Marrakech, Morocco

December. A wild Moroccan rampage unleashed in the FIFA World Cup. After the Moroccan victory over Portugal, me and a buddy were walking down the streets of Marrakech and I saw a woman waiting for a cab. She had lustrous, wavy hair of the kind that I’ve seen often portrayed on Arabic women. I breathed through fear, then walked up to her and introduced myself. She hardly spoke English. Morocco was the first culture I’ve experienced where I was not fluent in the top two commonly spoken languages – Arabic (or rather Darija, which is quite distinct from the Arabic spoken in Egypt say – as I’d later learn from her) and French. We chatted for a bit and I asked her out for a drink the next evening. She stored my name in her phone as “Vighnesh Rege Hindi”. I stored her as “Oumaima Marrakech”. Hindi is how they refer to Indians. Al-Hind is the Arabic word for India. I was about to take a selfie with her to send it to her via text as I typically do when I meet new people on my travels. She was alarmed at that idea and later I’d learn, the intimacy of it. We planned to meet the next day at 8p. At 7p, she messages me that she’ll be at the cafe in 15 min. I was taken aback. I’m used to people turning up on time or late for a date but not 45 min early. Over conversation, I learnt that she was culturally very conservative and Muslim. She told me that she usually doesn’t go out with men she meets on the street and wouldn’t believe me when I told her she was the first Moroccan woman I had gone on a date with. I asked her if she had ever been kissed. And she gave a non-committal response. It seems like one of the guys she had dated snuck a kiss once but it was short and she wasn’t really ready. She told me that she wanted to wait till marriage to have sex. Morocco is a fairly westernized Arab country. Casablanca’s metro system is as good as any I’ve experienced in Europe. Casablanca is also very well known amongst digital nomads for its party scene. For the first time in my life, I felt many parts of me aligned with her view on the sacredness of sex and the desire to only explore it in deeply meaningful circumstances. I’ve come around to this view myself but through a very different route of open, conscious sexual exploration of tantra and kink. Throughout the date, her sister called her twice to check in on her. We walked around for a bit at the end of the evening, our hands bumping against each other. She looked at me and said “So….”. I asked if she wanted to hold hands. She held one of my fingers and then exclaimed “oh it’s moving too fast! It’s moving too fast!”. It was adorable.

Aswan, Egypt

In November, I landed in Cairo from Athens and then took a train to Aswan. This train was owned by this (seemingly German) guy named Ernst and the marketing of the train made plenty references to King Tut and referred to the riders as King Tut’s guests and had watermarks reading “Ernst” everywhere. It seemed like this dude had an Egyptian Pharaoh cum Messiah complex. The vegetarian food served on the train was steamed vegetables. One of the steamed vegetables was cucumber. I’ve never had a steamed cucumber before and pray to Hanuman that I’d never have to eat one again.

Aswan has a lot of Nubian people. Nubians are Black Egyptians. I saw the Nile for the very first time. I had expected it to be wider than it was. In the middle of the Nile was a Nubian village. I took a ferry to the village with two fellows from my hostel and right as I stepped off, someone recommended the “King of Jamaica” restaurant right around the corner. It was run by a jolly Nubian man, Ayman, who had lived in Australia for 8 years before coming back to Aswan and setting up this restaurant. He really did have a very Jamaican “Jah is King” vibe. I don’t fully get the Nubian-Jamaican connection but there were plenty references to Bob Marley everywhere on this quaint Nubian island village. The effects of deep trauma on the physical body fascinate me. When my trauma is triggered intensely, my heart beats really fast and I tremble and shake all over. When I’m deep in CPTSD land, this happens almost every morning. It’s as if the act of coming back to consciousness itself is traumatic. After years of repressing the trauma, my consciousness seems to boot up with it. Then when the trauma is a little less active, I have very poor hand-eye-foot coordination. I can also be very forgetful, something I was attempting to fix as ADHD a couple of years ago using Focalin, but now I just ground myself and come to my center. It was one of these moments as I got up from the dining table and kicked the glass I had placed right at my foot and it shattered. I had a moment of alarm, as I typically do when something breaks because of me being “clumsy” (the old term I’d use). And then suddenly, Ayman and all the waiting staff in the restaurant started clapping. I learnt later from an Egyptian friend that it’s cultural in Egypt to clap when something breaks. To celebrate the end of a thing and the beginning of something new. How beautiful!

