BEST WAKE UP 2

Craig Morman
February 2019
I was participant in Shambhala from 1995 until around 2015. I served in a variety of
roles throughout the years. I was the Rusung of Shambhala Mountain Center, a
Sergeant in the Dorje Kasung, a meditation instructor, and the Director of Casa
Werma in Mexico. I also served as a Kusung in a number of capacities from 1997-
2015, including serving as Continuity Kusung from early 2002 to early 2003
approximately. I have been keeping secrets for many years, I won’t do it anymore.
There is no way that I could possibly describe the entirety of Shambhala´s culture of
exploitation and abuse in a short statement. I will limit my comments primarily to
my experience with the Kusung. Before proceeding I need to say that many of the
worst examples of abuse and exploitation that I have witnessed and experienced
happened far away from the Court and often had nothing to do with sexuality, but
that is for another time.
My first experience of Shambhala was as a member of the summer staff at
Shambhala Mountain Center in 1995. It was the first year that it was called RMSC,
about 4 months after the “enthronement”.
I very quickly found the meditation practice to be both challenging and helpful and
developed a daily practice. The next summer I joined the Kasung out of a mixture of
curiosity and fear. I was accepted to the 1997 Vajryana seminary. It was there that I
was invited to join the Kusung.
My exposure to the Court gradually increased for a couple of years. It started as a
Kasung sitting outside of the house, or driving the car. Then mornings and
afternoons serving tea and food, learning how to iron and things of that sort.
Exposure to the reality of things was incremental based on how much one could
handle: is he or she going to “get it”?
In late 2000 or early 2001 Mr. Mukpo invited a bunch of young men out for drinks to
a bar in Boulder. He proclaimed it the first meeting of the YMBA, the Young Men´s
Buddhist Association. A number of current Shambhala leaders were present that
night. Some way through the evening he called me over and told me that I should
continue to train as his traveling Kusung. We agreed that I would serve for a year
when I graduated from Naropa, yeah I did that too.
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The YMBA evening went on until well after the bars had closed. A group of us ended
up in the living room of a small Boulder apartment drinking heavily. At one point
Mr. Mukpo started screaming dharma questions at us and pointing, demanding an
answer. His response to each answer was to scream ”WEAK VIEW!”. This was one of
my first tastes of the good stuff. The crazy stuff.
It was really fun, to be honest. I was just happy to be there as we sat in a circle
around him and jumped up screaming our refuge names as he pointed to us. I talked
to one participant about it a day or so later. He asked what I had thought of the
night. When I naively told him that I had had a great time, he intimated that one
guest in particular had found it disturbing, and that the “teaching” hadn’t been all
that helpful. They are both Acharyas now. I’d be curious to hear their current views.
My tour started in Halifax. It was the first time Mr. Mukpo had stayed in the
Northwest Arm house. I met him there as he was returning from India, he had lost a
lot of weight on a low carb diet.
The first two weeks in the house were a cycle of party/recover/shop-to-stock-newhome/party- repeat. There were some meetings and teaching mixed in, but that
period was focused on celebrating.
It wasn’t long after starting the tour that we traveled to Chile for a teaching visit.
Most of the visit was unremarkable. Near the end of the teaching cycle there was a
final dinner at the home of a sangha member. This is the night that was detailed in
the Buddhist Project Sunshine (BPS) reports. I will present my recollection to the
best of my ability.
The dinner started off quite politely, conversation, thank you´s, and so on. As I recall,
local people had taken over the bulk of the service, so I spent most of the early part
of the night helping in the kitchen. At some point the serving staff were invited to
come to the front. I believe it was the host who stood and opened a fairly impressive
liquor cabinet. The cook and I shared a look, concerned.
The night wore on and the crazy wisdom came back out. Writing about this part of it
just kind of bores me. I had only been on the road for three or four weeks and I was
already getting tired of that crap. It didn’t happen all the time, but I was already
wondering why it happened at all.
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At some point I had had enough and checked out. I went and sat in a chair in a
nearby room, an office. I hadn’t yet learned that my primary job was to protect Mr.
Mukpo from himself. To this day I feel shame.
My memory of what happened next differs very slightly from what was reported by
BPS. I feel it is my obligation to tell things as I remember them. It was 15 years ago,
so I can only say what I remember.
I was sitting in the chair stewing. I looked up and saw Mr. Mukpo and the young
woman from the report walking into what I believed to be a bedroom. Another guest
closed the door behind them. That guest is currently an Acharya. My anger toward
him in that moment was physical. I couldn’t believe he would do that. I was just
learning that it was normal.
I had met this woman earlier and I did not think she would find it appropriate. I felt
that the Acharya was encouraging her to sleep with him by closing the door. I cannot
say for certain what happened behind closed doors so I defer to the account given
by the victim. I have no reason to doubt.
After some time, I don’t remember how long, the Kasung on duty, a local woman,
came and told me that she was tired, and that the host would drive us home. She
forgot to give me the keys to the apartment. Over the same time span most or all of
the guests left.
The woman came out of the room very upset. Somehow I wound up talking to her
for a while on a balcony. She told me some of what had happened. I got the
impression that Mr. Mukpo had forcefully tried to get her to have sex with him. I was
not told that she had been locked-in, or that he had forced her to touch him. What
she told me was bad enough, but she did not tell me that part.
I only remember pieces of the conversation, mostly of me trying to rationalize the
behavior in some tantric sense while still trying to be supportive. Again, I feel
shame.
