I would like to share a small piece of my life with you. I am a bhikkhu born in a Muslim country. People often ask me how I found Buddhism. The answer is simple; there’s neither a monastery nor a temple in my country; neither a bodhi tree nor a stupa – not even a Buddhist statue; there are no monks or nuns or any Buddhist channels or Dhamma talks. Therefore, I found Buddhism right in my heart, but I am not sure if people can fully understand that. How I became a monk is a whole other wonderful, long story, so I will not start on that now. Instead, I will share another story, one that’s very appropriate in the present context. A few years ago, when I came to Sri Lanka to practice Dhamma (while I was still a layman), I visited the Ministry of Buddha Sasana with a friend to speak with a woman he knew. But she was so uncomfortable by my presence that I was asked to leave the room as she spoke to my friend alone. She had warned him to be careful…and I wondered why. Was it because I was a Muslim? I became a monk a little over a year after the incident, but nothing really changed. Within just a few years of living my life in robes, I faced anger and hatred from many people, including monks, (but not everyone) wherever I went. Was it because I came from a Muslim country? Perhaps. But this was not the end of the story. I have tattoos on my body as a result of the life I lived in Europe over 15 years ago. In the West, tattoos are known as “body art”. However, here in the East, I am seen as a criminal. In fact, once, a monk told me that when people came to the monastery to offer food and other requisites, they had talked about the akusala kamma (unwholesome deed) they had done. How so, you may ask. It had been because they made the offerings to someone with tattoos. Living as a monk is one of the biggest challenges to take up; people assume that we don’t have work and therefore, we have no responsibilities. But these very people cannot even bear to stay in the monastery for a few days. If it’s seen as so “simple”, who don’t you also become a monk? Living the life of a monk is extremely difficult. And being a white monk is a completely different story. I know many foreign monks who are well educated in Dhamma vinaya, but regardless of their level of expertise, these white monks are always outcasts – outside of “tradition”. In this context, becoming a monk with an Islamic background was almost unbearable. A few years ago, I met a monk. Understanding that I was a Muslim, he asked me: “Is your penis cut?” He was a senior monk and I didn’t know how to answer this question posed by such a venerable sir. It could’ve been that knowing that fact would help him become free from Saṃsāra, and if so, this venerable monk had no more obstacles as he then knew the answer. Mirages of reality On one other occasion, another senior monk, who was a meditation teacher, told me: “You were born in a Muslim country because of your bad kamma.” I started to think about these words deeply and thoroughly. It might be the case, I thought, as it often takes someone born in a Muslim country a very long time to come across Dhamma – impossible most of the time. I would like to tell the story from another view, with a different approach. I lived in the desert for a very long time. I was so thirsty that I was almost dying. There were many deceased that lay here and there; people who died of thirst. During my time there, I would always see mirages wherever I went, and one day, when I was almost half-dead, I heard a voice speaking about a beautiful village with a shiny lake, not too far from where I was. I really didn’t know if the voices were real or if it was a hallucination of some sort. (NOT?) Knowing the answer to that, I hurried to find the lake. After a long time, overcoming many difficulties, I arrived at the village, and I couldn’t believe it. For a moment, I wondered if it was another mirage, but it wasn’t – it was a real, beautiful lake. I was so taken up by it that I decided to spend the rest of my life quenching my thirst as much as I could, and to the best of my ability. But as time passed by, I was more aware and saddened by what was really happening around this lake; women were washing clothes, men were spitting chewed betel, and most of the people were throwing garbage into it. You could see empty arrack bottles floating, people gambling around it, and even some urinating into it. Except for a few people who sincerely thought about the purity of the lake, the majority was careless, in spite of the fact that they spoke about the water every day, lived around it, and performed various ceremonies. Unable to watch this happen, I told these villagers that I came from a desert where there was no water and people died of thirst, and stated that the water belonged to everyone and should be responsibly protected for the next generations. But they neglected my words and laughed at me, perhaps because I was not born in that village. They thought they could do whatever they pleased as they were born there, assuming they were the owners of the lake. Yet, I was one of the very few people who knew how precious the water was, not because I’m in any way special or unique, but because I knew what it was like to suffer from thirst for a long time while I was living in the desert. I was, however, happy that I wasn’t born in that village as I was therefore free from all the conditioning inherent in the natives, which I thought was extremely good kamma. I still wander around the lake to find just a little bit of pure water, but it’s almost impossible now. I heard many wonderful, touching stories of the time when the lake, and the village, was a shiny piece of paradise. It’s not anymore. Stranded? Now, I would like to tell you the story from another perspective. I came to this country with a valid passport, but after becoming a monk, I couldn’t go back to my country, or to embassy for that matter, because as an ex-Muslim, my life would be in danger if I returned. But how can I stay in this country with an expired