Be the Cause


My Husband. What can I say? He’s amazing. He reads the Holy Qur’an with compassion, thirst Husbandand a pinch of skepticism. He washes his face, hands and feet before he reads the Guru Granth Sahib. Prays towards the East.. the west, the north and the south. Plans on finishing the New Testament one of these months. The Bhagwad Gita sits in his library… he’ll pick it up as soon as he’s finished understanding the Bible he says. Wants to understand Buddhism. Portraits of Jesus and Ganeshji armored around his prayer room. He treats all his religious texts with the same respect.. tends to them with the same love and tenderness he shows his children. Treats his kids equally. My husband, reads Conversations with God as if it were the Holy Qur’an. Discovers sacred writings in fantasy novels. My Husband, truly a dreamer. Thinks that if all six billion of us prayed together the world would be fixed. Truly compassionate about the biggest problems that plague this planet. More concerned about the welfare of a people that can’t speak the same language as him than his own parents. His parents will be fine, he is dedicated to fighting AIDS in South Africa. Defines his community as the human race and not the religious groups that his friends or family follow. Loves God. Donates blood, money, hours, his health and his entire lifestyle to greater causes. Truly believes that all we need is more love.

My Husband. Thinks that societies unwillingness to change is the only thing that stops him from preaching. Believes that he could be doing everything wrong. Asks for forgiveness… for himself, me, our children, and the people of our planet. Forgives the angry men that wage war on one another. Forgives the people that hurt him the most… expects more from the ones that love him the most. My Husband.

My Husband… loves me and his children more than is possible without saying a word. My Husband, cries when he is happy and smiles when he is sad. My Husband, trapped beneath the World Trade Center… probably never even screamed. My Husband, fearless, welcomed death and the peace that it brought. Dreamer till the end, he must have escorted victims to safety as he lay behind to help others. I miss him.

My Wife. Crazy. Junior High School Teacher. Doesn’t realize how much I need her. Reads the Guru Granth Sahib with utter peace, harmony and a pinch of skepticism. Reads the Old Testament while facing the East. Prays at all times of the day in every direction… knows that the only key to prayer is faith. Does it while she is driving, conversing, arguing, bathing, and making love. My Wife… people still wonder if she is a Sikh, Hindu, Muslim or a Jew. I think she is all of them, she thinks she is neither. My Wife, a better Buddhist than a monk. Never litters, treats animals with the same respect as her parents. Cries when she hears of suffering thousands of miles away. Tears when she sees the condition of dogs living in India. My Wife. Born in India but refuses to believe that there are such things as countries. My Wife. Only angered when I spend money on her.. thinks that the money could be used to save the hungry children in Somalia. My wife. Beautiful… not because of her dress or her minute use of makeup but rather because her soul shines through in every moment she breathes.

My Wife. A better father than most. A mother unlike any I’ve known. My Wife. Brings me closer to my kids, closer to God, closer to my parents, closer to happiness. Would rather me spend less time with her and more on volunteer activities. Crazy. Unselfishness is her religion.

My Wife keeps her prayer room cleaner than the rest. Portraits of the world’s most popular temples adorn her prayer room. Books, artifacts, articles from all religions kept immaculately beautiful, a condition that most families squander on family jewelry.

My Wife. She will raise my children to be soldiers against hate and violence. She will raise them to understand that all religions believe in the same thing but have different names.. as children have different names. She will teach them that these different names are only ways to categorize human beings.. but only one category matters. God’s Children.

My Wife… I know she will cry.. I’m not sure if she will cry in front of the kids. I know she will miss me.

— Chughzy

My Mother

Staring at the ocean gives me a splitting headache. Like someone has driven a nail through the center of my forehead. I think of all the other places on the planet that I would like to visit. Burned and pillaged because these damned idiots are so wrapped up in their ethnocentric games. I’ve heard that the land of Kashmir is a “heaven on earth”. If I stepped foot on it tomorrow I would be shot dead by both the Pakistanis and the Indians. Damned idiots.. giving me a damned headache… Screw em all… .. My Mother

Israel, another beautiful spot.. gives me a splitting headache. Jerusalem, who the … does it belong to… the Jews, who claim that Moses was there, the Muslims, who claim Mohammed had a vision there, maybe I should get in on the act. I took a dump on the west bank in 1996… IT’S MINE. Damned idiots. Nothing belongs to anybody…. Least of all land …. A place like Jerusalem should only be worshipped, not fought over or fought on.

… there are no countries, no religions… listen to John Lennon every now and then and you’ll understand how behind the times you really are.

My headache grows stronger, “Kill the disbelievers” ringing from my ears, past my temples into my scorching eyes. I’ll slam my hammer in your skull if you touch my mother’s children again. Plant mimes in my mother’s bosom, rape my sisters and daughters, torture my brothers again and you’ll feel my fist up your religious ass. That Muslim fellow you just killed.. happens to be me. That Jewish kid you just beat the crap out of.. happens to be me. You pillaged my villages, burned everything.

My mother… she gives me a splitting headache. She lets it all go on. Loving everybody and everything… you are too soft mother… you love your sons too much mother. as one son rips flesh off your arm, the other bites flesh off your back. Your sons wage religious warfare on your breasts… mother, you have no nipples left. Your most beautiful spots have been covered with scars and scabs. You bastards.. you have raped your own mother.

— Chughzy

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