War and peace converse

by Elaine Klaassen

Now that my luggage has finally arrived from Barcelona—it went missing for 20 days—I can look at my notes and write about my pilgrimage to Spain.

Traveling is mind-blowing on all fronts, not the least significant of which is that mysterious moment of gritty tension when you enter the cabin of an airplane or the sleeping compartment of a train. People study, no, they scrutinize, everyone who enters, as though they are asking themselves: Will this person be my assassin? Will this be the person I die with? Is this the person I've been looking for my whole life: Is this the person who carries The Truth? Is this the person I need to listen to? Is thsi the person who will be whatever I want them to be? Tangible expectation hangs in the air.

On the transatlantic flight back to Minneapolis, I sit next to a career Marine who's on his way home from Iraq where he's been since April of 2003. This I did not expect. I have mixed feelings: I absolutely did not support the invasion of Iraq. I have been working hard to understand the strategies of nonviolence. I have been very concerned for soldiers on all sides. And, all my life, partly because of my upbringing, I've had a deep-seated feeling that anything or anyone military is from another planet.

He has the window and I have the aisle. He says he isn't wearing a uniform because he's special operations. He is garrulous, loud and boisterous.

When I say I'm returning from a peace conference, he says, "I'm down with peace. That's what we're bringing to Iraq."

Then he asks me what the people at the peace conference think of the war in Iraq. I answer that it was a group of people who believe that "War is not the answer," and I add my personal belief that protesting war is a miniscule part of working for peace. I tell him the focus was on ways to bring peace into the world, in four specific ways, and I show him the conference book. "Improving the plight of refugees; Canceling international debt for developing countries; Overcoming violence, especially when religiously motivated or targeted; Increasing access to clean water."

He laments the water situation in Iraq and describes proudly what the U.S. military has been doing to improve the water supply for the Iraqi people.

Then he asks if there were any men at my conference. Of course, there were. Approximately half of the 6,000 people.

I say I write a column called Spirit and Conscience, about how people live their lives as the result of their beliefs. He says I should write about him, because he believes totally in what he's doing. He's been killing people who are bad and deserve to be eliminated, he says. He's making the world a better place.

Suddenly he collapses, or passes out. I feel I'm required, in a moral way, to take on the role of Florence Nightingale. Here is a wounded soul who needs to be cared for.
The juxtaposition of where I'm coming from and where he's coming from almost paralyzes me.

I have been on an inspiring holiday, filled with sensorial delight, intellectual challenge and amazingly hopeful people from all kinds of backgrounds. I have only been afraid for my life in the vague way people usually are.

He has been surrounded by enemies, marveling every night of every day that he hasn't had his head chopped off and doing whatever it takes to keep that from happening.

• • • • • • • • • • • • •
I think about my past two weeks. I have come to Spain to immerse myself in the culture and language I adopted long ago. And, I have come to attend The Council for a Parliament of the World's Religions (CPWR), part of Barcelona's five-month Forum 2004, where I will co-facilitate an Alternatives to Violence Project (AVP) workshop for peace workers from around the world.

The area of Barcelona where the Forum 2004 grounds are situated used to be swampy and used to house the poorest of the poor. It was the site, we are told in the AVP workshop by a history professor from Barcelona, where 3,000 people were massacred during the Spanish Civil War.

Now, an ambrosial arbor catches the sea breeze as Orquesta Arab de Nazaret plays unfamiliar, heart-catching tunes whose curling rhythms comb through the air. People of all nations drift toward the music and then away from it, randomly, like waves in the ocean. Hundreds of mirrors on the stage catch fragmented images, bringing them together in chance combinations, just as pieces of different cultures and economies and societies all over the world are brought together in chance combinations through media and trade and travel.

Security is strong, I guess. To get into the grounds you scan your plastic ID card in the machine and put all your bags through the X-ray machine. Then, you go through the same process to get into any of the buildings where events take place. Except, I realize at some point, there is no security at the hotel where we conduct our workshop. It is outside the grounds. Oh well.

