Ted Stolze: Resources of Hope, Logics of Struggle

Let's call the desire for a post-capitalist world a "utopian" or "romantic" moment of political radicalization. The question I'd like to consider is how the raw desire arising from such a moment comes to be cultivated or "educated" (to use E.P. Thompson's expression in his wonderful biography of the 19th century English artisan, writer, and socialist William Morris). How is it possible to modulate, reinforce, and refine a critical commitment to socialism over the course of one's life?

Here I shall borrow--without any further philosophical or religious commitment--a basic Buddhist concept and practice: "mindfulness" (sati). The "way of mindfulness" (satipatthana) has often been regarded as the heart of Buddhist doctrine or Dhamma. But what is mindfulness and how is its regular practice supposed to help one to realize and sustain a good life? Simply put, mindfulness is bare attention to what is taking place here and now, without the intrusion of conceptual thought or evaluative judgment. The goal of mindfulness is to attain a state "in which you are totally aware of everything that is happening in your own perceptual universe, exactly the way it happens, exactly when it is happening (Bhante Henepola Gunaratana, Mindfulnessness in Plain English [Boston: Wisdom Publications, 2002], p. 85).

What is supposed to be the benefit of such non-conceptual, non-judgmental, focused attention to oneself and the world? An immediate psychological result is said to be the calming and stilling of mental activity, what has been termed an "impartial watchfulness" that "treats all experiences equally, all thoughts equally, all feelings equally" (Gunaratana, pp. 151-2). In turn, such equanimity allows for the lessening of greed (lobha), hatred (dosa), and delusion (moha)--what the Buddhist tradition has conventionally referred to as the three fundamental unwholesome states or "defilements" (kilesa) of the mind that result in suffering (dukkha). Bracketing out, as I have said, any further commitment to the larger Buddhist project of the complete cessation of suffering and the attainment of liberation (nibbana) from the cosmic cycle of rebirths (samsara), such a practice of mindfulness seems to me quite compelling. As Rupert Gethin puts it well,

Ultimately Buddhism teaches that the nature of good conduct is subtle and complex--so complex that it precisely cannot be solved by reference to precepts and rules of conduct. It can only be solved by following a path of training that ends in rooting out greed, aversion, and delusion. Ethical precepts are a necessary part of the training that constitutes the path, but attachment to those precepts, like all attachments, must itself be given up (Rupert Gethin, The Foundations of Buddhism [NY: Oxford University Press, 1998], p. 173).

In other words, moral principles or virtues are necessary but insufficient for the realization of a good life. Indeed, obsession with morality can give rise not only to an abstract and empty moralism but also to additional forms of suffering. What is needed, then, is a concrete meditative practice that will enable one to develop psychological states of non-greed, non-hatred, and non-delusion. This is precisely the point of mindfulness.

But how does mindfulness work, and how can it be applied to the cultivation of a socialist life? The mental concentration involved in the practice of mindfulness can assume a wide variety of types, each involving a specific object on which to concentrate. The point here is not dogmatically to insist on the employment of such-and-such an object of concentration to ease such-and-such a form of psychic distress. On the contrary, one should see for oneself what works and what does not work. Buddhism is in the last analysis an empirical testing of what techniques really do lead to the cessation of suffering. This is not to say, however, as Paul Williams insists, that "what is being expressed . . . is not really, objectively true." Rather, "the teachings of the Buddha are held by the Buddhist tradition to work because they are factually true (not true because they work)" (Paul Williams, Buddhist Thought [NY: Routledge, 200], p. 40).

For example, as Thich Nhat Hanh has observed, a regular practice of mindfulness works precisely as a means for individuals to resist cultural influences on mind and body that "are toxic and rob our body and consciousness of their well-being." He suggests that when we "feel despair, fear, or depression, it may be because [we] have ingested too many toxins through [our] sense impressions." By contrast, he proposes that

if we are mindful, we will know whether we are "ingesting" the toxins of fear, hatred, and violence, or eating foods that encourage understanding, compassion, and the determination to help others. With the practice of mindfulness, we will know that hearing this, looking at that, or touching this, we feel light and peaceful, while hearing that, looking at this, or touching that, we feel anxious, sad, or depressed. As a result, we will know what to be in contact with and what to avoid. Our skin protects us from bacteria. Antibodies protect us from internal invaders. We have to use the equivalent aspects of our consciousness to protect us from unwholesome sense objects that can poison us (Thich Nhat Hanh, The Heart of the Buddha's Teachings [NY: Broadway Books, 1998], pp. 32-33).

In the case of a specifically socialist mindfulness, perhaps the focus should be on the overriding reason anyone might have for supporting, or at any rate tolerating, capitalist exploitation in the first place. Assume that the main cause of such mistreatment is what Buddhists call delusion or ignorance, a failure to see the world as it really is. If so, then even after we have learned basic facts about capitalist exploitation, we must persevere in our beliefs and practices by continuing to attend to these facts. As is well known, the fundamental means in Buddhism by which to be attentive is through the very act of breathing. What is less well known, though, is why breathing should be considered so important for practicing mindfulness. The Buddhist justification is actually quite simple, elegant, and ethically charged. Since all living things breathe (or at any rate respire), by focusing on this activity we recognize our common ground, our interdependence (idappaccayata) with other beings in the world. This could be a useful means for socialists to become more thoroughly attuned to the environmental depredations of global capitalism. Indeed, it is clear that the traditional socialist project must henceforth become thoroughly and irreducibly ecological in scope.

