Sunday Evening, the warmth of the stove at my back, the faint sounds of Disney from the living room where the kids are absorbed, drifting between family life and deeper reflections. I stir the pot, but my mind churns with something else.

Blame Joe Rogan for this sudden detour—this reflection that hit like a well-timed jab, sharp and unexpected, waking me up mid-stir. I’m at the stove, my kids in the other room, absorbed in their own world, and here I am, caught between the normality of family life and a deeper current that runs beneath it all.

It’s not that I asked for this moment of contemplation, but here it is, sneaking in like an unexpected strike. Life’s like that sometimes, isn’t it? You think you’re flowing along, just doing the work, then—bam—something lands. You can’t help train of thoughts, the thought of how fixed and complicit the world feels in its corruption—and the realization that I, too, am blind to many of my own biases. Yet, I am also deeply aware of them.

Religion plays a significant role in shaping moral frameworks and social norms in many societies. In India, where a large part of the population practices Hinduism, along with Islam, Christianity, and other religions, religious texts and teachings have historically been used to both justify certain behaviors and challenge them. Scientific inquiry into these religious frameworks doesn’t aim to undermine belief systems but to understand how they interact with modern values like gender equality and human rights.

For example, Hinduism, which is often discussed as a dominant force in India, contains a range of texts and interpretations. While some traditional interpretations have been used to justify patriarchy and caste-based discrimination, modern scholars and activists have also found in these texts the seeds for egalitarianism and social justice.

For centuries, religious practices provided structure to life’s mysteries—offering explanations for natural events, human suffering, and moral choices. Whether through ancient texts or oral traditions, religion sought to regulate human conduct by promoting moral codes and offering paths for emotional discipline. It was a precursor to modern science, in its role as a guide to life.

However, religious explanations often relied on supernatural causes, which over time began to be replaced by naturalistic and empirical explanations as scientific knowledge expanded. For example:

• Astronomy replaced celestial mythology with an understanding of the stars and planets as physical objects obeying predictable laws.

• Medicine supplanted faith healing with evidence-based treatments and an understanding of the human body.

Nevertheless, many religious teachings were aimed at emotional control and moral discipline, such as the Buddhist practice of mindfulness, Stoicism’s emphasis on rational control over emotions, or Islamic teachings on patience and humility. These can be seen as precursors to modern psychological practices that encourage emotional regulation​.

By looking at the science of behavior, genetics, and societal structures, we can develop more comprehensive solutions that respect cultural diversity while addressing the urgent need for change in practices that cause harm.

The focus needs to be on creating inclusive societies where critical thinking, empirical evidence, and respect for human dignity drive reform. Both religion and science offer tools—whether it’s religious reforms advocating for more ethical treatment of women or scientific advancements informing public health—that can contribute to a more just and equitable world.

Ask the hard questions, but also listen to science and engage with cultures in ways that foster growth and understanding.

Addressing these issues requires open discussions, education, and empirical studies that focus on health, gender equity, and human rights.

Tonight, as I sit with my kids, I can’t help but feel the weight of knowing that the world is not set up to help people like my son. Non verbal with I see a system that perpetuates its corruption, that feels so entrenched and immovable, and yet I can’t stop wanting to teach, to try, to push for something better.

There’s a parallel here between what religion once sought to achieve and what science now does. Where religion sought to control and guide behavior through morality, science seeks to do so through evidence, experimentation, and critical analysis. Yet, as I reflect on this, I know that science, too, isn’t immune to biases or corruption. The replication crisis, funding biases, and even institutional inertia sometimes feel like the scientific equivalent of religious dogma—entrenched systems hard to change.

But here's the thing: Post-truth science has an advantage over those old frameworks. Its inherent nature is self-correcting, though not perfect. Biases will exist—mine, yours, even those of the great scientific institutions—but the method, when followed rigorously, leads us toward a deeper understanding. Even if it's incremental. Even if it’s painfully slow.

Earlier today, I was reading about the neurobiology of emotions and how modern neuroscience gives us a clearer understanding of our emotional landscape. It struck me that emotions, like biases, are ancient evolutionary tools, remnants of a survival mechanism built for a much more hostile world. Religion was, in its own way, an early attempt to regulate these emotions through moral teachings and rituals. Now, science offers yet another path—a more post modern grounded one—through techniques like mindfulness, cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), and even more recent work in neuroplasticity.

