Where actually is the tomb of Christ?

The Garden Tomb

“This is one of the two places where Christ might have been buried.”

“One of the two?”

My surprise is a bit for show. We are in the place called “The Garden Tomb” on the map of Jerusalem. My interlocutor is clearly trained in a Protestant way of leading a theological debate, knows by heart the chapter and verse of each one of his quotations.

“Yes. Traditionally it has been believed that the tomb of Christ is where the Church of the Holy Sepulchre is now but this is by no means sure. According to the Gospels Jesus was crucified and buried outside the city walls (chapter and verse) but the Church of the Holy Sepulchre is within the walls. This tomb is outside the walls...”

“You mean the walls you can see today? These were built by Sulaiman!”

My interlocutor is a bit thrown by this comment. Sulaiman? Who is that? Apparently his erudition was restricted to the Bible which does not mention Sulaiman the Magnificent, the Turkish sultan who conquered Palestine some 15 centuries after the last book of the Bible was completed. It was he who built the walls we see today. My erudite interlocutor was clearly not aware of that and didn't know what to say. However, succour came in a form of another erudite Evangelical who knew who Sulaiman was. He joined the conversation and said:

“Yes, Sulaiman built his new walls where Hadrian's walls were before.”

I didn't say anything but disbelief must have been visible on my face because he added straight away:

“OK, Hadrian built his walls about 100 years after Christ but we don't know what was there before and can only guess that Hadrian, too, rebuilt earlier fortifications.”

The Edicule inside the Rotunda

This is of course not true, we do know pretty well what was there before. There are few places in the world as thoroughly examined by archaeologists as Jerusalem. Both historians and archaeologists agree that the place where the Church of the Holy Sepulchre is now was outside the city walls at the time of Pontius Pilate. Only in AD 130 did Hadrian build a new town here and named it Colonia Aelia Capitolina. He built a pagan temple on the spot where the Church of the Holy Sepulchre stands now. At the time of Constantine the pagan temple was dismantled and the tomb of Christ was found underneath. A church was built around the tomb.

There are more questions than answers here. How did they find the tomb of Christ underneath the temple that had stood there for two hundred years? Even if they found the tomb after the temple was dismantled – how did they know it was the tomb of Christ? Eusebius of Cesarea, who was present at the event, writes about it but doesn't say on what ground it was decided that it was THIS tomb. Perhaps he considered it obvious. This is not impossible, after all Christians lived in Jerusalem all the time since the Crucifixion and could have preserved the information where the place called Golgotha was.

There are more questions, though.

The modern pilgrims enter the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and in the middle of the rotunda they see a little free-standing chapel called Edicule. Its walls are visibly cracking and this is probably why it is held together by huge iron rails. I, as an art historian, can say that the chapel was built in the 19^th century because of its architectural style, and yet they say it is the tomb of Christ. Something doesn't add up here or at least some more questions come to mind.

It is interesting actually – this is supposedly the most important church in Christendom but it is very hard to find any info about its architectural form. Well, hard it may be but I did some research and have found that info. And I have found that the history of this little chapel is as complicated as it can be for a chapel of this size.

During the reign of emperor Constantine the tomb of Christ was discovered. We don't know how they knew it was this particular tomb but this is what they decided. Subsequently the rock around it was removed and the tomb became a kind of a free-standing building. It was surrounded by columns like a little temple, a conical roof was added as well a a small portico before the entrance. Thus the first version of the Edicule was created. A big rotunda was built around it, big enough for pilgrims to circumambulate. A rectangular basilica was also added on the eastern side of the rotunda. The form of this ancient Edicule is known from some ancient paintings. Most likely it still existed in 1009.

Three separate decorations on the altar inside the Edicule

In AD 638 Arabs conquered the Holy Land but they left the Christian holy places untouched. There is even a legend that caliph Omar was once invited to pray in the church of the Holy Sepulchre but refused saying that if he did so the church would be in the future changed into a mosque. The legend is a bit anachronistic (there weren't any mosques at the time of Omar so he could not have known what a mosque would be) but it demonstrates the approach of Muslims to newly conquered peoples. The choice “Islam or decapitation” was only given to pagans, mostly Arab polytheists. Christians and Jews in non-Arab countries (which then meant both the Middle East and North Africa) were left alone and could practice their religion if they paid a special tax. In AD 1009, however, the mad caliph al Hakim of the Fatimid dynasty, who on occasions claimed to be God incarnate himself, ordered the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem destroyed. The job was done thoroughly, the sources say that the basilica built by Constantine completely disappeared. Three years later al-Hakim changed his mind and let the Christians rebuild both the church and the tomb of Christ. The Byzantine emperor of the time financed the works. The Edicule was built in a new form this time, there was an ante-chamber before the entrance and over the whole structure there was a little dome resting on columns. A new rotunda with a conical roof was build around the Edicule but the old basilica has not been rebuilt. There was a courtyard in front of the rotunda, at the corner of which stood the rock of Golgotha. This is what the crusaders found when they arrived a century later.

