“She looked calm and serene, but her face betrayed her inner state, for she was suffering silent pains she feared would never leave her."

Who do you say that I am?

This is the story of “I” in the world...

There are stories told…ancient stories of primordial creations, primordial births…and the plots unfold to reveal the entry of some kind of sin into these worlds, and the reluctant departure of its inhabitants from the pristine place, the tranquil gardens where God could walk with man and with woman with no disguise…these were the Edens. The stories continue, playing out the struggle between the Eden-state and the Exile state. The back turned on all good things, to a land of shame and banishment, of covering up…thus was born the façade. But…the narrative continues and there is a gospel to be heard, there is good news - on the horizon there is a messiah, who brings a new hope…the Kingdom Come. The exiled can never return to Eden, but there is another place that promises something that has the scent of Edens gardens, the taste of its pure waters…maybe this could be a return to innocence, a second naiveté?


How do we learn to live in the hinterlands, in the in-betweens…for isn’t that where we are…somewhere between banishment and the promise…the Eden-state and the Exile-state? Am I alone, when I say that sometimes I feel like a stranger in this land…an immigrant…and there is a feeling and a longing deep inside that feels like homesickness…but I have no memories of that home for which I long. I have no stories to recall. No firm identity that I can claim to reinforce that citizenship. It feels like carrying the wrong passport.


In desperation we forge identity in the flames of fear and hostility. Uncertain about what this fledgling state is, we define ourselves by what we fear, or what we hope we are not. We make statements and policies to reinforce our existence, feeling threatened by everyone…from without and within.

I am not like them, I am not one of those…and that is who I am.

I am not gay…I am not a prostitute…I am not an immigrant…I am not a Muslim…I am not mentally disabled…I am not weak…I am not depressed…I am not afraid…and the sum of all these things which I am not, is who I am. I don’t even know who I would be if I were not able to say what I am not. I can’t tell you what I love, but I can surely tell you about what I hate.

When I think of identity, I normally think of fear and clinging. I think, that for most of the time, we use identity in a negative way…and the problem with this is, that names have power. Even when the name is simply “I” or “you”…”us” or “them”…these nominations have incredible power. The nominations we give others or ourselves tend to have a sense of solidity, rather than fluidity. They tend to bind rather than to free. And, in as much as this, they are not adequate for expressing the human condition, the human experience. When things fail to do this they can quickly become, not only inadequate, but also simply dehumanising. We reduce others and ourselves to our lowest common denominators, just to make life easier to contain, to comprehend.

Where there is mystery we pin down, where there is lack of understanding we grasp at certainty with contrived facts. We would rather name inadequately than continue on unknowing. We do this to ourselves. And because we treat ourselves this way, we treat our neighbours this way. We reduce ourselves and name ourselves…in naming we solidify, in solidifying we reduce our ability to morph and change. We curse ourselves to our chosen fate. We curse those around us to the same fate as ourselves, because we fear uncertainty…we fear what we do not know…who we do not know.

I can no longer can say the word prostitute...why? becuase I called myself a warrior and forgot I was a lover...and the women that I love have become slaves to this identity...


...ricky thank you...