57. The Paradigm Shift of the Aikido Tough Guy

Stephen Covey speaks extensively on “Paradigm Shift”. As most readers know by now, this is simply a profound change of perspective, or worldview, or “paradigm”, that changes a person in his heart, not just in the mind.

I hope you’ll read Dr. Covey’s work. The uber-famous Seven Habits of Highly Effective People records one of my favorite examples of paradigm shift as a personal experience of Stephen’s, and today I will share another.

Nowhere is the concept of determined conflict reduction, or Powerful Peace, so rigorously applied as in the aikido dojo. Aikido was developed by a great master of the fighting arts, Morihei Ueshiba. His title throughout the world of Japanese martial arts, whether karate, jujutsu, judo, or others, is “O-Sensei“…”Great Teacher”.

O-Sensei

O-Sensei came to realize, after decades of perfecting his ability to destroy his enemy, that the urge to cause harm to others is a sign of something wrong in oneself. It’s a spiritual or emotional unwellness. If the hostile person is already sick, he reasoned, why in the world should I kick his butt and doubly harm him? How much better it would be if I can protect both of us from this violence that is eating him alive. When it’s all gone he feels better, and I have a new friend.

One of the earliest disciples of aikido was Terry Dobson, a large, white American man who moved to Japan to study aikido full-time for several years.

This is his story.

THE TRAIN CLANKED and rattled through the suburbs of Tokyo on a drowsy spring afternoon. Our car was comparatively empty – a few housewives with their kids in tow, some old folks going shopping. I gazed absently at the drab houses and dusty hedgerows.

At one station the doors opened, and suddenly the afternoon quiet was shattered by a man bellowing violent, incomprehensible curses. The man staggered into our car. He wore laborer’s clothing, and he was big, drunk, and dirty. Screaming, he swung at a woman holding a baby. The blow sent her spinning into the laps of an elderly couple. It was a miracle that she was unharmed.

Terrified, the couple jumped up and scrambled toward the other end of the car. The laborer aimed a kick at the retreating back of the old woman but missed as she scuttled to safety. This so enraged the drunk that he grabbed the metal pole in the center of the car and tried to wrench it out of its stanchion. I could see that one of his hands was cut and bleeding. The train lurched ahead, the passengers frozen with fear. I stood up.

I was young then, some 20 years ago, and in pretty good shape. I’d been putting in a solid eight hours of aikido training nearly every day for the past three years. I like to throw and grapple. I thought I was tough. Trouble was, my martial skill was untested in actual combat. As students of aikido, we were not allowed to fight.

“Aikido,” my teacher had said again and again, “is the art of reconciliation. Whoever has the mind to fight has broken his connection with the universe. If you try to dominate people, you are already defeated. We study how to resolve conflict, not how to start it.”

I listened to his words. I tried hard I even went so far as to cross the street to avoid the chimpira, the pinball punks who lounged around the train stations. My forbearance exalted me. I felt both tough and holy. In my heart, however, I wanted an absolutely legitimate opportunity whereby I might save the innocent by destroying the guilty.

This is it! I said to myself, getting to my feet. People are in danger and if I don’t do something fast, they will probably get hurt.

Seeing me stand up, the drunk recognized a chance to focus his rage. “Aha!” He roared. “A foreigner! You need a lesson in Japanese manners!”

I held on lightly to the commuter strap overhead and gave him a slow look of disgust and dismissal. I planned to take this turkey apart, but he had to make the first move. I wanted him mad, so I pursed my lips and blew him an insolent kiss.

“All right! He hollered. “You’re gonna get a lesson.” He gathered himself for a rush at me.

A split second before he could move, someone shouted “Hey!” It was earsplitting. I remember the strangely joyous, lilting quality of it – as though you and a friend had been searching diligently for something, and he suddenly stumbled upon it. “Hey!”

I wheeled to my left; the drunk spun to his right. We both stared down at a little old Japanese man. He must have been well into his seventies, this tiny gentleman, sitting there immaculate in his kimono. He took no notice of me, but beamed delightedly at the laborer, as though he had a most important, most welcome secret to share.

“C’mere,” the old man said in an easy vernacular, beckoning to the drunk. “C’mere and talk with me.” He waved his hand lightly.

The big man followed, as if on a string. He planted his feet belligerently in front of the old gentleman, and roared above the clacking wheels, “Why the hell should I talk to you?” The drunk now had his back to me. If his elbow moved so much as a millimeter, I’d drop him in his socks.

