Systema

Author's note:

In 2005 I produced a manuscript. It was based mainly on my research and training carried out in Russia, focusing on the country's martial arts and spiritual traditions. The manuscript had actually started out many years ago as a series of notes and anecdotes about training. It then developed into something quite substantial, moulding to the format of a journey. But it was never my intention to produce indepth memoirs or an adventurous travel narrative. Neither was it my intention to create a dry text book about a specific martial art. Moreover, among the people who provided sign posts and shared insights, were those who invariably wouldn't want to have too much attention drawn upon themselves. For now, the manucript is being left to breathe for a while, allowing the right format to emerge. Until then, I would like to share this extract from my travels in Russia...

The Monk's Charge

by Aran Dharmeratnam

In the August of 1380, Prince Dimitry Danskoy made a journey to the monastery of Saint Sergius. He wanted a spiritual blessing before the over looming battle against the Tartars. There is a painting depicting the sombre moment where Saint Serguis gives his blessing to Prince Dimitry. Also in the painting are shown several of Dimitry's knights. Of equal interest is the portrayal of two solemn looking monks standing behind Saint Sergius........

Moscow was still under a determined grip of winter, but in the gymnasium where we trained, warmth once again prevailed. Now it was time for the class to come to an end. Throughout the spacious and somewhat spartan training room, content faces could be seen on this fast paced Saturday afternoon. And as always the hall would empty in gradual fashion. Some students were still carrying out various movement drills to further relax the body; others were engaged in conversation. A small group stood talking with the jovial Systema instructor. Mikhail Ryabko (see photo) seemed to be the epitome of the patient master. Even after the classes had finished, he would stay and share insights with his students; answer questions or convey specific tactics. At this moment, he was showing the figures standing around him, a fascinating painting. It was interesting on many levels; but perhaps most apparent was the captivating way in which the artist had been able to convey both movement and the moment...

*(Later I was fortunate to meet this gifted artist- a man blessed with remarkable talent and insight. This artist has a special ability to capture with paint and insight the events and feelings of times long since passed. His name is Pavel Ryzhenko).

The picture showed a mystical looking figure on horse back complete with spear, prayer beads and a weather beaten, thick bearded face. The rider radiated with courage and he wore the type of finely decorated hooded garment worn by certain monks and spiritual elders within the Orthodox tradition.The look in his eyes suggested he was charging at a strong enemy and the painting had an eerie sense of danger to it. What would happen to the warrior? Was this his last charge? It conveyed something very real. Mikhail noticed me looking at it. He made an expressive gesture as if to say: "This painting gets your heart beating doesn’t it!"

This was exactly the effect of the painting. And then with calm enthusiam, one of the students proceeded to tell me the story of the monk, Alexander Peresvet.

When Dimitry Danskoy went to seek a blessing from Saint Sergius of Radonezh, the saint reassured him that the invaders would be repelled- but the battle would be won with many losses sustained. Two hooded figures- students of Saint Sergius were also sent to give support to the leader of the Russian troops. These two students were monks, who had devoted themselves to prayer and the spiritual life...... but previously they had been warriors in the physical sense. Their names were Alexander Peresvet and Oslyabya.The battle took place by the Don River. The Tartars were led by the ruthless Khan Mamai; his army greatly outnumbered the Russian force. One of his top Mongol warriors was known for his intimidating size and abilities. This menacing figure was Cheluby- a fierce, hardened man.

At the start of the battle, it was the monk Alexander Peresvet who would face this intimidating and most dangerous of Mongol fighters. They would meet in single combat. The outcome of this clash would affect the morale of both armies. Adrenaline must have swamped the field on that day, as the two warriors got ready to do battle; and this is something the painting conveyed in bold fashion. Even their horses, unwillingly drawn into this duel of energies, must have felt the tension. With his prayer beads wrapped around his wrist, and sword firmly by his side, the hooded monk, Peresvet pressed forward.

They charged each other. This was no joust. This was the start to a bloody skirmish. The horses must have picked up quite a speed, as the two warriors rushed towards each other. Then the clash occurred. Faith against aggression. The collision of two determined, armed men could only have one outcome. It was Cheluby who was defeated; killed by a timely blow from Peresvet.

