Tzu Chi and F-16s

“...Xué. ...Xué. ...Xué.”

I say it to myself each time I write the character (學, “learn”); it helps me learn. I put down my pen and my character workbook and I sit back for a moment, absorbing the warm winter air and sun.

I have spent now six happy weeks in the quiet outskirts of Hualien, Taiwan, learning Chinese, making friends, and overeating, mostly. Tzu Chi University (慈濟大學), where the HEAT program is studying Chinese for one semester, is warm and calm. Its campus is located away from the bustle of downtown, tucked between a quiet neighborhood and a river. It is a small scattering of buildings, all the same large, gray, stone, cubic forms looming large and wide. Between and around the buildings, all else is nature; pruned by humans but organically shaped and all deep, lush green in color. The arrangement of the buildings and greenery create wide, open spaces. (They are almost comically so, as if they were designed to inspire you to reflect on deep questions.) Anyway, it creates a quiet and respectful atmosphere; the acoustics of the open spaces make the slightest sound echo, and so students walk silently and respectfully through its wide open spaces. Friendly neighborhood stray dogs also waddle around the campus, also appreciating the calmness. Their presence is never unwelcome—even though they blatantly disregard the rules and curfews that would evict students that did so.

The university is an offshoot of the 慈濟 Buddhist humanitarian organization founded 50 years ago by Dharma Master Cheng Yen . The foundation “practices the philosophy of relieving suffering, giving happiness, helping the poor, and educating the rich.” In the Language Center where the HEAT students study, Cheng Yen’s portrait hangs large on the wall. She is alive today, but this photo is old and black and white; in it, Cheng Yen is young and peacefully expressionless. Her clothing is humble, her head is shaved. Her eyes are large, dark, and kind. Her portrait is simple, tranquil, and gray, much like the campus.

I sit now at a picnic table, taking in the beautiful grayness, practicing Chinese characters, focusing, squinting, writing. The air is warm and breezeless, and the only sounds come from chirping birds or cars passing in the distance. Reading, writing, and comprehending Chinese all still happen in slow motion. Everything about the moment feels like molasses.

A low rumble interrupts my studies, in my ears and all around me, and in a fraction of a second the eardrum-searing roar of an F-16 fighter jet tears through the atmosphere. It shatters my complacency, a constant wave of sound violently infiltrating all that open space. It is so loud that I cannot concentrate on anything else. I feel the thunder of the engines vibrating deep in my chest, and the sound is so loud that I want to cover my ears. Another one flies overhead, and I swear it is even louder. The peaceful campus is instead wrought with the sound of a war machine; thirty seconds later, all is as tranquil as before.

I am shaken. This has happened almost every day that I’ve been here, but my mouth is dry and my heart is pounding. I am not used to feeling fear like this.

I do not really have anything to fear. The planes pass over every day or every other day. They do so at seemingly random intervals—sometimes, like now, within minutes of one another. 慈濟大學 is situated minutes away from the Hualien Air Force Base, and the planes fly directly over the campus. The planes may be flying for any number of reasons: to practice drills, scout, or flex Taiwan’s military might at China. The stark contrast between 慈濟—whose name literally means "Compassionate Relief"—and the air force base is ironically jarring.

I am not used to hearing fighter jets. It is strange to hear and see them now. They are such extreme, abstract sounds and sights. I was always safe from these jets—but my guts wrench and churn at their sound. The level of energy, of human construction, of sheer power manifested in and expended by a single jet fills me with visceral fear. It makes me wonder: what is it like for that sound to be normal to someone?

And so as I wonder, my mind is lifted away from my Chinese homework and airlifted to places of planes and noise, to military bases or distant warzones. At a university, I feel intense fear from the sound of a jet fighter that I know is not going to hurt me—what does that unearthly roar mean for citizens of Aleppo? For ISIS fighters? For Afghani citizens? For the Gaza strip? For innocents who live where jet planes or bombers fly over? Or is war actually quieter; not announced with a 30,000 pound force thrust jet engine? Is it the sound of a missile being fired? Is it whatever a Predator Drone sounds like? Is it gunshots in the streets of Aleppo or Chicago or Caracas? What is war and what is violence? I’ve had the privilege of knowing neither.

Growing up, war was always a distant, absurd concept. In history classes I learned about drafts, propaganda, honor, carnage, trenches, rain, mud, blood. Nowadays, our reasons for war are different and our relationship to service is different, and I react differently—something about conflict today doesn’t seem real. But the U.S. alone led tens of thousands of airstrikes last year. Soldiers are massacred, terrorists taken out; on the side, civilians and hospitals are casualties; “oops.” What did the planes sound like to them?

We do not choose what lives we are born into. I was born into comfort, academia, art, food, television. It is easy to forget that others are born into poverty, violence, war. I am thankful that I live so close to an airbase: I may still live in a bubble of comfort, but every day, the F-16s are there to pop it. Blaring, screeching, zooming over my head, they are a valuable reminder that in some places, life is the opposite of comfort. Each time the planes soar above me, they remind me of my ignorance. I hope that when I leave this place, I will not need them for that. For now, the F-16s fly over my head. I will not tune them out. I will not cover my ears.