I often find myself somewhere between definitions. Between what I was born into and what I have chosen. Between faith and critique. Between politics and poetry. Between prayer and protest.
I believe in communism, or at least in its soul the one that speaks of equality, dignity, and the refusal to accept that people should suffer just because they were born on the wrong side of a line. I believe in the value of shared resources, in standing up for the voiceless, in questioning systems that hoard wealth and power. I believe that the world can be more just, if we begin to care not just about ourselves but also about each other.
But I am not a hardcore communist. I do not wear a badge for a closed ideology. I am probably just left-aligned with a heart that leans toward compassion more than slogans.
I also believe in God. And I know that sentence is enough for some to roll their eyes.
There are people some of whom I’ve met in daily life who take pride in mocking others for their faith. People who wear their disbelief like a medal. People who believe that any attachment to prayer, ritual, or grace is foolishness, weakness, or backwardness.
My grandmother is a deeply spiritual woman. Her day begins with lighting an incense. Her evenings are filled with soft chants and folded hands. She believes that there is something higher that watches over us. Something that listens when we cry silently. And that belief gives her comfort. That belief gives her hope.
But even within our own family, there have been those who mock her for it. Some of them call themselves communists. They laugh at her rituals. They scoff at her devotion.
And every time I see it, I wonder what is the point of an ideology that preaches justice but cannot practice empathy?
Communism, as I understand it, is about seeing every human being as equal. It is about rejecting hierarchies that place some people above others. It is about listening to the pain of the oppressed, and trying to dismantle systems that cause that pain. But what is the use of dismantling one kind of oppression while creating another?
Why are people so quick to strip others of the one thing that brings them peace?
If I say I believe in equality for the Muslim community, for Dalits, for women, for workers can I not also say that I believe in my grandmother’s right to fold her hands and whisper a prayer? Why do we forget that faith, too, can be a form of resistance? That belief, for many, is not escapism it is survival.
I do not think belief in God makes me a lesser leftist. It does not make me less critical. It does not make me less conscious. It simply means that alongside fighting the good fight, I choose to hold on to grace.
To those who feel the need to mock the faithful, I ask why take from someone the only source of joy they may have? Why laugh at the one thing that makes someone feel less alone?
Faith is not the enemy of progress.
Cruelty is.
And I choose to believe in a world where revolution does not demand the erasure of someone’s soul.
As Tagore once wrote, “Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark.”
That is how I see my grandmother. That is how I see myself. Singing not out of ignorance, but out of courage. Out of the stubborn hope that justice and kindness can coexist. That belief and reason can walk together. That a compassionate world doesn’t need to strip people of what makes them feel human.
Yes, I believe in God. Yes, I believe in communism. And I believe they don’t cancel each other out. Because ultimately, I believe in people.
And isn’t that the heart of it all?