Since my purpose in being here is to work in the conflict resolution division, I decide to attend the other conflict resolution presentations, one on Friday, and another on Saturday and Sunday. It's a way of narrowing down my choices; there are 430 offerings over a period of seven days; the program book for the one-week CPWR is 260 pages long.

Of course, there is no way I would miss hearing Hans Küng: When I took theological and religious interpretation 101 at United Theological Seminary we read his "Credo," a profound discussion of the Apostle's Creed. He seemed to say that the point of all the professed dogma in Christianity is hope. Because of that amazing message of hope, I thought if I were ever on a sinking ship (which I guess we all are), I would want Hans Küng to be there; he would be like the string quartet in "Titanic."

Küng is scheduled for noon on Thursday, but when I get there the stage is bare. I find out that since the Dalai Lama was sick and couldn't make it, Küng substituted for him at the opening event and was then canceled for Thursday noon.

Every day, long lists of time and location changes are handed out, but I don't know this yet. By now I am quite late for another event I want to see, a film called "Ties that Bind." It was made in Chicago by Ann E. Feldman and brought together women representing a wide variety of ethnic and religious communities. I see only the end of it, so rely on the discussion to fill me in. As the discussion winds down, a woman in a cloth, shirtwaist, knee-length dress stands up. She looks so entirely unfashionable, I like her immediately. She speaks in the simplest, well-pronounced English, with one of those high, pointed Spanish voices, authoritative for its inflection alone.

I don't take notes, but I remember her ideas, more or less, because I resonate with them. She has noticed in the film that a lot of communication can be lost when people have to fulfill the role of representing a group of people. The women are not the same people when acting as community and spiritual leaders as when interacting amongst themselves. Most valuable in the Chicago multicultural circles are the personal relationships among the women. (Spoken like a true anarchist.)

The Third Side is an all-day workshop, the next day, about conflict resolution. When I arrive, Ela Gandhi, a granddaughter of Mohandas Gandhi, is speaking about her work in South Africa. I am immensely impressed by her, even though I don't find out until a few days later who she is. She describes the work women in South Africa have done to bring solutions to many conflictive situations. She says the problem with all this amazing work is that the good news never gets out: The main publicity always goes to black-on-black violence. She tells of all-night vigils, praying and telling stories, that resulted in the end of violence in a certain area. She tells of women who convinced their men to stay all night to discuss a problem until consensus was reached.

The Third Side emphasizes the role of the third party in any kind of conflict. The exercises are quite intellectual for me and the program seems designed for Ph.Ds; it makes me feel that resolving conflict is beyond my reach. However, I catch on to the idea of "witness personas": People who stand outside the problem and can be effective in various roles, such as equalizer, referee, healer, bridge builder, teacher and others. I might understand the program better if I don't have to leave for a couple of hours to go hear Hans Küng, who, today, is representing his organization, the Global Ethics Foundation, on a panel.

Küng's most recent book is "In Search of a New World Ethic." He says, in English, "It's seven or eight hundred pages, don't be afraid of that," in his heavy German/French accent. It's about the paradigm changes in all major religions that have taken place in recent history. He insists that there have been paradigm shifts, although many religions don't want to acknowledge it.

Küng, probably most famous for challenging papal authority as a young theologian, is keenly interested in the relationship between politics and ethics. I think he says that the president of Germany was on the board of the Global Ethics Foundation before helming the country. He adds that when Tony Blair was fighting for peace in Northern Ireland, he was invited to speak at the Global Ethics Foundation, but has not been invited since Iraq.

When asked what is the biggest obstacle to interfaith work, Küng says, "forgetting to see the progress." Then he turns comedian. "In America in 1915 there was no voice for Jews, Catholics, blacks and women. Now it is much better. Now the Jews talk too much, at least in the White House. And the Catholics don't always say the right thing, but at least they can talk."

Küng, one of the most well-known theologians in the world, even outside of religious circles, insists that all religions—all of humanity for that matter—believe in certain basic human values that are common to everyone across the globe. He says all religions believe in the Golden Rule and agree that it is wrong to treat other humans in an inhuman way; they all agree with the don'ts: don't kill, lie, steal or abuse sexuality. He is working to create an internet educational program on global ethics.