The rest of the story is much as told by others. I kept his secret for 15 years. I smiled
and said that I had a great time in Chile. I dodged questions and avoided people who
had heard rumors about “something happening”. I had passed on the information to
my superiors and just blocked the whole experience out the best I could. After a year
or so the interest died down and I just kind of carried it, never speaking to anyone,
and I mean anyone, about that night.
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That’s how it works. We didn’t even talk to each other. If we had, we would have
understood just how widespread it was. We need more Kusung to talk. Then we can
see what enlightened society is really built on.
Mr. Mukpo was both abusive and tender. He seemed really lonely. He shut everyone
out. Sometimes he would briefly show vulnerability only to cover it up again.
After a long day in Fort Collins we went to some bars. 2 Kusung, Mr. Mukpo and one
guest, a man. As the night wore on Mr. Mukpo started flirting with a local Ft. Collins
woman who was not connected with Shambhala, this made me nervous. He was
already very drunk. I was sober while my fellow Kusung was also drinking, he was
the good cop that night.
As they sat at the bar as Mr. Mukpo slurred come-ons such as “are you a sexual
person?” to the young woman. At one point she asked me if I was okay.
She asked because I was standing with my body touching Mr. Mukpo at the midline
of the two of them, just looking straight forward. I needed to be close in case he did
something. He kept telling the other Kusung, “tell her who I am”.
After the bar closed we went back to SMC. As I drove up the mountain road, Mr.
Mukpo sat with his feet out the windows and talked to my companion about how
wonderful the woman from the bar was. My companion made a joke that I seconded.
Mr. Mukpo lept from the back seat, screamed “who´s talking to you asshole?!” and
bit me so hard that I lost clarity in my vision for a moment due to the pain. I could
have killed us all. He bit me two or three times more.
As we arrived at SMC Mr. Mukpo ordered my companion to call the SMC rusung on
the 2 way radio. Mr. Mukpo made him say ridiculous things. Because there are many
people with those radios at SMC word got out very quickly. This upset members of
the Court and, to their credit, some threatened to leave that year.
When confronted about that night by the Kusung leadership, Mr Mukpo´s response
was “The Kusung need to be better trained” That is how the King receives feedback.
After my tour I fell into a serious crisis that lasted around two years. Hardly anyone
from Shambhala talked to me during that period. After I had dragged myself out of it
I started to reappear a little bit within the community. A friend told me “we were all
pretty worried about you.” No one said it when it would have mattered.
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I did Kusung shifts sporadically over the years since, but never felt comfortable
getting close again. I would later turn my attention to the Kasung and land centers
as I tried to maintain a connection. Those experiences are what finally drove me to
leave the community.
I enabled Mr Mukpo´s abuse as he abused me. He thinks he can clear things up by
writing letters. In his most recent he says “I am beginning to understand how the
power dynamics between myself as a teacher and my students could cause pain and
confusion in certain situations.” First of all, why would it take so long? More
importantly, it seems that he has known all along that he is causing pain. He isn’t
likely to change now. He does seem to want to keep getting paid.
This statement is jumbled and incomplete, it is the best presentation I could muster
of the most pertinent details. I feel sadness and regret on behalf of the people who
were harmed by Mr. Mukpo. I feel shame that I inspired so many others to follow
him and possibly lead them into harm’s way. I feel like a fool that I could have been
so deceived for so long. To be fair to all of us, it is a clever deception.
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Laura Leslie
February 2019
I am angry.
I am angry with Shambhala. A community I came to that seemed warm and
understanding and offered the promise of a healthy culture. As I moved closer and
closer to the leadership and Mr. Mukpo himself, it became clear that instead a
culture of abuse and rampant sexism trickles down from Mr. Mukpo to all below him.
Along the way I expressed concerns to my peers and the leadership and was
dismissed, insulted or placated every time. Dismissing me as an angry, hysterical
person, who doesn’t see clearly, is a time-honored way to silence a woman. From
much of my previous leaders and peers, I expect that I will get the same reactions
now. But, I hope that some of you out there may hear this and find, reflected in my
stories, truths long silenced in Shambhala.
I am also angry and devastated at many of the choices I made that lured and kept me
in what I knew was an unhealthy environment. My own desire to fit in, my own
ambitions to get the next pin, my own moments of feeling special or powerful- I let
these dictate my choices and override my intuition and morals. As I did, I became
part of the problem.
The world outside of Shambhala is waking up to the insidious nature of sexism and
assault. ‘Small’ comments in locker rooms can lead directly to rape and worse.
Leaders create cultures where everyday sexism condones rape. Shambhala likes to
pretend that they are the most ‘awake’- the most enlightened – but Shambhala is
falling behind. With its continued defensiveness and victim blaming our ‘King’ in his
robes becomes the worst example of hypocrisy.
Abuse occurs at every level of the mandala and Mr. Mukpo is the reference point
that both implicitly and explicitly fosters it. I trace my experience of the abuse
climbing to the top here. While I was never personally assaulted by Mr. Mukpo,
there is no doubt in my mind that many were.
I was 20 years old when I found Shambhala in New York City. I was excited to find
new friends and a safe spiritual community where I could learn and grow, so I dove
in headfirst – taking all the classes and quickly becoming a volunteer for numerous
hours each week.
I soon organized a large fundraising event and was honored that the President of
Shambhala himself would be there. Excited to meet the President, a man in his 60’s, I
approached him to serve drinks and snacks. He took hold of my arm, pulled me close,
grabbed a strawberry, and while staring at my breasts, told me I was just as luscious
as the fruit and how lucky were they that I was there to serve them. He stood with a
male Acharya and the male leader of NYC Shambhala, all three laughed.