When the knights of Christ stormed the city, the whole population was put to the sword; they say streams of blood ran along the streets. The buildings were left alone but the new lords of Jerusalem decided to build a proper church joined to the rotunda of the tomb. They built a Gothic-style basilica with a transept and ambulatory – this is the building we see today. The Gothic style was at that time normally used in Western Europe but in this case the influence went both ways – the layout of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was copied in many places in Europe. The Crusader orders especially tended to build rectangular churches with a rotunda added from the West. The Temple church in London is the prime example of this.

In 1187 Saladin chased the crusaders from Jerusalem but allowed peaceful pilgrims to remain. Franciscan friars were permitted to look after the Christian holy places. The new era of the Muslim rule in Jerusalem began, there would be no new Christian edifices built, only the existing ones repaired. In 1555 the Franciscans decided that the Edicule needed radical repairs so they took it apart and put it back together again. They mostly used the old material when rebuilding so the chapel didn't change its appearance radically. We know what it looked like from drawings made by some pilgrims. It was unchanged until 1808, when the fire in the rotunda caused its roof to collapse. The Edicule was seriously damaged and completely rebuilt the following year. In 1927 an earthquake caused the walls to crack. In 1947 steel rails were put in to keep it from falling apart. This is what we see today.

The rails around the Edicule

From what we know we can gather that the present chapel is built around the fragment of solid rock in which the tomb of Christ is located. For the believers this is the place where the Resurrection happened. So holy a place must be properly decorated. What does this mean – properly? It is a well known fact that there is more than one Christian Church and each has its own tradition of decorating holy places. What can be done, then? It has been decided that the interior of the tomb will be divided into sectors: the middle will be Greek Orthodox, the left side Roman Catholic, the right side Armenian. All this inside of a tomb in which hardly three people can stand next to each other.

And where are the Protestants? Didn't they get a section to decorate? Apparently not, but not to be outdone they found themselves another tomb. In the 19^th century the English general Gordon (famous for not being able to defend Khartoum) decided that the Catholic are as usual wrong. Beyond the walls of Sulaiman he found a rock with two caves that looked like eye sockets ans not far away from that place he found an ancient tomb cut into the rock. What is interesting – in the Byzantine era somebody had painted a cross on the side of this tomb. Why did somebody paint a cross here? Could it be that somebody even then thought this was the place where Christ was buried? This is what the present Protestant guardians of the place suggest. Certainly the Protestant guardians keep a nice garden around it. It is certainly worth seeing this tomb – it may give an idea what a tomb of Christ looked like before it was decorated.

More pictures on my other blog

https://worldin8pics.blogspot.co.uk/2016/07/the-edicule.html

You will find this story, and many others, in my book "ASK A GLOBETROTTER".

Two little tears

Pow wow drummers

“These houses look perfectly normal”, Trish seems a bit surprised. “Here they have cars, they live just like we do. In the North it is a different story. There they live in sheds, alcohol and drugs are a huge problem, families are destroyed, parents don't look after their children because they are drunk.”

We are driving through an Ojibway Reservation which is virtually a part of the town Sault Ste Marie. The Ojibway, one of the biggest tribes of North America, always lived in small bands that roamed the area around the Great Lakes; today they don't have one big reservation but many small ones dispersed around the Lakes. Sault Ste Marie lies on that narrow strait between the Lakes, right in the centre of the Ojibway country. Batchewana First Nation is really a part of the town, houses as everywhere else, neatly mown lawns, cars on the driveways.

“It looks very tidy here. Reservations in the North are ghettoes, slums in the forest.”

I am going to Batchewana for the pow wow. It is a weekend-long event starting Friday afternoon and ending Sunday evening. Trish will drop me here and will pick me up on Sunday. We find the pow wow ground – a grassy area surrounded by woods, the dancing arena in the middle. The arena is surrounded by the stands for spectators and in the middle of it is a free standing roof for the drummers. A tipi stands at the entry to the grounds, smoke rises from the opening at the top. A group of Indians sit on plastic chairs next to the tipi. One of them, seeing our hesitation, says:

The chief with the new eagle staff

“Come in, come in. You want to camp? No problem, find a place anywhere, somewhere there. Then come to the tipi to say your prayers. We have the sacred fire here, I am the firekeeper. You can pray your own way, the language and religion don't matter. Giche Manito will hear any prayer. Just throw a pinch of tobacco into the fire, the smoke of tobacco will take the prayer to heaven.”

There is a flat area by the woods at the back of the grounds, perfect to put the tent up. Trish drives away, the drums start beating soon after. The dancers in their feathery regalia gather for the Grand Entry. The first dance is the veteran dance dedicated to those who have proven their courage by risking their lives in battles. In the past it might have been the warriors but these days it is those Indians who serve in an army. Any army, be it US, Canadian or any other. Those who took part in the famous Indian protests of the 20^th century are also considered veterans. They dance around the arena carrying their flags flanked by the male and female chief dancers. The male chief dancer, dressed in a traditional leather outfit, has two tears tattooed next to his right eye, which gives him a bit fierce look. Pity Marysia is not here, she would have certainly have liked to see it. The veterans circle the arena then fix the flags in the place of honour. Afterwards there are more dances, well into the night.

