a buddhist perspective

Question: You mentioned in an earlier posting about the Buddha saying that we are not to go teach other people or point out their mistakes. Yet, when I meet a bad encounter (e.g someone being racially discriminating to me, or seeing someone do something bad to another person, which makes me want to raise the issue to the someone/the authorities so that this may stop in future, etc), I am so tempted, in my anger, to do something to that person. I tell myself that this thing I am doing to them, is the effect of the bad 'deed' they have just committed. What is your take on this?

Response: When we react out of anger, we are not benefiting anyone because we are merely planting more seeds for anger. Anger—righteous or otherwise—always makes a situation worse. It might seem to help for the moment, but we will have merely postponed the acrimony through our failure to act wisely. Acting wisely occurs when we are calm and thinking logically and intuitively.

While our reaction may be the effect of their cause of getting angry, if we choose to "deliver" the cause, especially out of anger, we will become further tangled in the karmic situation. It is not our place to dispense justice. The wrongdoer will receive the retribution for what he or she has done as cause and effect is a natural, universal law. So the question in casualty is not "if" but "when."

Also, your compulsion to become involved likely comes about because you are already involved in the karmic situation from a past lifetime. So if you do consciously choose to intervene now, you need to do so out of right intentions and wisdom or you yourself will suffer more in the future. If you are able to act wisely and calmly, you have the possibility to settle this karma link. 

If we react to a situation in which people are already angry by becoming angry ourselves, then we are making the situation worse. We will have allowed another’s anger to destroy our peace of mind and rob us of our mind of compassion.

If we fall into the habit of proceeding from bitter­ness and anger, then we will be reacting out of blind, destructive emotion. When we do this, we are not helping anyone—not the other person, not ourselves—because we will become emotionally ensnared in the other person’s situation. If we can remain calm, we will have a much better chance of successfully utilizing our innate wisdom and thus knowing how to be truly helpful.

After a disagreement among some of the monks, the Buddha once told the monks about a series of events that took place long ago.

King Brahmadata ruled a large kingdom and commanded a strong army. King Dighiti, who ruled a smaller kingdom, heard that Brahmadata was about to invade his kingdom. Knowing he could never defeat Brahmadata’s army and that many of his soldiers would lose their lives in a futile battle, King Dighiti felt it would be best if he and his queen fled. So they went into hiding in another city. A short time later, the queen gave birth to Prince Dighavu. When the prince was older, King Dighiti began to fear what would happen if King Brahmadata found all three of them. As a result, arrangements were made for the prince to live elsewhere.

One day, the king and queen were recognized, cap­tured, and taken to be executed. By chance, Prince Dighavu was on his way to see his parents, whom he had not seen in a long time. He was about to rush to them when his father cried out, “Do not, my dear Dighavu, be far-sighted. Do not be near-sighted. For vengeance is not settled through vengeance. Vengeance is settled through non-vengeance.” The King repeated his warning two more times, adding that he was not deranged, and said that those with heart would under­stand what he meant.

None of the villagers knew who Dighavu was or what the king was talking about. Heeding his father’s warning, Dighavu managed to restrain himself. He watched his parents being executed and dismembered. That night he bought wine and gave it to the guards, who soon became drunk. He then made a pyre, gathered his parent’s remains, placed them on the pyre, and set fire to it. After paying his final respects to his parents, he went into the forest to mourn their death.

A while later, after coming out of hiding, Dighavu managed to obtain a job as an apprentice at an elephant stable next to the palace. One day, when King Brahmadata heard Dighavu singing and playing the lute, he was moved by the sound and arranged for Dighavu to work in his palace. Serving the king and always acting to please him, Dighavu gradually won the king’s trust.

One day, while King Brahmadata was out hunting, Dighavu, who was driving the king’s chariot, deliberately drove the chariot away from the rest of the hunting party. Not long after, the king said he wished to take a nap and soon went to sleep, using Dighavu’s lap for a pillow. Dighavu’s moment of revenge had come. He took out his sword, but suddenly his father’s words came back to him and he put the sword away. A second time, he drew and then sheathed his sword.