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The President, the ‘civilian’ leader of Shambhala had just turned me into a sexual
object and a joke. I was humiliated. Over the years I learned from other women that
he frequently used his position of power to seduce and harass them.
I was office staff in New York and helping a woman volunteer. A male colleague
verbally attacked her for her gender and sexual orientation. I stepped in and told
him to stop. He got in my face, pushing me back while yelling at me. The volunteer
left and never returned. My boss offered to mediate between this colleague and
myself. In the meeting he once again proceeded to yell at me until I was in tears. My
boss deemed it a successful mediation and sent us both back to work. I was scared
of him every day that we worked in that office together.
I learned later that this male colleague regularly hurt other women. His male
superior deemed his actions acceptable; why would he try to be different?
On retreat, in a tiny meditation room, my much older male meditation instructor
leaned forward, put both hands on my knees and whispered that there were many
ways he could teach me. (AKA, wink-wink, he could teach me to fuck.) He was meant
to help me with my mindfulness and instead he tried to meet his own sexual agenda.
I left the room shaking. I asked for a new instructor and after being told that I was
causing trouble and being annoying in this request, was given one.
He stayed at the retreat and worked with multiple other young women. I have no
idea how many he may have touched against their will, but I do know he received no
feedback for what he did to me.
Retreat after retreat, deeper in and with each new layer more insults. But, I was
hooked so I stayed and I began to push back. I began to ask everyone how and when
it would change. I asked every female Acharya and Shastri why there was such
sexism. Almost as if trained in their responses, they all told me that in Vajrayana
Buddhism male and female did not exist, therefore every day sexism was empty and
if I practiced more I would see this.
I was asked to be a Kusung-in-Training (KIT). I was thrilled. I was honored to be in
the heart of Enlightened Society and serve Mr. Mukpo directly. On my first shift at
the Court I was approached and told that I could not be a KIT. Mr. Mukpo’s wife
needed attendants, and her attendants (Shabchi) had to be women. I was politely
told that this would be my only way to serve in the Court, but that this was true
service. That by following Mr. Mukpo’s wishes and serving Mrs. Mukpo it was the
greatest offering I could make to him. But, I was pissed. So, I kept fighting to be a KIT.
Meanwhile, I was made Aide to the Council of the Makkyi Rabjam (CMR). The CMR
determines all Kasung activities and practices, but they are also men who hold
leadership in multiple other areas of Shambhala. While in a meeting, where I was
silently taking notes on how to protect the Sangha, a member of the CMR told me I
looked like a sexy teacher and that if he were younger he would want me to scold
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him. The other men in the room laughed then went back to making policy about
community protection and Dharma practice.
Turning a female subordinate into a sexual joke is not a laughing matter. All the men
in the room thought it was. The joke is that a man who claims to be the ultimate
protector abuses a woman under his protection.
While fighting to be a KIT, I spent hours as a Shabchi directly serving Mrs. Mukpo,
helping with the children and cleaning and cleaning. The more time I spent at the
Court the realization seeped in that the problems I saw in the wider community
stemmed from the Court itself. In almost every moment I could observe forms of
sexism and power plays. Delusional, I thought that if I were a KIT instead of a
Shabchi this would be better.
I pleaded with every man I could think of to become a Kusung and was told to wait.
While I was shuttled to the side all my male peers became Kusung and were much
closer to Mr. Mukpo. In the Court the Shabchi were treated like they were less
valuable than the Kusung. While the male Kusung preened, stood around and did allimportant duties for Mr. Mukpo, we cleaned toilets and kept house in addition to
serving Mrs. Mukpo and their children. I once asked a Kusung of the Day to help me
with laundry and ironing, for the household, and I was told he could not help, as he
had to be available just in case Mr. Mukpo needed tea. The general atmosphere in
the Court was one soaked in ancient patriarchy.
At a party with my peers I complained to Mr. Mukpo’s most senior staff person in
Boulder about the problems of equality at the Court. He told me that if “you were
less of a bitch and asked for things in a less angry manner”, then maybe things could
change. He helped set the tone for everyone at the Court and in his opinion; a calm
woman with a valid opinion was a bitch. He spent countless hours with Mr. Mukpo, I
imagine learning these valuable lessons.
I told the head of the Kusung that I would quit all my volunteer time at the Court if I
were not made a KIT. The next day, I was invited to be a KIT as long as I continued
my Shabchi shifts in equal amounts.
I did my first shift as a KIT. I was so proud to be there wearing my best suit. At the
end of a 12-hour shift, feeling elated, Mr. Mukpo walked by me, patted me on the
stomach and told me I was fat. His male Continuity Kusung, my peer, laughed at me.
I have rarely felt more humiliated.
In that moment something inside me died – my fight and my anger. Now, all I felt
was sadness. Now I knew for sure that Mr. Mukpo did indeed set the tone. I had tried
to blame it on his wife. I had tried to blame it on the men surrounding him. But,
ultimately as the ‘King’ he sets the precedent.
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I had had enough. I felt like no matter how much I fought it would never change.
That the sexism was so ingrained it would not move. Part of it was a larger sense of
depression in how community members treat each other. Shambhala, as far as I
could tell, was not in any way a culture of kindness. All the energy, effort and
certainly money, went to the Mukpos, while community members were neglected.
The constant pressure, the games between peers and the lack of honesty made me
see that each person had to change, beginning with Mr. Mukpo.
And, I became disgusted with myself and ashamed that the wool had been pulled
over my eyes – that I too had silenced people and put position over care of others.