• • • • • • • • • • • • •
The pervading theme of human commonalities throughout the conference has made such a mark on me that, much as I think it unnecessary to argue with Bill, the Marine on the plane, I find myself becoming angry when he makes derogatory comments about Arabs and Muslims.

He doesn't know about Al Andalus—800 years of Muslim rule in Spain—that stands out in history for its tolerance. He doesn't know about Badshah Kahn, the nonviolent soldier of Islam allied with Gandhi, whom I just learned more about at the conference. He hasn't talked to the dignified Egyptian couple sitting directly in front of us: I talked to them before we boarded, and learned they are professors returning from Egypt where they have been working on women's rights issues. I am aware that his experience of the world is completely different from mine.

In general Bill appears to be well educated, sensitive and respectful, but suddenly says things that seem to come from someone else's mind.

He is a likable guy with a likable manner. But I am uneasy: he seems like two people. He says things that come out of his own thought processes, then he says things that seem like they are not his own. It's hard to explain. Maybe I just hear this because I assume he's been brainwashed by the military and is therefore not totally able to have his own thoughts. I try to respect the possibility that he has made those thoughts his own.

Much as I don't want to grill him, I do want to know about the raids on Iraqi homes and about collateral damage. What does he know about that? He repeats and repeats, "It's the price they have to pay for freedom." That phrase, for example, sounds memorized.

He, himself, brings up Abu Ghraib, to say that it happened because people are bad—everyone is bad. I think he means there is evil in everyone, but he doesn't use the word evil.

He has quite a few drinks, and when I order a half a beer, the flight attendant says to me, a trace of sarcasm in her voice, "Here's a whole one, he'll drink the other half." Which he then doesn't.

• • • • • • • • • • • • •
On Saturday I see I can't make it to the weekend conflict resolution workshop. Instead, I choose among three events that pull me equally. I go to hear about the "Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act" instead of "Why Muslims Rebel: The Struggle for Self-Determination" or "The Gypsy Religious Experience as a Bridge Between East and West."

It's helpful for me to hear Native Americans of different tribes talking in depth about what sacred objects mean to them. Even though I, as a person of European descent, don't have a sense of the life of inanimate objects, I can respect those who do. But the more I understand it, grasp it emotionally, the more my respect is imbued with empathy. My respect is warmer. I'm glad I've chosen to go to this room. Yet, I'm still wondering what I now do not understand about Gypsies and Muslims.

The spectacular highlight of the CPWR is held that same evening, the sacred music concert in front of the Sagrada Familia, Gaudi's famous unfinished temple. All the music is beautiful, from the Sufis to the Sikhs. I am especially moved by a group of monks, Tibetan perhaps, from the United States who chant and drone the most intense sound I've ever heard. You feel like they could stop time and keep the earth from rotating if they wanted to.

The concert is a big deal. Half the city of Barcelona comes out to see it and the other half must content itself with a televised version. At the end, around midnight, there's a Jewish/Muslim pop band and everybody is out of their chairs dancing wildly.

The most pen-worthy food of the whole trip is the heavenly cuisine the Sikhs at the CPWR serve in their enormous tent overlooking the Mediterranean. Not only is the food absolutely heavenly in its taste, texture and appearance, it is also shared freely, as I imagine it would be in heaven. They call it Langar, "the preparation and serving of blessed vegetarian food."

Every day of the conference, about 3,000 participants walk 20 minutes each way to the Sikh "dinner hall" where we take off our shoes, leave them in long rows of shelves, wash our hands under a spicket, and lower our heads to receive a white cloth head covering. Then we are seated in rows on a huge spread of red cloth where we wait with plastic plates and forks for the men in their colorful turbans to go past, ladling out spoonfuls of harmonious salads, sauces and hot dishes from plastic pails. I go on three separate days. Each day the menu is different. The only food I recognize is fruit salad and chipatis, East Indian fry bread. I have no idea what I'm eating, but it is incredible.

