about? Is this the goal? You get through the most excruciating pain and then you are rewarded with this? I am Buddha.
Then, the tape of Goenka's chanting comes on, as always, for the last five minutes of the hour. It has been my signal that I will only have to endure 5 more minutes of torture before a few minutes of freedom, but now it is an interruption. I want to keep tingling. The lights brighten, people groan, stretch, but I remain cross legged in the Burmese position, eyes closed, smiling, tingling. When I open my eyes the tingling fades, but the afterglow continues right through the break and when it is time to sit again I do so eagerly.
The teacher sitting up front wants to talk to some of us, as he does every so often to check on our progress. He asks what sensations we are feeling.
"I'm not sure if it's normal," I say, "but I'm tingling all over."
He smiles a bit, and says, "Yes, it is normal, but don't grow attached to this feeling. The pain will return."
Later that evening, at the discourse, Goenka tells us the same thing. If we are now experiencing these 'uniform subtle sensations,' do not crave them. The object is to observe pain, tingling, or no feeling at all with equanimity. Equanimity is the goal. Not 'free flow', as these uniform subtle sensations are called.
Day Nine:
Nevertheless, when I have two more big tingly sessions on this day, I'm happy about it.
At the discourse we are warned again. If we crave free flow and have aversion to pain we will simply build up more sankara-- the bad stuff-- and make no progress. we must observe these sensations-- just observe. I really dig the free flow though. But-- okay. The mission is equanimity, so the last time we meditate for the night, and the tingling arrives, I say, "You are just an impermanent sensation. Don't titilliate me, subtle sensation."
The tingling goes away and the pain returns.
I say, "You are also just an impermanent sensation, rising and falling-- anicca...anicca..."
And then I realize there is tingling but very mild, and there is pain, but ever so mild, and I could sit there all day and night in equanimity.
Day Ten:
Noble speech ends and it's just meditation summer camp now and I find myself talking and wishing I wasn't.

Epilogue:

It is a week later, and I meditate for an hour in the morning, first thing, and for an hour in the evening just before bed. The tingling is subdued, and so is the pain. It is more difficult to focus now, and my thoughts wander what with all the input from the world. My biggest enemy is no longer pain but drowsiness. But the meditation centers me, and gives me some measure of equanimity that I didn't have before.
I am on this machine far less now, and I feel more peaceful, happier, though I still get annoyed from time to time, like at that lady the other day at the supermarket who was pushing up against me at the checkout counter because she wanted to go faster-- as if things would go faster by her doing that.
I glared at her and said, "Have a little patience!"
I didn't call her any names though. 
I plan on returning to Buddha land to be a server for ten days, and then I plan on returning after that. 

https://www.dhamma.org/en/courses/search