I am used to resistance. To be born spiritually gifted is to wear the robes of stigma. The gay person needs to sit down with his family and friends, and tell them there is something different about him. In the case of gay friends, this led to rejection, disownment, and violence. I would share the same fate, not for sexual orientation, but for an ethereal cognitive capacity. I, too, needed to have “that talk”, and would become a pariah, deemed an eccentric at best.
My humble spiritual talent comes in the form of having a natural understanding of things such as meditation and transcendental cultivation, held to stem from former lifetimes. Most defining is especially a meaningful stillness, that allows me to move through life’s hidden substrates. No claim of spiritual authority is made.
I have no family, and all former bonds forged in a society that venerates the destruction of self and others, I have wilfully foregone.
The life of excoriated exile must have adequately prepared me for the inevitable crack pound — forgive me, as I favour a certain elegance in diction, but there seems no word to properly describe such a place with grace.
I’m a loving young man that does not expect to be loved.
This tale will tell of empathy and finding meditative stillness while among violence; it will reveal the nuanced nature of human psychology.
Welcome to the Hood
A pool of blood coloured the dreary street. There must have been another stabbing last night. Just recently, a prodigious young man was hacked to death with a machete just around the block — the destruction of a body that had vested the dreams of a soul.
I proceeded into the narrow alley and approached the neglected property. The front door contained a deep dent for all the times the police had to ram it open. The dysfunctional doorbell hung characteristically skewed and broken from the wall.
How did I get here? I had just been homeless. No — no drugs, no alcoholism, and no life of crime. I have made all the responsible choices in life that one may make. That is what spirituality is to me: taking responsibility for yourself, and the world around you. I eat organic food, vegan (no, I’m not the militant type), I don’t drink, and avoid anything that might possibly harm me. But I had been sick — very sick.
It is a highly controversial condition; some nations acknowledge its existence. Others do not. You may have heard of it, as it appears in Better Call Saul, where the character Chuck McGill suffers from a condition called electromagnetic hypersensitivity (EHS), also known as electrosensitivity. Persons less fictive also cope with this condition, such as the prominent Dr. Gro Harlmen Brundtland — the three-term prime minister of Norway and former director-general of the WHO. And, of course, your humble author.
Man-made radiation interacts with calcium ions in cell membranes, causing internal and external cellular leakage. This leads to respective symptoms in respective tissues — intense neural pain and burning, (lethal) cardiac arrhythmia and cognitive decline, are but a few of the many adversities people with EHS have to endure. [1] [2]
EHS occurs in varied degrees; in me, it disallows societal participation.
Severely resisted by the social systems of my government, and having no family to tend me, the streets would eventually call. I would be house vested by the Salvation Army for approximately three months. There is a severe housing shortage in my little country; the only way for me to lose homeless status, and so be entitled to welfare, was to enter shared housing. Yes, you rightly sense the contradictions of a vicious cycle here.
So, there I was…
So, there I was. Sure, I had sensed it, but the shared house I had entered turned out to be littered with alcoholism, substance abuse, violence, and criminality. But I did not have a choice. It will easily take years before another home might present itself.
The floors were sticky with years of neglect, despite the fact that the contract stated our monthly fee included cleaning service. As I made my way up to the second story along a narrow, winding staircase, I passed the dented plaster wall. One of the more vociferous junkies had provoked the wrath of several of the tenants, who had consequentially thrown him down the stairs, leaving a memorial dent in the plaster wall that would never be fixed. Knives had been drawn; slashes decorated the loud junky’s door. The man himself would ultimately be slashed — not stabbed — by one of the occupants.
It was a band of colourful figures — (former) gang members, drugs/arms dealers, ex-cons once convicted for armed robberies, an ex-con PTSD veteran addicted to who knows what, and given to thievery — and another thief. There were also more quiet tenants, including a student, and an endearing old man who had won renown with the local gangsters for once having returned home with two women — he could outdrink them all, and so lived with the legendary street name the General. I befriended him and the ten-Euro prostitute that would frequent him, for she, in all fairness, was a very decent human being. I also befriended the student and one of the ex-cons; I shall name them General, Student and Ex-con respectively.
