The warrior ideal is a central metaphor in Buddhism. Although it has not been well understood in the West, the warrior ideal and the influence of warrior culture have been central to the practice tradition at the heart of Buddhist doctrine. The loss of this understanding here and now is due in part to the cultural prejudice of the Westerners who were first attracted to Buddhism. But as Western practitioners have matured, they have begun to rediscover this dimension of practice.
People are skeptical of the association of Buddhism with martial arts. This is understandable. There have been plenty of instances where a thin patina of Asian culture has been overlaid on martial arts, in the hopes of giving an appearance of depth.
There have been instances where powerful tools developed in the Buddhist tradition for the purpose of bringing an end to suffering for all beings have been appropriated by martial artists and put to distinctly non-Buddhist ends. The tools I am referring to include the development of Samadhi – single pointed meditation which enables the experienced practitioner to place his or her mind on any object or no object and keep it there with clarity and stability for as long as he or she wants to.
Samadhi in the Buddhist practice tradition is cultivated to permit meditators to observe the subtle working of their mind, and escape the confusion of disturbed mental states. But concentration is a requirement of many other highly developed activities which may have no spiritual objectives at all: piloting a plane in a storm, hitting a baseball before 50,000 fans, trading stocks while watching half a dozen monitors, fighting a deadly opponent – all demand deep concentration.
So who could blame the casual observer, the first time visitor to a Buddhist conference, or the middle-aged American dharma practitioner, for being skeptical of the validity of the relationship between genuine dharma practice and the martial arts?
Yet war metaphors and warrior ideals pervade Buddhist teaching. With this perspective, we can discover how a truly Buddhist martial art might be practiced.
The historical Buddha was born (in India, 2500 years ago) into the Kshatriya, or warrior, caste. He was the son of a king, at a time when warfare was common and military culture was dominant.
Robert Thurman, professor of Indo-Tibetan Buddhist Studies at Columbia University writes:
Since Shakyamuni (the historical Buddha), born in India 2500 years ago, whose teachings are still alive in the world now, was born into a world of widespread violence and militarism, he had to turn to teaching practical techniques of spiritual liberation which relied upon the martial qualities of toughness, asceticism, and determination in the pursuit of the goal of enlightenment…
The Buddhist method was discovered, mastered, supported and disseminated by people who were, at a formative stage of their careers, great warriors. An example from ancient India was King Ashoka who, after a long and bloody struggle for power, conquered a vast empire on the Indian subcontinent. When the period of expansion ended, and the time for consolidation and peace arose, he searched among the competing religious and philosophical traditions of his world for the best way to encourage civil harmony, personal fulfillment and human good.
He became the greatest proponent of Buddhism in early India. His legacy lives on today in the hundreds of “Rock Edicts,” carved bas relief stone pillars he had erected all over his kingdom. The carvings include written advice for personal conduct, and present the human values that formed the basis for early popular Buddhism in ancient India.
His contribution to Buddhist monasteries and universities deepened Buddhist culture, with an influence felt from his era in the 2nd century through to the 11th, when Muslim armies invaded, burning the libraries and razing the monasteries, ending the Buddhist era in India.
The second wave of Buddhist learning spread across Asia by means of the greatest military conquest in history. Buddhism, once again, was spread not by force, but by a military leader who became Buddhist after the military aspect of his career, was over. In the 12th century the Mongols conquered most of the known world.
Led by Genghis Khan, an army of mounted herdsmen from the steppes of central Asia conquered – by massacre, terror and intimidation – an area from the Pacific Ocean, across China, west into Europe, and south into Vietnam. Within two generations, this invasion became the Yuan Dynasty of China.
Kublai Khan, grandson of Genghis, and himself a great general, was Emperor. Through his emissaries, he searched the known world for the most profound understanding of life, the clearest way to approach the human condition, and the best solution to the problem of human happiness. This brought him to Buddhism.
Although his regime made no effort to suppress the influential and competing forms of religion and philosophy — Confucianism, Taoism and many others — it was Buddhism that became the de facto state religion. It was his court that first bestowed the title on the emperor’s favored dharma teacher: “Dalai Lama,” meaning “Ocean of Wisdom.”
