I was born on 23 October 1949 in
My parents and both brothers and
sisters were born in
The first school I attended was,
where else but, adjoining
I should, I suppose tell you at
least one school story. I have always
loved reading and when I was young, a book was the extension of my hand. But I was also somewhat shortsighted and had
to wear glasses. Being the youngest in
the family, I was extraordinarily privileged to live in a world suffused by my
parents' love for me, and their concern for me knew no bounds. My father, concerned about my
short-sightedness, became convinced that my sight would worsen if I continued
to pore endlessly over books. Books that
were sometimes borrowed from libraries in town were read completely in a bus
before I reached home - then in
Before I continue, I should perhaps
narrate how my father came to
I should also mention my parents had
four other children, all of whom except one, died in childhood. The youngest of these, one who became an
adult, a sister I never knew, died during childbirth before my parents moved
permanently to
At this point I should start to
concentrate a little on the subject on hand, poetry, and limit reminiscing
about a childhood so far away that it has almost slipped from my grasp.
I wrote my first "poem" I
think, in matric - a poem I still have, though I should probably throw it away,
not only because it is an embarrassingly poor poem but because it concerned a
not very good teacher, who shall remain nameless. I am sure that with the
somewhat greater maturity I have now, I would not have written this poem. But as far as I can remember this was how my poetry
writing began.
After I completed matric, I wanted
to go to University but my father could not afford to send me to one so I was
sent off to Springfield College of Education instead, to become a teacher.
At College I began to grow into the
person I am today. I became involved in
student affairs, being elected President of the Student's Representative
Council in 1970. I was also assistant
editor of a vibrant and sometimes banned College newspaper.
1970 was the beginning of a
tumultuous decade of Black-Consciousness inspired student activism, the time of
Steve Biko, SASO and overt protest against the apartheid state. We were fortunate in College to have students
like Prithiraj Dullay whose commitment to the cause of freedom and democracy
was greater than can be done justice to in a sentence in this
recollection. These friends helped shape
my own development and led me into an arena of my own quiet activism.
It was during this time, as part of
my work for the College paper, Aspect, that I met an inspiring, model human
being, Mrs. Fatima Meer. Our friendship
continued after I had left College and when she found out that I wrote poetry,
she asked me to see someone called Douglas Livingstone, who she said would be
able to help me.
By now of course I had written many
more poems but had no idea how good they were. I set up a meeting with
I remember going to visit Douglas at
his home then in
He passed away in 1996 but that has
not stopped my continuing to regard him as a presence that I can still feel, if
not see or hear or touch.
What did Douglas teach me: Until I
met
He explained that the process of
constructing a poem was no different. A
poem had to be lean, muscled, devoid of flab.
He explained the function of bones and the skeletal system and commented
on what we would look like without the structural sophistication the rest of us
depended upon. I needed no further
prodding. I understood.
He also asked me to submit my work
to the magazines, often edited by lecturers in the departments of English at
various universities. He introduced me
to Mike Kirkwood. He asked me to keep in
touch with him. I was on the road to the
most beautiful and least known destination in the world - poet.
Over the years I corresponded with
What of the others. I sent my work to nearly every poetry
magazine in the country. Almost always
it was well received. I thrived on the encouragement
but perhaps even more on the criticism.
There was just one person I could not impress - Mike Kirkwood. Mike ran a magazine called Bolt at the
Until finally I wrote a poem for my
father who had died. And Mike Kirkwood
said he would publish that. At this
point Mike Kirkwood left
Who were the other friends who
helped me on this journey. Before I
mention their names I should perhaps say something of the journey and the
destination. In one of my meetings with
But I was talking of the others:
Professor Ridley Beeton of Unisa, David Adey at Unisa, Ruth Harnett at New Coin,
the first magazine to publish my work, Walter Saunders at Unisa, Jack Cope at
Contrast, Stephen Gray at Izwi, Eskia Mphahlele who was in
I have kept their letters to
me. The published poems are no longer
mine. They belong to whoever reads
them.
But what was I doing until 1980 when
my first book was published. What
transpired between 1968 when I began studying at Springfield College of
Education and 1980 when I was nearing the end of my academic career as a
lecturer in the Department of Accounting and Auditing at the University of Durban-Westville.