That women had told me of their hurts and that I had placated. I had become part of
the machinery of normalizing abuse, slowly growing blinder to all the ‘isms’ playing
out. Doing so, I hurt people, and for this I am sorry.
I left the Shambhala community in 2016 because Mr. Mukpo was abusive and I no
longer thought that the community could change. Most of the men surrounding him
knew it. Most of the men in leadership roles were either abusers themselves or
witnessed it and silently endorsed it. I left because I knew unless something radical
happened it would never change.
Then, something radical did happen and it still is not changing. When the Wickwire
Holm Report was released, in the next paragraph the Interim Board asked for
money. They always ask for money, but the accusations against Mr. Mukpo of clergy
sexual misconduct and an abuse of power had just been confirmed. I was deeply
offended that the immediate concern was not the victims but the financial health of
Shambhala and Mr. Mukpo himself. How about instead a fund to help victims heal? I
then received an email to all Kusung asking me to practice for Mr. Mukpo’s long life.
No mention of people being harmed by him – just long life for the abuser. When Mr.
Mukpo apologized, there was no real claim of culpability or true remorse. As far as I
can see it’s business as usual: The victims will be placated, then pushed out, then
silenced or discredited and the ‘King’ will shine hypocrisy from the throne.
While some men in power have made symbolic retirements, much of the leadership
has not changed. These men are still internal leaders and they are still Mr. Mukpo’s
enablers, now it’s behind a curtain. These are the men who laugh at harassment and
allow a culture of rape to flourish.
My experiences are the tip of the iceberg. There is no such thing as ‘small’ abuse.
There has to be an entire overhaul of how people treat each other. Change has to
happen from all sides and by all members and in this insulated, abusive hierarchy it
has to happen from the top as well. As long as people keep funding and supporting
this power structure, there is no true motivation to change.
We all made oaths of loyalty and secrecy and Mr. Mukpo broke those oaths when he
abused his power. I hope that the community can confront him and themselves
directly and that the foundations of his throne crumble so true healing can emerge.
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Allya F. Canepa
February 2019
“As it has been said: The lion’s corpse will not be eaten by other wild animals; rather it will be consumed
by worms from within.”
~ Dorje Dradul of Mukpo, The Court Vision & Practice, Chapter 10 – Corruption
I have many stories and much to share but I am afraid to say too much. So I thought
it would be best to start with myself.
Although I had lived only 7 miles from Karmê Chöling in Vermont since 1984, and
attended Trungpa’s cremation at the invitation of a childhood friend, I did not enter
Shambhala until 1992 when I came to help with marketing. I had been “discovered”
as a possible liaison to the local community. Vermonters are standoff-ish at best and
Karmê Chöling was viewed as a source of great entertainment. So I understood the
problem Shambhala faced.
My colleague, and one of my first Shambhala friends, was Mr. Mukpo’s then current
“girlfriend”. I remember how I perceived their relationship, noted it several times,
and commented on it at least once. I attended Pema Chodron’s famous “When
Things Fall Apart” dathun, a month long meditation practice program at Karmê
Chöling in 1993, finished the Sacred Path of Warriorship and other requisite studies
in time to partake of Mr. Mukpo’s 2nd 3-month seminary, one of the last long
summer programs to be held at Shambhala Mountain, the summer of 1994.
I was an instantaneous true believer.
That fall I was invited to do my first KIT (Kusung-in-training) shift. One afternoon I
was handed a bottle of lotion and was told that Mr. Mukpo wanted his feet and legs
massaged. Easy enough. I went into his room where he sat in his wing-backed chair.
I’m quite sure he wore only his bathrobe as it was easy to massage his feet and
lower legs. I doubt that he had anything else on. I don’t remember exactly what he
asked me, something along the lines of, “what do you think of my feet?” What I do
remember clearly is looking up at him and asking, “is that vanity, sir?” and he said,
“Yes, I’m afraid it is.” After I left the room, his travelling Kusung said, “ah, the scent
of the lineage”. I still remember the smell of the pear lotion he used for years. I was
disappointed when he changed brands. I no longer knew what the lineage smelled
like.
I saw so many versions of that scene throughout my 25 years in Mr. Mukpo’s
entourage. I am hard-pressed to count them. This flash of beginning devotion, the
way he used his personal power, a foreshadowing of his downfall.
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Over the years I have often thought about what I might write. At one point I briefly
aspired to be the Kalapa Court historian. Even now it is much too big of a story to
unveil alone and clearly too terrifying for me personally. I sob, shake, something
like a muffled scream wants to come out. Or I simply freeze. I am told that is the
nature of trauma. Although I have been actively engaged in trauma resolution and
integration (psychiatry, psychotherapy, AA and Al-Anon, bodywork, creative group
therapy etc.) for 2.5 years, when I hear the word trauma, I still believe that must be
about someone else. In a way, I suppose it’s both.
Recently I woke up from a dream where I’m standing in a field of dead bodies. The
“forgotten warriors of Shambhala” is how we refer to them in our liturgy. The
unknown victims of abuse within the confines of an eroding fortress is how I see
them. The many of us that gave our whole selves in service of a vision that we
believed was good, and who are now devastated to feel that our gift was hardly
appreciated. A sad realization compounded by the sensation that “we” are the ones
who helped transform this ordinary person into an insatiable king.
It is impossible for me to summarize my 25 years of experience and observation in a
short document. If the community wants to know more, then more will come from
all of us. Based on my accumulated memories and perceptions, I can say that I
unconditionally support the survivors and those who have tried to bring forth
stories that run contrary to the public face presented by Shambhala and our wouldbe king. We might not always get our facts straight, it might come out crazy and
jumbled, but we, the survivors, are onto something, whatever we as individuals
would like to call it. I personally like to think that I am witnessing the death of
patriarchal rule altogether.