Philosophers like Plato, Aristotle, and later Descartes and Spinoza all engaged in discussions about how humans could best control their emotions. Their work straddled the line between early scientific thought and religious moral guidance. Aristotle, for example, believed in the concept of virtue ethics, which posited that emotional control was essential for living a good and moral life. Today, psychological research echoes these ancient ideas by showing that emotional regulation leads to better decision-making, relationships, and mental well-being.

Modern neuroscience further deepens this understanding by mapping out the brain’s limbic system, which governs emotion, and the prefrontal cortex, which helps regulate those emotions. This empirical understanding can guide individuals to practice self-control and discipline, much as ancient moral philosophies and religious teachings advocated. The science of neuroplasticity demonstrates that we can literally rewire our brains through repeated positive emotional practices, much like meditation or gratitude, which religions often encouraged through prayer or reflection​.

But here’s the challenge I wrestle with: how do I teach this to my son in a way that he understands, in a world that will not bend for him? How do I make sure he grows up understanding both the strength and limitations of his emotions, in a society so often rigged against those who are different? Science gives me the tools, but it doesn't necessarily give me the answers.

I realize that, like many people, I suffer from cognitive dissonance. It’s easy to know the science, to understand that biases shape our thinking, yet still struggle to change deeply ingrained habits and thought patterns. Leon Festinger’s work on cognitive dissonance has taught us that when our actions and beliefs are in conflict, we experience discomfort, often leading to rationalization rather than change. I see this in myself—my desire for a better world for my son versus my own inability to always act in ways that truly contribute to that world.

So, what’s the way forward? Perhaps it’s recognizing this dissonance, leaning into the discomfort it brings, and using it as a motivation to challenge our assumptions. That’s the power of science. It doesn’t ask us to be perfect—it just asks us to keep trying, to keep refining our models of the world, to never settle for the easy answer.

I’ve been thinking lately about social contract theory—the idea that we collectively agree to certain rules and norms in exchange for the benefits of living in a society. Historically, this has been a balancing act between individual freedom and collective good. Yet, so much of what I see around me—the systemic corruption, the apathy, the refusal to adapt—feels like the breaking of that social contract. The world my son will inherit is one in which the collective good has often been abandoned for short-term gain and entrenched power structures.

But, if science teaches us anything, it’s that systems can change. Yes, the process is slow. Yes, it's often frustrating. But the act of questioning, of seeking evidence, and of building consensus around that evidence is the core of what makes change possible. This was something religion, at its best, sought to achieve through communal rituals and shared moral stories. Science does this now, though with more rigor and less dogma—at least when it’s done well.

Science will guide us, but only if we remain humble, honest, and open to the idea that we don’t have all the answers. And perhaps, neither did the religions before us. Both were, and are, human attempts at finding truth and meaning.

we all have tomorrow, god willing, we start again, with the tools we have, and the hope that we’ll learn a little more.

The practice of cousin marriages in Pakistan is a complex intersection of cultural tradition, familial obligation, religious endorsement, and social identity. Philosophically, it raises questions about the balance between respecting cultural norms and the ethical responsibility to minimize harm—especially when the practice leads to significant public health consequences. Psychologically, it is supported by in-group preferences, social conditioning, and cognitive dissonance mechanisms that help individuals rationalize the continuation of cousin marriages despite known risks.

When discussing inbreeding, it’s often examined from a biological standpoint. Consanguinity, or marriage between close relatives, is more common in certain communities, and this is influenced by social structures, religious beliefs, and family systems. While cousin marriages are more prevalent in countries like Pakistan and some regions in India, genetic research shows that such marriages increase the likelihood of recessive genetic disorders. This has led to higher rates of certain diseases in communities where inbreeding is more common.

However, the scientific consensus doesn't condemn cultural practices outright but seeks to inform populations about the risks. It’s a balance between respecting cultural traditions and providing education about genetic health risks. For instance, genetic counseling is becoming more accepted in regions where consanguinity is common to help families make informed decisions.

Several large-scale demographic surveys, such as the Pakistan Demographic and Health Survey (2012-2013) and Population Council reports, have consistently shown high rates of consanguinity in Pakistan. These surveys, which are representative of the entire country, reveal that 40-50% of all marriages are between first cousins, with rural areas showing higher prevalence (around 54%) compared to urban areas (38%)​ DW The Express Tribune. Additionally, regional differences are significant. In rural areas of Sindh and Balochistan, cousin marriage rates can exceed 70-80%, largely driven by tribal customs and family pressures​ DW Scroll.in.