I wake up early in the morning. At 6 o'clock there is a sun greeting ceremony around the sacred fire; I make my way to the tipi. Part of the ceremony is conducted in the Ojibway language but few people can speak it nowadays so English is also used. The chief firekeeper, a man with a bear footprint tattooed on his left arm, opens the ceremony with a song sung in Ojibway and then in English explains the elements of the ritual. One of the women blesses water and strawberries. The firekeeper explains: women bless the water and strawberries because water symbolises the water of birth and strawberries are the symbol of the fruit of a woman's womb. The water to be blessed comes from a plastic bottle, everyone gets a tiny cup and some water is poured for him to drink. Everyone also gets a strawberry to eat. It is very important that both sexes take part in the ceremony – says the firekeeper – so the right balance is kept.

The firekeeper among the spectators

Afterwards the talking feather passes from hand to hand around the tent – only the person holding it has the right to speak. The firekeeper explains – everyone should introduce himself and say something that he has on his mind. Someone talks about the new eagle staff, how it was created and all the problems. The staff will be carried around the dancing arena but now it stands in the tipi, it is impressive indeed. Someone else tells how this “eagle way” cured his alcoholism. One woman says that the spirit of the lake appeared to her in the dream and she asked why he never shows his face, he answered that if she saw his face she'd drop dead. I get the feather as well at one point. What shall I say?I mention that Marysia passed away a few months ago and I know that she'd like to be here. As usual when I mention this I cannot stop two little tears rolling down my cheeks. But the people here are great. They say that little tears are allowed to roll down my cheeks but I can be sure that she is present with us anyway.

The pow wow dancers

Of course, all this ceremony is about making contact with the spirit world. The tobacco smoke is an intermediary. Some of those gathered around the sacred fire have their sacred bundles spread in front of them. Among the objects that make up each bundle is a long clay pipe. The firekeeper advises how to pray – formulate clearly what you want to ask for. If you ask for strength you will have difficulties in your life and by dealing with them you will gain strength. It is like with physical strength – if you want to be strong you have to go to the gym a lot. Some of those gathered talk aloud about what they would like to ask the Creator for. Somebody wants to pray for those who are in prison, especially drug users, so the prison experience could make them want to change their lives. Later somebody explains that at the pow wow alcohol and drugs are forbidden so I won't see drunks there but otherwise drugs and alcohol are a big problem on the reservation. After all the prayers are formulated there is the pipe smoking ceremony – the pipes go around and everybody smokes. The smoke carries the prayers to the spirit world.

The man sitting next to me puts a feather bonnet on his head every time he has something to say. I learn later that he is a chief of the reservation, his name is Dean. He is very talkative and after the ceremony explains everything that I don't understand. He says that the pow wow is rather for show. They try to connect it to the spiritual tradition but the dances themselves are for show. It is not a bad thing, young people learn the dances, create elaborate outfits, they are proud to be Indian, but the real spiritual ceremonies are conducted elsewhere. For example the four-day fast ceremony is conducted at Agawa rock on the shore of Lake Superior, exactly on the top of the rock where the famous paintings are. This is a vision-quest ceremony conducted twice a year, in October and in May. Everything is under the supervision of Rodney, who is the firekeeper today. The sacred fire is lit up and kept for four days. The participants don't eat or drink anything, even water, for four days. Those who fast stay in solitary places but Rodney checks every day how they are, others support them spiritually. For example by throwing food into the fire for the spirits to eat or pouring water so they have something to drink. The smoke from the sacred fire connects the world of men with the world of spirits.

Around noon the drums start again, dancers get ready for the Grand Entry. Rodney sits somewhere in the crowd, doesn't take part in the dances, it would be hard to guess that he plays any important role here. Dean in the feather bonnet, the new eagle staff in hand, leads the colourful train of dances. The Grand Entry is always impressive, veterans in the lead with their flags, dancers in their feathered regalia behind them. A very colourful affair.

After a few dances I go back to my tent. It appears I put it up on a car park. Cars are parked tight around it, the bumper of one of them is almost on it. The dancer with tears tattooed next to his eye stands there and talking to someone. I start a conversation. Interestingly his interlocutor also has two tears tattooed next to his eye. I ask what they mean.

“This is because when I was very little I cried a lot. My parents were alcoholics who didn't look after me and my grandmother adopted me. She also cried a lot over me. When I finally stopped crying she tattooed two tears – one because I cried and one because she cried.”

“And what about the tears of the other man?”

“Exactly the same thing happened to him.”