Omen
Things had been quiet; the room previously occupied by our former noisy neighbour had been vacant for a while now. The only noise was of Ex-con’s somniloquy — he would talk in his sleep, very much audible through the thin walls. His subconscious betrayed the authenticity of his gangster persona — even in his dreams, he would threaten people with death and rake in money. When awake, though, he would be very amiable and I liked him much. He was the father of two or three children who lived with their mother, who reportedly had the habit of misusing her former husband with the pipe of a vacuum cleaner.
It was clear most of his darkness lay at rest in his past. He was quite the character, fitting for a movie, truly.
The student’s drug dealer (marijuana) would sometimes text him, offering guns, and liquidation services for € 10,000. Such things were briefly noted and treated as the most ordinary thing in the world.
When the new tenant arrived, my instinct gave off severe warning signals. I knew for certain we were in trouble. Things progressed peacefully for the first two or three months — some of the tenants already knew him and shared a past with him, including my sleep-talking neighbour Ex-con. Things evolved toward an atmosphere of merry drinking; my calm, meditative nature would just sit and relax among them when I would be invited — I did not drink. Saying no to social participation clearly led to tensions, and the outcome was obvious.
The first peculiarity occurred when I entered the communal kitchen. The new tenant, who shall here be named John, was talking with an outside friend. As I walked past, it was as if a “vertical force” passed through his face, a force that moved his eyes sideways, as if another conglomerate of emotions stepped in and shoved the other aside. A strange, repressed emotion welled up that was incohesive with his ordinary persona; his expression subtly changed. This was something vulnerable. I had already read two things in him: 1) war trauma, and 2) a violent or otherwise intensely negative relationship with his father. My “spiritual empathy” informed me that my calm and respectful conduct inevitably invited him into a place in which he did not know himself — a place he did not know and so could not comfortably navigate. It unnerved him. This man was used to conflict; this was a fish evolved to swim in the dark recesses of the sea, and I gave him a measure of light — however small my humble light might be.
The knife with which he was preparing his vegetables, he slowly but deliberately put against my abdomen. Two emotions were tearing at his expression: deadly rage and a vulnerable kindness that wanted to greet me with a smile. I was absolutely certain the deed was, to a degree, unconscious to him — it was a reflex. A part of him wanted to extend the knife toward me, another part wanted to withdraw it. A duality of pushing and tugging forces took place within a single man.
A schism existed within this gentleman’s soul. It was as if he said: my vulnerability wants to reach out to you, but as I feel too vulnerable, I will meet you with anger instead. I cannot allow you to touch me.
I remained calm, kindly smiled, greeted him and his friend, and walked on. From the kitchen, I retrieved what I needed and returned to my room.
Three Years
Danger
John heard loud banging. It kept him up at night, every night, for some time now. Around 3 a.m., he would suddenly storm down the attic, where he was situated, and started shouting death threats to me, and sometimes also to Student. He did this often. He was convinced I — or Student — was the cause of this disturbance.
There was only one problem — there was no banging. A problem that does not exist cannot be solved. Unless, of course, John would be willing to consider an auditory manifestation of trauma.
John had a vacant look in his eyes — a vacancy that betrayed a lower cognitive capacity. He could not really make contact with people or understand what they were saying. A dangerous combination when negotiation is required during conflict.
Some people cannot be convinced, because they are truly incapable of understanding what you are saying — could it be the adjacent restaurant tenderizing meat? We haven’t heard anything, though. If you look at the respect with which you are treated, why would that suddenly change during nighttime? We, too, need to sleep — banging all night, day after day, would deprive us of sleep, too. How come Ex-con hasn’t heard anything — he is your friend and wouldn’t cover for me or Student. He lives right next to us.
At the same time, John began reporting sensing an ominous presence in his room. I genuinely believe there might have been a malicious entity, or that his mind anticipated the persons responsible for the perceived trauma. The gentleman’s African descent made him think one of us guilty of black magic.
John began picking quarrels all over the house. He assaulted the old General, threatened to kill me and Student with a machete, and got into a fight with the PTSD veteran, which he lost. Every time I would need to walk out of my door, to go to the toilet, shower, brush my teeth, or prepare food, I needed to anticipate violence, or at least a truly intense verbal altercation.
I would live in constant danger. But one who can meditate, can observe his mind. The ability to observe the mind creates a certain undisturbed spaciousness between oneself, and one’s initial emotions and thoughts. This allows one to choose one’s attitude and mood, while disallowing any unsettling thought or emotion to become the final definition of oneself. This became my stillness among violence.