Studies such as those published in The Lancet and other peer-reviewed journals have focused on the genetic implications of consanguinity. Pakistan is one of the countries with the highest rates of genetic disorders due to cousin marriages, leading to conditions such as thalassemia, cystic fibrosis, and various congenital anomalies. A 2017 report identified more than 1,000 genetic mutations linked to over 130 genetic disorders in the Pakistani population​ Scroll.in.

Research conducted by the Center for Genomic Sciences in Pakistan and international collaboration studies highlights the significant risk factors posed by consanguinity. For instance, Dr. Arjumand Ghani from Quaid-e-Azam University and her colleagues have reported a higher frequency of autosomal recessive disorders, which are more likely to manifest when both parents share similar gene pools (as in the case of cousin marriages). Social scientists and psychologists look at rape culture through the lens of patriarchal structures, toxic masculinity, and gender norms. Studies have shown that certain societal structures—whether religious or secular—can sometimes normalize or perpetuate gender-based violence by either silencing victims or failing to hold perpetrators accountable.

In India, like many other countries, gender-based violence has been a longstanding issue, and religious and cultural norms have played a role in both reinforcing and challenging this violence. Some studies suggest that cultural values that emphasize male dominance and control over women can contribute to a culture where violence against women is more readily excused or dismissed.

At the same time, India has seen major movements, often led by feminist scholars, activists, and organizations, that push back against these harmful norms. The 2012 Delhi gang rape case sparked massive protests and led to reforms, showing that societal norms can and do shift with pressure and activism.

Key Genetic Findings:

• Autosomal Recessive Disorders: These disorders, like thalassemia, occur more frequently in populations with high rates of consanguinity. Thalassemia is one of the most prevalent disorders in Pakistan, particularly in rural areas.

• Cystic Fibrosis and Other Inherited Disorders: The rates of cystic fibrosis, muscular dystrophy, and other genetic conditions are higher among families with consanguineous marriages, leading to a higher burden on the healthcare system​ Scroll.in DW.

Understanding these factors is crucial to formulating any effective strategies for intervention, be it public health campaigns or educational initiatives aimed at reducing the genetic risks while respecting the autonomy and cultural identity of those involved.

Comparing India and Pakistan often feels like comparing Saskatchewan to Ontario, but wait, no—that’s too stark a contrast, isn’t it?

Perhaps it’s more akin to comparing different blends of the same rich tea, each steeped with its own regional nuance yet originating from the same plant.

Now, to the untrained eye, India and Pakistan might seem cut from the same cloth, and why not? Both nations share a penchant for cricket, a legacy of British colonial railways, and a love for hearty, spice-laden cuisine that can awaken any palate. They even celebrate many of the same festivals, albeit under different names and religious contexts. Yes, from afar, the symphony sounds similar, but the notes, upon closer inspection, play quite distinctively.

Take languages, for example. Hindi and Urdu tantalize with linguistic similarities that could fool you at a glance. But listen closely, and the script and formal vocabulary whisper tales of their Persian and Sanskrit ancestries, painting a vivid picture of their divergent cultural tapestries.

In comparing India and Pakistan’s linguistic relationship (Hindi vs. Urdu), the Saskatchewan to Newfoundland analogy fits better than Saskatchewan to Quebec, because Saskatchewan and Newfoundland share a common language with regional and cultural differences, just as India and Pakistan share Hindustani roots with diverging formal and cultural expressions.

Hindi and Urdu—siblings separated by history, yet still intimately tied by their origins. It’s tempting to lump them together, a bit like mistaking two kinds of sugar for being exactly the same. You see them, taste them, and at first, it’s easy to assume they are interchangeable. But, like two sides of a well-worn coin, flip them over, and you find layers of history, culture, and identity embedded in their every letter and syllable.

At first sound, these languages can fool you. They share the same cadence, the same rhythm, and in casual conversation, you might not even notice the difference. Whether you’re ordering chai in a street stall in Lahore or Delhi, the words will flow with such graceful familiarity that you’d swear they were the same. And indeed, they are—sort of.

Hindi and Urdu are like two branches of the same tree. Historically, they come from the same root—the Hindustani language—but as time went on, each took on different influences

• Hindi: Borrowed heavily from Sanskrit, giving it a more formal, grounded feel, often used in spiritual and philosophical contexts.