The old man continued to beam at the laborer.

“What’cha been drinkin’?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with interest. “I been drinkin’ sake,” the laborer bellowed back, “and it’s none of your business!” Flecks of spittle spattered the old man.

“Ok, that’s wonderful,” the old man said, “absolutely wonderful! You see, I love sake too. Every night, me and my wife (she’s 76, you know), we warm up a little bottle of sake and take it out into the garden, and we sit on an old wooden bench. We watch the sun go down, and we look to see how our persimmon tree is doing. My great-grandfather planted that tree, and we worry about whether it will recover from those ice storms we had last winter. Our tree had done better than I expected, though especially when you consider the poor quality of the soil. It is gratifying to watch when we take our sake and go out to enjoy the evening – even when it rains!” He looked up at the laborer, eyes twinkling.

As he struggled to follow the old man’s conversation, the drunk’s face began to soften. His fists slowly unclenched. “Yeah,” he said. “I love persimmons too…” His voice trailed off.

“Yes,” said the old man, smiling, “and I’m sure you have a wonderful wife.

“No,” replied the laborer. “My wife died.” Very gently, swaying with the motion of the train, the big man began to sob. “I don’t got no wife, I don’t got no home, I don’t got no job. I am so ashamed of myself.” Tears rolled down his cheeks; a spasm of despair rippled through his body.

 Now it was my turn. Standing there in well-scrubbed youthful innocence, my make-this-world-safe-for-democracy righteousness, I suddenly felt dirtier than he was.

Then the train arrived at my stop. As the doors opened, I heard the old man cluck sympathetically. “My, my,” he said, “that is a difficult predicament, indeed. Sit down here and tell me about it.”

I turned my head for one last look. The laborer was sprawled on the seat, his head in the old man’s lap. The old man was softly stroking the filthy, matted hair.

As the train pulled away, I sat down on a bench. What I had wanted to do with muscle had been accomplished with kind words. I had just seen aikido tried in combat, and the essence of it was love. I would have to practice the art with an entirely different spirit. It would be a long time before I could speak about the resolution of conflict.

Copyright © 2009 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.

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56. Let’s Exchange Combat Photos and Discuss Powerful Peace

A Poignant Message from a Special Forces Operator

Good Reader, the most profound event occurred this week. Powerful Peace has been growing so dramatically in support from every sector, from peace hippies to religious leaders to my still-serving SEAL Teammates; this incident provides dramatic testimony to what we’re all experiencing.

It’s especially apropos to note that this movement is coming of age in the geographic ground-zero of military operations and violent extremist ideologies in the world today: Baghdad, my home for the year.

Back to the narrative: A couple of days ago I received an email from a Special Forces friend in support of Powerful Peace. Specifically, he said, “Keep up the great message.”

In the same email, he attached inner circle (meant for those of us in the community) photos of his commando unit during recent combat operations in Afghanistan.

Imagine this: ongoing combat operations, conducting what Powerful Peace terms “necessary violence” in defense of military units and townspeople in remote wastelands…combined with an appreciation of this “great message”.

Is your mind beginning to wrap around the surreal nature of the interaction?

We all want peace; we just acknowledge it in different ways. SEALs want safety and security for their families, as do schoolteachers, electricians, musicians, ministers and generals.

Those who are involved in peacemaking within their domain (which ultimately could include every member of the species) understand the steps they can take within their domain. If you are not directly involved in tactical operations, would you have considered that SEALs and Green Berets would line up behind Powerful Peace as a “great message”, or would you have assumed that we all just want to hurt things?

There is a great surge of awareness rising worldwide for what is being advocated in Powerful Peace. In her Secretarial confirmation hearing this week, Senator Clinton emphasized one, primary point for the global way ahead: the urgency of America’s embracing the balanced use of hard and soft power, or what we all now call “Smart Power”. Again, it is important to tip a hat to former Assistant Secretary of Defense Joseph Nye for coining the terms Soft and Smart Power, now so comfortably ingrained in the national vernacular.

President-elect Obama has been saying essentially the same thing for months as he stressed increased diplomatic engagement worldwide without ignoring the potential need for force (again, “necessary violence”, which is grossly outweighed by vast currents of ignorance-based “unnecessary violence” coursing across the planet).