I mentioned earlier that due to
economic reasons my father was unable to send me to a University after I
completed my matric. Therefore I went to
College. At College I became involved in
student affairs which brought me and my activist friends into conflict with the
College authorities. When I became
President of the SRC in 1970 I knew that my future would be a problematic
one. The Education authorities had a
simple way of dealing with difficult student leaders - once they completed
their studies they simply sent them to teach in some remote part of the country
where they would not be heard from again.
I was aware that this could happen to me. In school my favourite subjects had been
English and History. I was becoming an English and History teacher. But the threat of being harassed after I
completed my studies made me reconsider.
One of the lecturers with whom I had
become friendly at College was a Mr Hanif Aboobaker, a person with a brilliant
accounting mind, who was never able to find articles in his day, and who became
an Accounting lecturer at College. I
asked him one day if he would teach me and a few friends Accounting though I
had not done any Accounting in school.
He agreed to do so and I dropped History and started studying
Accounting.
Not only did I start studying
Accounting as part of my teaching course but I enrolled that year, while still
at College, for a B.Com. degree through Unisa doing both these concurrently and
successfully, obtaining a pass with distinction in English in my final year,
the first time I think, that anyone had done so at the College.
My teaching career began with a
short stint at a primary school in
By the time I had almost completed
my articles I needed to think about my future.
I had been very successful in my studies, had obtained a B.Com degree
and an Hons. B.Compt degree through Unisa, had just written the Public
Accountants' and Auditors' Board examination, was awaiting my results but had
been told by my seniors that they would be happy if I would consider remaining
at the firm. But I was still hankering
after the academic life, was now somewhat lonely living in Port Shepstone as my
family was in
Now comes an interesting story. As I had always been a good student, passing
every exam I had ever written, no one considered the possibility that I would
fail the Board exam. I was asked to
lecture to final year Accounting students - students who, if they passed, would
sit for the Board examination the following year. I had been lecturing a month or two when the
Board exam results were released. I
had failed. The University was in a dilemma. Should they
ask me to lecture to students in the earlier years of study and replace me as
lecturer of the final year students, with a qualified Chartered Accountant - it
seemed the only thing they could do.
They offered this to the poor
students - caught in something not of their making. To the credit of the students they made the
unexpected choice. They asked that I
continue as their lecturer. They felt
that they would benefit more from someone whose knowledge was still fresh and
relevant. They did not have too many
good options possibly, but I would like to think that in the short time I had
been their lecturer I had done sufficiently well to warrant their continued
faith in me. But a more interesting
story follows:
The next year, the majority of my
students, who had passed the final University exam and I, their lecturer, all
sat for the Board exam together. That year the University had the highest pass
rate in its history up to that point, a pass rate if I can remember, of over
60%. Did I pass? I suppose I must have - it says so on my
certificate from the South African Institute of Chartered Accountants.
Being at University was also good
for me in other ways. It gave me an
opportunity to meet and later marry a very bright student of Arabic, Ruxanna
Karim. Ruxanna subsequently went on to
do an Honours degree in Arabic through Unisa, passing five of six courses with
distinction.
But ultimately I was not destined to
remain an academic. In 1980 I enrolled
for an MBA the University was offering.
1980 was a year of student protests against unequal and discriminatory
education . I was studying as I said,
for an MBA offered by the University. But I also sympathized with and supported
those who were protesting against unequal education. The major form of protest
was the boycotting of classes by students all over the country. I was placed in an unusual situation, being
both a student and a lecturer at the same University.
All lecturers were given certain
guidelines - we had to go to our classes whenever a lecture was scheduled, wait
ten or twenty minutes, I can't remember exactly which, and if no students
turned up, return to our offices. This I
did. But what was I to do when it came
to attending my own MBA lectures where I was now a student.
All the students (except the MBA
students) were boycotting lectures - the MBA students were mostly adult
businessmen whose goals were very focused - they were at the University to
obtain an MBA degree. They were not interested in solving the problems of the
world, at least not if it cost them their immediate goal. They probably contribute more to the economy
of the country today than I do. But I
had a decision to make. And I made
it. It turned out to be a decision that
eventually cost me my academic career.