Budapest, Hungary

In October, I came to Hungary for a street approach workshop with a couple of Belgian Dhamma Vipaschik Buddhist pick-up artists. It was called Social Sati – unbeknownst to them, Sati is Shiva’s first wife who had discarded her physical body by immolating herself when her Dad, Daksha, the original progenitor of the Universe, insulted Shiva by not inviting him to a major ritual he was conducting. Sati then became a very, very unfortunate social custom in India where wives were burnt on the funeral pyres of their dead husbands. When the agency inherent in an act is removed and the act is codified into a system, the essence of the act is lost. This is the basis of the devolvement of spiritual paths to organized religion. Indian reformers with the help of the British government were successful in illegalizing the practice. Some good came out of the British colonization of India. My entire spiritual journey has been about facing and dissolving my sexual shame. There is no moment where I feel more shame than when I see someone attractive in a public space and desire to meet them, surrounded by strangers. It’s an overwhelming somatic sensation. A traumatic freeze response. I drown in a lack of self-worth. At all the Temple nights I’ve attended this year, there’s an understanding within the community that we are here to connect with each other. This understanding is less explicit in a public space, especially in this era of digital dominance. So I decided to resolve it and I was grateful to find a couple of coaches who were philosophically aligned with me on the Dhamma Vipassana Buddhist path. We would meditate in the morning, chant “Om” before every meal, journal in the morning and at night and then during the day, go out and approach attractive women and breathe through and process the perceived rejection reactions. I’ve been in many paradoxical spaces in my spiritual journey but this one takes the cake. Halfway through the week–long workshop, Elias and Steijn decided to shave all their head and body hair. It was the culmination of a bet they had between them. The brotherhood and friendship between them was so beautiful to witness. I decided to join in and so did Wolf. Four bald men with shaved eyebrows. For the month prior to this, I had absolutely LOVED how my hair twirled perfectly and my beard and ‘stache was groomed so well. I was so attached to it. So it was the perfect moment to experiment with letting go of the hair. Losing the beard and hair was challenging yet I managed. Losing the eyebrows was shocking to my entire system. To the point that, I fell physically ill the next few days. Then we went out and approached women again the next day. I noticed how much more of my consciousness was available for the connection. Consciousness that was otherwise tied up in my own facial appearance was freed up now and could go out into the connection. Midway through the conversation, I asked some of the women if they noticed that I had no eyebrows. They had not. As I write this, I still feel quite attached to how my hair and beard looks. Grooming my facial hair has been a practice of self-love for me this year, yet I feel less caught up in it. Freer.

Austria, Switzerland, France, Netherlands, Germany

I travelled with the first Temple Arts caravan in September. A Temple is a neo-Tantric community space where all restrictions on the nature of human-human interaction are removed. As many as possible, of course. Specifically the sensual, sexual restrictions are removed. Tantra, at least as it’s referred to in the West, is an exploration of sexuality with intent and awareness – the Temple night is its most essential manifestation. I did two trainings with the International School of Temple Arts this year. Both have been phenomenal for the somatic release of my sexual trauma and exploring some of my colonial trauma. The Temple Arts caravan was the brainchild of my Spanish ISTA brother Adriá who strung together a bunch of Temple nights across the countries I’ve listed above (plus Slovenia, that I missed out on). I rented a car from Bratislava airport for the sake of the Caravan. Adriá used to be an Ayurvedic practitioner. I learnt that he had a daily body oil massage practice. The essence of neo-tantra is to love your body and to move it. To treat it like a Temple. To allow Her to move the way She wants to move and breathing out all judgments that arise in the mind. Human life is precious. The human body is divine. The more I’ve treated my own body as a divine Temple, the easier it’s been for me to express boundaries. If I’m used to treating my body and self as a manifestation of the divine (not in the self-serving narcissist sense but in pure devotional worship sense), the more easy it has become for me to say No to situations where that divinity isn’t shown to my being. No to lovers who don’t value my attention. No to touch that I’m not enjoying. I incorporated Adriá’s body oil massage in my self-care routine. But I made my own modifications to it :) I bought bottles of good quality organic olive oil. And I’d drip the oil on myself before bathing with eyes closed and really feeling into the sensation of the oil flowing. And then I’d slowly with deep breaths massage myself all around. Massaging my shins with my elbows. My thighs with my elbows. Really connecting as many parts of my body with each other as possible. Making connections between nerve endings that had not been connected to each other ever. Really sensing into what kind of touch I liked in various parts of my self and building my own mental map of how my body experienced pleasure. When a body has experienced so many painful acts of touch, seeking pleasure is healing. Pleasure can be sought without attachment to it. Pain can be rewired into pleasure. Pleasure can be gentle. Pleasure can be subtle. Pleasure is divine.

Granada, Spain

In August, I attended my second ISTA in Granada, Spain. I fell in love with a woman that I met there. Four years ago, I had this insight that I’d want to have stellar verbal, dance and sexual chemistry with someone that I wanted to be life partners with. Nothing less. I have not always stayed true to that axiom since then. When I first crossed paths with her, we were both walking up from the Temple space where all the rituals happened to the dining hall that overlooked that stunning Sierra Nevada. I sensed her. I sensed that she sensed me sensing her. I slowed down and walked next to her. I did not look at her. She did not look at me. Yet, we were connected. I experienced a stunning triumvirate of chemistries with her. I realized that energetic chemistry underlies the other three. Energetic chemistry can be felt in the first moment of silent connection. Even before the first word is spoken.