Powerful Peace Enlists the Universal Desire for Security

Powerful Peace regulars and other, longer-term customers of mine have heard this message, in every way I could think to say it, for many years. One version of this message is the “Think Like the Adversary” briefing I wrote and began presenting to government clients soon after 9/11.

Engagement! It edifies all sides. Communication! We shy away from such common-sense measures in our marriages, in our neighborhoods, and in our international conflicts. Engagement has an undeserved bad rap. It is not some touchy-feely appeasement, but an invaluable tool that everyone must use – if for no other reason than to benefit themselves.

I don’t need to like you in order to benefit from engagement with you.

One common side-effect of engagement is that we actually can come to like a former opponent; maybe this is why we shy away from it. It threatens to shake up our worldview.

Great warriors and great diplomats alike have preached for millenia: “Know the other, and know yourself.” Engagement is the most effective method for developing both of these.

Not engaging leads to inaccurate assessments, increasing a sense of isolation with its corresponding suspicion/animosity, and opportunities for the most ridiculous assumptions to fill in the intentionally unknown space between.

For example, I was taught as a child in the 70’s to “kill a Commie for Mommy”. Is this propaganda any less obvious than that of the Soviets, the Chinese and the contemporary Iranian government?

As lyrical evidence, I present the following song made famous by Sting during the height of the Cold War in the 1980’s. This was the same time that I set off into the world to learn Russian, become a great Soviet specialist, and counter the Red Menace that kept millions on edge about the mysterious threat.

It is also the time that a small voice in the back of my young mind said that “they” were as human as “we”; it told me, privately and confidently, that one day I would work alongside these greatly exaggerated boogie-men. (For that story, please read an earlier Powerful Peace article published in 2008.)

“Russians”

In Europe and America, there’s a growing feeling of hysteria
Conditioned to respond to all the threats
In the rhetorical speeches of the Soviets
Mr. Krushchev said we will bury you
I don’t subscribe to this point of view
It would be such an ignorant thing to do
If the Russians love their children too

How can I save my little boy from Oppenheimer’s deadly toy
There is no monopoly in common sense
On either side of the political fence
We share the same biology
Regardless of ideology
Believe me when I say to you
I hope the Russians love their children too

There is no historical precedent
To put the words in the mouth of the President
There’s no such thing as a winnable war
It’s a lie that we don’t believe anymore
Mr. Reagan says we will protect you
I don’t subscribe to this point of view
Believe me when I say to you
I hope the Russians love their children too

We share the same biology
Regardless of ideology
What might save us, me, and you
Is if the Russians love their children too

Copyright © 2009 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.

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55. The Cellist of Sarajevo

“Listen. Never, ever, regret or apologise for believing that when one man or one woman decides to risk addressing the world with truth, the world may stop what it is doing and hear. There is too much evidence to the contrary. When we cease believing this, the music will surely stop. The myth of the impossible dream is more powerful than all the facts of history.”

- Robert Fulgham

This weekend found me “dialoguing” via comment entries on jazz legend Wynton Marsalis’ official website. That dialogue led to my discovery of Wynton’s new book, Moving to Higher Ground: How Jazz Can Change Your Life…which I will own as soon as Amazon.com can leap into action.

The discovery of this important book on the Power(ful Peace) of music and musicians next led to my re-discovery of an incredible story I’d forgotten for years…the Cellist of Sarajevo. Below, with full credit to the author at LifePositive.com, is a moving, stunning, scorching account of Powerful Peace in action. If you don’t mist up during this reading, you should probably get your tear ducts examined.

The Cellist of Sarajevo

by Swati Chopra

What do we do when faced with unspeakable horror?

Play music is what a resident of Sarajevo, capital of Bosnia, did, even as bombs rained around him. His is a story of courage and grace in difficult times

A musician walks on stage to the sound of deafening applause. He is in his coattails, dressed in black. He bows, sits down on a concert chair and takes an instrument in his hands. Let’s say it’s an old cello the colour of burgundy. A few quiet moments as he prepares himself. And then, the music flows.

This is a routine every Western classical musician is familiar with. As was Vedran Smailovic, principal cellist of the Sarajevo Opera, when he decided to perform it in the middle of the war zone that his neighbourhood had become. The year was 1992. The former Yugoslavia had erupted in ethnic strife and beautiful Sarajevo, with its rich theatre and art traditions, had transformed into Europe’s “capital of hell”.

