So What’s Your Religion?
I’ve been asked that in one form or another more times than I can remember. Usually phrased as to preclude the possibility the answer could be “none.” No religion.
Once at a gathering someone I didn’t know, trying to make some point or another in their group, turned to me and asked:
“Are you Hindu or Muslim?”
I took a moment to decide how best to answer that. Even stereotyping based on outward characteristics — I’m brown — there could have been other options. I could be Sikh. Or Zoroastrian.
I decided to go with:
“Hi, I’m Himal.”
Confused, they tried again. I repeated my previous answer, this time holding out my hand. Flustered and eye rolling they gave up and turned back to their group.
It left me thinking — as with the other times I’ve been asked more directly “what’s your religion?” — what were they really asking?
It’s not religion. It’s group identity. A label denoting ethnicity, culture and religion all sort of munged together. Which “box” was I in? There was a certainty I’d fit into one of the two boxes I’d been offered and mild frustration when I didn’t. I didn’t even help by offering up an alternative box.
I’d noticed early on that people can feel annoyed or even threatened when you don’t fit neatly into their boxes.
At secondary school (one of those times I’d bothered to go in) I happened to mention in a classroom discussion that I was an atheist, that I had no religion. No belief in god or gods. A little later in the playground I was approached by a group of brown boys. They seemed put out by what I’d said. “How can you not believe in god?” They quizzed me about my background and concluded, since I had Indian parents, I was Hindu. According to them, it was very disrespectful to my family to have said I had no religion. They themselves were Muslim. One of the group, a known bully, said while jabbing me with his short meaty fingers (to drive his point home) that Hinduism was “the worship of idols” and therefore nonsense. But I should still embrace it. An early lesson in cognitive dissonance.
Again, not really about religion. Those boys felt uncomfortable. Perturbed enough to attempt to correct my wayward views. They weren’t used to someone who looked like them declaring themselves atheist. That broke their view of the world and the order of things. Their boxes. It may have raised questions they didn’t want to think about. Questions are tricky, they multiply. Easier to quash the nuisance than to ask difficult questions.
I was definitely a nuisance. Something else I’d noticed early on.
Adults were no different. Secondary school again. I was 14 or 15. There was a “careers form” where we could write what we wanted to be when we grew up alongside our hobbies and interests. I had no idea what I wanted to “be.” Me I guess. I hoped I got to be me. For hobbies and interests I put down Dungeons & Dragons, heavy metal and reading science fiction/fantasy.
What happened next still makes my brain itch. They called my mother in and I was summoned to the headmaster’s office. The headmaster was a rotund caricature — shades of “how can you have any pudding if you don’t eat your meat?” I didn’t know why I was there until he started explaining how “these games” (Dungeons & Dragons) were a “gateway for demons to enter our world.” He said he was very concerned about me. Talked at length about how he had witnessed exorcisms and seen “iron fenders hurled at ministers.” I sat there wondering if this might be the strangest thing to have happened in my already strange short life. My mother didn’t understand what was happening.
After the headmaster finished trying to scare me straight he asked my mother to take me to whatever the Hindu equivalent of a priest was, to try and bring me closer to “my faith”, also possibly undergo an exorcism of sorts. What we actually did was to promptly forget about the whole thing. Except I didn’t and in later years have realised what happened was… wrong. I heard recently the headmaster died. Maybe an iron fender got him.
While it wasn’t a catholic school the majority of the teachers were catholic and started their day with morning prayers. I know this because a few weeks later one of the teachers quietly whispered in my ear “we’re all praying for you.” I wonder how long they did that for and if it worked.
On the flip side, when I told the other kids about all this I got some street cred. Kids making the horns sign at me, calling me “devil boy” and being impressed that I’d somehow rattled the stodgy headmaster. I was never going to be “cool” but I did get to be freaky and weird, and respected for it too.
Again, It seemed people wanted me to be in a box. Even if it was a box they themselves knew little about or thought was silly. Just as long as I was in one. Then they could rest easy knowing everything was where they expected it to be. Leaving me as a freethinking young person with questions, ideas and a mind of my own was a no-no.
Race, class and privilege played a part in that. The level of tolerance for being differentiated, “individuated”, is tied to your background and place in society. Some have to expend considerable energy to climb out of the box they’ve been put in. To be seen. To be heard. Risk being branded weird, disruptive or rebellious. One of several reasons I used to wish I was white. It seemed like white people had an easier time being different. I knew plenty of non-religious middle class white kids with weird niche interests and odd behaviours. No one seemed to be giving them a hard time or trying to save their soul. They were just allowed to be. Unless they were gay or gender dysphoric, then it was a pretty horrific time. Or a girl. Black and brown girls especially had it worse. Still do.
