The Unpretenders - Chapter 26

"Hell is other people," wrote the French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre. Many have since contended that this famous line - from a 1944 play entitled No Exit - had been largely misinterpreted. But, nevertheless, and regardless of what Sartre may have actually meant, I found it fascinating how the quote had been seized upon by the masses, and accepted at face vale. Could that possibly be because, on some level, at least, we all recognised it as being true?

Both human history and common experience suggested that other people were, indeed, at the root of our suffering. And yet because we also needed other people, and weren't willing to spend our lives in isolation because of them, we had seemingly come to accept our suffering, at the hands of others, as almost inevitable. But was it?

Certainly if we defined 'people' as those who lived behind a mask of conditioned identity, then such individuals couldn't help but create hell for others, and themselves, one way or another. From bullying and abuse to war and genocide. From corruption and greed to torture and tyranny. Every aspect of our lives was impacted by the delusion that we were somehow separate from other people, and that 'their' suffering was not 'our' suffering. When, of course, from a broader perspective, that simply wasn't true.  

Few even realised the tragedy, any more, of having to lock their doors and windows at night, go through airport security checks, or install anti-virus software on their computers. Yet these examples, and so many more besides, could all be directly attributed to the illusion of separation, and to our desperate need for that illusion to continue.

I'd read that a homeless man had been murdered recently: doused with petrol and set ablaze. But the plight of the homeless, generally, was no less disturbing. For not only did society not help them, in anything but a token manner, but their biggest threat, in fact, actually came from other people, rather than from the situation itself. In other words, a homeless person was far more likely to fall victim to exploitation or violence than they were to hypothermia or starvation.

There were even greater threats to our ultimate freedom and happiness, however, than those posed by strangers. Only, we didn't recognise them as threats, because they were represented by the very people to whom we were closest, and who appeared to have our best interests at heart. Such people contributed to our personal hell in more subtle and insidious ways. Not least by helping us to construct a mental prison for ourselves, in which we, like them, would obligingly serve out a life sentence, for no other reason than we couldn't see the bars, and so felt ourselves to be free. The ability to extricate oneself from friends and family, therefore, appeared to be a prerequisite to realising the truth of one's own essential godhood.

When the Lord directed Saint Arsenius to his freedom and peace in life, he told him: "Arsenius, flee from men and you will be saved."

Saint Teresa of Avila was similarly inspired: "The soul would like to flee from other people and greatly envies those who live in deserts. All earthly companionship is torment to her."

One person per planet seemed like a possible solution. But were we really all destined to exist in eternal isolation, because the behaviour of others had become so utterly intolerable? Certainly not if we understood what it was that had led to such behaviour in the first place. Certainly not if we understood the solution that countless saints, gurus and mystics had been pointing to for millenia. Namely, union with our true identity; union with God; a seemingly crazy redefinition of other as self.

But was it so crazy? My experience suggested not. For people who knew themselves as God also knew others as God. They saw others as a unique expression of their own being. As such, the feeling or impression that "hell is other people" couldn't possibly be stand. For, to the awakened mind, there was actually no meaningful distinction between self and other.

It was for this reason that I trusted Julian implicitly, along with Melody and the others. They were truly the only people on the planet who loved and respected me as an absolute equal, and who I knew could never do anything to harm me. And, moreover, to whom my own happiness was no less important than theirs; because it was, in fact, theirs! Who could not see the inherent beauty and perfection in this realisation? For it transcended any kind of relationship in the worldly sense. It transcended human friendship. It transcended romantic love. And it certainly transcended blood ties.

The proverbial exit, it seemed, was also the door to a celebrated homecoming. Which I had found, not merely by turning away from other people, but by turning away from my own presumed personhood. It was a sacrifice that obviously had to be made, in order for me to experience communion with those who also knew themselves as God. And yet it was no sacrifice at all, since it had freed me from the bonds of this world, once and for all. Such a deliberate abandonment of identity might be seen by some as being akin to suicide. However, what was death, ultimately, but a letting go of everything that never truly belonged to us in the first place; a removing of the crude and garish garments that we had so foolishly used to cover up our nakedness as God?

* * *

I had received a number of abusive messages and death threats, that evening, in the wake of my radio interview. Julian was obviously facing a similar backlash, as a result of continuing media propaganda and sensationalism. One local headline read: "Pervert teacher lives with his former pupils."

It was all so ridiculous. And what nobody seemed to realise was that by accusing Julian of perversion they were actually insulting Isobel and myself, as well. Firstly by implying that a 'normal' adult couldn't possibly find either of us attractive. And secondly by implying that we were too young and stupid to make decisions for ourselves. It seemed as if robot minds were using robot laws to attack the actions of gods. Which surely couldn't result in anything but piles of smoking scrap metal!

A little research revealed that our Victorian era consent laws didn't actually arise out of any perceived problem with adult/child relationships. Shock, horror! No. They were merely introduced to combat a rampant child prostitution problem. The effect, however, by creating an artificial barrier between adults and children, has been to contort natural human sexuality into something perceived as monstrous. In many ways the law itself had created the phenomenon of so-called paedophilia. And that, in my eyes, was the real perversion.