After Dighavu drew his sword for the third time, his father’s words—simple and gentle—hit home. They touched Dighavu’s heart that was full of hatred and consumed by a desire for vengeance. His heart knew the truth of his father’s words and understood their import. Heeding his father's words, Dighavu awakened at last to the compassion and wisdom extant in that selfsame heart. He was able to put not only his sword down but his hatred and his desire for vengeance as well.

Suddenly, the king awoke in great alarm. He told Dighavu that he dreamed that Prince Dighavu was about to kill him! Instinctively, Dighavu drew his sword yet again and announced that he was Prince Dighavu. The king immediately begged Dighavu not to kill him. With his compassion and wisdom overcoming his hatred and desire for vengeance, Dighavu was able to put away his sword. Then, in turn, he begged for the king’s for­giveness . The king and the prince spared each other’s lives, and each vowed never to harm the other. They then returned to the castle.

Back at the palace, the king asked his ministers what they would do if they could find Prince Dighavu. After hearing their brutal descriptions of what they would do, the king told them what had just transpired. He then turned to Dighavu and asked the meaning of his father’s last words.

Dighavu explained that do not be far-sighted meant one should not hold on to a wish for retaliation. Do not be near-sighted meant one should not readily break one’s friendship with another. Additionally, vengeance is not settled through vengeance. Vengeance is set­tled through non-vengeance enabled Dighavu to realize that if he sought revenge for the deaths of his parents by killing the king, the king’s supporters would retaliate by killing him. Then Dighavu’s supporters would in turn kill the king’s supporters. This is why vengeance never ends through vengeance. In sparing each other’s lives, both the king and the prince ended vengeance by letting go of it.

Hatred is a fire that if left unchecked will consume all those it touches. Adding fuel to a fire only increases it. Not supplying the fuel will cause the fire to burn itself out.

If we keep fueling the fire of anger and hatred with thoughts of self-justification and self-benefit, of bitterness and resentment, we will never let go of our anger. Eventually, it will consume and destroy us all, for those who are surrounded by fire will inevitably be burned.

One time when the Buddha was staying in Sravasti, an incident came to his attention. Close to where he was visiting resided a number of monks and nuns. It happened that when some nuns were spoken ill of, one of the monks would become angry. When that monk was spoken ill of, the nuns would become angry. After confirming with the monk that this was accurate, the Buddha advised the monk that he should discipline himself and hold the thoughts: “My mind will not change [be swayed], I will not utter evil words, I will abide with compassion and loving kindness without an angry thought.” [1]

The Buddha then told the monastics to always remember that even ordinarily calm minds can be disturbed in difficult times. So the monastics needed to train themselves to remain calm, regardless of the situation. The Buddha recounted how there was once a woman who lived in the same city where he and the monastics currently were. Everyone regarded the woman as gentle and quiet. She had a slave named Kali who was clever and hardworking. Kali wondered whether her mistress was as mild-tempered as she seemed. Might her mistress actually be hiding a bad temper? Perhaps Kali was so effi­cient that her mistress had not had cause to reveal her true temper!

Kali decided to test her mistress by getting up later than usual one morning. When the mistress saw Kali and asked her why she got up late, Kali responded that she did not have a reason. The mistress became angry. The next morning Kali got up even later. Once more, her mistress questioned her. And once more, Kali replied that she did not have a reason. When this happened yet again on the third morning, the infuriated mistress struck Kali. Bleed­ing, Kali ran out of the house crying out that her mistress had hit her because she had gotten up late! Word of what had happened spread and with it the report that the mistress was actually violent and bad-tempered.

The Buddha pointed out to the monastics that as long as they did not hear anything disagreeable or unpleasant, most of them were quiet and well behaved. But when they heard something objectionable, such words became a test as to whether they were truly calm and polite. The Buddha gave an example: Monks may be gentle and kind because they have everything they need. But if they become upset when their needs go unfulfilled, then they are not truly gentle.

[1] Sister Upalavanna, translator, Kakacupama Sutta, MN 21, (http://www.saigon.com/~anson/ebud/majjhima/021-kakacupama-sutta-e1.htm)