Non-Violence

Choosing Not to do Harm

When I was a child in the 1970s, one of my abiding memories of watching television was seeing the remains of a human being being shoveled into a plastic bag after a bomb in Belfast. I was probably six or seven years old—1976 or 1977—and what was left behind of that person was little more than a burnt mass. With very little ceremony, and with a kind of sloppy brutality, the remains were gathered and placed in a bag. This was on television. I remember the shock of it, the rawness of it, the way the image lodged itself somewhere deep and would not leave. It was not explained and not contextualized. It was simply shown. And even now, I can still feel the awfulness of that image, the way it impressed upon a young mind the fact of violence, the fact of human beings doing this to one another.

We live in times now that are, again, marked by great brutality, where savagery, hatred and murder on a vast scale appear before us constantly. The question naturally arises: what does the Dharma have to say about this? How does it speak to such a world? The Buddha, in his lifetime, taught individuals. He spoke to the people in front of him. He did not preach to nations or teach ideologies; he addressed situations as they arose, beginning almost always with the mind, with the individual. This micro-level approach to resolving suffering is where he placed his emphasis. And yet, in the sutras, we see that from this inner transformation there is a movement outward, like concentric circles, touching family, community, and society. There is a persistent misunderstanding that the Dharma concerns only the individual mind and is somehow disconnected from the wider world. That conclusion can only arise from not having engaged deeply with the early teachings preserved in the Pali Canon, where it is clear that what later came to be called the Mahayana spirit is already present as a seed, waiting to flourish.

The brutality and suffering we see around us arise from delusion, from ignorance—specifically, from a lack of insight into the way things really are. It can only be a form of delusion to imagine that one can invade another’s land, steal another’s resources, oppress and brutalize others, and somehow stand outside the workings of karma. Yet this delusion operates at many levels. It is present in families as violence, including gender-based violence. It is present in societies in the treatment of minorities. It is present in nations that plunder the resources of others. All of this rests on the mistaken belief that there are no consequences, that actions do not reverberate through the web of existence.

Dependent origination is fundamental here: all things arise in relation to all other things. No being exists independently of the rest. Yet we draw boundaries around this interdependence to suit our desires and our egos. We define our people, our tribe, often in opposition to others—based on race, religion, sexual orientation, or political creed. From this division, we justify exploitation and violence. But history shows us the impermanence of all such constructs. Empires rise and fall: the British Empire, the Ottoman Empire, and, in time, the American empire too will pass, as all empires do. Everything is impermanent. This life itself is fleeting, a blink of an eye. To spend it trying to accumulate and hold onto wealth is a fundamental delusion. Death is always near. What can we keep? Nothing. And when we hurt others, we ultimately hurt ourselves, because there is no true separation.

Despite this, we persist in undermining ourselves—destroying the natural world, polluting rivers, exhausting resources. From the understanding of dependent origination flows an entire ethical framework grounded in the impermanent and empty nature of existence, and in the recognition of dukkha, of suffering. One of the consistent teachings of the Dharma is that we should hold our views lightly. This does not mean abandoning evidence-based views, but it does mean attempting to see what others see, even those we consider enemies. Even in military contexts, there is recognition that understanding the other side is essential to any resolution.

I have been reading a book by Jonathan Powell, who advised Tony Blair during the peace negotiations in Northern Ireland. In his book Talking to Terrorists, he argues that, in the end, you have to talk. You have to try to see things from the other person’s point of view, even when they are doing abhorrent things. Contrary to popular myth, those involved in such conflicts are rarely psychopaths. More often, they are driven by deeply held beliefs, grievances, or sometimes even misunderstandings. It is complex. There is no simple formula. Powell acknowledges that there are times when dialogue is not appropriate, but ultimately, communication becomes necessary. Even the term “terrorist” is problematic, given that states themselves often engage in actions—bombing civilians, conducting illegal operations—that mirror what they condemn and are, in fact, also terrorist actions.

This process of engagement begins in our own lives. The Buddha always starts with the micro level: our own minds and hearts. The work of the Dharma is to resolve conflict within ourselves first, and from there to move outward skillfully. Holding views lightly includes recognizing that even we, committed as we may be to the Dharma, are still subject to delusion. As Dōgen said, ‘Buddhas are those who know they are greatly deluded’. Our desire to change the world must be tempered by humility about the limits of our understanding.

If we remain entrenched, polarized, antagonistic, we go nowhere. We must engage with those we disagree with, find areas of common ground, and respect genuine differences. This applies in families, among friends, and in wider society. The Buddha’s teachings begin with the precepts, especially the five precepts that form the foundation for both laypeople and monastics: do not steal, do not lie, do not misuse sexuality, do not intoxicate the mind, and do not kill. From these, the rest of the Dharma unfolds.

We see violations of these precepts constantly. Theft, in the form of exploitation and appropriation, appears nightly on the news. Lying has become all-pervasive, presenting itself as misinformation, deepfakes, and the blurring of truth and falsehood in the digital age. The misuse of sexuality is evident in exploitation and commodification, especially online. Intoxication now includes not only substances but the endless stimulation and distraction of technology that keep us from clarity. And most fundamental of all: killing. It is striking how often even respected Buddhist teachers remain silent on violence or implicitly justify it when it serves their own side. Yet the Buddha’s teaching is clear: nonviolence is central.

Violence does not improve our state of mind; it does not bring peace. There are debates, particularly in places like North America, about whether one can be a Buddhist and serve in the military. The Buddha spoke of right livelihood and explicitly came out against professions involving killing, trading in weapons, or exploiting others. And yet he also taught kings who maintained armies and had students who were warriors. This creates a tension. Are these teachings only for monastics? That seems unlikely. Ethics in Buddhism are situational, not absolute in a rigid sense, and there may be extreme circumstances where it is acceptable to use force in defense. But the general message remains overwhelmingly clear in the Buddha’s teachings: violence only begets violence.

History illustrates this repeatedly. The French Resistance, celebrated for opposing Nazism, also engaged in torture and assassination. The Irish Republican Army used similar methods. Even in the widely accepted narrative of the liberation of Europe in World War II, the advancing armies committed acts of brutality and murder, alongside their efforts to defeat the great evil of fascism. Violence and liberation can become entangled and difficult to separate. From the perspective of the Dharma, however, the starting point remains unchanged: do not kill. From the stillness of meditation and the sincere practice of the precepts, something else begins to grow.

That growth is modest and often invisible. It takes place in relationships, in communities, in the ordinary spaces of daily life—workplaces, clubs, families, volunteer groups. This is where peace is built, where nonviolence is practiced in tangible ways. The Buddha’s approach was always from the center outward, from the transformation of the individual to the transformation of society. Peace, in this sense, is not a distant ideal or a final state to be achieved once and for all. As Dōgen taught, it is a process. Nirvana is not a static endpoint but an ongoing unfolding. Peace is a peace process, something lived and enacted, moment by moment, on this side of the grave.

The Dharma does not remove us from the world’s suffering; it places us in relationship with it in a different way. It asks us to see clearly, to act carefully, and to recognize that every action reverberates. In this way, even in a world marked by brutality, another possibility remains present—fragile, easily overlooked, but always available: the possibility of responding not with further violence, but with understanding, restraint, and a commitment to reduce suffering wherever we find it.

🙏🙏🙏

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti