Another Look at the Source of Rampage Violence

There is an exercise, in our training as Zen Hospice Project (ZHP) volunteers, in which everyone is handed a set of three to four photographs of deceased residents and asked a question to consider, as you look into their faces. Then, we each pass our photos around the circle to another volunteer as we, in turn, receive new ones.

The exercise is unsettling as you look into the faces of those who died of AIDS, insidious cancers, cirrhosis of the liver, emphysema, congestive heart failure, and the like.

The residents are of different races and nationalities, genders and sexual orientations, intellectual and cognitive capacities. Some formerly lived on our streets, or in our psychiatric wards or prisons. What they eventually shared was Laguna Honda Hospital, which became home.

We were training to become volunteers there, learning through this exercise how to develop empathy and compassion - our “caring capacities.” Our trainer, Eric Poche, would ask, as we examined one group of photographs, “Can you see the child in their faces?” Of another group, he would ask, “Can you see their anxiety?” And so it would go. “Can you see their laughter?” ” Can you see their loving?” “Can you see their peace?” “Can you see their curiosity?” “Can you see their joy?” And in most of the faces, you could see (or imagine) all of those states, in even the gaunt, emaciated, suffering countenances.

I just returned from a 2-day session of ZHP Advanced Volunteer Training, in which we again experienced this exercise, but with one big difference. At our inaugural meeting, one of our trainers had taken two photographs each of the 18 advanced trainees – “one with our faces “as we would like to be seen;” the other with our faces as we normally “are.” These photographs were integrated into the photo deck with our now deceased residents. On each pass, in studying the faces and answering the questions (“Can you see the worry?”), you might be see the image of the person sitting next to you or even yourself. It’s hard to witness a good friend, or yourself, amongst those deceased for whom you had cared. It brought home the notion that together we share in life’s experiences; that we are each more similar to one another than different; and that each of us ultimately will die.

As we discussed the exercise, some of my colleagues were moved to tears, expressing the “leveling” effect and “heart opening” experience of seeing their friends, themselves, and those for whom they had cared “at the same table.” The exercise was designed to “shakeup” any complacency, arising from setting ourselves, as volunteers, apart from the hospice residents.

This experience reminded me of my response to the Sandy Hook rampage. Shortly after that horrendous event, I looked into the face of Adam Lanza, just as I previously had studied the faces of James Holmes, the Aurora shooter, and those of Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris, the Columbine killers.

I looked into each of their faces and asked not only “Why?,” but the questions from our hospice training exercise. Google these names, find their images and see if you find, in their faces, similarities to acquaintances, friends, loved ones and, perhaps, yourself.

I don’t expect you to ever lose your revulsion to the extraordinary damage and suffering that each caused. But you may be able to make room for the possibility that these rampage killers shared a great deal with you - they laughed, loved, felt joy, and also came to know suffering. But here is where the great distinction arises.

Their suffering was so great, so constant, and so irremediable, arising from an environment in which they were so isolated, so unsupported, so deprived of love and attention, that each created a narrative which allowed for their rampage to become, in their minds, “appropriate.”

I consider that “appropriateness” to be our collective failure. Each of us bears some responsibility in failing to explore, or to tolerate the continuance of, conditions which give rise to this interminable and isolated suffering, that ultimately may become rampage.

I fear that we are destined to live in a society where rampage violence continues, irrespective of the current efforts to regulate ownership of certain types of guns, gun accessories and/or ammunition. If we are lucky, new laws may reduce the toll in human lives. But rampage violence will continue, despite the valiant, but underinformed, efforts to “fix” the mental health system through identifying, treating, and/or constraining potential perpetrators. Mental health professionals agree on one thing - they simply don’t know what they need to know about rampage violence. In fact, significant data suggests little correlation, let alone causality, between mental illness and rampage violence.

Finally, we probably can expect more rampage violence from women as well as greater ethnic, cultural and racial diversity in its perpetrators.

My concern is that in our rush to eliminate rampage violence, we have handed over the problem to lawmakers for a fix, through gun regulation and mental health interventions, when we really don’t understand the problem.

In this game of “political hot potato” we take for granted that rampage violence is someone else’s responsibility, not ours. By shifting the problem to lawmakers, we absolve ourselves of further inquiry and responsibility.

I want to suggest an alternative view of rampage violence, which makes that absolution a bit more difficult.

Treat this alternative view of rampage violence as a hypothetical. What if rampage violence is the result of “narrative failure?” What if the violence erupts from the perpetrator’s defective story about himself, his situation and his relationship to the world around him?

The story is created in response to the perpetrator’s inability to otherwise understand or rationalize his suffering. The suffering may have arisen from childhood abuse or abandonment, schoolyard or workplace torment or bullying, or just plain “very bad luck.” But the suffering is, in the eyes of the perpetrator, real, intolerable and, seemingly, irremediable.

Have you ever had a splitting headache, a high fever or a painful toothache and tried to solve a problem? It’s damn near impossible. Even if you do come up with something, more likely than not, it is impaired with such distorted reasoning as to be useless.

Assume, for purposes of our hypothetical, that your parents were alcoholics; that your time at home generally was filled with fear, turmoil and chaos; and that your home conditions gave rise to academic and social failures. These factors led to you becoming bullied, an object of derision, alienated from your peers and community.

This suffering may be beyond your wildest imaginings. It is not your fault, but it is your life. What narrative do you create for yourself to rationalize your predicament? What story do you create to provide release from your torment? What does your story provide for your escape?

I am assuming that, given the state of our society, there are, in our midst, hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of such sufferers. These suffering souls are of all genders, races, ethnicities and cultures. And each has or will create a story shaped by the greater narrative of the family and community in which he resides.

What I am suggesting is, just like trying to reason through a problem with a ceaseless migraine, an extreme sufferer may create a story in which violence, retribution against those who “caused” the suffering, and even suicide, to end the suffering, appear appropriate, if not in some ways honorable or heroic. This is not about mental health. This is about suffering in a world, which appears to offer no acceptable means of escape.

And, if this hypothetical is true, in even a modest number of the rampage violence cases, it suggests that each of us may have a responsibility to become aware of (or at least not ignore) those in our community in such situations and to seek, in whatever limited way we may be capable, to help them change their stories.

I will take up that discussion in a subsequent column.