At 36 I had convinced myself that I was out of harm’s reach because I managed to
steer mostly clear of malignant personalities who seem to enjoy bad sex and late
night drinking. Because both sides of my family had normalized and codified sexual,
physical, and substance abuse for generations, I was an expert at reading between
the lines. The context, the allowing blind eye, the inter-generational grooming, the
abuse – it was all there. I came to Shambhala pre-groomed to see my brilliance as a
gift for other and to fall into a kind of blank self-less persona when asked to serve.
The only thing I was pretty clear about is that I thought alcohol was a problem. And
I thought sex was a problem.
The next thing I knew I had sold my beloved home in northern Vermont and was
working as a groom for Lady Diana’s Windhorse Dressage Academy in Rhode Island.
I can’t remember why I ever thought that was a good idea. I had everything in
Vermont that I wanted to enjoy a rich productive creative life. And then I sold it.
I found it impossible to understand, except when forced to look, why I increasingly
felt, and at times acted, like a feral, cornered animal. I was “handled” over and over
during the course of my 25 years of service because I was perceived as both
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compliant and dangerous, both a jewel and a threat. When I was good, I received
treats. When I was bad, I was punished.
I didn’t exactly behave submissively. I asked too many questions. I might have on
occasion even growled. To the credit of the courtiers’ twisted intelligence, I did
“save the kingdom” in several instances. A natural born fixer, I don’t know how to
not go in and just start fixing broken things. Gifted with a robust constitution, no
matter how bad it got, how tired or used I felt, I couldn’t be broken. I kept coming
back.
When they invited me to be the Dragon Region Kusung Commander, I asked, “Why
now, why after 25 years am I being given a command post?” I was told, “you’re the
right person for this time”. When I asked, “and what time is that?” I received back
what I characterized as nervous laughter. That was in the fall of 2017. When the
allegations hit our screens, I was in the Canyonlands with my brother and his
daughters. In reading the Buddhist Sunshine Reports I came to realize that I could
identify every woman from their stories except one. When I returned home I
resigned my post. I had heard about the Chile incident over a decade ago. I have
heard faint murmurings about other possible rape scenarios. In the distance I noted
hushed voices intent on making the stories go away.
I had my own experiences. I kept remembering a quiet night at Prajna. Perhaps the
program had the evening off, or there was a banquet for participants only. I
remember sitting around the Prajna staff campfire chatting with 3 or 4 other Kasung.
I remember the identity of the Kusung on-duty. I believe I was Camp Commander
because that would be the only reason Mr. Mukpo would invite me to his bedroom.
He liked to receive summary reports about what people were up to. Nonetheless I
was surprised as he and I were not in the habit of meeting this way. Being a Kusung
I went immediately to kneel at his side of the bed and waited for his question or
command. I was surprised when instead he put his hand down my shirt and fondled
my breasts and said, “please I just want to sleep,” firmly directing my head to his
cock. I obliged and shook it off. I buried and minimized my own experiences for
over 20 years.
Mostly I didn’t tell anyone. Or I curtly summarized my experience as having been
blessed enough to receive a “quarter cup of bindus” from my guru. I don’t know
why I described it that way. It was the best I could do as my mind scrambled to
relieve pressure from the melodic dissonance. In the Vajrayana we are taught that
all body fluids, or pieces of clothing, tufts of hair, or leftover food from the guru’s
plate are blessings gifted directly from the body of enlightenment. In the end,
although I used those words to keep me from imploding, I was never able to discard
my basic sense that this man had no idea, nor did he seem to care to have an idea,
about how to create a shared space for intimacy. At least not with me. In short, I
thought to myself, “well, he’s not a very good lover, I won’t do that again.”
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It was late when I stepped over the body of the sleeping on-duty Kusung who, if he
was awake, didn’t peep. The next morning I asked him, “so you didn’t do a final
check? To see if Mr. Mukpo or I needed water?” He replied, “No, in those
circumstances, I don’t go back in.” Those circumstances. As a Kusung during Mr.
Mukpo’s bachelor days I would go in to make sure the female guest had water.
Regardless of whatever else was going on, I felt it was common courtesy to offer
water. A strange fog of not wanting to experience or witness my own life settled
into my being. Periodically I would find someone willing to chat about the bizarre
fairytale we were co-creating.
I finally said, “enough”.
Shambhala has been the entirety of my adult life. My so-called productive years.
The years during which I should have built a career and developed lifelong
friendships, the fruits of which I would be enjoying now. I’ve held almost every
service post available in Shambhala. I accomplished the highest practices available
to me. If I still believed in formal practice, I would be preparing for Scorpion Seal 6
and mixing in sessions of the revered Six Yogas of Naropa practices. I went on long
retreats. Sometimes I was in. Sometimes I was out. Always I was in relationship to
a phenomenon that I was both attracted to and repulsed by. I had friends as long as
I was good. They disappeared when I was “bad”. Occasionally I was not allowed to
serve. I was afraid of what I might see. At the same time I had a clear sense that the
king and his courtiers were equally afraid of what I might see. Various powerful
men at various times took me on as a challenge to see if they could put me under
their thumb. I was often punished for my good deeds.
