When The Discriminated, Discriminate
What happens when, in the battle against discrimination, you take on friendly fire?

If Discrimination was a club, it’s membership process would be long, convoluted, and ever changing.
For as long as we can remember, surplus melanin led to an instant registration. The papers signed while you were being wrapped up in blankets by the nurse.
Possessing vaginas means the paperwork is a slow burner. Takes around half a decade before you get to experience all that the club has to offer.
Then, depending on the region, your religious affiliation is a surefire way to gain entry, though ofcourse, some desperately sabotage their chances through change in name, clothing and actions.
No matter when you join the club, pretty quickly you go through the five stages of grief, and more importantly, like Lifers in Prison, you develop a kinship.
The biggest event currently hosted by Club Discrimination, is the American Presidency. It presents a chance for us members to discover just how vast and diverse the club is. I’ve learnt to identify the thread that connects members, like lapel pins displayed defiantly : Religion, skin, genitalia, use of genitalia, color of passport...
This 'party' is so frenetic, the dance floor so agitated by the actions of the blonde haired, blue eyed DJ, that you get lost in it.
So how do you react, when at the end of a particularly animated night, your dance partner, your fellow member, your prison buddy, casually mentions he used to work as a warden?
I used to wonder how people could hate. How can people scowl, and curl their lips when mentioning your 'kind’? Such hatred seemed alien, something carefully cultivated and gleefully deregulated.
And then, quite by accident, I stumbled upon the origin of such sentiment.
A neighbor of mine displayed it. We were talking about the Muslim Ban that Trump announced, and this fellow was rightfully indignant. He used me as a makeshift jury, and forcefully presented his case for why this was terrible; I protested, for in the analogy, I considered myself more of a choir. And his singing was getting shrill.
And then it happened. His wife was locking up in anticipation of a night out, and this man, this Atticus Finch, came out with the regrettable sequel.
"Make sure you’ve locked the safe. These labourers here are not to be trusted..."
I felt like a doctor, spotting the first symptoms of a deadly plague that had seemingly devastated America. Could it be?
The context was illuminating, and damning for his defence. This man was referring to the large influx of labourers that had come in from the other end of the country. They’d been filling up spots in the job market, mostly jobs that me and my townspeople wouldn’t touch.
I didn’t want to reach a verdict. Sequestering judgement, I continued to meet him regularly.
The funny thing is, this man was a lifelong member of Club Discrimination. Active in several regional branches. He knew how white women froze upon sight of his unruly hair and unkempt attire; appropriate perhaps on a busker from Australia, but alarming coming from a brown skinned, unattractive man.
It didn’t take long for him to incriminate himself. Such things happen after a hearty dinner at a family gathering, prompted by a loose comment, egged on by agreement.
My neighbor was racist. He generalised an entire subset of the population. He considered his words pragmatic and painfully truthful. I still managed to find a silver lining. At least he didn’t use Twitter.
How can the mind be oblivious of the hypocrisy, the irony of such beliefs? How can people who know how it feels to be prejudiced against, turn around and commit the same actions without a hint of guilt or embarrassment?
I was reminded of an anecdote my teacher told me a decade ago. A man from Kerala (a southern state of India) once came to Saudi Arabia, and faced terrible discrimination from his boss, a native. With complete incredulity and absolute absence of irony, he complained about the discrimination. "My boss treats me as though.... I’m an Annachi!"
Annachi is a derogatory term for natives of Tamil Nadu. Tamil Nadu is Kerala’s neighbouring state.
Such occurrences lead me to an unusual place. A stance in ideology that, without complete elucidation, might enrage fellow liberals.
Here it is: I understand. I understand why Southerners in America despise Mexicans coming over. I understand why they bristle at the sound of Spanish being spoken at the local Wal-Mart.
The truth is, many of the members of Club Discrimination, would get letters of expulsion if they changed their residence.
Indians in America can vociferously support Bernie Sanders, and decry Trump and the xenophobia he orchestrates. But on their next Skype call, maybe they’ll detect sentiments that seem eerily similar to those of Fox News contributors.
If at this point, it feels like I’m saying, Give Hate A Chance, apologies. Far from it. Post Election analysis that sympathized with Trump voters anguish and misery irked me too. This is not about toning down the fight against hate. It isn’t about packing up and leaving either.
It’s about a forensic examination. When we understand that hate, like love, is also universal, in a twisted way, it helps us breakthrough to the opposition. Barack Obama’s tweet that quoted Nelson Mandela is, surprisingly enough, a defence of this possibly problematic post.

I used to view Racists, Islamaphobes, Religious zealots and Ultra Right wingers, as deformed in heart, ugly inside. I used to view them with the revulsion reserved for Gollum by members of the righteous Fellowship.
But now I understand that corruption of the heart is a process, one that gnaws away not just at our enemies, but friends as well.
The best way to defeat Gollum....is by understanding that he was once Smeagol.