The dancer with the two tears

Jim Agawa read this story and then sent me this letter:
Hi Wlodek, the story is not correct here's the story of the two drops:
I was born 4th in a small village in northern Ontario called Batchewana Bay which is situated on Lake Superior. Shortly after I was born my natural mother took sick with rheumatic fever, and because of it's severity she had to be sent away from our village to hospital for treatment, my father a fisherman on Lake Superior could not take care of a new born baby as well as three other children, so in his infinite wisdom got my grandparents ( his parents ) to take care of me, and because my grandparents were full blown alcoholics it was total neglect right from the start. The neglect was so bad that they almost killed me, my bottom was so blistered with sores they were actually bleeding, my throat was so raw from crying, I couldn't even cry anymore I would open my mouth to cry, there would be no sound and no tears. So someone got in touch with my mother's mother ( my grandmother) in another village called Goulais Bay mission another reservation a little south of Batchewana Bay, that if something was not none and soon that, that baby was gonna die meaning me. My grandmother made the trip to where I was and when she saw me she just could not believe what she was seeing, so she bundled me up and took me back to Goulais Bay and began to nurse me back to health. She would say "there were a couple times I didn't think that baby was going to survive" so with constant caring, feeding, and cleaning of my sores and in my grand mothers own words,  " it was about 3 months to the day that we brought this baby home, that he finally cried a tear, and when he cried that first tear I knew he was going to be OK, so I cried" so you see the first tear drop is mine and the second is my grandmothers. After about a year of staying with my grandparents in Goulais Bay, they tried to take me back to my father and mother, but I would not stay there, so they took me back home with them. They tried a few more times but with no results, so my father said to my grandmother and grandfather that I was the only one they were going to get, so I lived with them all my life.

You will find this text, 
and many more on the subject, 
in my book "DO THEY STILL LIVE IN WIGWAMS?":

What is all this Buddhism about?

Bell ringing in Bukkokuji

"I know many Buddhist monks, but Tangen Roshi is absolutely extraordinary", my Japanese friend said to me and I agreed that something is in it because I was myself in Bukkokuji all four weeks and two days. Why did I go there? Probably to learn what Buddhism is about. Anyway this question was in the air when I entered the gate of Bukkokuji for the first time; I have hitchhiked to Obama, found the temple at the very edge of the town at the foot of a sugar loaf mountain that stood there in the middle of a plain as flat as a table, entered the gate and found myself on the monastery yard. In front of me there was an ancient building with paper walls, behind it there was a bamboo grove on the rising slope, on the right and left other buildings and a small graveyard with little stone pagodas, everything beautiful, but there was an absolute silence, not a soul around despite all doors being open. I stood disoriented when from the building on my left (zendo, as I learned later) people started coming out. The first one was an old monk with a shiny bold head and dressed in a grey robe, he came to me and taking my hand led me outside the gate. He didn't say anything, but he seemed to watch to make sure I don't run away while calling someone from inside the monastery. He disappeared only when Jikaku-san came, a young monk in an ordinary black robe, and in imperfect English explained that at the moment I cannot stay because they have a week long sesshin. I asked whether I could join the sesshin, Jikaku-san disappeared behind the gate and a minute later came with an answer: right now there is no room in the zendo, I could come a week later, when some people would be gone. What Buddhism is about? I was under the impression of that silent touch. The very fact is unusual in Japan, where people avoid even looking at strangers, but in the touch of Tangen Roshi there was something special, a message or something.

Tangen Roshi

The first thing Jikaku-san told me when I arrived a week later was that I am to go to the zendo and sit in zazen until Roshi-sama calls me. He led me there, showed me where I was to sit, told me that I am not supposed to leave this place except for going to the toilet, he showed me also the toilet, an impeccably clean place with a little altar of a boddhisattva purifier, and left me there. For the next two hours I sat facing the wall and was for the first time experiencing what Buddhism is about: it is about pain in your knees. I could then just about sit in the half lotus position, but to just about sit is not the same as to sit for hours on end; after ten minutes the first pain came, went away after fifteen, came back after half an hour an soon became unbearable, going to the toilet helped only for a short time, all that I read about Zen concentration ceased to mean anything, all my sitting was only just successful attempt of remaining motionless despite the excruciating pain... well, I have been honoured with a version of the traditional trial of waiting, which in old Zen monasteries lasted many days, but can my waiting be compared to that of the Second Patriarch, who waited in front of the cave of Boddhidharma several weeks completely ignored, snow was already starting to cover him, in the and he cut off his own arm and threw it in the cave to attract attention?

Relief that I can make a few steps was my main feeling when Jikaku-san came to call me and led me to the hondo, where, however, I had to sit again in the Japanese manner on the floor. At a low table by the wall Roshi-sama was waiting for me.

"What did you came here for?"

"I'd like to learn zazen."

"What do you want to learn zazen for? You want to stay here some time and then to go back and make money again?" Those seemingly hostile words Roshi-sama spoke with trembling voice, as if he was greeting a prodigal son. I had an impression he was going to cry.

"How long do you want to stay?"

"A month if possible. But there is a problem: I have very little money and I wouldn't be able to pay for my stay." "If you sincerely came here to learn zazen, you can stay here without paying. But if you want to keep your ego, if you don't want to be in harmony, don't stay. Only one month? OK, in the beginning of the next month we have another week long sesshin, this will be a good start for you. But you have to be patient: this is a poor temple and the food is not always enough..."