At the end of my time serving as “privy purse” or the king’s personal finance
manager (2006-2010), in what I can only describe as an act of cruelty, Mr. Mukpo
sent one of the few people he knew I would listen to as the messenger to dispose of
me. I vehemently disagreed with the choices that were being made. I did not trust
either of the financiers who had sidled up to the king, feeding his grandiose magical
thinking, buying his favor with flattery. I had learned what Mr. Mukpo had wanted
his “privy purse” to learn – how to model the finance structure to be as lucrative as
the ancient system still practiced in currently existing monasteries. I had run a
successful beta-test and raised enough money to pay for the better part of the
Rinchen Terdzo, the first major retreat held in Orissa. I had created a system
designed to help travelling household staff track the money flow. As I rode the crest
from bachelor days to the era of our married king, I worked 24/7 to keep up with
his activity. I went above the call of duty to protect Mr. Mukpo from being
associated with a dubious financier. And then I was summarily dismissed.
A short time later I was asked to meet with five of Mr. Mukpo’s closest advisors, all
male. I was very uncomfortable. That feeling of being a caged animal. But I also
thought it was humorous – that it took 5 men to … do what I don’t know. They really
wanted me to continue doing the work. I declined. I liked working alone without a
boss. I certainly wasn’t going to trade that in order to work for a middle manager
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that seemed both arrogant and dishonest, glib. To add insult to injury, I was
offhandedly accused of stealing from the king. I was delirious with paranoia, anger,
and exhaustion. I was in a fury for months. After all I had done?
I managed to stay away for two years, but my trauma had not resolved and my
relationship with Shambhala was not yet over. In 2012 I took on the most grueling
fix-it job to-date, saving Ashoka Credit Union. My work as CEO ended in a similar
way. After having successfully beached the credit union onto dry ground, I was
squeezed out of my job by having to take considerably less pay than I was originally
contracted for. I was thanked profusely when I chose to resign, but I was left at 58
with no income, no retirement, and very little savings.
Those two incidents forced me to acknowledge the institutionalized abuse of people
working for the good of Shambhala.
Against my better judgment I returned to Chile in February 2018 as a Campaign
Kusung, only to watch our would-be king on the throne we built look the pretty
Chilean women up and down, assessing a desirable object within his grasp,
overheard my fellow Kusung say things like, “if he does anything inappropriate, her
husband will kill him,” watched as Mr. Mukpo asked for one after another of his
loyal servants to be flown in on expensive last minute flights as a barricade for what
might bubble up and need to be dealt with, watched as we scrambled at great
expense to get him moved out of reach of the program and into a local AirBnB. I
surmised that we went to these extreme measures so that he could drink without
being seen and not blow his cover as an all-powerful guru. One of the excuses we
used was that there were too many ants in his bathroom. I did not want to go to the
traditional end-of-program Court staff dinner with him. When asked why, I said
because I do not want to watch my guru and king get drunk. Again. I was asked to
then please come to support the rest of us. On packing day, I looked in the mirror
and said to myself, “this is your last campaign.” I was so relieved. I was starting to
leave.
When the allegations became headline news, I heard that Mr. Mukpo asked how I
was doing. My fury reignited. I told my superior that if Mr. Mukpo wants to know
how I’m doing, then he is welcome to call me after he has successfully undergone
rehab for both alcohol abuse and sexual predation and has accumulated a few years
of sobriety and therapy under his belt. I have no idea if the message was brought to
him. At the time Kusung were being asked to tell stories of their Kusung days and
were being encouraged to write letters with any thoughts or questions they might
have. I feel certain that this was intended as a way of gauging loyalty.
I was even asked if I would be interested in being in charge of the Mukpos’ financial
world, as if getting my old job back could be anything other than an opportunistic
dump and run. The inner circle was starting to panic. I actually mulled it over for a
few days. In the end I was unable to conceive of how much I would be willing to
accept in salary. No amount of money could have brought me back into the fold,
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especially since I was unlikely to be paid much for long, even if I did manage to save
the kingdom one more time. I couldn’t fathom that it was even possible anymore.
And my body refused.
In the end my question is about what I want to be loyal to. What I am not interested
in being loyal to is an immature boy-king with substance abuse issues who walks
away from every harm he has caused, cowering behind his wife’s traditional skirts,
and stepping on the backs of soon-to-be physically fit and mentally unprepared
mostly young male Kusung who are trained to not see and to not tell. I have
watched almost every Continuity Kusung come through, most of them remaining
evangelical despite the near constant abuse of their person. Granted, the abuse was
not always immediately noticeable. However, in my view there was always some
combination of treating his Kusung as special, or as one of the chosen ones, at the
same time toying with a weakness, igniting competition and insecurity, all while
stealing their brilliance for his own.
Nor am I interested in hearing the mantra of goodness and kindness being used to
lull me into an altogether too familiar stupor. There is no goodness or kindness
available here without accountability and justice. None. Unfortunately myself and
my few real friends are watching the current debacle shaking our heads, saddened
by the feeling that there may well always be new acolytes willing to offer everything
they have to the inevitable point of exhaustion, only to be discarded and added to
the heap of corpses.
I am 60 years old. There is only one fix-it left and that is me. I have very little idea
about where to even begin. I have spent my life trying to care for other, as
instructed by my family and my guru. I watched hundreds of women go in and out
of Mr. Mukpo’s bedroom. I held the hands of many. Rocked with them when they
sobbed. Stayed with them when they just didn’t know what happened. Tried to
warn them about what it feels like to be queen for a day. I saw one too many
debauched nights and nursed one too many of the king’s hangovers. I feared for the
women. I was disgusted by what I saw. And yet I stayed. I watched helplessly as
donations were spent like tossed candy. Meanwhile I’m wondering if I’ll be able to
keep what little I have left.
