Retro: God, Circumcision, and Scrabble with the Chief Magistrate -posted 28/8/08

 God, Circumcision, and Scrabble with the Chief Magistrate

Posted: 28/8/08

Yesterday's entry was a spontaneous reaction to a moment of mini-satori—an awakening of sorts—sparked by the final pages of The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins. His thoughts and arguments around religion and belief triggered a deep reaction in me, stirring up my own internal archives of experiences and reflections on faith.

Almost my entire adult life has been a struggle between accepting or denying the existence of God—or Gods. Early on, I dismissed the latter after being introduced to Homer and Greek mythology, the tales of Zeus and his celestial soap operas, followed by the Norse sagas of Odin and his kin. I then wandered through the complex Hindu pantheon, which to me has long confounded even the devout. The elaborate rituals, sacrificial traditions, and dogmatic fervor, all in the name of religion, have historically brought about suffering for the masses. In this respect, I agree with Dawkins: if there is a God, it must be a construct of a highly evolved, sick mind—one bent on control through religiosity.

So I made a vow—to commit whatever time I had to seeking a deeper understanding of God and religion. I promised myself that I would search for answers honestly, no matter where they might be found.

I grew up a Buddhist, surrounded by Muslim relatives. I attended both Buddhist Sunday school and Islamic classes, studied the Qur'an, and joined Friday prayers. Religion, for me, became a source of ridicule and alienation. In primary school, I was called kapiak—a derogatory term for "kafir"—because my teachers exempted me from Islamic classes under instructions from my uncle, the man who had adopted me.

Even as a child, I sensed I was headed for a profound internal conflict—a spiritual collision between the two major religions tugging at my soul. That collision happened when one of my aunties had me circumcised alongside a cousin of mine. I was around twelve years old.

That single event forever altered my childhood. I began to hate anything associated with God and religion. I was too young and frightened to express how I truly felt, so I kept up appearances. I learned to hide and compartmentalize—so the Muslim part of me didn’t discover what the Buddhist part was up to. I feared ridicule and rejection. I followed the adults’ decisions about my faith, but inwardly, I was raging.

I remember vividly the evening my uncle told me that I was to return to live with my immediate family in Kuala Terengganu. We were sitting on the esplanade wall at Padang Kota Lama in Penang. That was the first time I saw him cry—his tears falling from the pain of having to let me go. All in the name of religion.

I held that against God. Against the Buddhas and the Deities. Against my teachers, family, friends—anyone who had ever told me that there was a God, a compassionate being. I was done. Poisoned by childhood traumas, I remember one night raising my middle finger at the stars and screaming into the void: “Fuck you!”

I wasn’t just an atheist. I mocked God from the depths of my soul. I was young. I was angry. I was ignorant—but I wasn’t stupid.

And yet, as it happens in life, there are people who become catalysts for transformation.

Mine came in the form of my martial arts instructor—Pa’Cik Abu Johan—who was also the head of the Religious Department of Terengganu in the 1960s. He and his family took me in, mentored me, and helped me make sense of who I was. Through Silat Seni Gayung, and long nights of Scrabble, we discussed religion, politics, women, and life. He was a well-rounded man of deep knowledge—he thought like an Englishman and taught like a Mahaguru.

It was under his guidance, and through his unconditional love, that I slowly began to untangle myself from the knots of hatred and delusion. Through him, I met others who helped shape me—magistrates, police chiefs, and yes, even the late Sultan of Terengganu, Tuanku Sultan Ismail Nasseruddin Shah, grandfather of the current King. I was occasionally his golf caddie. We would talk while walking the course. From him, I learned early on about destiny, class, and the nature of power.

I was still a teenager, but I was beginning to be pulled back from the edge.

There were many such individuals who showed up in my life just when I needed them most. Their compassion helped me heal. Their presence reminded me that I mattered.

By the time I finished secondary school, I had begun to accept myself. The fog was lifting. I was less confused, less angry, and more in control of my emotions. That’s when I made the decision to embark on a lifelong quest for truth—not only to understand religion, but to discover my own Dharma, my own relationship with God.

That journey would take me across the globe, into many lives, libraries, temples, mosques, retreats, and taverns. I took God by the beard and the Devil by the horns.

Yes, at one point I was even known as The Cheeseburger Buddha.