How can I continue to hate the American War veteran who cried in 1E
my arms for what he had done? The Vi C7 t Minh man who raped me so long ago, was a child too once. He had been brutalised by being a soldier in the wars.
I have let go of my fear, like used clothing.
I take incense and mandarins down to the giant Quan m statue and prostrate myself at her feet. The Lady is so powerful that she
reaches even into the hearts of foreigners. I feel her embrace around me in the kindness and openness of all these people.
1E
I am too old to join the Plum Village sangha in France with Th A7
y. But I become another one of the old women monastics tending to Prajna Monastery, feeding Communist cadres, foreigners and lay people alike.
Vietnam has found peace, and I have finally found peace inside through compassion for others. Quan m, Avoliketera and the Lady 1E
have shown me the way through Th A7 y.
1E
Th A7 y talks about continuation – how we all are the seeds from our ancestors.
Bà is still alive in me and tears come to my eyes. Though I am far from my village, I feel the love of all of those who have held me close, my family, Tài and the easy acceptance of Bình, my benefactor. With this sangha I am never alone, I tell myself.
Compassion for all those who have suffered and who have created suffering for me, runs through my tired bones. Energised, I come slowly to my feet, clasp my hands and bow my head to the Lady.
I am free, I am free, I am free.
KARUNA,
COMPASSION
PRAJNA MONASTERY, SOUTH VIETNAM, 2009
This body is not me; I am not caught in this body, I am life without boundaries, I have never been born and I have never died.
1E
1E
THÍCH NH A4 T H A0 NH
The sound of the bell returns me to my true home. Opening my eyes, I return from the depths of meditation, as if from underwater, from the ocean. The bell echoes in the hollow of my soul and beyond. I look down at wrinkled brown hands with prominent blue veins, once they were smooth as the marble of a goddess statue. Memories of lives, past lives, begin to surface and I ask my mind to be still.
Breathing in, I am breathing in.
Breathing out, I am breathing out.
The sound of the bell penetrates my mind. Easing my posture, I let go of my memories, which floats to the top of my thoughts like a leaf on a pond.
I am fresh, fresh as a flower.
I am still, still as a mountain.
Glass shatters and a ripple runs through the consciousness of the meditating monks and nuns. The hired mobs are back again. A 1E
rumour is whispered that the authorities in Bát Nh A3 have paid villagers up to 150 kilometres away to come and destroy the monastery. I consciously breathe out my tension, trying to release my fear. In the middle of the sangha , circled by three hundred of my brothers and sisters, the practice is strong in the meditation hall. The terracotta Buddha statue at the front of the hall is still intact, though the white walls are filthy and desecrated with piss. In a brown nun’s robe, I feel visible, old and vulnerable. I attempt to return back to the island of peace and calm within, breathing in and out.
Na-mo Avo-li-ke-te-ra. Na-mo Avo-li-ke-te-ra.
We sing her name, Avoliketera, Quan m, the goddess of mercy, she who hears the cries of the world. In the courtyard of the temple, there was a white marble statue of her, holding a vase of water, her hand in a mudra . I dread to think what the mobs have done to her.
I have called her name in many guises, as the Lady of the Realm, as Mary the mother of God. I do not know if she has ever heard me.
The smell of incense infuses my robe and I return again to the peace within.
I feel the menace of the men surrounding us and feel sick in the stomach. We have been without water and electricity and much food for the past few months. Our practice shone brighter as we starved and took comfort from each other’s presence. But my fear has been nibbling at my peace, and I have wanted to run again.
Breathing in, I try and cradle my fear like a child, soothing myself. I feel vulnerable as a nun in a drab brown robe; the men have leered at all of us.
Sanctuaries are an illusion, only suffering is real. I know that this is not what the Buddha taught, and my experience has made my own sayings out of his teachings. I believe that any safety I find is temporary, any refuge is not permanent. But my teacher would say, all things are impermanent and change. I hope that our situation will change. Some days I cannot bear another moment of being under siege.
When I meditate, my monkey mind replays memories, of times before when I have starved and begged for food. I try to let the memories go, flow through me back to the past where they belong.
Then I am able to meditate truly, on the here and now in the present moment.
The rain falls in a steady drumming on the roof of the meditation hall. I catch myself swaying gently. Dizziness claims me for a moment and I open my eyes. More men have come into the hall, this time carrying crowbars and hammers. Some have a different look to them, and a shudder runs down my spine as they methodically start banging at the meditation hall walls with their tools. Police, I suspect, as they do not have the disorder and violent randomness of the other men. Having no other enemy to turn on, the Vietnamese now turn on themselves.
Today time is transparent to me and I can move in and out of my memories as my consciousness tries to resume its stillness. Bad memories emerge and I try not to get caught up with them like the tide. To follow those thoughts would hook me back into the past.
I try to sit back and observe from a place of calm.
From my island inside myself I touch the roots of my suffering, live like a throbbing wound.
I retreat to the practice inside itself to release my anger and fear. Fear and anger are the enemy of mankind and the Communists are afraid of the Buddhists, like President Diem once was.
Breathing in, I touch my fear.
Breathing out, I release my fear.
The loudspeaker messages are stronger now, interrupting our 1E
1E
meditation, denouncing Thích Nh A5 t H A1 nh and ordering us to return home. Paid by the authorities to drive us out of our home, the villagers harass the younger nuns. My breath is ragged and I calm myself breathing in and out. It reminds me too much of when 1E
my village was taken by the Vi C7 t Minh. I hear rumours that Vietnam is now the chair of the Security Council of the UN. Two monastics from America came here and witnessed what was going on and then our water supply was destroyed. We are hoping the US
Embassy will come and visit and see for themselves the destruction of our home. The smell of smoke permeates the hall, from the fires lit outside.
