從「 我 」到「 我們 」 （Me to We）

「 我的經歷回憶 — 女子精選步槍訓練隊」，由 Siri Atma Kaur Khalsa 撰寫，最初在 www.harisingh.com 上分享

我在 1978 年卡沙 Khalsa 純潔婦女訓練營從「 我到我們」的徹底轉變。 

我的位置處離我兩側的每位女士都只有一臂之遙。 我們要按高度排隊，我想我應該排在 Prem Siri Kaur 之前，但她的頭巾就像煙囪一樣，所以讓她比我高一英寸左右。 我十二歲了。 

「 看過去，對！」 鑽頭指揮員呼叫著。 

我們把頭向右偏了，稍微調整了一下自己，所以我唯一看到的是我自己的肩膀和隔壁一個人的身體。

「 注意！」 他繼續呼叫。 

我們肩膀向後，雙臂向下，眼睛向前。 今天，我們將開始選擇步槍演習隊。 整個營地只有十五位女士，每天會和 Hari Singh一起工作幾個小時，學習緊張的動作和花哨的步驟，如何遵循指令，開啟完全不同的視野，並處理那些漂亮的白色遊行步槍。 每天早上，在靈修練習薩達納之後，在夏令營的第一週，所有女士都會在 Hari Singh 的節奏中分隊行進。 Siri Singh Sahib，又名 Yogi Bhajan，說我們應該掌握這種行軍（「 如果你們不能一起走，你們就無法一起工作。」），這樣讓我們的頭腦有紀律和清晰，這樣我們就可以毫不猶豫地準確地服從命令。 大多數女士都討厭它。 我聽到她們呻吟抱怨著，有時是會雙倍時間，從修道院沿著 Shady Lane 和土路，越過被拖拉機壓扁的死青蛙，穿過紅塵雲。 昨天，當我們都站在隊形中時，甚至有人暈倒了。 我猜他們認為這很難 — 要麼是體力消耗，要麼是精神專注。 很明顯，他們不喜歡被「 那個人」命令。 除了 Siri Singh Sahib之外，Hari Singh 是唯一被允許進入營地的人。 也許這就是他們不喜歡它的原因，因為在這些神聖的、僅限女性的幾週裡，他們必須接受男人的命令。

每天，精選步槍演習隊，我們這十五個人使用遊行步槍，與 Hari Singh 多工作了兩個小時。 通常是在上午的課上。 我不介意錯過古魯木看文課 — 因為我已經能發音了。 我也沒有從與其他女士的討論小組中得到什麼，她們總是在談論她們的丈夫是如何這樣那樣做的。 我還沒有丈夫，謝天謝地，很長時間都不會有了。 所以我繼續行軍。 有一天，Hari Singh 讓我們在 Shady Lane 上來回遊行，儘管當時是中午，（不是在靈修Sadhana後的清晨，當時路上沒有任何汽車）。 他命令我站崗，注意，堵住道路，這樣就沒有車能經過。 團隊在街上來來去去進行複雜的演習。 另一位女士站在最後方，以阻擋來自另一個方向的任何交通。

我當時非常緊張。 「 如果一輛汽車來了，就想通過呢？」 我認為。 「 這些埃斯帕諾拉人不會忍受的。 我們正在封鎖住交通耶。 我們應該離開街道吧。」 但我的指揮官給了我一個命令，我必須保持堅定。 在遊行姿勢中，我的雙腳牢牢地固定著，保持肩寬，雙手斜角在胸前，拿著步槍。 我直視前方，專注於地平線，沿著街道向與高速公路的交叉口走去。 很快，一輛汽車就轉向了我們。 這是一輛紫色的重型機車，慢慢地向我爬升行來。 我能聽到低音貝司的立體音響聲聲。 我能感覺到佔據路面者對著我表示驚訝與難以置信，甚至討厭我。 

「 站穩立場！」 我聽到 Hari Singh 對我大叫。

我繼續我的決心。我不看機車騎士，只是緊緊抓住我的步槍。 這是只木頭做的，但也許司機會認為它是真的槍。 他大聲地按著喇叭，並對我大喊大叫。 他會碾壓我嗎？ Hari Singh 會過來和他談談，還是把女士們挪開？ 喇叭聲、喊叫聲和我的猴子腦袋一直在繼續。 我的身體因害怕而顫抖。 看似這情況似乎保持永恆之後，紫色車倒車，快速掉頭，加速離開那裡，留下一團塵埃。 我保持專注，發出巨大的解脫和感激的吐氣聲。 