I experienced one too many acts of cruelty including being verbally eviscerated by
Mr. Mukpo’s closest confidant, his most powerful minister and life-long mentor, the
original and most feared Kusung, who in a drunken rage questioned my loyalty. A
fellow Kusung hoped to shrug it off by saying, “you know how he gets.” I was on
duty. I went back upstairs to the party. I was humiliated. I never even once
considered reporting anything. Everyone seemed to be walking around like
zombies in various degrees of collusion and denial.
Despite the proclamation that I am my only remaining fix-it, I do have one weird and
ridiculous task left and that is to figure out what I can do to help Mr. Mukpo’s feisty,
aging, disabled mother and her family who will have no place to live when Marpa
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House is sold. For my sake, I wish I could leave her in the dust. But I can’t. I’ve been
holding her finances together for over 15 years. Lady Konchok is akin to the
ultimate survivor in this world that was created out of nothing. Instead of selling
both Courts and volunteering to put money back into the Shambhala coffers, or at
least stop the flow out, Mr. Mukpo has approved selling a property that is home to
30 people and his very own family. Meanwhile, the Boulder and Halifax residences
sit empty. I even heard that Mr. Mukpo is in the process of buying another property.
Cognitive dissonance.
I do not believe he feels genuine remorse. I believe that he will say what he feels he
must in order to keep the money flowing in. I do not believe that he has genuine
concern for whether or not Shambhala crumbles. The young man, the one I once
knew and felt love for, had been further perverted by the very thing we all thought
was good and true. If he merely suffered from bad judgment and poor taste, I would
enjoy seeing his sweaty face as he hauls his own damn suitcases onto the tarmac of
his next job. But the protective circle has closed in around him. His wealthy patrons
will continue to fill his wallet. They will protect him from his own wake-up call.
They will protect him from us, the ones who are willing to name the disease. They
will have their own private source of platitudes to help lull their insight. I no longer
envy them even as I wonder how I will find my way in this chaotic, overly bright
world outside the fortress.
I wake up everyday, despite all my support systems, weary and broken. Despite my
perceived intelligence and my broad-spectrum skill sets, I cannot fathom going to
work. I spend days at a time never getting out of my pajamas. I am not yet able to
trust people except on occasion, even ones who clearly love me. Yes, I came in with
my own history of family trauma making it easy for me to fall in as prey. In no way
is it ever okay for any human, or any human society, to use someone’s plea for
freedom and spiritual awakening as a basis for systemic manipulation across power
differentials which indulge cruel, debasing interpersonal relations. And then call it
devotion. And use and use and use until it’s all used up.
And yet here we are. I truly believe that we’ve all seen or heard something. I
believe we all have questions. What remains is for us to put the puzzle together,
attending to the details of our own story and finding our own voice. I believe the
story is important. But only because, without it, I would be left standing in the dark
with my mouth open making no sound.
Therefore corruption is a dangerous disease, one that should be diagnosed and destroyed as soon as any
symptom of it occurs in the Kingdom.
~ Dorje Dradul of Mukpo, The Court Vision & Practice, Chapter 10 – Corruption.
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Louis Fitch
February 2019
Culture of Sexism
One of my first Kusung-in-Training (KIT) shifts was at Prajna at SMC. I was being
trained by a more senior female KIT in how to serve tea properly – what exactly Mr.
Mukpo currently liked. Mr. Mukpo had wandered past us and down into the kitchen
to hang out with some of the people there. At one point I heard laughter and turned
around to see Mr. Mukpo ogling the KIT mentor’s butt while the other men laughed
and stared along with him. The young woman turned around and saw them staring
and smiling, turned slightly red, then went back to showing me how many seconds
to brew the exact color Mr. Mukpo’s tea must be. Of the 4 men in that kitchen, 3 held
leadership positions and have only risen since then. People may find this confusing
as this is just typical behavior in this world. Even if I thought that justified it, we
have no place claiming to be a community based around mindfulness if we are that
ignorant.
I said nothing then. I rose through the ranks and continued to say and do nothing to
meaningfully effect change. And sometimes I’d even laugh along myself, to feel a
part of something. This was particularly true when I was in groups with Mr. Mukpo
and being part of such blatant objectification filled my desire to be part of his inner
circle. In those moments this was more important to me than the fact I found the
objectification horrible. The majority of Shambhala has not and will not see this side
of Mr. Mukpo as it is only with his inner crew where he felt he could drop the PC
Rinpoche thing and indulge his abuse tactics.
The KIT was a person coming to offer her heartfelt service out of her spiritual
devotion and was reduced to her ass. And we all condoned that. And I know the
people who laughed along with him there might be horrified and angry that I would
say this as they are one of the good guys. They aren’t rapists. They have never had
Care and Conduct investigations about their behavior. They have tried to listen to
the complaints of women and other minorities in the community. And yet, we said
nothing to change the nature of the complaints we heard. We laughed along. And
now we’re mostly silent when it has been made clear that Mr. Mukpo has a distinct
pattern of sexual harassment and abuse. We are his closest students and we say
nothing. He was born into this community and has been surrounded with this
structure his whole life. Those of us who are the closest in for the most part have
only laughed along. How would he know any different if we don’t confront him?
How would we know any different if he doesn’t confront us?
And I’ve heard from some other Kusung and leaders that they have actually given
him feedback. They continue to be publically silent in the face of victims coming
forward. They continue to hold their posts.
