War of Faith

Love and war have always been consequences of each other's existence. A love of one thing or a person has led to devastating wars, and a war has often led to enviable love—the kind every woman has wished for under the stars. What lies between the great chasm of love and war is faith. Faith in one's religion, one's love, and one human. Faith has held up the biggest stories in history with their whimsy and their gore. Faith has managed to make lives tangible yet ephemeral, existing at the risk of a great gust of wind, or perhaps at the very threat of it.

Faith, to me, has always been a memory of my mother on her prayer mat at dawn, her eyes wet from her conversations with her God, and a smile that was for me—just me. Faith has represented itself to me in my mother's eyes. Her strength in holding onto it when it was a burden and when it was air. Her fervour in holding onto its kindness and humility in the face of cruelty and malice.

Faith, to me, was my own heart on a prayer mat, wishing for things beyond my wildest imaginations at midnight. And then watching those wishes come true, much to my satisfaction. Only it wasn't just the peace; it was also a war. Watching cruelty in the name of faith was the beginning. Watching people justify their rage and viciousness in the name of keeping their faith alive was gruesome.

I watched people hold on to faith against humanity, using it almost like a shield. I heard cries for help ignored in order to hold on to faith. I do not claim to be the bearer of it, nor do I believe in those who do. I've seen enough bearers of faith commit heinous crimes in its name that it has, at times, soiled the very idea of faith itself.

In those moments, standing in my faith, caught between war and love, I chose the latter. I chose faith in the love that I felt for a baby I saw for two seconds. The faith in a child I met for twenty minutes who holds a place in every one of my prayers. I choose love in my faith—the one who has been a ray of sunshine on a spring day, shining on hyacinths. Because if there is one thing I hold on to, it is this: if I do not choose love, the war awaits to kill us. Not the body, but the heart and the soul—the very essence of what makes us human. To hold on to faith is to hold on to love. To hold on to love is to hold on to humanity. Oh, and wars never spared anyone.