WAR--II
'Never in the world does hatred cease by hatred. Hatred ceases by
love.'--_Dammapada._
We were encamped at a little monastery in some fields by a village, with
a river in front. Up in the monastery there was but room for the
officers, so small was it, and the men were camped beneath it in little
shelters. It was two o'clock, and very hot, and we were just about to
take tiffin, when news came that a party of armed men had been seen
passing a little north of us. It was supposed they were bound to a
village known to be a very bad one--Laka--and that they would camp
there. So 'boot and saddle' rang from the trumpets, and in a few moments
later we were off, fifty lances. Just as we started, his old Hindostani
Christian servant came up to my friend, the commandant, and gave him a
little paper. 'Put it in your pocket, sahib,' he said. The commandant
had no time to talk, no time even to look at what it could be. He just
crammed it into his breast-pocket, and we rode on. The governor's son
was our guide, and he led us through winding lanes into a pass in the
low hills. The road was very narrow, and the heavy forest came down to
our elbows as we passed. Now and again we crossed the stream, which had
but little water in it, and the path would skirt its banks for awhile.
It was beautiful country, but we had no time to notice it then, for we
were in a hurry, and whenever the road would allow we trotted and
cantered. After five or six miles of this we turned a spur of the hills,
and came out into a little grass-glade on the banks of the stream, and
at the far end of this was the village where we expected to find those
whom we sought. They saw us first, having a look-out on a high tree by
the edge of the forest; and as our advanced guard came trotting into the
open, he fired. The shot echoed far up the hills like an angry shout,
and we could see a sudden stir in the village--men running out of the
houses with guns and swords, and women and children running, too, poor
things! sick with fear. They fired at us from the village fence, but had
no time to close the gate ere our sowars were in. Then they escaped in
various ways to the forest and scrub, running like madmen across the
little bit of open, and firing at us directly they reached shelter where
the cavalry could not come. Of course, in the open they had no chance,
but in the dense forest they were safe enough. The village was soon
cleared, and then we had to return. It was no good to wait. The valley
was very narrow, and was commanded from both its sides, which were very
steep and dense with forest. Beyond the village there was only forest
again. We had done what we could: we had inflicted a very severe
punishment on them; it was no good waiting, so we returned. They fired
on us nearly all the way, hiding in the thick forest, and perched on
high rocks. At one place our men had to be dismounted to clear a
breastwork, run up to fire at us from. All the forest was full of
voices--voices of men and women and even children--cursing our guide.
They cried his name, that the spirits of the hills might remember that
it was he who had brought desolation to their village. Figures started
up on pinnacles of cliff, and cursed him as he rode by. Us they did not
curse; it was our guide.
And so after some trouble we got back. That band never attacked us
again.
As we were dismounting, my friend put his hand in his pocket, and found
the little paper. He took it out, looked at it, and when his servant
came up to him he gave the paper back with a curious little smile full
of many thoughts. 'You see,' he said, 'I am safe. No bullet has hit me.'
And the servant's eyes were dim. He had been very long with his master,
and loved him, as did all who knew him. 'It was the goodness of God,' he
said--'the great goodness of God. Will not the sahib keep the paper?'
But the sahib would not. 'You may need it as well as I. Who can tell in
this war?' And he returned it.
And the paper? It was a prayer--a prayer used by the Roman Catholic
Church, printed on a sheet of paper. At the top was a red cross. The
paper was old and worn, creased at the edges; it had evidently been much
used, much read. Such was the charm that kept the soldier from danger.
The nights were cold then, when the sun had set, and after dinner we
used to have a camp-fire built of wood from the forest, to sit round for
a time and talk before turning in. The native officers of the cavalry
would come and sit with us, and one or two of the Burmans, too. We were
a very mixed assembly. I remember one night very well--I think it must
have been the very night after the fight at Laka, and we were all of us
round the fire. I remember there was a half-moon bending towards the
west, throwing tender lights upon the hills, and turning into a silver
gauze the light white mist that lay upon the rice-fields. Opposite to
us, across the little river, a ridge of hill ran down into the water
that bent round its foot. The ridge was covered with forest, very black,
with silver edges on the sky-line. It was out of range for a Burmese
flint-gun, or we should not have camped so near it. On all the other
sides the fields stretched away till they ended in the forest that
gloomed beyond. I was talking to the governor's son (our guide of the
fight at Laka) of the prospects of the future, and of the intentions of
the Prince of Wuntho, in whose country Laka lay. I remarked to him how
the Burmans of Wuntho seemed to hate him, of how they had cursed him
from the hills, and he admitted that it was true. 'All except my
friends,' he said, 'hate me. And yet what have I done? I had to help my
father to get back his governorship. They forget that they attacked us
first.'
He went on to tell me of how every day he was threatened, of how he was
sure they would murder him some time, because he had joined us. 'They
are sure to kill me some time,' he said. He seemed sad and depressed,
not afraid.
So we talked on, and I asked him about charms. 'Are there not charms
that will prevent you being hurt if you are hit, and that will not allow
a sword to cut you? We hear of invulnerable men. There were the
Immortals of the King's Guard, for instance.'