I decided after some agonizing that
I would boycott my MBA lectures. I did
this for a while. Then one evening the inevitable happened. My MBA lecturer, a colleague, Professor ----
came to my office while I was doing some work and said: "I see you are boycotting your
lectures". I agreed that I
was. He then asked me into his office
saying he wanted to speak to me to find out why. I went into his office and we spoke for about
an hour.
When I had finished explaining why I
was boycotting my lectures he said to me : "You are one of the most
sensitive people I have ever met. I will
help you to get your MBA even if you don't come to class." We actually
prayed together at his request, and we then left. I went home thinking how fortunate I was, how
I had managed to overcome what I had always known was going to be a very big
hurdle.
But something then happened which I
cannot understand to this day. After a
few days he called me into his office again, saying that I had to return to my
lectures. I said I could not. He
informed me that the security police had been inquiring about me and that they
knew about my activities as a student leader at
The next few months were awful . I
was terrified of being detained or dismissed.
I learnt later that he had tried to have me dismissed but that the Head
of the Accounting Department, a gentle soul, Professor Raymond Orpen had
prevented this saying that what I did as a lecturer was their business but what
I did as a student was my business. I
dropped my MBA course. But stayed on at the University, which became
increasingly unfriendly and cold towards me.
It was clear to me that I had come to the end of the road, that no
further advancement was possible for me at the University.
In 1982 I began studying for a CMA
qualification, a prestigious qualification from the
I remember going to the office of
the Dean of Commerce to tell him of my decision. I remember being kept standing for about ten
minutes before he spoke to me. I told
him of my decision to leave and informed him that I would be taking the balance
of long-leave due to me towards the end of the year. Someone I had met at a Conference I had been
invited to attend in
When I got back to University I had
to give back all the books I had borrowed from the library, and make sure my
affairs with the University were resolved to everyone's satisfaction. This I
did. On the last day all that remained
was for me to collect my salary. Being
the last day everyone was paid by twelve o'clock. The University then became deserted. I went
to collect my cheque at the administration department. I was told that I had to see
Professor------the Dean, before they could pay me.
I went into Professor ------'
office. There he told me that I would
have to wait till four o'clock before he would consent to my salary being
released. His last words to me were:
"Mr Banoobhai, I want you to complete your full term of service to this
University" - a University where my work was being studied - inhabited by
a man who had earned the high honour of being called a Professor - where, I
have always wondered, had this person received his education - how is it
possible to know so much and yet so little.
But it is time to move on: 1982 also had its compensations. Tazkiyah, our first child was born in May of
1982. Our joy knew no bounds. It was a
time of celebration - in poetry, of new love into our lives.
Between 1982 and 1995 I ran an
accountancy practice, later converted to a management consultancy practice, in
In 1984 I had my second volume of
poetry published by Ravan Press : shadows of a sun-darkened land which was very
well received.
After the publication of this book I
made a very strange decision. I decided
that for a while I would not submit new poems to the magazines and journals, as
I wanted my next book of poems to contain new, "fresh" poems, poems
which had not already appeared in print before.
So I stopped submitting my work for publication in the journals. There might have been another reason as well
- my second collection was to my mind a very strong collection of poetry. It contained, amongst other things a unique
kind of protest poetry - where I had attempted and I felt succeeded, in
“changing” the art of writing protest poetry by incorporating protest in
personal poetry in order to give the poetry a life that would outlast the
protest. Or in order to give the protest a life that would remain as long as
poetry is written.
There was also the question of my
own ability and what I could or could not do with or in poetry. I knew I could write beautiful, intense,
"minimal" poems. This might
appear an immodest statement but it would be dishonest of me to say that I did
not believe in my own ability as a writer.
I felt at a loss - almost as if there was nothing more I could
accomplish by writing as I had done till then.
I wanted to try other forms of
writing - write longer poems. For a
while I wrote and wrote. I remember
during a month of fasting I wrote a poem every day for the entire month. Whenever I picked up a pen I wrote a
poem. But I did not publish any. The longer I delayed publishing, the less I
wanted to publish. Until the desire to
publish left me altogether.
In this period I also started what
was an attempt at a unique poem - I decided to write the complete history of
Prophet Muhammad's life in a long poem.