Hari Singh把團隊停住，並命令我回到陣型中。 在注意力中，我們都聽著他讚揚我的堅定、專注，以及我如何導致黑幫型的低階騎手撤退，因為他們知道他們沒有機會對抗一個強壯的卡沙 Khalsa 女人。 我瞬間感覺自己有11英尺高。

Me to We

“Women’s Select Rifle Drill Team Memories of My Experience”, written by Siri Atma Kaur Khalsa as originally shared on www.harisingh.com

My transformation from “Me to We” at Khalsa Women’s Training Camp 1978.

I take my place an arm’s length distance from each lady on both sides of me. We are to line up by height and I think I should be before Prem Siri Kaur but her turban is such a smokestack it makes her about an inch taller than me. I am twelve years old.

“Eyes, right!” The drillmaster calls.

We snap our heads to the right, adjusting ourselves ever so slightly so the only thing I see is my own shoulder and the next person’s body at firm attention.

“Attention!” He calls.

We snap back, arms down and eyes front. Today we are starting the Select Rifle Drill Team. Only fifteen ladies from the whole camp will work with Hari Singh for hours each day, learning tight maneuvers and fancy steps, how to follow orders on the clip, turn on a dime, and handle those beautiful white parade rifles. Every morning after Sadhana, for the first week of camp, all the ladies march in formation to the call of Hari Singh’s cadence. The Siri Singh Sahib, aka Yogi Bhajan, says we should master this marching (“If you cannot walk together, you cannot work together.”) to get our minds disciplined and clear so we can follow orders precisely, without hesitation. Most of the ladies hate it. I hear them groan and moan about the forced marches, sometimes at double time, up Shady Lane and down the dirt road from the ashram, over the dead frogs squashed by the tractor and through clouds of red dust. Yesterday, somebody even fainted while we were all standing in formation. I guess they think it’s hard – either the physical exertion, or the mental focus. It’s clear they don’t like being ordered around, by “that man”, no less. Hari Singh is the only man allowed in camp, other than the Siri Singh Sahib, that is. Maybe that’s why they don’t like it, because they have to take orders from a man during these sacred, women-only weeks.

Every day, the Select Rifle Drill Team, those fifteen of us that got to use the parade rifles, worked with Hari Singh for an additional two hours. Usually it is during the morning classes. I don’t mind missing gurmukhi class – I can already sound out the phonetic script. I don’t really get much out of the discussion groups with the other ladies either, they are always talking about how their husband does this, or their husband does that. I don’t have a husband yet, and thank God, won’t for a very long time. So I march. One day, Hari Singh has us marching up and down Shady Lane, even though it was the middle of the day, (not early morning after Sadhana, when there aren’t any cars). He orders me to stand guard, at attention, blocking the road so no cars can come by. The team is marching up and down the street moving to the complicated drill calls. Another lady is stationed at the far rear to block any traffic from the other direction.

I am incredibly nervous. “What if a car comes and wants to get through?” I think. “These Espanola people won’t put up with this. We’re blocking traffic. We should get out of the street.”

But my commander has given me an order and I have to stay firm. In parade stance, with my feet firmly planted, shoulder width apart I hold the rifle with both hands diagonally across my chest. I look straight ahead, focused on the horizon, down the street towards the intersection with the highway. Soon, a car turns our way. It is a purple low-rider, crawling slowly towards me. I can hear the stereo pumping a low base. I can feel the surprise, incredulity, even hate, seep from the occupants towards me.

“Stand your ground!” I hear Hari Singh shout to me.

I continue my resolve. I don’t look at the driver, just hold firm to the rifle. It is solid wood, but maybe the driver will think it is real. He blares his horn and yells at me. Will he run me over? Will Hari Singh come over and talk to him or move the ladies out of the way? The honking, the shouting, and my monkey mind keep going. My body is shaking with fear. After what seems like an eternity the purple car backs up, does a quick U-turn and speeds out of there leaving a cloud of dust. I stay at attention and let out a huge exhale of relief and gratitude.

Hari Singh calls the team to Halt, and orders me back to the formation. At attention, we all listen as he praises my steadfastness, my focus, and how I caused the gangster-type, low-riders to retreat since they knew they had no chance against a strong Khalsa woman. I feel eleven feet tall.

本文選自 StudentsofYogiBhajan

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