This had been an intense meeting of forces. But Peresvet had also been hit; weary and wounded he rode back to his own army. Then among the Russian troops, as he remained on horseback, his soul moved on. But for the Russians, this battle was fought to be won and victory was gained. There were heavy losses but this was one of the key battles that helped free the Russians. It showed them that their oppressing opposition had vulnerabilities. The story concluded with a piece of information that would inspire a new journey- a journey to a church in the south of Moscow: the church where the two monks were buried.

It was fairly cold when I left the flat, the following morning and I found myself breathing purposefully, charging the body for the morning's journey. A few people were walking well fed dogs along the slushy street, where patches of snow had been turned into a murky liquid, by the Sunday morning sunshine. I walked past a small florist, a supermarket and a small DVD shop. Russian pop music sprung out of the external speakers, hanging from the shop's front, travelling with me all the way to the bustling metro station. Soon I was deep below the city surface, zooming south on the green line of the metro.

About forty five minutes later I disembarked from the train. This metro statio in the south of the city had so many exits that it felt like a labyrinth. Following some steps that provided the quickest path to daylight, I found myself near a cross roads, with many possible routes to select. The directions given to me at training were a bit vague and hadn't taken into accout the different exit points from the metro station. No matter; something within my soul conveyed a feeling that this sacred place could still be found. An elderly lady , walked passed, so I tried to ask her for more specifc directions:

“Ezvenyetee, gdye... Svetoy Peresvet? “

In asking her where this church was, I couldn't remember the Russian word for 'church'. I wasn't even sure of the exact name of the church. So essentially I was asking her: "where is Saint Peresvet?"! Still her face lit up, as if she knew what I was asking. She pointed eastwards and began speaking quickly. But her generous list of directions was not easy to comprehend. It also included something about a bus route but for now it seemed best to remain on foot.

Crossing a wide road, and cutting between some parked cars, I turned the corner and followed a long street. Now I was moving instinctively. The road reached past a vast grey looking factory, where steam puffed out of thick chimneys in crude fashion. After ten minutes of walking, it felt sensible to ask someone else for directions. Some Mongolian men with smiling, gentle faces and dressed in orange working overalls, marched passed me. Then, a man with scientist's glasses, a beard and fur hat, carrying a newspaper under arm, stepped onto the street. I asked him for directions. He seemed to have vague recollection of a church in the area, but could offer no concrete signposts.

The next road took me passed an open stretch of park land. Things were looking more promising. At the other side of the park, there was a high stone wall, stretching for some distance. It was this type of high wall that normally surrounded monasteries, so I cut through the park, hoping to find an entrance point.

Entering into the snow covered compound, I discovered what looked like a deserted monastery. The buildings and towers looked old. There were several piles of rubble and bricks next to a faded building. In one sense, amidst the silence, stone, and old buidlings, it felt as if I had stepped back into the 1940’s; into some crumbling city in the aftermath of a fire fight. Yes...there did seem to be this sense of intense battles of some sort having taken place here at some point in time. Now however, the atmosphere was peacful and still. Glancing at the horizon there was no signs of life, but standing quietly I could see an old looking church building. That's what I liked about Moscow, one moment you could be among the noise, crowds and bustling movement of the city, then with some hopeful steps, you could find yourself in these pockets of stillness. Still, once again,it felt as if the morning was unfolding in surreal fashion.

There was a feeling of thickness in the air, as if the whiteness of the ground and sky poured mist onto the horizon. The snow seemed to fall very slowly in rich clusters,almost as if it was trying to respect the silence of the place. Then almost out of nowhere, in an unassuming almost ethereal fashion, a young lady with an unemotional, delicate face appeared. It was hard to tell her age as she wore a head scarf, but she seemed to blend comfortably within this timeless place, as if she was a part of it. I wanted to ask her for directions, if only to reassure her I wasn’t trespassing. But before I could say anything, making minimal eye contact, she pointed to the old church building, as if beckoning me to enter. No sooner had I nodded my head and turned to go through the church entrance, she seemed to swiftly depart into the monastery grounds. I entered the building; and it didn’t look like the typical church interior.