In the early years I worked extensively on this project, and then for a
long time all my writing dried up except for a few poems which I wrote on very
special occasions. I would like to get
back to this project one day and complete it but I know that the form needs to
be changed significantly, if I am ever to consider it as a publishable work, a
finished poem.
My mother had passed away on 14 May
1980. It was a loss that affected me
deeply. But 14 May 1986 brought someone
else into our lives. A second daughter,
Ilhaam. When I looked at her for the
first time I felt that I was looking at my mother all over again.
In December 1991 I went along to a
golf course near home, in Reservoir Hills,
I started to walk towards the
ball. I must have walked about fifty
metres and suddenly felt a burning sensation in my chest. I walked a few metres more. I found I was starting to have difficulty
breathing. I stopped for a while, sat on
my cart, then started walking towards the ball again. I eventually reached the ball. Took my five
wood, a bad choice considering the lie of the ball, and hit it another 100
metres - back in the rough. Then I
started walking towards the ball again.
Again I struggled to get to the ball.
Again I had to rest before I reached the ball. I knew I had rushed to
get to the course on time. I thought
that it was just breathlessness from the stress of rushing. I finally got the ball onto the green after a
few more strokes. I struggled to get to the green myself. Then sank the putt. And then the realization hit me. It was not just my golf that needed
attention. I was in trouble. I slowly walked back to my car, went home and
phoned a cardiologist friend.
It turned out that I needed to have
a bypass. Fortunately I had not had a
heart attack. I had a bypass operation
in March 1992. The operation was done at
I learnt subsequently that the
surgeon who had performed the operation had not stitched the vessels properly
and that I had bled internally for hours before the problem was discovered at
midnight by the ICU staff. I was very
fortunate because that night someone had been rushed to the hospital needing an
emergency heart operation. So though the
original surgeon had left, there was a team of surgeons still working at the
hospital at midnight. I was re-operated
on and survived.
But I had suffered badly. I remained in ICU for five days. I remember on one occasion throwing up on my
chest, barely conscious. I asked a nurse
if she could wipe it off. She threw me a
hand towel saying simply " wipe yourself". The re-operation damaged by phrenic nerve and
my vocal chords. For a long time I could
not breathe easily or speak. I remained in hospital for a month. Then recuperated at home for a month. Then returned to work.
The month that I was at home was a
very traumatic month in more ways than one.
The war in the Balkans had just begun.
Not having much to do I spent a great deal of time watching CNN. Every day I saw, heard and felt the pain of
the victims of this terrible tragedy, mostly Muslim men, women and children of
Bosnia Herzegovina. In 1981 I had been
invited to attend a Conference on Muslim Minorities in
Towards the end of 1992 some doctor
friends of mine decided that they wanted to go to
In December 1992 Faizal and I left
for
Before leaving I had to borrow a
bullet-proof vest that we needed to take along.
I, who knew nothing of bullets, or guns or war, who could not defend
myself if I was threatened, was going into the most violent place in the world,
carrying a bullet-proof vest that was so heavy I could hardly walk while
wearing it. We went through Frankfurt,
to
Faizal had a Press card, validated
by UNPROFOR ( The United Nations Protection Forces) who, amongst other things,
controlled all entry to and exit from
It was bitterly, bitterly cold in
We got to
My whole
journey had been undertaken on the strength of Faizal's presence and knowledge
of the environment. I did not know my
way around as well as Faizal did. I
could barely recall how to get back to the apartment in which we had stayed in
Late that
night I finally made it back to the apartment.
Fortunately there was someone at the apartment. Even more fortunately there was a telephone
that I could use. I managed to phone home, in
The reason
for this rather long story is to set the background for a poem I wrote two
years later, after a long period of drought.
In 1994 I was invited to attend an International Conference on the
Balkans, in
In April
1995 we moved to
1997 was the
start for me of a rebirth of writing.
When I could not write or felt that I was not ready to write, I had
prayed as follows: "God, I am not able to write at present. I am giving this gift you gave me back to you
for safekeeping until I am ready to receive it again. When I am ready, please give it back to
me."
I have
written more poems in the past few years than I have ever written before in a
similar period.