Another way I look at all this is in terms of culture. As in:
“But what about your culture?”
I’ve been asked that whenever my lifestyle, behaviour or actions seem at odds with whatever preconceived notions someone has about the culture they’ve assumed I belong to. Like the examples of people trying to shove me into the box they think I’m supposed to be in. I’ve been gently admonished by people inside and outside my supposed culture for having turned my back on it. Somehow “disappointed my parents.”
Which presupposes there was something to turn my back on in the first place. There wasn’t. I didn’t grow up with any of that. There was no box.
I grew up with Indian parents but I wasn’t raised with an awareness of culture or religion aside from maybe residual background elements. No school or contact with extended family or the wider community until my mother left my father when I was eight. Until then I was utterly unaware of the existence of religion — any religion. We didn’t do any of that. After my mother left my father she tried to integrate me into the Indian community. I met relatives for the first time and was taken to a Hindu temple. A fascinating but perplexing experience. I had many questions. There were no answers. I was given variations on “that’s who we are”, “that’s what we do” and “that’s just the way it is.” No reasons or explanations for anything were given. I don’t think they knew either. I was just being told to shut up and follow along like they did. All I wanted to know was why that one guy had an elephant’s head and how that all worked anatomically.
They thought I was one of them but by then I was “one of me.” I’d missed out on the “starter kit” and by the time they tried to retrofit it onto me I had my own. It fitted better, it was bespoke. I’d made it myself. So I find it strange, foreign even, to identify as “Indian” or “Hindu.” But I also don’t easily identify as “British” or “atheist” either. Labels are tricky. Identity is tricky.
Those early experiences (and many others since) left me feeling like an alien who’d accidentally landed on this planet. Disguised as a human and awkwardly asking questions about things everyone else seemed to take for granted, hoping not to get found out. Trying not to show how peculiar or absurd I found many everyday things. Which made it difficult to find a sense of belonging. You have to accept to be accepted, and there was much I just couldn’t accept. So lifelong imposter syndrome, exacerbated by likely being somewhere on the spectrum too. On the other hand, I have a unique and rare outsider perspective that has come in useful in many places and situations. I wouldn’t change that for anything. I like my mind the way it is. As do many others.
It took a long time for me to be okay with all my differences. Even proud of them. I still struggle whenever people try to put me in a box. Stereotyping is natural. Our brains are wired to reduce complexity — to categorise. Cognitive biases serve a useful function. It just means I have to work extra hard to assert my individuality. I’ve learned that I don’t have to do it all the time. Self-acceptance is important but not enough. We don’t exist in a vacuum. The boxes we are put in do matter. How we are perceived matters. Relationships, opportunities and the impact we can make in life depend on it.
On my outsider journey through life I’ve wondered about culture and religion and what it might mean for other people. A patchwork of ethnicity, language, values, customs, taboos, traditions, rituals. Even food. All interwoven. Inseparable. It defines a group of people to themselves and to others. “This is us.” “This is what we do.” Many of those groups don’t see a distinction between that and their family and community. It’s all one and the same. Which is why when we’re surprised someone is offended by their religion being insulted, what we may not realise is that to them it’s no different to having their mother insulted.
The culture/religion/family/community blob. Most of the world lives that way. What you’re born into largely defines who you are. It isn’t a choice. Choice is as unthinkable as waking up one morning and deciding to be a cat (I would do it). Treating religion as something discrete is an Enlightenment idea. Most of the world doesn’t live that way. While people may pick up things which differentiate them as individuals on their journey through life, the pieces they got in their “starter kit” stay. Denying or switching religion in many places is the same as breaking away from family and community. Denying your identity and being cast out. Or worse.
So I can understand why people, usually well intentioned, try to nudge me back to where they think I “should be”, thinking I’ve somehow strayed. I’ve been met with surprise and disbelief in parts of the world during my travels. A scooter rental owner on an Indonesian island, when I explained my level of independence, remarked “no, only white people are allowed to do that.” And while they’ve not said those words, I’ve had plenty of white people try to get me back into my “racial lane.” Even those who got to be oddballs and weirdos themselves.
I can understand how being part of a religion, in a box, can be a big help in navigating life. Providing community and support. Guide rails and boundaries circumscribing options, as too much choice can be confusing or paralysing. All giving a sense of belonging and purpose. Knowing your “place in the world.” Not having to wake up at 3am and ask “who am I?”