To understand the significance of the conversion of these military leaders, and the profound appeal of Buddhism to them, it is useful to understand something about their military life. There were several factors that gave the Mongols such a huge military advantage over the peoples they conquered.
Until they began to range from central Asia they lived as pastoral people. They herded animals, goats and sheep for food, as well as horses for work. They were on horseback for most of their lives. It was completely natural to them. They were used to herding animals – very similar to controlling enemy armies. They were used to working from horseback. They were used to killing. There was not much land for them to cultivate in the high, dry plains they lived on. Mostly, it was just fertile enough for grazing.
Killing people was not something that required a whole new skill set. They were used to hardship. They were used to camping and moving. At a time when armies on the march were destroyed by disease as often as enemies, it was a huge advantage to have ingrained cultural habits of mind and body that allowed people to stay healthy on the move.
The method Genghis used initially was effective. The Mongol army would arrive at a town and demand submission. If it was not forthcoming, they would kill everyone. They did this for a while, and soon word got around. After a while towns capitulated without a fight. The armies kept advancing. The Mongols were not spreading democracy. They had no interest in winning hearts and minds. They wanted everything and would stop at nothing to take it. And the boss of this outfit was the one who converted to Buddhism. And promoted the spread of the dharma throughout China and southeast Asia and beyond. How do you figure that one? After a long series of victories in war, the conduct of Genghis Khan and King Ashoka changed. Theirs represents a very different model from that of the would-be conquerors of the modern era. And the implications for our own lives today are profound.
In both cases, there was a shift during their reign from warfare, which brought them to power, to a policy of education and harmony. Contrast this with the example of the dictators of the last century who rose to power by means of violence. The leaders of the Soviet Union, for example, used mass murder as a technique of conquest, and used it along with a policy of cultural repression as a means to hold on to power. Their empire collapsed. There are numerous recent examples of this.
Even with a purely Machiavellian motive to retain a grip on power, the use of force as a means for doing it will fail. It will exhaust the resources of the conqueror as it destroys the empire. From recent examples, we can see that evil in power will destroy itself, as well as the good that it feeds on. Evil cannot survive on its own.
The need for a shift in mode from conquest to rule is well observed through history. The British acknowledged it in their colonial period. In the philosophy of samurai era Japan, the principle was expressed with two kanji characters, “Bun/Bu.”
On the wall of my dojo hung two pieces of calligraphy, each a rendering of these two characters. Each was a gift given to me by a great modern master.
One was given to me by Sensei Ryuhei Taneya, in 1987, when he was about 80 years old. Sensei Taneya at that time was the coach of the Japanese national Kendo (swordfighting) champion. The champion was a Tokyo police officer, a huge and powerful man known by his last name, Nishiyama.
I was watching a set of matches in which challengers from all over the world, ranked Fifth Degree black belt and higher, were invited to come forward and challenge the champion. One after another, these highly skilled swordsmen, in traditional Japanese armor, attacked. Nishiyama defeated each one. He often sent them falling backward, and occasionally, flying back across the mats. When the defeated challengers took off their headgear, they were flushed and seating. Nishiyama took off his, after thirty or so matches. He was smiling pleasantly.
His power and speed, and his intimidating presence, were obvious. Even at rest, he radiated calm power. Yet when Sensei Taneya took him aside and counseled him, his bearing shifted, just slightly, as he leaned toward the older man half his size, and humbly took in the insights his teacher imparted to him.
It is an honor to meet people of that level of accomplishment. Even more so to see them in action. Sensei Taneya had seen me bow on entering his training area at the beginning of the session. He asked me, through a translator, a mutual friend, who I was and why I bowed. I told him. It was after that that he gave me the gift of his “Bun Bu” calligraphy that hung in my dojo.
Years later, on Okinawa, I trained with Sogen Sakiyama, Roshi. He was once a great goju ryu karate practitioner. When I practiced with him, he was the senior Zen master on Okinawa, in his 70’s at that time. For years we corresponded through frequent letters about how to live a life of practice.