Takuhatsu

Next day I was given a piece of a wall in the zendo to sit in front of and a task during samu, which is work, this task was emptying the cesspool. I was doing it with Avishai, a lad from Israel, who had read a lot about Zen and came with an aim of achieving Awakening; it was a typical Japanese cesspool, very small and emptied with a big ladle on a long pole, the substance was poured into a 20-litre bucket and carried on a bamboo pole to a vegetable garden, where it served as organic fertiliser. I was also given orioki, which are used at the ritual Zen meals. In Bukkokuji all three meals of the day were ritual, eaten in total silence and preceded by a short sutra chanting, during which the orioki - three bowls put one into another and tied with a piece of cloth - are unwrapped, food is put into them and a few grains of rice are put aside for hungry demons. All meals in Bukkokuji are also scant, like those of a beggar: in the morning a watery rice with a Japanese pickled apricot, and necessarily also a slice of a pickled radish, at midday brown rice, soy paste soup and some vegetable, and also the slice of the pickled radish, which is used after the meal to clean the bowls - hot water is poured in and the radish held with the chopsticks is used to scrub the remains of food; after that the bowls are tied again, all at the table. All the meals look like those of a beggar. This is because Buddhism is about begging.

At least once a month and during some periods every third day Bukkokuji goes out for takuhatsu: all monks in special robes, in straw hats in which they look like huge mushrooms, in straw sandals, jingling with little bells they walk along a street in a group, but only one holds a begging bowl. they stop in front of the first house, chant a sutra without knocking the wooden fish, but with the same rhythm:

"Kan-ji-zai Bo-satsu gyo-jin Han-nya Ha-ra-mi-ta ji..." (Boddhisattva Listener of the World's Cries using his transcendental wisdom...)

The door opens, an old lady with a face of a person honoured with the visit throws a coin into the bowl. But the sutra is chanted to the end:

"...shiki-fu-i-ku, ku-fu-i-shiki..." (...form is no different from void, void is no different from form...) The mushrooms bow deeply, little bells jingling. In front of the next house they chant the same sutra, a short one, called Hannya Shingyo, which means "Heart of Wisdom".

"...mu-ken-ni-bi-zes-shin-i, mu-shiki-so-ku-mi-soku-ko, mu-ken-kai nai-shi mu-i-shiki-kai..." (unimportant ear eye nose tongue, body mind, unimportant colour, sound, smell taste touch, object, unimportant the visible world, unimportant the invisible world...)

Nobody opens the door but when the sutra nears the end a housewife in an apron comes hastily from a neighbourhood and throws a note in. The mushrooms bow and go farther along the narrow lane, between gardens full of bamboo grass and little pines trained to be low and bent. From one of the houses nobody comes out, but when the sutra is finished the mushrooms bow just the same.

Chanting sutras

"...mu mu-myo yaku mu mu-myo jin..." (...unimportant ignorance and unimportant end of ignorance...)

Or perhaps Buddhism is not about begging, but something quite contrary? What might have this 'bowl of the most high class' meant? It was a 'bath day'. every fifth day there is no samu but instead of it ofuro, the Japanese hot bath, and a lot of free time, during this free time Roshi-sama sat at the doorstep of the hondo talking to someone, while Kornelius - with a tea bowl in his hand - run across the yard first one way, then back; Roshi-sama commented: Kornelius itsumo fura fura shimasu ('always runs to and fro'), this is no good for zazen"; Kornelius approached saying: I understand... suddenly Roshi-sama jumped up:

"Chawan from my treasure box!"

"From you treasure box? You gave it to me when I was here last year!"

"Is that so? I have another one, similar."

Roshi-sama rose, went to the hondo and after a while came back with a wooden box in hand, opened it and took a bowl out, it was indeed similar in shape and colour, beautiful, light green and covered in thousands of tiny dark green cracks in the glaze.

"The most high class. When you drink from it, always with dignity, inner quiet. No rush fura fura."

Kornelius looked at it with his eyes wide open, slowly turning it around in his hands. Roshi-sama took it back, put it into the box, shut it and gave it to Kornelius, saying:

"Write on the top the date I gave it to you."

Zendo

Whatever the case, Bukkokuji lives - as Buddha commanded - off begging and gifts that sometimes are brought to the temple. Often these are gifts in kind, standing for some time in front of the altar in the hondo, it may be a big box of rice or a bottle of oil, once for a whole day a washing machine stood there, sometimes it is a box of sweets, in which case an additional meal is organised, tea time, without sutras, without silence. Roshi-sama comes as well for that, he actually likes to talk, like when everyone gathered in a little room between the hondo and the kitchen and someone asked him what sort of music he liked, he talked about Beethoven: "The last evening before I joined the army during the war I went to my room and I sat there listening to the gramophone, an old one, no electricity, Beethoven's Symphony No 9, again and again, at two o'clock I wrote on the sleeve: 'I am listening to it now, maybe the last time'. I joined the air forces and the day my last flight was due the war ended; if my last flight was just a day earlier, nobody of you would be sitting here. But I went back home, the record was still where I left it, I opened it and the inscription was there. But I didn't listen to it any more. After the war I met a nun who introduced me to the Dharma. She took me to the zazen in Kannon temple in Tokyo and then when I heard the Shiseigando sutra, even though I didn't understand the meaning because I didn't have the written text, I knew this was the harmony I was seeking. I couldn't stop crying, it was raining when I was going home, but the rain of my tears was even bigger. I didn't listen to the classical music any more. Beethoven is powerful, but the silence is even more powerful. This is the Tenth Symphony of Beethoven."