Initially I
was unsure whether the writing was any good.
I had to go back to square one. I
let everyone I respected, read my work.
I took note of their criticism. I
thrived on their encouragement. Slowly I
was able to sharpen my rusted abilities.
I re-worked poems I had written over the years. I wrote new poems. Many new poems.
I selected some of the more reflective type pieces, all dealing with the subject of love and published them myself in 1999 as a gift book: Wisdom in a Jug: Reflections of Love.
I saw the
book as my gift of love to a traumatized nation - a contribution to its
healing. In a larger context it is a
gift to all who love. It emphasizes that our ultimate heritage is not the
heritage of land, sea and sky (as beautiful as these may be) but the heritage
of love. The reflections are drawn from
a spiritual well God makes accessible to all human beings and offer counsel on
wise loving –
so necessary
if we want to bear the divine fruits of our humanity.
During the
course of 2000 I submitted a manuscript Inward
Moon Outward Sun for consideration for the Sanlam Literary Award. The manuscript was short listed for the
award won by Tatamkulu Afrika.
Inward Moon Outward Sun, published by
In the body of South African writing,
Banoobhai’s is amongst a handful of voices with the courage to articulate a
contemporary spirituality and the artistic skill to do so convincingly. The
utmost simplicity of expression is used to conceal and reveal, at one and the
same time, ideas of intense profundity.
The poems are often meditative songs of love, longing and loss in a
mystical world but as often remain rooted in the social and political struggles
of this world, as in the stanza below taken from the poem “sarajevo” for which
he was presented with the 2001 Thomas Pringle Award for Poetry.
i carry within me a flower of hope
i have protected it from the wind and
rain and snow
if you raise your eyes to this hilltop
tonight
you will see in the darkness, not just
its star-like glow
but light from the stars which began
reaching out to you
before anyone even knew your name
Douglas Livingstone said of his first volume
of poetry: “I first came to know Shabbir
through his poems …when I was struck by the clean, simplistic line he generally
favoured. But the simplicity was
deceptive: he made each word (a sign of the true poet) carry great emotional
and intellectual weight.
An obsessive and talented poet…a
precocious master of the Word… and a fine lyricist to boot…almost every line of
the work was subliminally ignited by the ancient great Islamic poets…. he
shares their prime qualities: sensuality, passion, brilliance of imagery, irony
and Man’s estate, a holistic approach to nature, and of course, love of God…
Knowing Shabbir Banoobhai, the man
through his work, can illuminate something of the unknown. Here, then, is a further asset to and aspect
of,
A period of intense creativity in a month of fasting gave rise to
another book in February 2002 – a book of meditations, prayers and poetry -
published by Africa Impressions as Lightmail. Again a
reference to the blurb:
In these reflections,
meditations, prayers and poems written over a month of fasting and shared daily
with his friends via email, Shabbir Banoobhai describes the journey of
love as "a journey of the heart,
in the heart, from the heart, to the heart" and the experience as:
"one of
spirit engaging with spirit - sometimes trying to remove the veil of selfhood
that covers our hearts, or that of ignorance covering our faces. The
reflections are about us, for us, about how we see ourselves and how we see
others - about who God is and the part played by love in our knowing ourselves,
but they are also a spiritual commentary on our social condition."
In April 2002 I
was invited (for the second time) to an international poetry festival in Durban
where I had the opportunity to meet poets from all over the world – an
experience full of warmth and sharing where for a week we were the perfect
family.
More writing followed in Ramadan 2002, leading to the publication of Book of Songs by Wits University Press in October 2004. Joan Metelerkamp who read the book professionally for Wits University Press had this to say on recommending its publication:
“There are very
few book-length sequences of poems and it excites me to encounter this form in
the work of a well-known South African poet. To sustain a cycle of poems is to
begin to dismantle the barriers between a novel or short story and poetry.
“In Book of Songs Shabbir Banoobhai takes a
position that requires daring combined with humility – there is no rhetoric, no
propaganda, but also no slinking away, no hiding in the suburbs of language, no
shrinking from an encounter with mystery. A meditative cycle like this one
reminds us of our common thirst for love and meaning.”