You may try. Look at an object right now while trying to be aware of any thought or feeling that arises. Accept your initial thoughts and feelings — without resistance — and naturally allow them to pass, like the proverbial current of a stream passing you by. At the same time, purposefully choose your attitude.
You may do so by simply gently holding the desired attitude in the mind. The psyche will naturally respond to this signal and adapts accordingly. You have now chosen how to relate to the object of your attention.
At first, it will feel like acting. But as you assume a new behaviour while gently letting your initial responses pass, your chosen mentality will ultimately prevail. Anything not compatible with your chosen position will gradually lose its energy, your growth remains.
Your awareness will be divided over three things:
The object — in my case situational conflict;
Your initial thoughts and feelings, arising as a response;
The chosen attitude that you purposefully hold in the mind.
Fighting Smart
I needed to fight smart, not with force. If I would allow escalation to a physical extend, of course I might be harmed if I lose. I might be harmed even more, should I win, for this will provoke vengeance. He might come back with a knife, or gun — or his outside friends would gang up on me. We needed to live in the same house; this was not a street situation.
When I would be in the kitchen preparing my food, and I would hear John approaching, I would conveniently start cutting my vegetables. Though I would not threaten him, or even look or talk to him, John would see me handling the big vegetable knife — calm and unperturbed. Unperturbed, first by my own emotion, then unperturbed by John.
John would glare at me with an unshaken, malicious stare, standing too close for comfort. Still, I sensed his trepidation. This method kept him at bay — knife is in hand.
Of course, I would never actually use it.
I naturally started having more martial considerations.
When brushing my teeth, I realised the back side of a tube of toothpaste is genuinely hard and sharp, and considered it a potential — and unexpected — weapon.
When holding the toothbrush in a clenched fist, with the back of the toothbrush protruding through the seams of the fingers, made for a potent striking extension.
I would only take off my shoes after locking the shower door behind me; shoes increase the impact of kicks when needed and strengthen your stance.
I hoped I wouldn’t need these things.
Lotus
I had a convivial conversation on the street. A gang of young men had congregated in the mall, and I needed to pass. I have a rather atavistic nature and prefer to bow to people, and so I bowed as I made my way through.
Hey, wait holmes! Who are you? A South American accent addressed me in English. I smiled and approached the young man, and introduced myself.
I really like your personality, he said emphatically; are you Muslim? You being all respectful, bowing with your hand on your heart — and the long trench coat bro.
No, said I; I just want to be kind.
He told me about his origin; I don’t remember the exact country he was from — I think it might have been Guyana. He was an immigrant, but considered moving back. He was kind in his conduct. I did notice how pale he was, and registered the facial tensions associated with cocaine use.
We had smashed our fists together by way of parting, but I would meet him again — in the crack pound. It turned out I had befriended a friend of John’s, something I would be in the habit of doing.
There is a common trait I have found in veteran thugs — they start thinking about life.
Though I am not Buddhist, my conduct and understanding of life is very similar. For this reason, I occasionally use the Buddhist identity as cover, as my actual spiritual nature is too alien and provocative to convey to just anyone. I therefore introduced myself to whomever entered the house, as Buddhist. We immediately struck up conversations, we talked about life, and respect was given. John was getting signals all around him — leave Komatsu alone. His violence was being socially discouraged by his very own friends, and peer pressure is a powerful thing.
In Buddhism, they speak of the lotus in the mud — the capacity to live in a toxic environment while holding on to virtue and peace— and I hope to have made some minor progress in this regard by attempting deescalation through friendship rather than force.
The Shadow of the Wolf
When I would walk to the store, a Turkish gang harassed me. But a quick few, kind words spoken in their own tongue, instantly shifted their mood.
Concerning bonding and assuagement, nothing is as powerful as identity acknowledgement and validation. A social engineer might do so maliciously, but one may also do such with genuine respect.