It is possible, though, that for some people hatred is largely responsible for their support of, or tolerance for, capitalist exploitation. In this case the appropriate object of mindfulness would differ from the one employed by those who are predominantly ignorant of the harms they inflict (or tolerate). Sustained meditation on the virtues of loving kindness (metta) and compassion (karuna) toward all sentient beings would be one way to identify and disrupt the affective circuit initiated by hatred. Socialists have long invoked, and struggled to realize, the ideal of solidarity with all human victims of oppression.

Notwithstanding Slavoj Zizek's doubts, it seems to me that by cultivating the virtues of loving kindness and compassion toward other species we can expand our circle of moral concern without thereby diminishing specifically human interests. Zizek has recently contended that Buddhist compassion falls short of Judeo-Christian--and by extension Marxist--love for neighbor, since the former fails to "refer to the 'neighbour' in the sense of the anxiety-provoking abyss of the Other's desire, but ultimately to the suffering which we, humans, share with animals" (Slavoj Zizek, Welcome to the Desert of the Real [NY: Verso, 2002], p. 116 n. 49). It is not clear to me, however, why Zizek thinks that the desire of a nonhuman never could provoke such anxiety, nor why the desire of every human must do so. At any rate, there is no a priori reason, in my view, to prefer one virtue to the other: why not say instead that both compassion for the suffering of all sentient beings and love for a concrete neighbor are admirable and worth cultivating?

Finally, consider the possibility that greed is the overriding reason that certain people support, or tolerate, capitalist exploitation. How might one continue to identify and weaken the hold of greed? In this case, Buddhists have long engaged in practices that have usually been misunderstood and condemned as morbid or life-denying: frequenting charnel grounds, viewing corpses and skeletons, and thereby contemplating one's own fragile, aging body and eventual death. Rather than exhibiting pessimism toward life, such practices are intended as a concrete way to remind one that both birth and death are forms of suffering, "yet the solution is neither to rejoice in both nor to bemoan them both" David Kalupahana, A History of Buddhist Philosophy [Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1992], p. 93).

As David Kalupahana has argued, one "ought neither to waste time worrying about death and trying to find a way out of it in the present life nor commit suicide, but rather deal with the problem of immediate suffering with compassion for himself as well as others" (p. 94). Indeed, from a Buddhist perspective a truly free and happy person would exhibit "fearlessness in the service of humanity" that should not be construed as a "conscious, deliberate self-immolation" (p. 94). Kalupahana concludes that "self-sacrifice or unrestrained altruism is neither a means nor a goal. However, if, in the process of helping oneself and others attain happiness, one were to face unforeseen death due purely to circumstances . . . and if it is not something sought after . . . the Buddha's conception of life and death allows for that form of death to be hailed as noble" (p. 94).

Socialists would do well to adopt similar practices and thereby cultivate fearlessness in the face of death. However, given the present deterioration of democratic institutions around the world, ongoing brutal acts of U.S. imperialist destabilization, intervention, and occupation, and an incipient "boiling point" (to use the title of Ross Gelbspan's important new book) of the global climate crisis, some disturbing questions arise: Will humanity survive to the end of this century? Can humanity even summon the will to survive?

Noam Chomsky has recently offered a stark contrast between what he identifies as

two trajectories in current history: one aiming toward hegemony, acting rationally within a lunatic doctrinal framework as it threatens survival; the other dedicated to the belief that "another world is possible," in the words that animate the World Social Forum, challenging the reigning ideological system and seeking to create constructive alternatives of thought, action, and institutions. Which trajectory will dominate, no one can foretell. The pattern is familiar throughout history; a crucial difference today is that the stakes are far higher (Noam Chomsky, Hegemony or Survival [NY: Henry Holt, 2003], p. 236).

Can we socialists envision and help initiate a feasible alternative to global capitalism? Are we willing to incur the personal risks associated with supporting this cause? How shall each of us here and now attend to our own forms of moral complacency?

Although I cannot pretend to answer these questions, I am confident that the nascent global "movement of movements" will provide an effective forum for their debate and resolution. Nonetheless, by way of conclusion, allow me at least to propose that we socialists must not lose sight of our own lingering forms of greed, hatred, and delusion. We should diligently strive to identify and uproot the subtle impulses that can result not only in over-zealous devotion to socialist ideals but also impatience with, and intolerance for, those who are slow to adopt those ideals. As Hobsbawm puts it, "the function of a revolutionary ideology such as socialism in mass movements is to liberate their members from dependence on . . . fluctuations in their personal expectations." (Eric Hobsbawm, Revolutionaries [NY: The Free Press, 2001 (1973)], p. 295 n. 3). As sometimes becomes all-too-painfully obvious, few of us socialists will live to witness the fruits of our political labors. Yet this need not be a cause for our demoralization or despair, so long as we strive in our socialist life histories to be mindful.