After a few years, I returned to Okinawa and trained with him intensively, in the Zendo and face to face. One evening, with a group of students gathered around, he brought out his ink and brushes, and with a dramatic Zen master’s flourish, brought his brush down on the square of paper and wrote two bold characters: Bun Bu. That was his message to me at that critical moment in my practice life.
The mastery of both Bun and Bu were considered essential for the development of the individual — and for the health of society — in samurai era Japan.
Bu means war. In this context, it refers to martial arts, the arts of war-making and the use of force in maintaining social order. The character itself includes a radical (a component of a compound Chinese character) representing a sheathed sword, not a drawn sword.
Anyone who will have to use force in conducting his duties can confirm that implicit strength is a better way to keep order than deployed strength. For example, the deterrent effect of a police department on crime is much greater than simply the number of arrests made.
Predatory forces will arise inside society and appear from without. They must be dealt with. Mastery of the arts of war, and the ability to use force skillfully when necessary, is needed. But they are ultimately not enough. For a martial artist or a law enforcement officer, for personal security or for the security of a community or nation, the use of force is necessary, but not sufficient, to make life harmonious, peaceful, prosperous or stable.
Bun represents the arts of language, philosophy and law: the means by which a civil society is organized and regulated. Mastery of Bun was also considered essential for personal cultivation and for social harmony.
It seems obvious that to have a harmonious group, we ought to communicate with each other. We need to share ideas about what is good for people to do and what is good to avoid. We need to be able to convey why cooperation for the common good is in everyone’s interest, why those interests should be balanced with personal freedom and fulfillment, and then see how we can work together to rationalize these personal and social needs.
By using convincing ideas and creating strong boundaries – enforceable laws – within which people have freedom from harm and freedom to act, the greatest happiness will follow.
This is one implication of Bun/Bu. Overreliance on one or the other will lead to collapse. Balance the mastery of the two, and you can hope for a stable and happy society comprised of mature and fulfilled individuals.
That is not in itself a Buddhist idea. The two great early promulgators of Buddhism – Genghis Khan and King Ashoka – both observed their version of Bun/Bu. But the Buddhist version of the need for self-defense, personal and communal, goes deeper. It will not allow us the self-serving error of saying: first I will conquer everything, and then I will make everyone behave nicely.
We can know that it is an error to try to remake the world according to our own utopian vision or our own self-interest (as the great dictators of the last century attempted,) because it is both an article of faith of Buddhism, and demonstrably true by logic, that (1) doing harm brings harm and doing virtue brings happiness; and (2) that since our world is created by our own actions (virtuous or non-virtuous,), we can infer that the best way to happiness is through kindness, not force.
However, it won’t work just because we decide to be nice. We can’t remake our world by wish or fantasy. It must be done via action, consistent and diligent action. In the short term, because of the karma we have accumulated in the past, violent people may approach us. We can and should vigorously protect ourselves and the people who depend on us. We have to do that with the proper motivation.
In the long term, through good conduct of body, speech and mind, we can transform our lives and our world to such a degree that violent forces will no longer approach. But we cannot fake that, or simply hope all will be well. The transformation is possible, but it will be an arduous and long process.
So were the two great Buddhist emperors simply being skillful — consolidating their power and pacifying their empire through the use of benevolent philosophy? Or did each of them have a genuine religious conversion later in their career, honestly feeling repelled by violence, renouncing the use of force, and deeply wanting to bestow happiness upon all the people of their empire?
I cannot speak for them, but it is not too hard to see the implication for our own choices. The balance of Bun and Bu calls for the creation of clear boundaries of acceptable behavior for our own lives and for our communities, within which freedom is possible. For example, a legal boundary such as the First Amendment to the US Constitution, which prohibits the restraint of vigorous debate, but will not tolerate violence.
The way in which we do our utmost to value and protect our own precious lives and the lives of the people who depend on us is shaped by the wise balance between Bun and Bu. And it will inform how we behave when the immediate threat is over, as we cultivate the qualities that will assure our own inner peace and interpersonal harmony.
In Buddhism, the warrior ideal is never far from the religious ideal. To neglect the connection, or to confuse it, is perilous. To harmonize the two is the path to happiness.
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