passport? In order to resolve this, I sent a letter to the President’s Office and explained my problem. After three years of tiring work, the Government finally solved the problem in a way that I could stay in Sri Lanka for good, but, needless to say, as long as I stay in the robe. In short, Dhamma works. It was a big relief, but nothing had changed. Many still looked at me in a doubtful manner. I have to always, almost on a daily basis, prove that I am not a criminal, let alone a terrorist. I am just here to practice Dhamma, which is what I always say, but only a few people believe me. Although I am now your Sri Lankan brother, people, including the venerables, are more doubtful than ever. A few days ago, whilst I was taking the bus, the conductor became suspicious of me and called the Police (in spite of already passing a checkpoint). Within the next two minutes, the Police stopped the bus and urged me to get off without giving me a reason. They only found a few books in my bag, which I brought to present to another bhikkhu who was my teacher about one-and-a-half years ago. They checked my identity card. The policeman asked me what my lay name was. My answer only raised more doubts. Surprised and confused, he asked: “Muhammad?” I didn’t know what to say. “I am not an Arabian, I did not come from an Arabian country, I cannot speak Arabian, and my lay name has nothing to do with any Arabian name or my current identity,” I answered him again. He only repeated: “Muhammad?” This time, more doubtful than before. People in this country think every Muslim is Arabian and a terrorist. What a foolish idea. However, even though I am now your Sri Lankan brother (which I am proud of), nothing’s changed. Exactly one day after the Easter Sunday bomb attacks, I went to Colombo. I saw on a billboard a very beautiful and touching sentence with a photo of four hands holding each other and a symbol of the four main religions in this country painted on each arm. The sentence was: “Now is not the time to divide, but the time to unite.” It’s a very beautiful, but empty statement. Empty because it’s impossible. How will you unite a theistic religion with Buddhism? How will you unite Hinduism with Christianity? I lived in Europe for a few years where Catholicism was the forerunner. I have read the old and new testaments. I travelled India for over a year and visited many Hindu temples. I have read the Bhagavad Gita. I was born a Muslim and grew up in a strict Islamic culture. Now, I am a Buddhist monk. I am telling you all this on the basis of experience. You may play with words for days or even years to show that unity in this way is possible, but for me, this approach has no meaning. Now, I would like to make my point clear here; as to why I practice Dhamma. I did not become a monk for being cross with Muslims or hateful towards Islam; in fact, I learned many lessons from Islam. I have great respect for everyone, regardless of their religion or belief. But I practice Dhamma because I could find the answers to all my questions, as well as a practical path to practice, which I could not find in any other religion. The correct approach What should we do in this state of emergency? Which approach is correct? Please listen to me. As long as we use labels like Hindu, Buddhist, Muslim, Christian, Sri Lankan, Indian, men or women, black or white, etc., unity will remain impossible to attain, because deep within our perception (saññā), we’ve already made our division. But if you see me only as a human being and not a Buddhist monk, next time I stand in front of a Muslim’s house, I’ll be offered food – I would not otherwise. And if the Sinhalese see me not as an ex-Muslim but only as a human, they will not be afraid of me. In this sense, we can unite. Every person has a unique fingerprint that makes each person different. We can’t even match two leaves for that matter, but we can talk of a single tree of which leaves are connected with one another through the branches. In this same way, we can unite if we drop our labels. I can hug you as my brother and not see you as Muslim. I can smile with you as my sister and not see you as Tamil. In the end, it’s up to us. The extremist Muslims who think of me as an “ex-Muslim” can kill me. You are welcome to kill me if my blood is a catalyst for you to go to heaven, but this is not the solution; all the people – Buddhist or Sinhala – can be hateful towards me as an ex-Muslim, but it’s not the solution. It is up to you to see me as a Buddhist monk, ex-Muslim, a criminal, a member of ISIS and a terrorist, or simply as human. But before making any decision, think carefully of how our views create a perception in the eyes of our children, who are the next generation of humanity. Think most carefully, and tell me who I am. It’s up to you. Afterword Finally, I’d like to express my gratitude to all the humans who kindly and pure-heartedly supported me, including two of my sisters. Who you know as Muslims, offered me biscuits and fruits. What great humans. My sister, who you know as a Christian, offered me food. She was uneasy as she was not familiar with the way of making offerings, and because of that, she told me, as I was leaving her house: “We are Christian.” But really, she was not – she was a real human. All my sisters, who you know as Hindus, offered me biscuits and sweets and most probably went without any more sweets that day. What brilliant humans. I appreciate the fact that all of you, without passing any judgement, offered me my requisites and shared your hearts with me. My bowl was not full every day with food, but with love. Wake up O’ men, wake up before it’s too late. We may be different, but we have the same heart. We can see each other as the same, regardless of our diversity and differences, only if we want to and like to. We can because deep down in our hearts, we are the same. Before it becomes too late, wake up O’ men, wake up... (The writer is a Buddhist monk and his name has been withheld on request due to personal security concerns)