In Spain there are many immigrant groups that weren't here when I lived here, such as the Sikhs, who originated in India in the 1500s. I didn't know the group providing the meals was based in Spain. I am surprised and delighted when I discover I can speak with them. A teenager proudly shows me the display of the Sikh holy temples in India. A model of the biggest one, Anandpur Sahib, surrounded by water, rests on a huge table in a darkened room with magical twinkling lights.

The tenets of the faith, as shown in the display, are very simple: Meditate on God; Earn an honest living; and Share your spiritual and wordly earnings with humanity. The teenager also emphasizes a very important concept of their faith: punjabi, which means equality. As I read further I find the Sikhs reacted to the Hindu caste system in India. Also, they firmly support the equality of men and women.

I am reading a book by Dr. Mohanambal, my friend Barbara's doctor, who is a Hindu, of the Brahman caste, and performs ceremonies with incense, chanting and prayers for peace for several hours daily. "Didi," as Barbara calls her, tells about the revelation she received as a child, that all people are equal, an idea that went against the Hindu caste system. If she'd been born a Sikh, she wouldn't have struggled to live out her belief in equality in the same way. She performs a peace ceremony at the conference and gives a presentation on the healing attributes of aroma therapy.

• • • • • • • • • • • • •
During the whole trip, from airport terminals to teeming streets to the CPWR, I am inundated with people. Every life is a story: the Philipine mother and son returning to Andorra where they can find work ; the crisis counselor putting her hair in rollers in preparation to meet the man who might be "the one"; the Dutch chaplain who tells me there are humanist (nonreligious) chaplains in Holland; the international family that lives in airports as they connect up their family members between Guam, Malawi, Greece, Italy and the United States; the mysterious, handsome men in tight clothes, big like bears, who speak a language I can't recognize; the Argentine kid who carries 150 pounds of hang gliding equipment on his back as he travels to the mountains; the drag queen whose dialect rises and falls in an unfamiliar, gossipy gait as he talks on his cell phone; the woman who tells me how she has discovered the negative side of the word "tolerance"; the woman who is going to a conference to present her pilot project on narrative medicine; an old friend who is working on a study of menopause in different cultures; an old piano student who has become a unique, accomplished and recognized musician; a Cuban father and two children who've escaped from Cuba while the mother is prominent in Castro's government; a recent college graduate terrified of getting a job; the Hindu doctor who takes the responsibilities of her caste seriously and prays for peace two hours every day, the cabdriver whose very old parents have fought their whole lives and still fight every day …

Then there are the people in our workshop. There's Elena Garcia, my co-facilitator, who is the only trained AVP facilitator based in Spain. (No other facilitators from anywhere else in the world were able to come.) We get acquainted by e-mail and then finally meet the night before the workshop when she arrives on the train from Valladolid. We talk on the phone the day before to see how we will find each other. She says she looks like a typical Spanish young woman: dark eyes and lots of dark hair, not tall or short, fat or thin. I say I am a señora mayor (senior citizen), not tall or short, fat or thin. My face is very sincere, kind of pretty in a sincere way, in fact, I look like a missionary. Of course, she finds me first.

In a bar at the station, we review our workshop plans and make last minute changes. I like her a lot. She is a no-nonsense person with degrees in business and very definite opinions. As a facilitator she is respectful, caring, charming, confident and charismatic. She is more beautiful than she described herself; in the hotel where the workshop is held, the male half of the staff will do anything for her.

At the CPWR, people are always handing out flyers to advertise their events, so I do the same. I look around and pick out people I think will make a variegated, interesting group, and gamble on giving them one of my few flyers. Maybe because I feel I am hustling, it absolutely does not work. Not a single one of them shows up.

However, altogether, about 10 people stop in throughout the day. The workshop rings a bell with five people to such an extent that they stay the whole day. Three of the others leave a vivid presence and add key input: Judith is a funny Muslim woman from Oregon I met on the plane to Barcelona (she liked the humor in the AVP exercises), Jaume is a professor in Barcelona who I read later in the program was a presenter at a Christians for Socialism discussion I tried very hard to get to, and Miriam is a sunny, empathetic community organizer from Uganda.