Inside, the main room was old, dusty and covered by rubble; as if it was also part of some war torn environment. There was no furniture, no icons, no babushkas lighting candles or priests passing by. It was empty. Long planks had been put across the floor and parts of the ground had been dug up, as if this was the location for some archaeological dig. It seemed strange to have been guided to an almost derelict building. I was about to leave, when I noticed a heavy wooden door at the other side of the room. For a brief moment, I was quite sure that I had heard voices; then there was silence and I realised it was probably just the wind brushing past the buildings. But curiosity got the better of me. Stepping along one of the wooden planks, I opened the door to find a winding, narrow set of wooden stairs. The wood looked fresh as if the stairs had been made recently. Just then, I could hear some noise coming from the floor above. It sounded like crying or some kind of singing - an unusual but somewhat mystical sound. Heading up the stairs; the strange singing got louder- what was this sound? Then there was another door which I opened slowly. I found myself in a crowed room.

A church service was taking place, but it seemed different from anything I'd seen before. The priest, a young bespectacled man with dark hair and trimmed beard, was making purposeful gestures and signs with his hands. Imagine the way a music conductor guides the orchestra. Anyway, no one had noticed or heard my entrance and I looked around the room again. All eyes were focused carefully on the priest. Then, watching a bit more closely, I realised what was going on- this was a church service for deaf people. I smiled honestly. I was moved by how these people, without their auditory sense, were so connected with God. The standing congregation were singing hymns and the hand movements of the young priest, who stood on a raised level, in the centre, represented a blend of signs and a way to guide the singing- musical sign language perhaps.

All faces looked content in the church and I too felt happy to have discovered this place, albeit in unusual fashion. Making my way to a small area at the back the room, where icons and books were being displayed, I started to speak with the lady behind the counter. She was not deaf and but she was competent with sign language. Flicking through one of the books on display I found a picture of Alexander Peresvet and used it to help me explain that I was looking for the resting places of the two monks. She made a gesture using signs. Then in careful, precise fashion, she whispered the words:

"God... Will... Help... You."

It had been a moving experience to spend time in this church, where this special service was being held. A pamphlet in the church revealed that I had entered the monastery of Simonov, a place with its own remarkable history. It was undergoing some kind of renovation at the time and yet it still conveyed some kind of enduring quality of warmth and resilience against adverstiy. I then headed back out into the cold, equipped with the resonating words of spiritual encouragement. My boots pressed lightly in the snow, and after making barely a few steps, a lady walked passed with her small son. For some reason I don’t think they were Muscovites; their clothes and manner- a gentle manner somewhat unscathed by the granite edges of urban life, suggested that they had come from some rural area. I asked for directions to the church and the lady looked at me, as if she was puzzled for a second. Then she whispered something to the young boy. He looked like a studious child of perhaps no more than eight or nine years of age. In response to his mother’s whisper, he pulled off the small bag that hung from his shoulder and unzipped it. Then, using his teeth to pull off one of his gloves, he took out of the bag, a pencil and some paper. With a few quick scribbles and guidance from his mother, he had drawn me a map. Gratefully, after several ‘spasiba bolshoi’s’ ( Thank you very much ) to the boy and his mother, I headed back through the park. It turned out that the church which I sought, was only a few minutes beyond the park and after following a long, stone walled pathway, I arrived at the beautiful white building. A calming blanket of sunlight fell upon the surroudings. It had stopped snowing now.

I passed by a small wooden bench. Sat alone on the bench, was a nun. She had a prayer book in her hand and she was singing quietly, with her eyes focusing down on the pages of the book, in her own timeless sphere of serentity. Her soft voice carried into the wind a Russian hymn. The graceful words spoken in Church Slavonic added to the sense of calm that floated through these surroudings. Here was truly a restful place...

Soon I was in front of the church, but it seemed to have several entrances. I was just about to go through one door, when a boy possibly in his teenage years with an old, wisened face and light complexion, pointed me to a different door. When I approached the church, he had been standing outside, engaged in some wood work and his eyes had studied me for a brief moment. And now as he motioned to me with his hand, his directing gesture, reminded me of the delicate faced girl who had waved me into the church at Simonov’s monastery. Without any words exchanged, the young man beckoned me to follow him into the church. He did not speak and before I could say anything, he led me through the main door and right to the resting place, where the monks were buried. Then he returned to his carpentry work outside.

Warmth surrounded the monks’ wooden resting place. I paid my respects, grateful for having been guided here to this holy ground. In contrast to the charging scene conveyed in the painting, the monks were resting in a place of stillness. There was also an icon in the church conveying the two hooded monks, Peresevet and Oslyabya standing tall and vigilant. Amidst the sense of calm all fatigue vanished and today whenever I think of the brave monk - Saint Alexander Peresvet and his final charge, I am reminded of the courageous spirit that can be found in Russia.