At 4 pm on May 27, as a long queue waited patiently for bread in front of one of the last functional bakeries in the city, a mortar shell dropped in the middle of it, killing 22 people instantly. Smailovic looked out of his window to find flesh, blood, bone, and rubble splattered over the area. It was the moment he knew he had had enough.

Smailovic was 37 at the time, widely recognised as an exceptionally talented cello player. Till 1992, he had been occupied with his involvements in the Sarajevo Opera, the Sarajevo Philharmonic Orchestra, the Symphony Orchestra RTV Sarajevo, and the National Theatre of Sarajevo, as well as playing the festival circuit and working in recording studios.

Looking back on that period, Smailovic describes himself and his associates as being “totally naïve”.  So great was their confidence in their unity and plurality, he says, that even when they were watching what was happening in other parts of Yugoslavia, they felt absolutely certain that similar destruction could never happen in Sarajevo, that it would be impossible to destroy such strong unity. That dream was shattered by 1992.

Smailovic felt enraged by what was happening around him and powerless to do anything about it. He was neither a politician nor a soldier, just a musician. How could he do anything about the war? Did that mean he would just stand by and watch people die, fearing all the while for his own life? In the long, dark night that followed the bread-queue massacre, Smailovic thought long and deep. With the dawn of a new day, he had made up his mind that he would do something, and that something would be what he knew best – make music.

So every evening after that, at 4 pm, Smailovic would walk to the middle of the street, where the massacre had occurred. He would be dressed formally, as for a performance. There he would sit, on a battered camp stool placed in the crater made by the shell, his cello in his hand, playing music. All around him, mortar shells and bullets would fly. Yet he would play on regardless, perhaps substituting the war noise with applause in his mind.    

For 22 days, one each for the people killed, Smailovic played in the same spot. He played to ruined homes, smouldering fires, scared people hiding in basements. He played for human dignity that is the first casualty in war. Ultimately, he played for life, for peace, and for the possibility of hope that exists even in the darkest hour. Asked by a journalist whether he was not crazy doing what he was doing, Smailovic replied: “You ask me am I crazy for playing the cello, why do you not ask if they are not crazy for shelling Sarajevo?”

Smailovic continued to play his music of hope until December 1993, in graveyards and bombsites. He had decided to “daily offer a musical prayer for peace”, he said. As his story began to filter into the press, he became a symbol for peace in Bosnia. An English composer, David Wilde, was so moved by the story that he wrote a composition for unaccompanied cello, simply called ‘The Cellist of Sarajevo’, into which he poured his own feelings of outrage, love, and brotherhood with Vedran Smailovic.

Celebrated cellist Yo Yo Ma played this piece at the International Cello Festival in Manchester, England, in 1994. Pianist Paul Sullivan, who was present, describes it thus: “Quietly, almost imperceptibly, the music began, stealing out into the hushed hall and creating a shadowy, empty universe, ominous with the presence of death, haunting in its echoes. Slowly it built, growing relentlessly into an agonised, screaming, slashing furore, gripping us all, before subsiding at last into a hollow death rattle, and finally, back to the silence from which it had begun.

“When he had finished, Yo Yo Ma remained bent over his cello. His bow still rested on the strings. No one in the hall moved, not a sound was made for a long, long time. It was as though we had just witnessed that horrifying massacre ourselves. Finally still in silence, Yo Yo slowly straightened in his chair, looked out across the audience, and stretched out his hand toward us. All eyes followed as he beckoned someone to come to the stage, and an indescribable electric shock swept over us as we realised who it was: Vedran Smailovic – the cellist of Sarajevo himself! He rose from his seat and walked down the aisle as Yo Yo came off the stage and headed up the aisle to meet him. With arms flung wide, they met each other in a passionate embrace just inches from my seat.

“The drama was unbelievable, as everyone in the hall leaped to his or her feet in a chaotic emotional frenzy: clapping, weeping, shouting, embracing, and cheering. It was deafening, overwhelming, a tidal wave of emotion. And in the centre of it stood these two men, still hugging, both crying freely. Yo Yo Ma, the suave, elegant prince of classical music worldwide, flawless in appearance and performance. And Vedran Smailovic, who had just escaped from Sarajevo, dressed in a stained and tattered leather motorcycle suit with fringe on the arms. His wild long hair and huge moustache framed a face that looked old beyond his years, creased with pain and soaked with so many tears.”

In the years since his heroic anti-war statement, Smailovic has relocated to Belfast, Ireland, where he performs, composes, conducts, and produces music locally and internationally. But the message of this story is greater than the man who made it. As American philosopher Robert Fulghum says in his book Maybe (Maybe Not): Second Thoughts From a Secret Life: “Listen. Never, ever, regret or apologise for believing that when one man or one woman decides to risk addressing the world with truth, the world may stop what it is doing and hear. There is too much evidence to the contrary. When we cease believing this, the music will surely stop. The myth of the impossible dream is more powerful than all the facts of history. In my imagination, I lay flowers at the statue memorialising Vedran Smailovic – a monument that has not yet been built, but may be.”

Copyright © 2009 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.

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54. Are You With Us or Against Us?

Powerful Peace is apolitical. I want the reader to understand that before the following sensitive discussion begins.

The title of this article is not a criticism against President Bush for using strong words seven years ago. Neither is it an endorsement of those words, which should simply be considered in the context of that terrible and historic time.

This article is about a man who bumped – no, slammed – into me at the airport in Kuwait this week.

In a bizarre turn of events, I was moving with a group of Americans through the crowded terminal and found myself momentarily blocked by another man, who was being momentarily impeded by a third. It was a simple people-jam, and would have resolved in seconds. In profile, the bearded man just in front of me looked surprisingly like a good friend from Egypt, but I was thinking that the odds of this being Kami were statistically impossible.

My musing was abruptly interrupted by what can only be described as a low-impact, hockey-style body check by the American behind me, as he literally bounced my 220-pound frame out of the way so that he could hurry to catch up to the group. I kept my cool (probably not as well as I like to think) and followed close behind. Once I reached him I got in his face and said, “We’re all going to the same place. There’s no reason to slam into anyone!”

He looked really surprised at the American English coming out of my own shaggy beard and became profusely apologetic. Unfortunately, his apology was ten times more infuriating than the unbelievable, initial body check.

“I’m really sorry, dude – I didn’t realize you were with us!”

I was stunned by his explanation.

With us?

“With us??”

I knew that by “us” he meant the American group, and I could have taken the apology for what it was worth – despite the stink of blatant (and probably unconscious) bigotry. However, this brief encounter is an irresistable teaching point for Powerful Peace, so it swirled in my mind until I could return to the keyboard.

There is no “us”.

Of course, there are Blacks and Whites, men and women, Jews and Christians and Muslims…that’s not what I’m saying. All of these distinctions are part of the natural, healthy mosaic of what it means to be members of the human race. The point is, there is no “us” in the context of his apology.

You see, what the American bigot did in that crowd is define for all the rest of us, by deed, his own understanding of We and They. Without a word, he proved that he finds it acceptable to smash into Them to get where he wants to go, but not into Us, the group of which I happen to be a member.

“They” don’t deserve respect, and “We” do. It’s really that simple.

Now, while this unpleasant encounter is offensive enough at first glance, the deeper and much more profound effect ripples outward and begs to be examined. This second effect is what infuriated me.

When a person behaves like that in a place like that, the locals very reasonably find it unacceptable. While they may not confront the offender the way I did, they inevitably file it away in memory. When another outsider behaves similarly, and another after that, this resentment grows. At some point a prejudice is formed against my entire group. A prime example is the term, “Ugly American”, which certainly could not have formed and spread from one or two isolated incidents.

Now when I again pass through this same area, my experience will be colored by the attitudes of these prejudiced locals. I may get poor service, I may be harassed, I may even be assaulted by some of the more hot-headed youths. Despite my best efforts to “get along” in every environment, my own best efforts may be overcome by the stupid, offensive choices of my peers.

The same threat exists toward the safety and peace of mind of my spouse, my child, my other companions….

Most stupidly of all, even the bigot’s own future experience in that place will be negatively colored by his own offenses.

We each need to take a good, long look at the potential consequences of our choices. We are an amazing race, the humans. Our species has the capacity for infinite, creative genius….

….And yet even the dumbest dog won’t defecate where he sleeps.

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By the way, in case you were still wondering: yes, it was Kami. I caught up with him a half hour later.

Copyright © 2009 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.

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53. Happy New Year and HAPPY NEW PowerfulPeace.NET!

We are ecstatic to release the brand-new version of Powerful Peace, PowerfulPeace.NET. Over the coming days and weeks you will see fresh opportunities to learn about and participate in real global security. You may also notice occasional technical difficulties. Please let us know what you love about P2, and what else you’d like to see!

Copyright © 2009 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.

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