A World Without Enemies
There’s no real place for “us” and “them” in the world I want to help build. I know that may sound idealistic, but after a lifetime of listening, stumbling, showing up, and learning to see more clearly—I’ve come to believe it’s the only path that leads to healing.
Of course, there will be those who, out of fear or pain, see us as the problem. They may call us deluded, dangerous, even evil. But Thich Nhat Hanh reminds us that “When you begin to see that your enemy is suffering, that is the beginning of insight.” He saw clearly that labeling others as the enemy is the beginning of violence—not just outwardly, but within ourselves. And that kind of thinking narrows what is possible. It stifles the deep creativity and spacious compassion this world so desperately needs.
But what if we chose another way? What if we rooted our revolution in love?
I can hear the pushback. Don’t we need someone to oppose? Some evildoer to resist?
Maybe not. Maybe the real struggle isn’t against people, but against the systems, delusions, and unconscious patterns that keep us separated. As Thầy taught, “Peace in the world starts with peace in ourselves.” We can stand firm against injustice without needing to make enemies of those who perpetuate it. That’s a spiritual discipline. A fierce kind of love.
Someone once said, “A person is not your enemy unless you make them so.” That rings true. Carrying around a list of enemies—real or imagined—just doesn’t feel life-giving anymore. Not for me. Not for the world I want to inhabit.
The path ahead is uncertain. There will be days of confusion and sorrow, days when we feel lost or discouraged. We’ll do our best to do good—but both harm and healing will happen along the way. It’s part of the mystery of being human.
That’s why we’ll need to be quiet, patient, and present—to every feeling, every sensation, every heartbreak. We’ll need to keep showing up in mindfulness, not to escape the pain of the world but to engage it fully, tenderly. As Thầy said, “The present moment is filled with joy and happiness. If you are attentive, you will see it.”
We will encounter the awakened and the asleep. We’ll meet kindness in unlikely places and cruelty where we least expect it. But if we stay grounded in love, we need not turn anyone into an enemy.
And this revolution? It won’t look like the movies. No grand finale, no flags waving in triumph. Just a quiet accumulation of small, sacred victories: a conversation that doesn’t turn defensive, a breath taken before speaking in anger, a hand extended instead of a fist.
Defeats will come, too. But each step—each failure and each grace—will help weave a net of freedom, compassion, and understanding wide enough to catch us all.
As Thầy said, “We are here to awaken from the illusion of our separateness.”
And that awakening, slow and imperfect though it may be, is the revolution.
It is a path of nonviolence—not just in action, but in thought and word. It asks much of us: humility, discipline, courage, and the willingness to be wrong. But make no mistake—this is sacred work.
And those who choose presence over power, compassion over contempt, and justice rooted in love over righteousness rooted in ego—they are the true revolutionaries.
May I have the courage to walk that path.