Silence: whatever Buddhism is about, silence is the chief activity in Bukkokuji. At least five times forty minutes a day, starting at four in the morning, at 3:50 one of the monks runs through the corridor ringing the bell and at four everyone must be in the zendo, forty minutes of silence with the spine straight and facing the wall while behind your back one of the monks walks slowly with a kyosaku stock in his hands. Only walks, he wouldn't strike unless someone asks: feeling his presence behind the back one has to fold palms and bow; sharp pain helps to concentrate on silence when thoughts jump all over the place like a pack of monkeys. During the second morning zazen Roshi-sama rings a gong in the hondo and then whoever wants jumps and runs to the room between the hondo and the kitchen and waits there in silence for his or her turn because only one person at a time may go for a dokusan, to a room behind the altar where Roshi-sama sits with a picture of his own master, Harada Sogaku, behind his back. He sits there in the lotus position, kyosaku on his lap, his eyes closed, mysterious smile, every entering person is a surprise to him, the smile becomes warm. My first dokusan: I didn't ask the question, but Roshi-sama answered: "Watch your breath. Breathe slowly: in... out... in... out... but not only air. Spirit." "What shall do with the pain in my knees, Roshi-sama?" "The pain is there, but the body is empty. If you can't stand it, try to sit in another position." With a little bell Roshi-sama gives a sign that the dokusan is over, the next person enters. Sometimes Roshi-sama comes to the zendo and walks between rows, sometimes without being asked he strikes with his stick, like the time when he stopped behind us - Avishai on my left, Klaus on my right - roared like a bear: "Always like great mountain!!! Always like a great mountain!!!", he stood behind Klaus, touched his shoulder, and then WALLOP on one side, WALLOP on the other, then the same with Avishai: WALLOP on one shoulder, WALLOP on the other, with all his strength, even with a shout, I thought he was going to break his stick. During the sesshin there is even more silence, eleven times forty minutes, and no talk allowed at all except during dokusan. 

Bukkokuji main altar. Behind it dokusan room with a picture of Harada Sogaku Roshi.

During a sesshin Roshi-sama comes to the midday zazen to say a teishio, or a Buddhist sermon. He starts with a reading from a book of koans and then he talks for an hour; he likes to talk. From a book of koans he reads with a changed voice, sings almost: "Whenever master Gutei was asked about Zen, he simply raised his finger. Once a visitor asked Gutei's boy attendant: 'What does you master teach?' The boy, too, raised his finger. Hearing of this, Gutei cut off the boy's finger with a sharp knife. The boy, screaming, began to run away. Gutei called him and when he turned around, Gutei raised his finger. The boy suddenly became enlightened."

A finger?

 Well, I have read already that it may be better even to cut off an arm or pull out an eye if it obstructs the way. But what else was in that sermon? There was a phrase: "Kyorei raises his hand and Mount Kansan breaks in two." There was also another one: "If there is at least one person who cries and you hear this cry as your own, I could stop this teisho and speak no more."

Breathe in, breathe out, but not just air... What is all this Buddhism about? This question was not spoken during my last dokusan when Roshi-sama asked (alluding to our previous talk): "Where is your flower?" I answered (alluding to his previous answer): "Roshi-sama said that I shouldn't...", he made a big circle in the air and said: "A big flower...". This question was not spoken when after the sesshin I spoke to Tom and Tom said: "This is my seventh sesshin, but the first one really hard psychically, before I just had pain in the knees, like you, but now I almost prayed for the pain to come back, especially the third day, when things start coming up; I have done many things in my life, in Hungary I was in the communist army, you know yourself what it is, then in Australia I was training karate for ten years and sometimes the trainer really got our guts out, but all this is nothing compared to this place, and nothing really holds you here, any time you can get up and go, but you won't escape, because this is all your own rubbish..." This question was not spoken during my last talk with Roshi-san, who with equal joy welcomes every person and with equal ease says goodbye, he said: "Go now because we start a tea ceremony here" and when I, with my backpack on by back, crossed the monastery gate again, I heard the huge drum in the hondo being struck to call for the ceremony. I went along the lanes between the bamboo grass and kinky little pines, everything was wet after the night rain. What is all this Buddhism about? 

Drops on a pine tree
           hang over misty air;
                    a moment passes.

If you want to see more pictures from Bukkokuji, visit my picture blog:

http://worldin8pics.blogspot.co.uk/2016/07/bukkokuji.html

You will find this story, and many others, in my book "ASK A GLOBETROTTER".