In exchange for that most societies emphasise conformity to the collective over individual freedom and expression. It’s hard for a society to function or perpetuate if every member is off on an indeterminate length journey of self-discovery. Which is what my whole life has been, but then I don’t feel a part of any society. There are trade offs.
Tolerance for individual freedom varies and I don’t see it being that high in many societies. Even when not enforced politically or legally, social/peer pressure stops people straying too far. And for many “too much freedom” causes anxiety, Kierkegaard’s “dizziness of freedom.” Those willing to brave it then risk being seen as selfish, self-indulgent or going against the social order. Met with some mix of jealousy, resentment and suspicion, “why look for answers when we have them already? Aren’t they good enough for you?” For the individuals who do grow beyond, how do they integrate back with those who haven’t gone on their own journeys? Will they forever be seen as “elitist” or “weirdos?” Can they ever go home again? Or were they ever home to begin with?
Facing all that, many make the decision to conform early rather than rebel and assert their individuality. It’s not just religion. Other institutions, schools, universities and workplaces, also softly suppress individuality, compounded by peer pressure. “When will you settle down? When will you get married? When will you have children?” Fear of being different, fear of failure, fear of missing out… That’s a lot of fear. So compromise is made, exchanging individuation for security. I’m fairly certain some midlife crises are a result of delayed introspection around all this for those who may have lived a “templated” life.
What’s lost in all this is curiosity and questioning. I was very curious about the lack of curiosity in many of those telling me to follow along and fall in line. They had no questions. No interest. Just blind acceptance. Didn’t they want to know or understand? Or was it all so ingrained in them at such a young age it had become so foundational, taken for granted, that questioning it would be like asking “why is the sky blue?” But even that’s an important question, why is the sky blue? (no need to help me with this, I already know).
Incuriosity troubles me. Being curious, asking questions, is a basic child impulse. At what point does that stop? When is it lost? Is it stamped out or does it fade gradually? Yes we crave certainty and security, but do people trade curiosity and questioning for the security of answers and truths taken at face value?
I don’t think the answers are important. They don’t matter as much as the questions and the journey those questions take you on. The discovery. What you find along the way, even if it wasn’t what you thought you were looking for. But unknowns and uncertainty are seen as bad. Doesn’t that limit understanding of the self and the world? Doesn’t that limit growth? This all feels inhibited in many people from a young age. Or maybe it just seems that way to my alien brain. For me it’s normal to be asking “who am I?” and experiencing “existential nausea” now and then. It feels like a necessary and vital part of the human condition and not something to solve or get rid of. It’s how we change and grow.
This is why I’ve always disliked systematised ideologies and centralised, authoritarian systems of control which discourage questioning in favour of passivity and obedience. Limiting human potential. I don’t see religion as the cause of that but it has been the most readily used tool.
I don’t dislike religion. How could I? I love stories and myths. This is why I prefer smaller religions. Looser and more diverse stories and myths. They’ve driven humanity from the beginning. There were Stone Age hunter gatherers sitting around campfires 100,000 years ago telling stories. Sharing and passing them down, changing and growing in the telling.
I’m fascinated by those older stories. Mesopotamia, the Indus Valley civilisation, Greek gods and heroes, pre-Christian pagan beliefs, Shinto traditions of animism, pre-Islamic stories of Jinn. Those were all stories from smaller groups of people, when the world was a less connected place. Many of those have been stamped out or swallowed up by the large organised religions. Jehovah, or Yahweh, was once one of several gods in a pantheon before monotheistic Judaism emerged. Many traditions focused on personal gods or household gods. These are much more personal and intimate beliefs. They represent a more diverse and rich variety of belief. Many still persist in folk tales, holidays and adorn the edges of established religions. Like the goddess Sophia, an early Christian (Gnostic) female twin of Jesus.
Religion in its smaller and more personal forms tells us about the character and motivations of the people who shaped them, how they lived and what they cared about. What their dreams were. They connect us to those people and give vital insights into our shared past, present and future. The larger organised religions are less about stories and relationships and more about rules and control. Intent and meaning are less important than procedure and obedience. Streamlined ideology with simplified iconography. Reductive and not interested in nuances. Essentially memes. Of course in order to spread easily, to “scale up”, they had to be easily communicable across language, ethnic and other cultural barriers. Like with a small organisation scaling up rapidly, process creeps in. It becomes less about the stories and more about the structures and systems, and the people whose incentives align with the running of those systems. Like in any large scale human endeavour it comes down to the people who derive power from the operational scaffolding rather than what’s beneath. It’s authority, hierarchy and politics, not spiritualism.
