CHAPTER 23
Cass was woken by the sound of a heavy bass gong and the voices of a group of young monks outside.
It was still dark, so he sat on the wooden step of the hut and listened to prayers coming from the main temple. He watched the sky lighten, listened to birds in the trees behind, and watched the sun slowly rise behind the temple, casting long dark shadows. It was warm, calm, and peaceful. Birds sang, butterflies flitted amongst the grass, chickens scratched and pecked amongst flowerpots, and colourful lizards ran like miniature dinosaurs in the bare earth beneath his hut. And Cass felt more relaxed than he had for two years.
But he could still picture that old Malay man on the ferry. Did they know he’d crossed the border? Had their people on the Thai side been told? He was desperate to call Kevin again, but gnawing at his emotions was what he’d been told every time he’d asked about his mother. “She is proud, Qasim. Relax. Anha mshiaeh alla. It is God’s will.”
And when he’d asked Kevin about her, Kevin had said he’d not seen her for a long time. Uncertainty about his mother had bothered Cass for so long that he no longer knew what to think or believe.
As the sun rose higher, he moved into the shade and waited, watched, and listened. What next? What should he do? Should he wait for the old monk Pa Ajahn Lee to come?
It was another younger monk, though, who strolled purposely towards the hut, and Cass came down the steps to meet him.
“My name is Jon,” the monk said. “My English is not so good but come.”
And Cass found himself in the temple kitchen where metal pots and pans were stacked against a bare concrete block wall, and in the corner, a group of ladies sat cross-legged while chopping meat and vegetables and gossiping. In the opposite corner was a ladder and pots of yellow paint, brushes, and a roller on a long pole. “Can you paint?”
And so, Cass worked until mid-morning when the ladies carried plates and dishes of the food they’d cooked to the temple. At midday, he sat on the floor with them and ate spicy minced pork and fried eggs with rice. He tried to say it was good and tasty, and they laughed. “Aroy, aroy,” they said and talked non-stop.
Later, as the ladies washed dishes, he worked again until everyone disappeared. Then, because it was hot and he felt he’d done as much as he could, he lay on the floor and slept.
Perhaps he’d slept for half an hour when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was one of the ladies, the oldest one, the only one left behind, who woke him. Cass had seen her earlier watching him, the silent one who had not joined in with the non-stop chatter. She beckoned him to get up. Then, bent double with age and walking slowly with a stick, she led him to the main temple where it was cool, quiet and empty, and smelled of candle wax and incense.
Cass watched her approach the long dais where a golden statue of the Buddha sat surrounded by garlands of flowers. She knelt before it. Dressed in a lacy blouse and bright sarong, she smiled up at him with bare gums and gave him a candle and three incense sticks. He watched her and copied her as she lit the candles and incense sticks, placed them before the Buddha, and sat for a while with her eyes closed and hands together in prayer. Then she touched his arm and beckoned him to bring a jug of water that sat next to the candles. She poured some water into two small silver pots, then she touched his arm again. He helped her to her feet, and together, they walked outside with the two pots.
Kneeling once again, he copied her as she poured the water steadily, drop by drop, onto the grass while whispering something as she poured. Then she looked up at him with shining dark eyes set in a brown and deeply line face, her hair being neat and silvery white. She pointed at the wet ground. “Meh and Pah,” she whispered, and Cass understood.
That short but simple ceremony was to remember and give thanks, and so Cass, without a father, looked at the wet grass and thought, instead, about his mother and his grandmother. And the old lady smiled and nodded. “Good, good.”
He helped her to her feet and walked her back to the kitchen, wondering once more what his mother thought.
Did she really believe he joined a terrorist group like ISIL? After all, it was not unusual for young men to disappear and die on some godforsaken battlefield somewhere. Would she have sympathised, or would she have condemned him? Perhaps his grandmother had done her old-fashioned best to make matters worse.
“Mava vivahara. I always said he was a bad boy.”
Or maybe she was proud now. Cass didn’t know what to think any more. And, if he’d been officially classified as a wanted terrorist, what then?
But there was something else now that increased his confusion. It was the feeling that, at last, something good was in the air. It was the silence, the colours of the temple buildings, and the deep green of the forest. It was the simple innocence of chickens scratching in the dirt, the stillness of the air, the song of unseen birds, and the sight of dogs lazing beneath trees. It was the large but friendly Vietnamese pig that the women called Chok Dee that roamed the grounds, the flowers that grew in pots, the wind chimes that jingled in the breeze, the temple bells, the chanting, the line of local people who had arrived earlier with flowers and candles, and the contented chattering of the ladies in the kitchen.
Cass had listened, watched, and felt an inner calmness like a physical presence that he didn’t want to stop.
Then, as the sun began to sink and the air became cooler, the young monk, Jon, came again. “Come,” he said, “Pa Ajahn Lee.”
Cass found him sitting outside a small wooden bungalow amongst the frangipani trees. Surrounding him was a group of young monks listening to his quiet voice, so Cass waited until they’d finished, and then when they finally dispersed, he approached. The old monk smiled. “You’ve been working hard.”
Cass nodded. “Thank you for helping me, sir. It has been”—Cass stopped to find the right words—“a good and happy day.”
The old monk nodded. “But you are still troubled,” he said.
“You told me not to dwell in the past, sir, but to focus my mind on the present.”
“But I feel something has happened to you, Cass. I think you feel anger and resentment about something. Anger disappears only when the resentment disappears.”
“Yes,” Cass replied. “I am angry with myself, sir.”
“No one will punish you for your anger. It is the anger itself that will punish you.”
Cass thought about that. “I was stupid, sir. I was naïve. And I paid for it.”
“You are young. Mistakes are allowed. Acknowledge them. Understand the reasons for making them and then move forward. Learn from them.”
Cass nodded but looked down. “Yes, sir.”
The old monk closed his eyes as Cass, sitting cross-legged at his feet just like the young monks had earlier, looked at him, almost pleading to be asked what had happened. Slowly, Ajahn Lee opened his eyes and pointed towards the sky.
“I travel,” he said. “I am a wanderer, but I am known. To be known and to be welcomed is comforting.” He paused.
“Whenever I am here,” he went on, “I follow a path into the hills. There are animals and birds and butterflies and a stream of clear water. On a good day, there is a clear view from the top. At evening time, like now, the moon rises over the sea to the east. Would you join me?”
And so, Cass walked with the old monk to the top of a hill, and as a glorious full moon rose above the distant sea to the east, Cass talked. For the first time in two years, he described his last two years to someone who listened. And then, as darkness set in, he followed the old monk’s torchlight back down to the temple and slept.
***
On Cass’s second day at the temple, Jon asked if he would like to visit the old town after evening prayers. He eagerly accepted.
He changed his sweaty paint-splattered shirt for one he’d washed earlier, and he joined Jon in a tuk-tuk with two other young monks, Kek and Yow. During the journey, he asked Jon about Ajahn Lee.
“He is famous,” Jon explained. “He follows the practices of another monk, Ajahn Chah, in the forest tradition of travel and classical meditation. We’re honoured to have Pa Ajahn Lee here. In the evenings, he often walks the jungle pathway to the big rock at the top of the hill. We saw you walk with him last night.”
“He wanted me to talk,” Cass said. “And I was happy to talk.”
“It is good to talk, to explain your thoughts, your feelings to someone who listens. Listening is understanding. Buddhism is a way of life.”
“So is Islam or Christianity.”
Jon nodded. “But Buddhism does not believe in a personal God or a divine being like Allah. Buddhist people are often very superstitious. They fear or honour ghosts and spirits plucked from their imagination, and they seek ways to ensure good luck through respecting images of the Buddha. That is a simple, easy way. The harder way aims to awaken inner consciousness just as the Buddha did. It does not offer redemption or forgiveness or a reward or even a final judgment to those who live by rules. In pure Buddhism, there is no final reward of a heaven or a paradise.”
Cass was puzzled. “So what does it offer?”
“It offers a way to live your life, not to be a follower, a disciple, or a leader but to be yourself, to understand and overcome fear of suffering and death and become part of the world around you—here and now.”
Cass thought about that. “Ajahn Lee told me not to dwell in the past or the future,” he said. “He told me to concentrate my mind on the present moment.”
“That is right,” Jon replied. “Learn from the past but also learn from the teachings and the sayings of the Buddha. Examine yourself but also forget yourself and become part of the world around you. To be enlightened is to surrender your own body and mind to the inevitable.”
Cass was puzzled. “What is the inevitable?” he asked.
“To die, of course,” Jon said.
The tuk-tuk rumbled on getting closer to the town. It was dark now, but the streets were busy, and a smell of food was in the sir.
“So are you Christian?” Jon suddenly asked.
That surprised Cass. Had Ajahn Lee not told anyone he was Moslem?
“I don’t know what I am,” Cass replied honestly. “I’m supposed to be a Moslem.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Jon replied distractedly, seemingly more interested in the goings on in the street. Then he turned to look at Cass. “You know, the Buddha searched for understanding, to make sense of the world and the suffering that goes with being alive. I think he would still be searching. Understanding Buddhism is complicated. There are many stories, but there is no book of rules, no ten commandments. It is hard to understand because life itself is hard to understand. But that is what makes it so rewarding.
“Christianity and Islam are very similar. Both believe in one all-powerful god. Jesus Christ is said to be the son of God who walked the earth and someday will return. To me, that is like a threat. Muslims say Christ was only a prophet, a messenger from God, but that Mohammed was the last prophet and recorded the word of God in the Quran.
“Christianity and Islam have a lot more in common than most people realise, but both religions teach fear of God as a threat to be good while you live. Jesus Christ is said to offer a solution, a way to live. ‘I am the God,’ he said ‘Look to me and be saved. I am the God, and there is no other.’
“But when the Buddha was dying, they asked him, ‘Who is your successor? What are your instructions?’ And the Buddha said, ‘There is no successor. I have no instructions. After my death, each of you must work it out for yourselves.’”
Cass liked that. “He was right,” he said, “It’s all a big mess.”
“We are supposed to be intelligent, Cass. We are scientists, builders, farmers, inventors, artists, and masters of technology, but we still do not understand the universe of which we are part.”
“Yes,” Cass agreed, grateful once more for the feeling that he was not alone.
The tuk-tuk stopped, and Jon pointed. “This is what you wanted to see, yes? Wat Phra Mahathat Vihan, the most important temple of Southern Thailand, built at the time of the founding of the city.”
***
They were there for an hour, but Cass could have stayed longer. He wanted to know more, to study it, to understand it, to appreciate the different nationalities, beliefs, and ways of life of those who had come and then gone and who’d built the city from just a small fishing village to what it was now. That was, after all, why he had once wanted to visit Istanbul. He stood looking up at the golden pinnacle of the chedi bathed in spotlights.
This was where Cass wanted his learning, his education, and his understanding to begin. But he could hear Jon calling him. “Come. We must return.”
All four of them—three monks in orange robes and flip-flops and Cass in faded blue jeans and sneakers—climbed back into the tuk-tuk as stall holders, pedestrians, and motorcyclists watched and a crowd of tourists boarded a minibus. Everyone, it seemed to Cass, was watching them.
And that was when Cass saw the man.
He was standing, smoking a cigarette outside a 7-Eleven store, and was looking straight at him. It was his headgear that Cass first noticed. The man was Afghan. After working with passport photos for two years, some stuck in Cass’s memory more than others. He was sure he’d put this man’s photo in an Afghan passport. There were a few other men wearing kufis but only one wearing a traditional wool Afghan paku. Did this man want to be recognised? And was he really Afghan or Pakistani?
Cass chanced another quick look, and as he did so, their eyes met, and the man took a phone from his pocket. He put it to his ear and spoke into it for just a moment and then turned to snap the tuk-tuk as it passed within just a few metres. The next brief eye contact made Cass’s stomach muscles contract.
Jon noticed. “What’s the problem?” he asked, but Cass didn’t reply.
He’d just placed the man to the Abdel Aziz Mountains near Al-Hasakah in Northern Syria. It was this man who’d walked with him to give the package to Kett and then joined Kett at the back seat of the Toyota truck before it was driven away. If Cass’s memory served him correct, the man now standing outside the 7-Eleven at the centre of Nakhon Si Thammarat held a passport in the name of Zakria Khan—another Khan.
“We are well organised, Qasim Siddiqui. Allah yusallmak. Someone will be watching.”
“Is something wrong?” Jon repeated.
“I need to phone home,” Cass said.
“But you don’t have a phone, Cass. In fact, you don’t have much at all. But I’ve got a spare one,” Jon said. “It’s old, and it’s got some credit left, but I’d be glad to give it to you.”
Cass didn’t sleep that night. He just lay holding onto the phone that Jon had given him and wondering what to do. For a Moslem extremist, there was little worse than another Moslem sheltering in a Buddhist temple.
During the hot and humid night, a short-lived storm with heavy rain, thunder, and lightning passed, and the only sound afterwards was a chorus of frogs outside. Cass was grateful for the gong and voices at 5:00 a.m. as the monks began moving around. He went outside and sat on the steps.