A Path wet with Dew

Mystical mists at Shitou Shan

“I'll show you the red light district” says Richie and we enter the area of dark alleys to see the pulse of Taipei at midnight. The alleys behind the ancient Buddhist temple are full of people despite the late hour. The temple itself is closed at night, gates locked, but a few streets away restaurants are open, crowds of people move here and there. The smell of turtle soup fills the air, live turtles heaped in huge jars move slowly waiting for their heads to be sliced off, apparently terrapin blood is an aphrodisiac, couples wait for their turn to have a glass of dark red liquid, the head of each terrapin is nailed to the board with one knife, another knife slices through the neck and blood is pored to two glasses. Supposedly erection after it is like an axe, I was told by a Chinese man. Only two restaurants serving terrapin blood are open, long queues of couples waiting in from of them.

“Follow me” says Richie and we enter a maze of very narrow alleys. Here, in the orange light of lamps in red painted doorways of mysterious establishments we pass pretty girls, really beautiful Chinese faces, teenagers. In the narrow alleys the smell is even stronger but here it is not turtle soup but sweat and something else. We walk quickly, the alleys are so narrow that we almost touch those girls, I can see their faces close up. Men in suits and ties move in the other direction. We leave this place and go back to the street with the terrapins. There are some girls waiting on street corners there but they are not so young and not so beautiful.

“I felt strange vibes among those brothels, something like a pain”, I say.

“You are right” says Richie, “I also felt someone might knife me at any moment.” With a feeling of some moral superiority I think that this is not what I meant.

Thousand plastic Boddhisattvas

To think that only the other day I went to the sacred mountain of Shitou Shan where the Taiwanese Buddhists make pilgrimages to soak in the atmosphere of holiness. I stayed in a nunnery where the shaven bald but very beautiful and presumably virtuous girls chant sutras before dawn. They recite fragments of the Lotus Sutra to the fast rhythm of the wooden fish (a musical instrument). Later, after dawn, for an hour they prostrate before the alter of Amida vvveeeerrryyy sssslllooowwwlllyyy as if they were in a slowed down movie and equally slowly they chant “Nnnaaammmooo Aaammmiiitttooofffooo” which means “Praise to the Limitless Light”. All this is done early morning amid the smoke of incense when the sun rays cross the hall at angles. Although on that day there was not much sunlight as the whole mountain was covered in fog and I could not see the way from one temple to another. I walked along those footpaths wet with dew among bamboo groves not knowing where I was going and things suddenly emerged in front of me. For example a crowd of plastic white Bodhisattvas, all identical, or a deserted temple, or a temple not quite deserted, where somebody who spoke English could explain what was going on there. There are many monasteries on Shitou Shan. They are not old like the ancient temples on the holy mountains of mainland China, here they are all new, built of concrete after the last war. Pilgrims come here anyway and the monks and nuns live off what the pilgrims give them. They don't go out to beg, in China this custom is not practised although in other Buddhist countries it is considered important. The Buddhist don't teach a doctrine but “a way” or practice; the first step on the way “from the burning house to the footpath wet with dew” (to use an image taken from the Lotus Sutra) is selfless giving. It is also important that the monks learn humility and don't consider themselves better than other people; if they only eat what other people give them, there is a chance that they actually see it.

One of the temples at Shitou Shan

Around midday the fog began to disperse. I was leaning on the stone railing of one of the temples and looked at the a pagoda emerging from the fog on the ridge across the valley. The fog was being blown away, the bamboos around the temple dripped with dew, big drops fell on moss below. A car drove up the valley, a taxi from Taipei, it stopped on a small car park in front of the temple and two tourists got out of it. They looked like well-off Americans, an expensive camera dangling on the belly, heavy make-up that tried to cover wrinkles – this sort of thing. They looked around the temple while I stood there leaning against the railings and watched them full of critical thoughts about rich American tourists and the way they travel around the world. Then they started walking along the stony path towards the next temple, they passed me but they didn't look at me – a long-haired hippy – with criticism, on the contrary, they gave me a friendly smile and said “Hello”. They walked a few steps and then stopped, talked for a bit and the lady turned back and came again to me. She took a 1000 Taiwanese dollar bill out of her wallet and said with trembling voice.

“I am sure you don't have much money, I have a lot of them, please accept this little gift from me.”

“No. no” I protested, “I'll manage, I didn't ask for anything, did I?”

“Doesn't matter, I am sure you'll find use for it. Please accept it. I went to church yesterday and experienced something very important. I would like to give you something.”

I didn't know what to say. Should I keep on refusing? Dew was dripping from bamboo leaves and the path in front of us was wet indeed.

You will find this story, and many others, in my book "ASK A GLOBETROTTER".

Gandhi, King and Kuron

Jacek Kuron with Lech Walesa

If you are ever to be interrogated by the secret police, remember – they want you to grass on your friends. Refuse to tell them anything. Don't lie, it could be used against you. Don't give them information you may think not important, this could be used to break the resistance of other people. They will try to deceive you, don't be fooled. They will try to break your resistance by threats and lies, the law doesn't stop them lying but they are not allowed to carry out their threats. Tell them your name and address, to all other questions – no comment. Remember that you will have to face your friends when you are released.

