- 15 Jun, 2023
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- 5 Mins Read
The two Shades of Pain: The Good and Bad Anxiety
The strike sent shivers down my spine. Blood began to ooze from the boy’s back. He attempted a counterstrike but was outmaneuvered. My heart froze as I witnessed, in slow motion, the long stick aiming for the boy’s skull and then, bam – it hit with a devastating impact. A jolt of pain coursed through my body as if I had taken the blow. Blood started to seep from the boy’s head. He was not crying – he was forbidden to cry. Emotions were suppressed, for displaying them would bring shame to him and his family. Onlookers watched his bare, bleeding body. Their smiles were not for him, but for the victor. There he stood, under the merciless sun, helpless and devoid of empathy.
This scene was from a documentary on the Omo tribe in Africa, showcasing a ritual known as Donga. Witnessing the ritual was a brutal start to my Sunday morning. “Is this truly what life is like for poor teenage boys in Africa?” I wondered. Outside the window, I saw children playing under the watchful eyes of their parents. “Don’t splash in the water,” my neighbor cautioned her son. Across the street, another anxious mother observed her daughter riding her bike on the sidewalk. I thought, “How fortunate these Western children are compared to the boys of the Donga tribe. They don’t have to endure bloodshed and excruciating pain.” This was a contemplative beginning to my well-earned day off.
Suffering remind me of Buddha. He, being a prince, was shielded from all types of suffering. His father, the King, prohibited him from going out, fearing exposure of his failures. But to the King’s dismay, Buddha did venture out one day, witnessed the suffering on the street and was horrified or suffered an ancient version of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. In order to punish his father (by inflicting the pain of loss in my opinion), he left his parents and the palace life to seek enlightenment for eliminating pain and suffering. His was a bad run kingdom so was short of Psychiatrists. His solution , he became one himself. The whole Buddha story however never answered one of the important question I always sought, why does pain exist?
I opened my wardrobe to change my shirt. My wife often complains about my shabby dressing. She bought me some new shirts, and like a child, I was excited to debut my new attire. I started to stroll towards the local park in my new blue shirt dotted with tiny white spots. Donning something new when accustomed to shabbiness can make one feel self-conscious. There’s this nagging sensation that everyone is scrutinizing and mocking you – a thought which itself is incredibly painful. It seems pain is everywhere.
I remember reading a book that suggested pain developed as a mechanism for safety and survival. At first, I thought, how could pain be beneficial to survival? However, the book’s argument began to make sense – we feel pain because our brain is signaling us to avoid the source of discomfort. But how does this explain the Omo Valley ritual, which prepares boys for manhood through brutal battles? Or the mental distress business executives face in running a company? Or the punishing training sessions of athletes? Do some of us flee from pain while others find a perverse pleasure in it?
Immersed in thought, I didn’t notice cheerful Alex walking past. He greeted me and asked how I was. His gaze was fixated on my shirt as he grinned. Fortunately, his dog scampered off, and he had to chase after it. That was a moment of fleeting pain and relief for me.
However, the dog did make me reflect on animals and how they seemingly endure pain without any complaints. I have yet to see an animal lament about the state of world affairs, how their partners treat them, or what kind of fur they are wearing. Science tells us we have an extension of the brain called the cerebral cortex, which is the center of thought. This is why we differ from animals – we think and try to make sense of pleasure and pain. What a curse, I thought, dampening my perfect Sunday morning and the joy of wearing a new shirt.
The Omo Valley boys and their painful ritual still didn’t make sense to me. They can’t be Stoics because Stoics lived somewhere in Greece. The Stoics advocated “Taking it” or enduring it to be politically correct. I have to be careful these days or one of these snowflakes might complain that my language makes them feel distressed. This “Taking it ” is the stoics countermeasure to pain and based on this , the Donga ritual prepares the young boys for the physical trials ahead, I suppose. Does that mean there are two types of pain? One to be embraced and the other to be avoided? Like most things and people in life, does pain also succumb to the law of duality?
Are the Omo Valley tribes in the right to prepare their children for life’s challenges, and are we wrong to keep an eye on our children playing safely outside our house? Pain does seem to teach us a lesson, to avoid repeating the unpleasant – the pain we feel makes us grow and is recorded in our memories. There is the pain of suffering due to life’s unfortunate accidents, and then there is the pain born from our ambitions and desires, the one Buddha wanted to get rid of.
However, Buddha lived in an era where neuroscience and genetics were only available to the Greek children who later became Stoics. Everyday life’s pains are directly proportional to our desires and ambitions – but this is a good pain. Even genetic science proves that challenges fire up different sets of hormonal responses that are good for us and foster a longer life. The Donga ritual then makes sense – the more capable we are of enduring pain, the greater our capacity to achieve and even live longer.
The shock and pain of witnessing the suffering of the Omo boys provoked my mind to seek answers and learn. I believe I arrived at some valuable conclusions. On my way back, I encountered the jocular remark of my neighbor. “Nice shirt, happy birthday,” he said, a grin spreading across his face. I returned his smile, feeling a slight touch of pain. Maybe my brain was signaling me to draw lessons from the experience, subtly suggesting to forgo the idea of wearing pristine attire ever again.