Dear Racists,

You don’t know me but boy, do I know you.  I have lived with you for all of my life.  I know your every word, the way your eyes darken ever so slightly when you see something that disgusts you, that quizzical look followed by a furrowing of your brow when you see something you don’t understand, the way your words shorten into cutting little knives when you are forced to speak to the less deserving, the inferior, the darker.  I know you.  I know how you hate what you judge to be wrong.  I know you judge anything different from you to be wrong.

I know your poetry, your prose and your song.  It is as predictable as the time, as cold as the winds blowing across the Arctic in January, as full of ignorance as a newborn baby but without any of the curiosity or potential.  I know the song, you whisper it to your children and sometimes, far too many times, because I am pale, you whisper it to me.  Allow me to sing a small part of the song of your people, in your honour:

“How can they live like that?”
“When they come here, they need to adapt and live like us.”
They can’t govern themselves and this conflict is proof.”
Their food reeks.”
“I can’t say ‘Merry Christmas’ anymore because it offends them.”
“I’m not racist, I have black/asian/aboriginal friends.”
“All they do is drink and ask for handouts.”
“People are entitled to their beliefs.”
“Racism just isn’t a thing anymore.”

Like most song, your music has an emotional impact.  It makes me sick to my stomach, it makes my skin crawl and it makes me sad for and angered by your ignorance.  To me it’s like the music played by the FBI during the siege at Waco, disruptive, annoying and even in whispers, way too loud.  Yet it is somehow familiar and unique at the same time.  It identifies you and your kind clearly, like an anthem.

I know your energy too.  It’s dark, dirty and unhealthy for the environment.  It has a life of its own and tries so hard with its sticky tentacles and slime covered orifices to suck all the positive energy out of a room.  Yes, I know your energy.  It’s the same energy that tried to suck my life away as a child, to take all that was good in my soul and make it dead.  I know your energy like I know the back of my own hand.

I know your economy.  The one that, despite all the laws in place in a nation that claims to value diversity, still tries in some corners to ensure that the different are not hired and, if they do get in, are never promoted, no matter how they really merit.  Your economy where all the faces on all the currency are the same pale white.   Your economy, where things like “you’ll never be able to fire her, she’s the wrong colour” are whispered in the halls or said aloud behind closed doors.  Your economy where the odd one of us who makes it through is given token celebration and thrust before the crowds as proof of your goodness.  “See?  We’re diverse!”, you cry.

I know your education system, where you keep repeating your messages of hate to your children.  Though you may soften the message or make it more subtle over time, the message still gets through at a remarkable rate.  It has adapted by becoming more subtle, less overt but it is still there ensuring that people like me are forced to continue the battle.

You claim there is no longer a problem, because the problem isn’t as visible as before.  You have Ministers of your Propaganda who are quite capable of putting a positive spin on the situation.   Blacks have good jobs, you say.  Aboriginals are going to college, there’s proof for you.  A Black man is the President of the United States, how can there be a problem?  My kids go to school with people from all over the world.  I know this speech, I’ve heard it a hundred times before.  Yet every day, you feel free to sing your song in hushed whispers where I can be sure to hear it.  Every single day I can point to a dozen racist incidents in the news.  Every single day I can read about it on my Facebook wall.  Every single day you continue with your anthem and your anthem proves that there continues to be a problem.  “The greatest trick the Devil ever played was convincing the world he doesn’t exist.”  Except I know that he exists still, in the part of your heart where your hate resides.

So here’s the deal racists.  You don’t know me but you will.  Because when I encounter you, I’m going to blog about you.  I’m going to reveal you to the world where your ideas can be known and responded to, where you can be called out.  I’m going to write about you until you know me well and until you stop whispering the song of your people to me, or to anyone else.  I’m going to write about you and force your ideas into the light of day until they dry up and lay shriveled and dying in the sunshine.  I’m going to write about you until people are safe from the devil that lives so deeply in your psychology.  Sadly, I expect that I’ll write about you until the day I breathe my last breath and leave this world.  I will hope, in those last moments, that there will be many, many writers after me who will take up the task until truly this is not an issue anymore.

If you whisper your racist ideas to me, you’ll probably see them in this blog.
If you treat me or my friends or anyone else like second class citizens, you’ll probably hear about it on this blog.
If you share your hate on my Facebook page, as you have done, you’ll probably hear about it on this blog.
If you share your hate at A Secret Cave on a Mountain, you’ll probably hear about it on this blog.
If you share your hate on this blog, well… by now you get the message and you’ll know where to look.

My Gurus ask me to stand bravely, with determination and without tiring, to fight for those who are oppressed.  It is a fight I was born to fight.  Never think that it is not my entire purpose.  You, dear racist, are the oppressor.  I know you.  It’s time you got to know me.

Sat Nam Readers!

Waheguru Ji Ka Khalsa  
Waheguru Ji Ki Fateh