Most of all it discourages that most basic human instinct, questioning. Questions are a challenge to authority. Which is limiting and forces people to live narrower lives than they otherwise might. Stories are meant to provoke questions. They are meant to change, evolve and grow. Like people. Not to be fixed in stone. Or copied verbatim.
Organised religion and dogma leave little to no room for debate and change because the fundamentals are under lock and key and there are insecure and territorial gatekeepers.
That doesn’t work for me. My own view and approach to life is generally analytical and evidence based. Scientific. Observation, inquiry, experimentation. It’s how I’m wired. Which is not to say that I don’t find comfort and solace in stories. Parables, morality plays, heroic journeys. I have a need for those just as much as anyone else. But I am confused when science and religion clash. There are many examples of harmonious coexistence. The ancient Greeks had a pretty good handle on this with their separation of the types of knowledge into “logos” and “mythos.” That of empirical, practical knowledge. “Logos.” That which can be reasoned and used for practical matters, from understanding the universe to figuring out how to start a fire, build a car or keep the internet running. “Mythos” in contrast deals in narratives and emotions. There’s room for both. It’s just knowing what applies to which context. They didn’t take a literal interpretation of stories. They simultaneously believed the gods lived on Mount Olympus yet also knew they didn’t really — there are accounts of ancient Greeks hiking to the top of Mount Olympus and not being disappointed the gods were not sitting around. They knew that somehow those gods existed on a different plane to the material one. It’s not cognitive dissonance, it’s just contextualisation.
It’s not really religion clashing with science, it’s the power structures and systems surrounding religion feeling challenged and threatened, creating tension and conflict where none needs to exist. Which is why I feel religion is best when it’s left small and personal.
Taking a literal interpretation of scripture to make decisions is a problem especially if those decisions are life changing or affect a great many people. Stories started out as oral traditions but as they were written down the text became more important, sacred, than the meaning the text conveyed. Sanctity of the text became paramount. The literal words are more revered than the message.
Some things end up as holdovers. Like not eating pork in Judaism and Islam. It started for practical reasons — the economics of raising pigs in an unsuitable climate, hygiene, safety. As religions grew to encompass laws, these prohibitions were incorporated into them. Eventually the initial conditions no longer apply, but by then this has become a custom or taboo. A characteristic which identifies a group of people. So even if the practical reasons no longer apply this has now become embedded and cultural. Which I don’t have a problem with, everyone needs cultural markers to ground them and remind them where they belong. In this example, continuing not to eat pork has no real downsides. Whereas if someone took the view that the earth was flat or that dinosaurs and humans coexisted, then that would be regressive and harmful. A turning away from knowledge and reason.
Faith I see in a different light, separate from religion. We all go on “faith” to some extent. Even the more scientifically minded like me. Ultimately there are simply unknowns. Insufficient data. You have to go on a “hunch”, a “gut feeling.” My gut is no better or worse than someone else’s holy book, tea leaves or pattern of stars. At some point you just have to “wing it”.” Faith can be placed in many things. God, the universe, the people you trust. But I think it’s deeply personal. There’s a dichotomy there, between personal, intrinsic, faith and extrinsic organised, systematised religion. Between the individual exploring their faith and a system telling them what to think and how to live. The former depends on the freedom to ask questions in order to go on a journey.
Faith is about the questions. It’s personal and individual. Even those placing their faith in a large organised religion would hopefully be doing it on their own terms. One person’s relationship with the same god or gods doesn’t have to be the same as another person’s.
So those are my meandering thoughts on culture, religion, belief and faith and where it’s intersected with my own life. I don’t have any answers. I wasn’t looking for any.
What do I believe in?
I believe in my journey. My journey is my own, no one can go on it for me. I work things out as I go along. Like everyone else. I believe in other people’s journeys.
I believe in my capacity for growth. I believe that who I was isn’t who I am now and will not be who I will become.
I’m somewhat humanist in my outlook but don’t like labels. Or boxes.
I’m glad to be experiencing the dizziness of freedom, even when it makes me want to throw up.
As for where I belong: I belong nowhere. I belong everywhere.
I’m curious. I ask questions. Being a nuisance is a bonus.
I like what Albert Camus said:
“The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.”
So what’s my religion?
Hi, I’m Himal.