We have been warned. Why? The question is asked and word filters 1E
1E
through the monastics that the last time Thích Nh A5 t H A1 nh visited Vietnam, he asked for the religious police to be disbanded. He is too popular, a sister whispers. In the few years that Prajna has been open to the public, many thousands of young people have come, many to become monastics.
The seeds of violence have been watered in these people. I am frightened but I try not to act from my fear.
Fear and anger are the enemy, not humanity.
As the rain pours down, more men enter the meditation hall. The wind and rain blows in the broken windows. We are ordered to stand up and move. There are many of them, three times as many as us. We are pushed and shoved. The most senior of us stands up and nods for us to obey. Frightened, I follow my sisters as we are expelled into the pouring rain.
Outside the destruction becomes apparent. Only the rain stops the fires that have burned down the walls of the nunnery and Buddha Hall. The statue of a woman holding the hands of two children are now armless and the children have been beheaded. The Avoliketera Quan m statue has been demolished to a pile of rubble. Stumps and b
roken tree trunks litter where we used to do walking meditation. The ground is churned up by thousands of feet and the smell of petrol is in the air. We are herded out of the Prajna gates, leaving our home behind.
Then the mob leaves us standing in the rain and returns to the monastery with their hammers and axes to destroy what remains.
01
1E
1E
1E
1E
“Go to PhB0 DB c Hu C7 Temple in B A3 o L D9 c.” The suggestion spreads and we begin to walk, then run into the rain. Mud squelches between my toes and I am drenched as we hurry towards sanctuary fifteen kilometres away. Behind us, the security police line the road urging us away from the monastery. I stumble on into the darkness, my hope destroyed.
01
1E
1E
PhB0 DB c Hu C7 Temple is small, a miniature set of rectangular buildings, compared to the spacious monastery we have left behind. Their monastics hurriedly welcome us in to their main hall. We sit together jammed up and the smells of sweat and damp penetrate our being.
Nam Mô A Di Đà – Nam Mô A Di Đà – Nam Mô A Di Đà Someone whispers Avoliketera’s name in a sing-song chant and we all join in. The last time we sang this joyfully we were clustered around the ornamental lake in Prajna. Today the chant is a cry for help and mercy. Outside we hear the roar of police trucks and the growing sounds of the crowd.
We are blasted with orders over loudspeakers to leave the temple and return to our hometowns. Prajna was my home.
The abbot is asked to expel us, but he refuses. He is threatened with the destruction of the temple.
Then a message comes from the Catholic Church. They have offered sanctuary if we cannot stay in the temple. Outside one or two of us have connected to the internet and used mobiles to make our plight public. Small hope kindles in me at the tentative smiles of the younger monastics. Someone begins singing about the island home inside the self.
I like to return to my island.
Then one of the older monastics ventures in from the outside. He 1E
1E
bears food from concerned villagers in B A3 o L D9 c. And a 1E
1E
message from Thích Nh A5 t H A1 nh himself.
“Prajna is now legend. You carry the seeds of Prajna inside you to spread to the world.”
Blinking back more tears I recollect the running of the waterfall down my spine and the calm of the white-seated Buddha statue that used to watch us walk beside the creek. Unbidden, the white serene face of the statue of Quan m’s smile surfaces in my consciousness before disappearing.
I have prayed to the goddess outside of myself for so long. Now with my home destroyed and the police baying outside for us to leave, I have to find sanctuary inside myself again.
With the strength of the sangha, I retreat within and meditate once more. The sense of no self and the interconnectedness of all things emerge from me again. We inter-be and inter-are.
I remember a time of peace and what has been annihilated can grow again, as strong as our practice. What has happened once can 1E
happen again. Peace is still possible. Th A7 y has said it, Prajna is now legend inside us.
I remember this as the final deadline is read out. By New Year’s Eve, we have to leave the temple and surrender to the police.
The small hands of my sisters find mine in the siege and instead of despair at their grasping, I find strength in their practice.
So we will disappear. My dreams now destroyed, I decide to accompany the monastics who will flee to Thailand.
I hug my sisters one by one, offering them comfort.
Like little brown sparrows, we disappear one by one into the night. I bow to the senior monastics one last time, a profound stillness settling over us all. Then I take off my monastic’s robe and surrender it to them, to shuffle off into darkness.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
1E
1E
My deepest thanks and gratitude to Thích Nh A5 t H A1 nh, the Plum Village Sangha, Present Moment Sangha, Green Bamboo Sangha and the Hanoi Community of Mindful Living for showing me the way.
Thank you to Julia Byford and Ian Roberts for keeping the practice in the here and now, your inspiration and wisdom has been invaluable.
Thank you to Gail Jones for all her guidance and support, Melinda Jewell and the University of Western Sydney. Thank you to Merlinda Bobis and Nicholas Jose for their generous support. Many thanks to the Australia Council for the Arts. Thank you to the Tyrone Guthrie Centre for peace and quiet. Also thanks to Asialink, Glenfern, Varuna Writers Centre and the Footscray Community Arts Centre where this novella was born. Thank you to Anna Mandoki, Margaret Bearman and Liz Kemp for viewing many drafts. Thank you to Susan Hawthorne, Pauline Hopkins, Renate Klein and the other fabulous women of Spinifex Press. And thank you to Alister Air, my dharma friends and my family for having faith in me.
For more information on Buddhism, Quan m and Prajna Monastery in 1E
1E
particular, please read The Novice by Thích Nh A5 t H A1 nh.
If you would like to know more about Spinifex Press, write to us for a free catalogue, visit our website or email us for further information.
Spinifex Press
PO Box 105
Mission Beach QLD 4852
Australia
www.spinifexpress.com.au
[email protected]
Lady of the Realm Page 6