The Alhambra is so beautiful. I teared up when I saw it from afar. Lit up in its magnificence, visible from narrow alleys in Granada.

Such beauty can arise from civilizations clashing.

Such beauty can only arise from civilizations clashing.

New York, New York

During my travels, I’ve noticed it’s only Americans who answer with the name of their city or state when someone asks a group of people where they are from. “Germany”, “Slovakia”, “Egypt”, “New York”. I roll my eyes when that happen. “New York”. Just say “USA” bloody. And yet, many people in the world know New York. I’ve met Hungarians wearing sweatshirts that say “Brooklyn” which they just bought from H&M and have never been to Brooklyn. Ah, America! Love it, hate it – you can’t escape it. And so I start this section with New York, New York instead of New York, USA because honestly writing down USA just feels weird. I have come to the regrettable conclusion that I’m quite American now. It seems to me a characteristic of being an American immigrant – the regrettable realization that what you fought against turning into is a part of who you are and you also kind of like it.

New York is my spiritual home.

July was a particularly challenging time for me as I went deep into CPTSD. I had finally finished the crypto bootcamp and allowed myself to really sink into quietude and the tremors came. The night tremors. The physical fatigue. The overwhelming anxiety in talking to new people. The burning rage wanting to destroy my second perpetrator, who is still alive. I developed a practice. I called it “Loving Torture”. I allowed the parts of me that wanted to torture my perpetrator to do so in a shamanic mind space. I added a devotional aspect to it, worshipping the Goddess Mother Kali. Calling upon her when I was burning. Praying to her when I couldn’t fall asleep. And she answered. The scariest of the Hindu goddesses and yet the most nourishing and caring. I could feel Her deep love for all her children including the demons she decapitates. As the Mahishasurmardini, Goddess Durga, riding a fabulous Lion. I created a few video art pieces under the “Loving Torture” series. One of them got showcased at an art exhibit in Los Angeles later where I was introduced as an artist for the very first time. An ISTA brother from my first ISTA once wrote to me – “Brother, your life is art”. I felt very touched.

New York, New York

In June, my mental health leave from Facebook had just begun after I recovered a clear visual and somatic memory of my second perpetrator sodomizing me from front. It took me over 9 months of revival of my childhood sexual trauma to allow myself a break. Even though I was at a company rumored to have the best employee care system. It’s very challenging for an adult survivor of childhood sexual abuse to imagine that he deserves care and that his needs are important. Even as the leave started, I signed up for a challenging Web3 bootcamp (MacroDAO) that was designed for senior engineers to transition into Web3. I’m very fascinated by Web3 and the promise it holds for empowering purposeful online-offline hybrid communities. As I write this post, I am about to joint the first cohort of the Plumia Internet Country Fellowship. The notion of an “Internet Country” or a “Network State” is the best manifestation I’ve found of the future of online interest-based communities. Imagine a group of people who have connected online along similar interests or values coming together, pooling together all the land they own into a decentralized country with an economy powered by cryptocurrency. An economy whose GDP grows to the 50th percentile of economies across the world and thereby is able to muscle its way to a seat in the UN. Crazy, I know. I believe a disruption of this magnitude is necessary to move on from the current colonial, patriarchal global diplomacy structures which are very rooted in notions of war.

The bootcamp was challenging. And beautiful. Solidity is a beautiful language and the EVM is a beautiful piece of infrastructure. I did fairly well. Yet true to my nature, I delayed till very late before starting the assignments. That’s what I always did in school and undergrad. I had a history of delaying studies and assignments till the last moment and then acing the exams. That was normal for me. What changed this time around was that I’d start noticing the trauma tremors in my body as the deadline approached. It got unsustainable pretty quickly. It felt very familiar and new at the same time. I realized that all my life, I had studied in a trauma triggered state chasing deadlines but just that my consciousness was not attuned to see the trauma trigger for what it was. That’s childhood sexual trauma in a nutshell. The trauma events are just “normal” for the child. Only when the child grows up and learns healthy sexual boundaries does it become clear that all of these “normal” acts were acts of abuse. I decided to no longer subject myself to trauma triggered high performance. I refused to do the last assignment when I couldn’t start it in time. I said No. No to high achievement on paper, Yes to caring for myself.

For my birthday, I went to a screening of short movies in a graveyard in Brooklyn and then had a delicious burrito afterwards. By myself. It was lovely.

I’ll pause here for now.

The only conscious control we have is where our attention goes and what we do with it. The best thing we can do with our attention is to forgive. When we forgive, we set in play the karmic mechanism for receiving forgiveness. When we seek for forgiveness, we set forth the karmic machinery to be sought forgiveness from.

I love you. I am sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you.
I love you. I am sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you.
I love you. I am sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you.

Happy 2023!