The landlord — equally of Turkish decent — had heard me play an Eastern flute; it was a gift from an Iranian friend and a bit of an own creation. This resonated with the landlord’s Islamic identity. These would be the first two elements of connection. The third and fourth would be my philosophical nature, and the fact I live a life of restraint. It was often said I’d make a good Muslim, as I naturally live by many of their prohibitions. These qualities made me understand and connect with the landlord’s identity and cognition. I genuinely appreciate the poetic diction I often see used within the Islamic community. I respectfully mentioned my awareness of the word al-jabr, an Arabic word meaning algebra. The contribution of historic Islamic scholarship is often underacknowledged in the West.
We would talk deeply about spirituality, and the man was genuinely trying to serve the community, despite a potential shady side. The tenants felt he might be connected to Grey Wolf — the Turkish mafia predominant in my country. When a previous tenant couldn’t pay his rent, he had sent family members into the man’s room, who would whip him with belts — though I must emphasise I have not seen or heard this for myself.
The tenants had organised against John and had collected signatures for his eviction; I was the only one free that day, so I would be the one to present the petition to the landlord, with a heavy heart I might add. He spoke compassionately about John, and this would not be the first time he said he felt former convicts deserve a place to live too. He sympathized with the fact they are often denied residency elsewhere. I could only agree! However, John’s antisocial behaviour had persisted for over two years now, and lines had long been crossed. Even his friends — now former friends — had turned against him. John was violent, drunk, and dangerous. His aggression towards the old man persisted.
In my conversation with the landlord, it was confirmed John had experienced war as a child. He had been involved in the Hutu/Tutsi conflict, and voiced this as a cause to his heavy drinking.
“I will try to resolve this through communication,” the landlord said. “But if that doesn’t work, then, well — “ an icy shadow passed over him “… I will deal with this in other ways.”
Other ways, I mused as I walked back home, thinking of the whipping incident. I genuinely felt compassion for John, seeing a vulnerable person rather than an alpha aggressor, though he did have a colourful past and all sorts of shady connections. Is not all violence born from a place of vulnerability? Was there anything that could be done? When the police became involved, they told me they couldn’t protect us because of the lack of direct evidence of misbehaviour. However, said one officer, if you so happen to steal the knife from his hand and “accidentally” land it in his torso — good on you!
I always felt police has more of an administrative role — they would register you are indeed dead, after the deed has been done.
I realised that the consequences of John’s behaviour were out of my hands; the world will respond to him as it will. But I did pray. I prayed John may find his way, and find new accommodation, and not end up homeless as eviction loomed over him.
Parting and Tears
Nearly three years had passed. I had made many attempts to move house, but the housing crisis made this impossible. Culturally, I had spent this time in prison — worse, actually, because in my country the prison system is of a far higher standard than in the United States. You are protected, and well taken care of.
Here, there was no protection.
Because of the thin walls, I overheard John on the phone. He attempted to talk to someone he trusted, though this type of communication was difficult for him. My mother was a good woman… he said, but my father, you know — hey, this is just me trying to talk to you, you know. I sensed the person on the other side of the call was a thug, and could not respond with emotional depth — an evolution often disallowed by the hard knock. John promptly hung up, as he did not receive any real kind of response.
I realised — and sensed — John was trying to recreate a violent bond with his father, with other people. This violent bond is his foundational and formative social-emotional structure. This is his sense of belonging, a sense of home within rejection. I noticed this especially because he would be positively responsive to stern communication, while kindness provoked him. He needed the constant assertion of boundaries; he wanted to meet his father, in others.
One day, John began pushing me — physically, that is. Do you want to fight, Komatsu?! he taunted. His aggression became an uncontrollable outburst of vitriol; his breath exploded in my face.
No, I won’t fight you John.
I persisted in my peace, meeting his gaze and protected my calm through the three steps mentioned above — in this I was not perfect. Eventually he backed off.
Student, however, had recorded the incident on his phone, and provided this evidence to the landlord, who was now furious. Using his connections, the landlord, after a long enough while, would realise a new home for John.
Drunk, one night I met John in the hallway. He came to me, and cried. I’m sorry Komatsu — I don’t want to hurt anyone. You just do you.
I know, brother, I answered. Your heart is in the right place, but the world isn’t. We exchanged a heartfelt clash of fists, striking them together.
The hate would return the next day, but I was grateful to have spoken with the light in John, if even just for a moment. Soon after that, by chance as it were, both of us found new accommodation.
He never struck me; I never struck him.
I would return to the crack pound once, to help Student move.
Seiji Komatsu | Author support: