Not Machines: Why Aggression holds the Seeds of Peace
Student – Lama la, I know I tend to worry a lot by nature, but I’m genuinely troubled by the current state of the world. There’s political instability in the West, war in Europe and now the Middle East. It deeply unsettles me. What’s your perspective on where our world is headed? Is there any hope for humanity? If so, where is that hope? Thank you.
Master – Yes, humanity seems to be steering itself toward catastrophe on many levels. Nations, gripped by rigid ideologies, continue to clash — each convinced that lasting peace lies somewhere just beyond the horizon. But how can peace be born from unbending principles and endless struggle?
Is it hopeless? No, because strange as it may sound, the presence of aggression and the ability to cause pain is actually a key to peace. Why do nations drop bombs on one another? Why do people resort to physical violence? It’s because they know what pain feels like. They understand that hiding in a bomb shelter or getting punched in the face is miserable.
This awareness of suffering implies something profound: they are sentient, feeling beings. They know pain — and by extension, they know joy, comfort, and empathy. That capacity to feel is what makes peace possible. It means they are not unfeeling machines.
If it were robots fighting, there would be no hesitation, no remorse, no empathy — just programmed actions without understanding. But humans? We suffer, we reflect, and we learn. In that ability lies the seed of peace.
What is the root of the desire to harm others? At its core, it is ignorance. Violence arises from a rigid fixation on extreme ideas, such as justice or morality, rooted in dualistic thinking — dividing the world into categories like good and evil, right and wrong. This black-and-white perspective can obscure empathy and understanding, making it easier to justify harm in the name of principle and morals.
By recognizing that all views and values are compounded and impermanent, as is the person who holds them, violence can be averted. When we transcend dualistic thinking, there is no longer a reason to be violent.
In essence, dualistic thinking arises from ignorance and clinging to a fixed idea of self. By recognizing the impermanent and interdependent nature of self and all phenomena, we can transcend dualistic perceptions and cultivate a mind free from causes of violence.
This concept can be hard to grasp, but consider why the idea of a fixed self doesn’t hold up. A common Buddhist approach uses a simple thought experiment: imagine dissecting your body while trying to find the self.
We might begin by removing an arm, then a leg, each time asking, “Is this the self, the thing I call ‘me’?” Most would assume the self must reside in the torso, or perhaps in the heart or the brain. But as more limbs and organs are removed, the question becomes increasingly difficult to answer. Eventually, we are left with no clear location for this “self.” So where did it go? In which organ or part did it disappear?
The truth revealed through this process is that there was never a fixed, independent self to begin with. What we call the “I” is merely a collection of constantly changing physical and mental components — an assembly of impermanent parts we mistakenly label as something solid and enduring.
This realization not only dismantles the illusion of a solid, independent self. It also undermines the notion of a solid, independent other.
When we’re angry or consumed by the urge to harm, do we pause to recognize that our opponent, like ourselves, is merely a fleeting form of physical elements and mental patterns? No. Instead, we perceive them as a fixed entity — a personification of badness or wrongdoing.
It’s like putting on dark glasses and seeing everything in one colour: black. In that state, we lose all sense of nuance. Our view is distorted by our projection; empathy fades, and dualistic thinking hardens into anger and rage. Even if someone reminds us of the person’s good qualities or past kindness, we dismiss it. We cling to the belief that they are entirely bad and cannot change. This belief justifies our anger and aggression.
In contrast, when we deeply understand that there is no fixed, independent self or other, our perspective starts to shift. The idea that someone is permanently and inherently bad no longer holds. We begin to see that what we call a “person” is just a changing collection of thoughts, conditions, and influences.
Without that rigid view — of a person as a solid, unchangeable embodiment of badness — the anger and rage that once fuelled aggression begin to dissolve. We no longer see enemies, but individuals shaped by conditions, just as we are. The illusion that once sustained hatred quietly unravels, making space for clarity and understanding.
And, if even a single human being cannot be fixed or defined as inherently bad, how could an entire race, group, or nation be reduced to a single trait — “badness”? It’s a fallacy, as if all individuals in that group were somehow wired to a single brain, thinking and acting as one. Such a view simply isn’t possible. It collapses under the weight of its own absurdity.
And in that recognition, our anger softens. We don’t excuse harm, but we no longer see the person as the harm. We see a confused being, not a bad one. And from there, compassion has room to arise.
It is this failure to recognize that no person — let alone an entire race, group, or nation — is defined by a single, fixed trait that has fuelled the worst atrocities in history: the Nazi extermination of Jews, the Hutu massacre of Tutsis, the Khmer Rouge’s annihilation of perceived intellectuals. When we reduce people to an unchanging label of “badness,” we cut off the possibility of understanding — and open the door to unimaginable violence.
Moreover, all beings possess inherent basic goodness — what is known as Buddha nature. Just as dark clouds cannot stain the sky, or mud cannot defile a gemstone, this innate purity remains untouched by negative actions. It is ever-present, unchanging, and untainted.
Because of this, every being has the potential to awaken to reality and attain Buddhahood, just as Prince Siddhartha did beneath the Bodhi tree. Recognizing this inner purity helps dissolve the anger and aggression that arise when we view others as inherently bad – a belief which is held by major theistic religions in the West.
So, is there any hope? Yes, but not because humanity will suddenly become enlightened. Hope exists because people can feel. We suffer, and we know what it means to hurt. That capacity makes change possible. It gives rise to empathy.
Violence stems from rigid ideas that individuals or races are purely bad, which justifies aggression. But these assumptions don’t hold up. When we question them, even slightly, the grip of hatred loosens.
History shows that even the worst horrors end — not just because an enemy is defeated, but because the justifications of mass killing fall apart. The majority of people stop believing in solid and permanent enemies. They recognize individuals with shifting characteristics.
As chinks of light break through dark clouds, so the compassion and wisdom of Buddha nature will appear in the midst of the worst atrocities, causing the aggressors to have flashes of empathy and to question their action. Not everywhere, not always, and not immediately — but the capacity remains. And in that, there is the potential for peace and compassion: Herein lies hope for humanity.