The storm had cooled things, and the temple grounds were muddy. A dog barked, and a cockerel crowed as Cass then walked towards the yellow light that shone through the open door of the temple.
From the doorway, he could see the monks sitting in line in total silence with their eyes closed. Ajahn Lee was on the left closest to the big Buddha statue. He counted them. There were twenty-one monks arranged in ages from the oldest, who walked slowly with a stick closest to Ajahn Lee, to the youngest, who was a boy of about twelve at the far end. Somewhere in the middle sat Jon, Kek, and Pa Yow.
The silence continued for several more minutes until Ajahn Lee spoke. The other monks stirred, opened their eyes, and adjusted their robes. Then, led again by Ajahn Lee, the chanting began.
Cass had asked Jon what the words in Buddhist chanting meant.
“It is in praise of Buddha,” he’d replied, “to remind us that it was the Buddha who first understood the deep insight into life that we call enlightenment and which means accepting all types of suffering—mental and physical—as natural. Enlightenment means overcoming the dissatisfaction that besets all humans and which, in turn, leads into conflict not just within ourselves but with others.”
“Into wars?” Cass had asked.
“Taken to its extreme, yes. But I am still learning. Even the Buddha said he was still learning. Understanding life is a long process. Understanding wars might take even longer.”
“Is there a Buddhist Koran or bible I could read?”
“There are many stories, but the Buddha did not claim to be the mouthpiece of an all-powerful God. He was a man who asked questions and strived for answers—a bit like you.”
“Is there anything in English that I can read?”
Jon thought about that. “Yes,” he said. “There is one thing. Ajahn Lee once taught us a morning prayer in English. We all liked it, so Pa Yow painted the words on the wall.”
From the temple doorway, Cass watched and listened.
The deep baritone of Ajahn Lee, as he half-spoke, half-sung the words in just two notes, filled the temple, but it was the combined voices of the monks repeating his words that stirred something in Cass’s heart and made him turn to read the words painted on the wall next to him.
Lord, in the silence of this new day, I ask for peace, wisdom, and strength. Today, I want to look at the world with eyes of love. Help me to be patient, understanding, humble, gentle, and good. Please let me see others as you see them. That I may look on past experiences and appreciate the goodness in everyone. Close my ears to all the gossip, and save my tongue from speaking evil of others. Please let only the thoughts that bless remain in me. Today, I want to be well-intentioned and fair that everyone who comes to me might feel your presence. Clothe me in your kindness so that, through this day, I become a reflection of you.
Was this Buddhist?
It could just as easily have been Christian or Muslim or Hindu or Jewish. So why was there so much fighting in the world?
Cass slumped to the floor once again with his back to the wall, and as he sat, surrounded by the early-morning darkness lit only by the candles burning inside the temple, he began to quietly sing that simple song from his childhood.
“I am a Moslem in the things I say / in everything I do every day. / Al hamd’allah, Isbilllah, I am a Moslem and this I know / I need to eat so I may grow / When we eat, we say bismillah, / when we’re full we say Al hamd’allah.”
Tears were running down his face when he realised the chanting had stopped and a hand was resting on his shoulder.
“Never be ashamed of tears,” Ajahn Lee said, settling beside him. “What is wrong today?”
“I am afraid, sir.”
“More than yesterday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Today is a new day. The dawn has not even broken. Do you plan to be afraid for all of today?”
“Nothing has ever seemed planned in my life, sir.”
“What happened yesterday?”
“They know I’m here, sir.”
The old monk touched his arm and then held it. “How do you know?”
“I saw someone, sir. In the town. I am worried they will come here.”
Ajahn Lee said nothing for a while. “Fear is like a shadow, Cass. It will follow you until you conquer it.”
“But how can I conquer this?”
“To remove a shadow, you shine a light on it.”
“But I do not have a light. I have little more than a toothbrush.”
“And a phone.”
“True, sir. Jon was very kind.”
“Then do not just sit there thinking about it. Use it.”
Cass sprung to his feet, helped pull the old monk up, and then stood looking at his calm face and the eyes that reflected candlelight and plain common sense. Perhaps, Cass decided, Ajahn Lee’s eyes were the source of light that would remove the shadows.
“Is there anything else today, Cass?”
“How do I become a Buddhist, sir?”
“Start now. There are no papers to sign, and there is no membership fee.”