• Urdu: Adopted Persian and Arabic influences, which gives it a more poetic and artistic tone, especially in its literary and formal use.

In everyday speech, they can sound almost identical, much like how people from Saskatchewan and Newfoundland both speak English. However, when you dive into formal writing or specific cultural contexts, the differences become clear, much like the distinct accents, expressions, and traditions between Saskatchewan and Newfoundland.

Saskatchewan and Newfoundland are both Canadian provinces, sharing the broader cultural identity of being Canadian, but their histories and cultures diverge in meaningful ways:

• Saskatchewan: Known for its agricultural roots, it has a practical, straightforward culture, much like how Hindi is direct and grounded. There’s a sense of resilience tied to the land.

• Newfoundland: Defined by its relationship with the sea, Newfoundland is more expressive, with a culture influenced by its geographical isolation and history, similar to Urdu’s Persian and Arabic influences that bring a flourish to its form.

Both provinces share a national identity (Canada), just as Hindi and Urdu share a linguistic heritage. But the way each province’s culture evolved—based on geography, history, and external influences—is what makes them unique. Similarly, Hindi and Urdu, despite their shared origin, developed distinct vocabularies, scripts, and cultural contexts.

Why This Matters:

Understanding this comparison highlights how shared roots don’t necessarily mean identical outcomes. The comparison between Saskatchewan and Newfoundland, much like Hindi and Urdu, shows that:

• Cultural Evolution: Languages and regions evolve based on external influences. Just as Urdu evolved by absorbing Persian and Arabic influences, Newfoundland’s culture absorbed influences from its maritime history and isolation.

• Shared but Distinct Identity: Despite shared origins, there’s a distinct cultural identity. Hindi is more formal and spiritual, much like Saskatchewan’s grounded, practical nature, while Urdu is more artistic and poetic, paralleling Newfoundland’s expressive, sea-influenced ?? I don’t know boys what to say about your culture ha.

In both cases, whether you’re looking at languages or provinces, the takeaway is that similarity in origin doesn’t erase the importance of cultural context and the distinctiveness that comes from external influences.

But here’s the fun part. Take a step closer, lean in, and really listen. That’s when you begin to notice the subtle shifts. In formal speech, the vocabulary of Urdu dances with Persian and Arabic influences, words that sing of grand empires and Sufi mysticism. There’s a poetic elegance, an almost musical flourish that carries the weight of centuries of Mughal rule and Islamic scholarship. Urdu, with its calligraphic script, is a language of intricate geometry, where every curve and line feels intentional, like a work of art.

On the other hand, Hindi’s roots stretch deep into the fertile soil of Sanskrit, the ancient language of Vedic texts and philosophical treatises. Its vocabulary is a reflection of India’s spiritual heart, words that evoke gods and mythology, carrying the echoes of epics like the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. It is crisp, direct, and grounded in a different kind of history—one that feels earthy and enduring.

And then there’s the script. Ah, the script! Urdu’s elegant nastaliq flows like a painter’s brush on silk, while Hindi’s Devanagari stands firm like the architecture of an ancient temple—strong, structured, and beautifully intricate in its own right. They whisper their own stories just by how they appear on a page. Even the way these scripts feel when written or read speaks to the divergent paths these languages have traveled.

In some ways, Hindi and Urdu are like old friends who grew up together but took different roads in life. They still recognize each other, they still laugh at the same jokes, and yet the experiences they’ve had along their separate journeys have left distinct marks on them. When they speak, they reveal the stories of their respective nations, their triumphs and traumas, and how they see the world.

What I love most is the subtle pride each language carries. Hindi, with its stoic connection to India’s cultural and religious history, and Urdu, with its romantic flair for poetry and art, have come to embody the divergent identities of two nations. And yet, when they come together, whether in Bollywood films or in the bustling streets of Delhi and Karachi, they still blend effortlessly, as though those centuries of shared history have left an indelible mark on them both.

And while both nations cherish their tea, the rituals differ subtly. India’s chai is a robust, spicy brew, often with milk and sometimes a hint of ginger or cardamom. Pakistan’s preference leans towards a slightly stronger, often simpler preparation, reflecting perhaps a different historical palate.

On the cricket field, both countries approach the game with near-religious fervor, but their sporting cultures and histories—how they came to embrace cricket and the heroes they idolize—mirror their unique social and political narratives.