Ramadan 2004
and 2005 were different. This time I did not write poetry but letters to my
daughters, Tazkiyah and Ilhaam. The letters were published in October 2006 (in
the following Ramadan) under the title if
i could write – Ramadan letters that can be read at Christmas or at any other
time. The following extracts from the preface explain how the book came
into being.
“Each letter took several days to write. In the letters I tried to address both lasting and topical concerns. Above all I tried to address the problem of living with integrity and in peace in a world lacking both. And I particularly tried to help my children understand the Divine and why I consider that we ourselves are essentially Divine. I was aware of course that they would only appreciate some of the letters when they were much older!
“Some of the letters were very long; some not so long. I wrote a total of seven letters during the month. After Ramadan I assessed what I had on hand. I felt that I should rearrange some of the subject matter in the letters, which I did. As I was effectively producing a book of letters, when Ramadan ended I continued writing. Looking at the work I realised that there was much that I had written over the years that was on my website and decided to include the core of this writing, especially the philosophical reflections, in the book.… I continued writing throughout the year and completed the book with letters written in the following Ramadan, a whole year later!”
So
the writing and the living projects had both gathered and continued to gather
momentum over the years. But while this was going on (almost relentlessly), at
work my life was taking a different turn. I was getting closer and closer to an
age when big corporates no longer consider one to be part of their long term
plans. I was offered (and accepted) early retirement in November 2005.
Traumatic at first, the change ultimately proved more beneficial to my overall
well-being than I could have imagined. Amongst other things, it enabled me to
complete and publish my letters.
Yet
again I chose the route of self-publishing – for want of a publisher, combined
with the desire not to be deflected from my goal of sharing my work. The book
of letters means a great deal to me – not only because of its contents but
because writing prose was much more demanding than writing poetry – a project
only completed successfully because of the help I received from my excellent, extraordinarily
talented editors –
Sa’diyya
Shaikh, of the Department of Religious Studies at the
“if i could
write is a luminous work of the heart containing profound reflections on
the nature of the Divine, Prophetic and human consciousness, love, justice,
peace and war. A genuine and original Sufi primer for the 21st-century
seeker, reflecting an important development in contemporary South African
spiritual thought, it is both a treasury of wisdom and a hands-on
learning manual for our times.
“Speaking the universal language of love, in a
series of tender letters to his daughters engaging the personal and
public realms of human existence, Shabbir Banoobhai unravels
humanity’s highest spiritual dimensions to those who are willing to hear – who seek to become what
the Qur'an describes as ‘people who have a centre’.”
In 2007 I published a beautifully-designed companion
volume to wisdom in a jug called water would suffice. The book (like most
of my books) was designed by Sumayya Essack. And in 2008 I published three
further works – a book of reflections of love, a book of poems, and a book of
essays - this time not individually, but as a collection titled a mountain is an upside down valley.
The
reflections in beauty has two faces were
written over several years. Most of the poems in today there are no words were written in Ramadan 2003. The essays
in knowing questions unknowing answers
were written after the publication of if
i could write; they complement the letters in if i could write and it is conceivable that some day these two
works will be published together.
Their
publication brings to a conclusion an important phase of my life. Whatever
happens from now on is an open-ended challenge I intend to treasure. What
better way to begin a new life going forward than to be aware that one has
persevered in something as important as publishing one’s most precious
thoughts.
But
it would be wrong to conclude on this note of fulfillment without recognizing
that however far one has come in one’s writing, or living, or loving, one has
so much more to learn. More than anything else I have come to realize that the
challenges of living a life of integrity (and creativity) are never easy. I
know I would like to continue to promote a vision of a more humane society. I believe
that this is a journey that begins with a vision; not a map.
I
want to conclude with a new beginning – with these reflections on peace
and compassion:
Why is peace so difficult to attain? We all
search for it endlessly, yet almost never find it, except fleetingly. Though
indispensable, peace remains unattainable unless we find it (first) within
ourselves. Believing that the world outside needs to be peaceful before we know
peace within ourselves, invariably results in a state of loss; and unless we can
find some hidden benefit in the loss, in the loss of peace itself.
