How I dealt with being racially abused
The Buddha taught non-violence - but there are surely times when we must fight
Last week I was racially abused on the street.
I am a mixed-race, second-generation immigrant who grew up in what was a highly multicultural part of South London (I say was as the area has, like many parts of the Capital, become gentrified - to the point that it is now almost entirely white, English, and middle-class. So, to all those who bemoan the loss of their neighbourhoods to us foreigners, the changes go the other way too, you know). As a result of my particular ‘mix’ - white and Asian - I look middle-Eastern, Arab perhaps, or Kurdish, with my full black beard giving me a distinctly exotic look to the provincial eye.
At aged 40, I moved to a small town with my wife and young son. I should start by saying that I do not want to denigrate the good people I have met here, particularly in my local Sangha. The majority of English people are kind, hospitable and friendly.
Still, this town holds its share of loathsome racists.
The very first time I visited, some three years before moving, a drunkard shouted at me on the street, insisting that I ‘go home’. With my wife at my side I pretended not to hear. She did not catch the words and dismissed it all as a loutish rant. I let is pass, but remember thinking, oh, so this is one of those places. I had not heard such old-school insults since, well, the old-school times of the 1980s. The bad old days when the English would flagrantly abuse us darkies. I remember my first such encounter, I must have been around eight at the time and some workmen were fixing the road outside our primary school. My friends and I were fascinated by these burly, chipper characters, who joshed with us in a delightfully adult manner. It was all charming until one of them pointed to me and my friend Previn - a second generation Mauritian - and said:
“You know the problem in this country? It’s you lot - you’re taking over.”
“Who?”
Among the half-dozen children, only Previn and I stood out.
“You two.” His smile dropped.
“Me?” I said, laughing.
“Yes, you.”
I did not feel offended. It was more a feeling of embarrassment, of being singled-out. My friends did not quite understand what was the man meant. But they knew it was not good. I didn’t know what to do so just walked away. I avoided the workmen for the rest of the week while my (white) friends continued to engage with them. That was that. Not exactly the biggest trauma, but the incident stayed with me and I have long wondered what kind of beast speaks to friendly children in such a vile manner.
In any case, let’s move to the present.
Last week I was heading into the station to catch a train to London. It was early on a Sunday morning and I was alone. I passed two dishevelled men huddled over a cash machine. They were white, ruddy faced, hooded, and middle-aged (making their shabby sports attire all the more ludicrous). One drew away from the ATM and, catching me in his gaze said, ‘oh, look, just what we need more foreigners.’
The man must have been speaking metaphysically as I was the only ‘foreigner’ in sight. Then again, perhaps a herd of foreigners had passed just before I lucklessly arrived. Whatever the case, I felt a hot surge of adrenaline pump into the base of my skull. Despite my numerous unpleasant experiences in the provinces, it was still a shocking thing to hear. I was stumbling over my reaction when the second man piped up with:
What? What?
Foolishly, I responded in kind.
What?
In hindsight what, yourself would have been a better retort. Still, I was caught in the what-what trap. A trap in which one’s response has to be carefully calibrated. Too much aggression and you risk immediate violence, too little and you look weak. Fortunately, I’ve always managed to hit the sweet spot and, straightening my back, asked ‘what’s your problem?’
A classic, catch-all response. Before he opened his mouth, I said ‘I’m just going on my way’. But said in a forthright, angry tone - to suggest that it would be unwise for him to stop me. Whatever the intention, the man paused then - unexpectedly - apologised. He said that he thought I was staring at his friend as if he was ‘a piece of shit’. It was a very specific allegation and I was surprised at his reversal. But in the final analysis, I think my English accent caught them unawares. So to be fair to these morons, it was not racism as such. More like xenophobia.
And how do such encounters fit in with Buddhist practice? For starters, the Enlightened One preached non-violence. Indeed, in the Dhammapada (a collection of his teachings) he says:
“All tremble at violence; all fear death. Putting oneself in the place of another, one should not kill nor cause another to kill.”
Likewise, on the dark urges which arise in moments of confrontation, he said:
“Hatred does not cease by hatred, but only by love; this is the eternal rule.”
Clearly, the Buddha advocated for peaceful resolution - under pretty much all circumstances. Could I follow his example? I honestly do not know. There are surely times when using violence may be the only ethical response to a situation. In this case I was not violent, but I was fully prepared for it. Granted, there were certain logistical considerations (i.e. there were two of them - no doubt they would have kicked my head in) but I was - in my moment of rage and stupidity - ready to smack at least one of them across the face. In my experience, slinking away from bad guys such only leads to more slinking. Should I see these men around again (which in this small town is entirely possible) they would mark me as an easy touch. And in turn a target for more abuse. What if I see them when I am with my family? In this context, a pre-emptive assault is a form of protection for my kin. Probably.
Would the Buddha approve? Unlikely. But then the Buddha wasn’t brought up in South London.
Sure, he lived in an altogether more violent time. But let’s put that aside for now.