We don't know until we start what languages we need. Ideally the workshop would have been all Spanish or all English or everyone in the workshop would have spoken both languages. What happens, though, is our group consists of Donald, an Irishman who lives in South Africa, Bryony, an Australian woman who lives in England, Yukiko,a Japanese woman who lives in England and Maria Jesus and Antoni, two Spaniards from Barcelona, one of whom speaks no English. Therefore, everything that is said in English has to be translated to Spanish and vice versa. Yukiko's English is heavily influenced by Japanese language patterns and content, so those translations are especially rich. The desire to communicate overrides the need for perfection; our connections go beyond language.

Elena and I, both more or less bilingual, are not trained interpreters, so it is a taxing day, but we gladly adapt. Because every AVP workshop creates a temporary mini-community, our effort to include everyone is in keeping with the community-building intent of Alternatives to Violence. We have to trust that the wonderful intense sensitivity of each participant is affirmed.

We emphasize throughout the day that we are not experts, everyone has the innate ability to be a peacemaker. We go through the exercises, making it clear that anyone can pass at any time and chose not to participate. We ask people to sign in and leave their contact information only if they chose to. The noncoercive nature of the program is fundamental to creating a peaceful, cooperative environment.

Through listening, affirmation, communication, inclusion, humor, analysis, games and relaxation, people can figure out how peace can work. We have an unusual moment in which consensus is called for. It is time-consuming but we have to go for it because it's in the nature of what we're doing. It takes a while for the whole group to decide on doing a breathing meditation instead of a game. Then we have less time to present one of the major concepts of AVP, its spiritual base, transforming power. But we have to trust that the basic outline will be suggested and people will find ways to learn more about it on their own. Transforming Power is the power that is able to transform violence into nonviolence and is available to anyone. It's the power, for example, to resolve conflicts by finding common ground, to base your position on truth, to revise your position when it is wrong, to risk being creative rather than violent, to be willing to suffer for what is important.

The next day I feel ravingly heroic for having pulled the whole thing together. And I am so exhausted that I miss the whole last day of the conference. Then I catch the night train to Madrid. That's another story.

• • • • • • • • • • • • •
I am surprised when Bill, the Marine, asks me how long I've been a peace activist. (For a lot of the trip it seems like he's interviewing me.) I don't really think of myself as an activist. I think I'm not courageous enough to practice the nonviolence of Badshah Kahn or Gandhi, or AVP. I don't mention Kathy Kelly or Roy Bourgeois or Sister Rose.

I tell him a long story about how I was raised in a pacifist culture, where people don't believe in doing military service, and where they believe strongly in doing humanitarian service. I tell him about becoming overwhelmed with the suffering in the world in my early 20s to such a degree that I drop out entirely of trying to do anything with my life. I don't feel there's anything I can do that would make a difference for the good. So I enjoy myself as much as I can. I go into an eat-drink-and-be-merry mode for quite a few years. Then when I have children I start to feel like I can perhaps do one small thing that would matter, and that perhaps I ought to, since I have brought children into this suffering world. I join Amnesty International. I support Habitat for Humanity. Finally I find Alternatives to Violence, which has the most amazing interpersonal dynamic, and the strongest sense of justice, that it could really change the world. I tell him about AVP in Rwanda and how half the country is doing these workshops and it is a step toward healing and de-escalation.

When I say I'm not courageous enough to be a pacifist, he says, "Sure you are! You can do it," like a coach.

He lifts the armrest between us and collapses again, sound asleep, against my shoulder. I am body to body with someone who has just been killing people. I am in the sobering vicinity of death and destruction.

When I leave the plane, I don't say good-bye. I don't wish him well, because I don't know what to say. Should I say, "Hope your wife has waited for you"? only because he has said, "We got married right before I went to Iraq. A year's a long time, isn't it," looking to me for some kind of reassurance.

Any passing thoughts I might have had about whether he was maybe a drunk with a made-up story are dispelled when I see him later in the customs line. He looks gray, like a ghost. We wave at each other. At the security gate he is not questioned—he shows his ID and is gone.