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Mr. Mukpo often cycles through people who start to give him feedback. And he is
incredibly skilled at bringing in those who purely conform to his view of the world,
which is part of how I have seen Kusung move towards an increasingly sexist and
insular boy’s club. And he can ghost those who start to give too much feedback and
cycle in someone who will feel blessed to come in. Then after a few months, he’ll
bring the other person back in before they walk away. He plays games of who is
close in order to keep feedback at a distance.
I am not saying that it isn’t hard to speak up. But we don’t get to pretend to be good
guardians of our community’s wellbeing if we don’t treat these moments with the
severity they deserve.
I look back on that moment and I know that I am in part to blame for the harms he
has caused. I wasn’t there for the abuses described in the Project Sunshine and
Wickwire Holm reports but I know that every time I said nothing, I played my part.
And for that, I am deeply sorry.
Money and Vanity
During one Kusung shift Mr. Mukpo was performing a set of practices to help those
in the community who were sick. I went to his bedroom with the Continuity Kusung
to wake Mr. Mukpo up and take his breakfast request. We kneeled on the floor while
the Continuity Kusung went through the schedule saying that Lama Pegyal and
Lama Gyurme Dorje – Mr. Mukpo’s stepfather and half-brother – would be a little
late as they were still finishing the tormas and various ceremonial preparations.
After being briefed on the schedule he asked who would be coming and who the
primary funder of the ceremony was. After being told how much the larger donors
were giving, he smiled and gave a happy grunt (interpreting grunts is key to
Kusungship).
Somewhere in that day, I remember cleaning up his bathroom and wiping down all
of the various face products and cosmetic creams, and wondering at just how much
of that money from these students was put into these various expensive creams.
And it struck me just how vain Mr. Mukpo is and how many different ways that
comes across.
I mentioned this to a senior Kusung who laughed and agreed that it was excessive.
But said that it was how these students sitting downstairs could connect to him and
so it was how he brought them into his practice for their benefit. The more I’ve
thought about that, the more it seems like trickle-down economics. Perhaps the
premise of Shambhala is trickle-down enlightenment.
I know people have said that this is not a true reflection of how the finances around
Mr. Mukpo work. But excessive spending clearly designed to sooth his insecurity
happens and many of us know it. The breaking point was being told this was
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absolutely secret as people “wouldn’t understand.” I couldn’t accept that I was
helping facilitate the use of people’s heartfelt gifts to salve Mr. Mukpo’s insecurity
and vanity.
Culture of Silence
Why haven’t more of those of us who know Mr. Mukpo and the inner workings of
the Court-trained leadership come forward?
I think you have to really buy in to the whole thing. Not everyone was born into this
worldview, but I think the pattern is often similar. For those being brought in there
is a process of indoctrination during which Kusung are trained to drop their own
common sense and conform to the boys’ club atmosphere. As each seasoned Kusung
trains the new excited devotees it is easier to shelve jaded views and leave things
sparkly. Kusung are groomed to turn a blind eye. And, then the Kusung most
conditioned to not confront Mr. Mukpo and hold to bro-code rise through the ranks
until they permeate leadership in Shambhala.
For those born into the community we are indoctrinated from birth. My parents
were Shambhala Buddhists. I am what is colloquially called a ‘dharma brat.’ I was
raised knowing that Trungpa, Mr. Mukpo’s father, was the embodiment of all things
wonderful and powerful. Those weren’t always the terms used, but that was the
point. I know that I was unique and special because I had the good fortune to be
born near Trungpa and to meet him as a baby. I am one of the chosen warriors of
Shambhala here in this dark age to bring about Enlightened Society. Again, not
always those words, but that was what was being communicated.
For most of my life, when there’s a moment someone might call on a higher power –
watching your car crash or some equal scare – it is not some god or deity that comes
to mind, it is Trungpa.
And all of the insane things that happened in Trungpa’s days: all the abuses,
molestation, drugs, alcohol, mayhem – those were either crazy wisdom or simply
the hippy days. But the hippy days are long gone and the crazy wisdom argument is
still used. And it’s a brilliant tactic – if something feels or is really fucked up, that’s
only because you don’t really understand that it’s there to “wake you up.”
By acknowledging the massive harm perpetrated by these monarchs, I have to face
the prospect that everything I have ever known or thought about myself and the
world is wrong. And if I accept that as true, I may lose my family and every person I
grew up with.
All of this is a very powerful impetus to not examine too closely the underpinnings
of this sangha.
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Keep in mind, this is how Mr. Mukpo was raised as well. And while many of the
‘dharma brats’ feel like they are probably some version of a tulku, he has been
identified as one and placed on a throne. Introspection for him means a far costlier
fall from grace. And with his writing books and expanding on the Scorpion Seal, he
has built an impressive suit of armor where he has no reason to think any of us are
equal to him as he is The Earth Protector. Until it becomes convenient for him to be
represented as human, as he did in his latest letter, so he can get out of taking
responsibility for the harm he causes. He cannot choose when he wants to be
Rinpoche and when he wants to be human with human foibles. If he wants to be
treated as the top of the hierarchy he must act accordingly.
Though I have held many roles and have tried to address many of the cultural issues
I felt were harmful, I don’t think I made any meaningful difference. For me, after a
point of realizing that I wasn’t changing things it seemed to me that I was actually
just enabling the cycle to continue.
I know some of my peers and leaders feel they want to repair and make it all better.
I certainly felt that way for many years.
But I look at my pretty uniform and my shiny pins and all I can see is a group of
Shambhala Warriors ogling women. And I know that the sexual assault and abuses
perpetrated in this community – scars that will never leave – is because people,
including myself, didn’t say anything.