And he said, yes, there were charms, but no one believed in them except
the villagers. He did not, nor did men of education. Of course, the
ignorant people believed in them. There were several sorts of charms.
You could be tattooed with certain mystic letters that were said to
insure you against being hit, and there were certain medicines you could
drink. There were also charms made out of stone, such as a little
tortoise he had once seen that was said to protect its wearer. There
were mysterious writings on palm-leaves. There were men, he said
vaguely, who knew how to make these things. For himself, he did not
believe in them.
I tried to learn from him then, and I have tried from others since,
whether these charms have any connection with Buddhism. I cannot find
that they have. They are never in the form of images of the Buddha, or
of extracts from the sacred writings. There is not, so far as I can make
out, any religious significance in these charms; mostly they are simply
mysterious. I never heard that the people connect them with their
religion. Indeed, all forms of enchantment and of charms are most
strictly prohibited. One of the vows that monks take is never to have
any dealings with charms or with the supernatural, and so Buddhism
cannot even give such little assistance to its believers as to furnish
them with charms. If they have charms, it is against their faith; it is
a falling away from the purity of their teachings; it is simply the
innate yearning of man to the supernatural, to the mysterious. Man's
passions are very strong, and if he must fight, he must also have a
charm to protect him in fight. If his religion cannot give it him, he
must find it elsewhere. You see that, as the teachings of the Buddha
have never been able to be twisted so as to permit war directly, neither
have they been able to assist indirectly by furnishing charms, by
making the fighter bullet-proof. And I thought then of the little prayer
and the cross that were so certain a defence against hurt.
We talked for a long time in the waning moonlight by the ruddy fire, and
at last we broke up to go to bed. As we rose a voice called to us across
the water from the little promontory. In the still night every word was
as clear as the note of a gong.
'Sleep well,' it cried--'sleep well--sle-e-ep we-l-l.'
We all stood astonished--those who did not know Burmese wondering at the
voice; those who did, wondering at the meaning. The sentries peered
keenly towards the sound.
'Sleep well,' the voice cried again; 'eat well. It will not be for long.
Sleep well while you may.'
And then, after a pause, it called the governor's son's name, and
'Traitor, traitor!' till the hills were full of sound.
The Burman turned away.
'You see,' he said, 'how they hate me. What would be the good of
charms?'
The voice was quiet, and the camp sank into stillness, and ere long the
moon set, and it was quite dark.
He was a brave man, and, indeed, there are many brave men amongst the
Burmese. They kill leopards with sticks and stones very often, and even
tigers. They take their frail little canoes across the Irrawaddy in
flood in a most daring way. They in no way want for physical courage,
but they have never made a cult of bravery; it has never been a
necessity to them; it has never occurred to them that it is the prime
virtue of a man. You will hear them confess in the calmest way, 'I was
afraid.' We would not do that; we should be much more afraid to say it.
And the teaching of Buddhism is all in favour of this. Nowhere is
courage--I mean aggressive courage--praised. No soldier could be a
fervent Buddhist; no nation of Buddhists could be good soldiers; for not
only does Buddhism not inculcate bravery, but it does not inculcate
obedience. Each man is the ruler of his life, but the very essence of
good fighting is discipline, and discipline, subjection, is unknown to
Buddhism. Therefore the inherent courage of the Burmans could have no
assistance from their faith in any way, but the very contrary: it fought
against them.
There is no flexibility in Buddhism. It is a law, and nothing can change
it. Laws are for ever and for ever, and there are no exceptions to them.
The law of the Buddha is against war--war of any kind at all--and there
can be no exception. And so every Burman who fought against us knew that
he was sinning. He did it with his eyes open; he could never imagine any
exception in his favour. Never could he in his bivouac look at the
stars, and imagine that any power looked down in approbation of his
deeds. No one fought for him. Our bayonets and lances were no keys to
open to him the gates of paradise; no monks could come and close his
dying eyes with promises of rewards to come. He was sinning, and he must
suffer long and terribly for this breach of the laws of righteousness.
If such be the faith of the people, and if they believe their faith, it
is a terrible handicap to them in any fight; it delivers them bound into
the hands of the enemy. Such is Buddhism.
But it must never be forgotten that, if this faith does not assist the
believer in defence, neither does it in offence. What is so terrible as
a war of religion? There can never be a war of Buddhism.
No ravished country has ever borne witness to the prowess of the
followers of the Buddha; no murdered men have poured out their blood on
their hearthstones, killed in his name; no ruined women have cursed his
name to high Heaven. He and his faith are clean of the stain of blood.
He was the preacher of the Great Peace, of love, of charity, of
compassion, and so clear is his teaching that it can never be
misunderstood. Wars of invasion the Burmese have waged, that is true, in
Siam, in Assam, and in Pegu. They are but men, and men will fight. If
they were perfect in their faith, the race would have died out long ago.
They have fought, but they have never fought in the name of their faith.
They have never been able to prostitute its teachings to their own
wants. Whatever the Burmans have done, they have kept their faith pure.
When they have offended against the laws of the Buddha they have done so
openly. Their souls are guiltless of hypocrisy--for whatever that may
avail them. They have known the difference between good and evil, even
if they have not always followed the good.