Loss itself (but not the loss of our values) can
strengthen us and prepare us for living as social or spiritual activists in an
ambiguous world with an uncertain future. A loss can become a gift we would not
have chosen for ourselves. It can engender within us a sense of humility: the
realization that the foundation of our strength is not just (our) strength,
even if it is impossible to create a solid foundation without it.
Unless we are willing to pay the price, and
accept some tangible or defining loss – such as the loss of a friendship, a
job, a love that was not meant to be – we might not be able to realize a
compensating intangible gain of the spirit: insight, courage, nobility. And
unless the knowledge we have is both wide and deep, enabling us to explore the
outer world without fearing the loss of our inner sanctity, the peace we know
will disintegrate when we are challenged by fear – real or illusionary.
When we cause destruction in the physical world
for whatever reason – destroy a tree, a home, or life itself, or diminish its
capacity for joy – the destroyed landscape reflects, in some way, the state of
our hearts and minds. Preserving our existence by destroying that of another
diminishes our own spiritual essence, whether we realize it or not.
Therefore we should not relinquish our innate
sense of right and wrong, or sacrifice our compassion or love, because of some
visible or invisible (manipulative) pressure placed on us by those who are
destructive; and we should not succumb to emotional blackmail that abuses our
natural and wholesome instincts for self-preservation, or preys on our
perceptions of being persecuted, or on our fear of losing something we cherish,
and in the process of protecting us from some ‘loss’, causes loss to our spirit
itself.
Tragically, we often fall prey to such fear, or
to anger, or arrogance, or greed, or to an unbecoming desire for physical or
spiritual dominance, or to an unforgiving determination to exact retribution
for some past loss. Far more challenging (and rewarding) than the destruction
of another, is seeing others as equally human: believing that God lies beneath
the feet of an ‘other’. Only such courageous humility can confirm our own Divine
essence.
Failing our highest sense of love (and justice),
we effectively forego a life of compassion and integrity. Compassion is active, transformational
love. When we are compassionate, we are devoid of anger. If we live
compassionately, we will find it impossible to ill-treat or hurt someone
knowingly, as compassion involves helping others who are in difficulty, even if
they hurt us while we are helping them.
In being compassionate, we distance ourselves from
the evil that may be present in others without separating ourselves from the
good in them, the same good that exists within us, that makes us consider them
worthy of our love. If love is the fruit of our being Divine, the quality of
our humanity can only be known by the quality of this fruit – the quality of our
compassion.
If we could be deeply generous, in unexpected and
creative ways, we could make our lives and our world more wholesome – whether
through sharing a physical possession, a land, or through some intangible act
of love or kindness: an acknowledgement of the humanity of others. Sharing the
joy and grief of others and allowing others to share our own, making our own
joy or grief universal, while not foregoing them as our own, would encourage
others to embrace us. It is only by regarding others as uniquely human and
displaying towards them a unique humanness, that we become uniquely human
ourselves.
In order to build bridges between ourselves and
others, it may help us to reflect on how many of our ‘friends’ (in reality) are
strangers. And how, sometimes, strangers can become close friends. Therefore,
if we meet someone who might have something beneficial to share with us, we
must try and learn as much as we can – even from a stranger. For what is the
value of such an encounter, where a sharing of some truth or understanding
could take place, if it does not?
But meaningful learning can only take place where
there is a desire to learn, as well as knowledge of, compassion for, and trust
in the other. And we may need to close a door that leads to some good, if it
also leads to some harm; for a door that is of greater benefit to us may only
open when we close a door that is less beneficial to us. This requires the
ultimate courage: having faith in unseen and unknown goodness.
As individuals, we survive through love. As
societies, we survive through justice. But love and justice are two sides of
the same coin – integrity: the currency of peace, the price of happiness. If we
fail as individuals, we cannot succeed as societies. And if we fail as
societies, we destroy individuals.
Our search for justice is a search for the
measure of our worth. Our generosity towards others reflects our measure of
their worth, but it also reflects our own worth to others. What would be the
value of knowing our own worth if there was not a soul in the world to share
this knowledge with – to demonstrate that worth in our living?
This brings us to the search for answers to the
questions: who are we? Where have we come from? Why are we here? Who is the unknown
person walking besides us? Is he or she really a stranger, or a friend in
disguise? Can we afford not to know?