The India-Pakistan cricket rivalry goes far beyond the boundaries of the sport, encapsulating decades of history, culture, and intense political narratives. Since the partition of British India in 1947, the two nations have approached cricket not just as a game, but as a stage where national pride, historical grievances, and even diplomacy are at play 

On the cricket field, both nations channel this energy into fierce competition, with fans donning their team colors—blue for India, green for Pakistan—and the atmosphere akin to a religious festival. These matches are much more than contests; they represent cultural touchstones that carry immense significance for millions. The intensity of the matches is mirrored in both countries’ unique sporting cultures, where the sport has evolved into a symbol of national identity and unity, even amidst political tensions

From memorable games like Javed Miandad’s iconic last-ball six in 1986 to the politically charged World Cup semifinal in 2011, each encounter stirs the passions of millions. The heroes idolized on both sides—such as Sachin Tendulkar for India and Wasim Akram for Pakistan—reflect the broader narratives each nation holds dear. Cricket, in these moments, becomes a reflection of larger stories about resilience, rivalry, and shared history

So, while on the surface, it may seem straightforward to lump them together as two peas in a pod, doing so overlooks the essence that makes each country intriguingly unique. It’s a bit like saying all tea is the same because it comes from leaves, or all Canadians love winter because it snows there. A convenient simplification, sure, but hardly the whole truth.

India and Pakistan share chapters of history, yet each reads their story in a slightly different tone. The beauty, of course, lies in understanding these nuances, which is what makes exploring these cultures so profoundly enriching.

At the core, we all want the same thing: to live responsibly and with respect for ourselves and others. Whether we are talking about cousin marriages or any other traditional practices, it’s not about rejecting what works for some but ensuring that autonomy and love are present for all, especially for women.

Many women don’t want to see their children suffer or die from preventable genetic disorders. They likely want the freedom to marry someone they love, someone they choose—not just out of obligation but out of genuine connection. Autonomy matters, and it’s about respecting the individual while also being responsible for the health and well-being of future generations.

This isn’t a critique of arranged marriages themselves. Arranged marriages, when done with consent and care, can foster strong unions. The issue is deeper—it’s about who we are responsible to. Do you owe responsibility to a system that doesn’t respect your individual rights or health? The question we should ask is: can a system be truly respected if it doesn’t respect you?

We can take inspiration from the women in North Korea, for example. They are often celebrated for their resilience, their courage to stand firm and adapt in a system that has limited their freedom. Yet, they find ways to assert their autonomy and demand respect, even within harsh constraints. This drive for dignity is universal, and it’s time we ask for the same respect and responsibility for everyone.

It’s about evolving systems so they work for us, not against us. Empowering women and people everywhere to make informed, autonomous choices while honoring tradition responsibly.

Women in North Korea have taken a silent yet powerful stand in recent years by refusing to have children, not out of defiance to motherhood, but as a response to the harsh realities they face. The decline in birth rates in the country has alarmed the regime, prompting public pleas from Kim Jong-un, including emotional appeals urging women to have more babies. This decrease is not just a matter of economic hardship, but a deeper expression of dissatisfaction with the systemic pressures North Korean women face 

Many women in North Korea are avoiding both marriage and childbirth due to the severe economic insecurity and the lack of adequate state support. In some cases, women feel that bringing children into such difficult conditions would only lead to further suffering, and they would rather not have children at all than expose them to a life of struggle . This is a significant, though unspoken, form of protest against the regime’s inability to provide a safe and prosperous environment for families.

The regime has implemented policies to increase birth rates, such as incentives for families with multiple children, but these measures fail to address the core issue—economic instability and the lack of freedom and support for women. In fact, many women continue to use birth control secretly, and even undergo illegal abortions despite the risks, signaling their desire for control over their own bodies and futures, in defiance of the state’s demands

This quiet resistance is a remarkable example of how autonomy and personal responsibility intersect in challenging oppressive systems. North Korean women are exercising their limited freedom by deciding not to bring new lives into an environment they see as detrimental. Their actions speak to the broader issue of who we are responsible to—whether to oppressive systems or to our own values and principles.

This situation parallels broader discussions of autonomy and respect in cultures where traditional norms may not fully honor individual rights. Whether in North Korea or elsewhere, the question remains: Do we owe respect to systems that do not respect us?