I remember this advice very well. It was spread by word of mouth and on leaflets. It helped me a lot during all those interrogations. Perhaps I was lucky – I was never beaten up, I didn't have little children whom the secret police could harm, they never suggested to me that they would arrest my pregnant wife and she may lose her baby in the cell. In the end I did not grass and could meet my friends without shame after I came out. Recently the Institute of National Remembrance, which looks after the files of old communist secret police, certified that I did not grass and consequently I can have a status of a victim of the regime. To be honest I don't feel like a victim at all, for me it was adventure, actions of the secret police were the obstacles, how can you have adventures without obstacles? Can you be a victim of a high mountain like Everest because it is difficult to climb? Anyway I was given this status and was entitled to look into those files the secret police had on me. I did look into them. And what?

Just to be clear – I didn't look there because I wanted to know who grassed . Some people have problems understanding that those who then risked their freedom and sometimes even lives do not really want to know who was less than loyal. It is quite simple – grasses and moles are a pain in the arse of history and don't really deserve more attention than – well – a pain in the arse. Why did I look into those papers then? Well, mostly I was interested how the other side saw the events I remembered so well. What did they actually know? As a writer I was also interested in the style of prose of those police reports, I might even use this knowledge one day. However, in the process I did learn who either broke down or was fooled and agreed to cooperate with the police. And what should I do now? Should I condemn them publicly? Shall I demand that they should be punished because many years ago they broke down under pressure during an interrogation?

Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King and Jacek Kuron were three great leaders who lived during the 20^th century; all three were inspiration for me. They were very different people active in very different situations. Mahatma Gandhi resisted British Colonial Power in India, Martin Luther King struggled against racism and Jacek Kuron was a leader of Polish anticommunist movement that led to the formation of “Solidarnosc” in 1980. The personalities and situations are very different but they have a few things in common. All three fought in defence of human dignity but without violence. All three claimed that their goal is not to destroy the enemy but to lead to the situation where both sides see that the supposed enemy is not really an enemy but a partner to talks. The goal of non-violent struggle is reconciliation, not destruction of the other guys. The success is when the former enemy becomes a partner in talks about the common future. In 1989 “Solidarnosc” and the communists sat at the round table and so the communism in Poland ended without violence. It was agreed that the communists will not be persecuted in the new situation.

And what about those who weren't really communists but in the past were broken or fooled and “went to the dark side”? Shall we rubbish them publicly?

I refuse to do this.

Before I elaborate I'd like to point out something that may not be obvious to everybody – in the process of breaking there have to be two sides: those who break and those who are broken. In most cases the difference is very clear and in my opinion mixing the two only leads to confusion.

Here are some examples to illustrate the point:

Case one – a young man during an interrogation agreed to cooperate with the secret police but soon after he told us not to say anything important in his presence because he was forced to act as an informant. This man is of course registered in the police files as one and will never be given status of a victim but can we – the supposed victims of his actions – really blame him?

Case two – a young man was informed during the interrogation that if he doesn't talk his pregnant wife will be arrested as well and may lose the baby in a smelly cell. He started talking and a few people were arrested as a result. When he was released he told us everything and withdrew from any dissident activity. He will never get the victim status but can we not forgive him?

Case three – a single mum in a difficult situation, very active for a time but later avoided the dissident circles – this is how I remember her. I hear today she is registered as an informant. I have seen in my file a few reports that could have been written by her. What was in those reports? Things like “Wlodek Fenrych visited me today, we talked about the yesterday's concert”, few words and virtually no information of any relevance. Some say – no matter what she said, she did talk to them which means she betrayed us. Betrayed? What exactly did she betray? Her reports did not lead to me being arrested or my house being searched. It is clear to me that she conciously tried not to say anything important. Am I to rubbish her today? Well, I am not going to.

A different case is that of Zbigniew Konieczny, a proper mole in the dissident circles in Poznan. He signed all the protest declarations, distributed leaflets and co-edited an underground periodical but at the same time wrote verbose reports for the secret police. I have read those reports and it is clear to me that he was not one of those who broke down under duress, he was wholeheartedly on the side of those who did the breaking. What shall we do with people like that? Is it all right to rubbish them?

Jacek Kuron t-shirt

I have written earlier that I am a disciple of Gandhi, King and Kuron and will quote them to explain why I am not inclined to rubbish anybody. All Three maintained that victory is not the situation when the enemy is defeated and we take over the role of those who do the breaking. The proper victory is a situation in which they, too, realize that they, too, are human and can behave like humans. In other words victory is the situation when those who do the breaking cease doing so. With the exception of those who broke the law as it was then – is it right to rubbish those who ceased to do the breaking?

I'll add in secret that I am a disciple of one more person – that Jew from Nazareth in whose divinity Jacek Kuron could not believe. I have read carefully the four existing biographies of this Jew and between the lines I saw the following advice:

If you are ever to be interrogated, remember – they want you to hate them.

You should refuse.

You will find this story, and many others, in my book "ASK A GLOBETROTTER".