Religion is a big deal here. With the exception of a handful of Chinese and Indian migrants, pretty much the entire population is devoutly Christian, of some denomination or another. The particulars of your faith don’t seem to matter too much, so long as you have faith. Christianity in Swaziland is a very broad church, and many good churchgoing Swazis will simultaneously believe in the Resurrection and in muthi (pronounce: moo-tee), which is voodoo or black magic. (It reminds me of a passage in North and South, in which a peasant woman in 1850s England spends Sunday morning in church and Sunday afternoon catching a small animal and skinning it alive as part of a protective spell.)
And there are none of our Western taboos about discussing religion openly – in public, in the workplace, with strangers. On my first Sunday morning in Swaziland, by the time I’d walked from my house to the combi station, I’d been approached by a Zionist, a Rastafarian and a Mormon, all of whom wanted to explain their religion to me and how it was the right way. (The Rastafarians are my favourite; along with having a lovely universalist approach to religion, the communion in Swaziland is exceptionally good.)
I’ve been asked numerous times now by colleagues at work, cashiers in shops, random people in the markets and streets… where do I go to church? do I go to church? am I Christian?
My answer has generally been a mumbled attempt to evade the question and any follow-ups, sometimes with an attempt at a blanket exclusion based on being Australian and hey, it’s just my culture (O ye religious of my country, apologies for my misrepresentations).
Over those first few weeks I did contemplate adopting a religion for the duration. Theists prefer other theists to atheists – there might be a bit of disagreement about the particulars (was Jesus a prophet [major or minor] or the Son of God? Is the Sabbath Friday, Saturday or Sunday? Does the day begin at 12am or at sunrise or at sunset?) but at least they’re all speaking dialects of the same language. Atheists are outside the conversation altogether.
I’d considered dodging church attendance but staying in the theist club by naming myself as Baha’i perhaps, or Buddhist, or Muslim. None really fit with my lifestyle – Baha’i precludes alcohol and all other drugs, Buddhism precludes meat (challenging in sub-Saharan Africa) and adherence to Islam didn’t seem compatible with my – by Swazi standards – rather immodest dress.*
* My necklines are positively prudish by Swazi standards (cleavage heaven, lads); it’s my hemlines that cause concern. When I arrived, I observed what the women at work wore and noted that it was acceptable to wear jeans and necklines lower than anything I’d wear to work in Sydney. I concluded that the dress code was fairly liberal and relaxed. Of course, because it’s “winter”, the Swazis are wrapped up and are in long skirts, thick leggings and trousers every day. Nights are freezing, yes, but in the daytime there are clear blue skies and that hot African sun, so I am frequently in dresses with bare legs and strappy shoes. I’d been working here a month before Jackson, not without embarrassment, took pity and explained to me that in Swaziland (and Africa generally), no one cares about revealing cleavage or breasts. It’s legs that cause shockwaves. Women weren’t just covering them because they thought it was cold. My dresses and skirts are standard or even conservative by Western standards – cut at the knee or maybe an inch or two above. In Swaziland, knees are provocative, and that inch or so of leg above the knee? Aiish, that’s outrageously saucy. Conservative Swazis still think jeans are the devil’s work, since they wrap the legs so tightly and immodestly (letters are written to the national papers on this topic). There was a poll in the Times of Swaziland the other day asking whether readers thought that “The ban on girls wearing jeans in [a particular town] would improve their morality.” Jeans cause the spread of HIV, kids – well known fact.
With so many questioners, it was only a matter of time before I was pinned down. Eventually at work, I was asked point blank if I was Christian by one of my colleagues.
I could have just said I was Anglican, or given the coded answer of “Church of England” (and I easily know enough to fake it)… but I viscerally dislike untruth, especially in matters of conscience. Perhaps it’s a vestige of my Protestant upbringing. So, after a hesitation I said “No. Actually, I’m an atheist.”
Says he, “What’s that?”
I rattled out “Atheists don’t follow any religion or believe in the existence of a god.” Then I quickly steered the topic away. Some shockwaves were caused though, as two other colleagues were listening to this exchange. A day or two later, one of them came in rubbing his shoulder and complaining about how badly he slept the previous night. I expressed sympathy and said “I hope it feels better soon. I’m sure it will help if you keep massaging it.” His reply, very pointed, “No. I will pray. I believe in the power of prayer!” Me (fixed smile): “Maybe massage as well as pray.”
It is not that I am unable to explain my position or that I am ignorant of gospel. Nor am I generally afraid of confrontation, although I do find discussions where one person has made the critical but unacknowledged assumption that a particular text is self-evident truth (whether Holy Book or Human Rights) to be rather irritating. I am an atheist on very carefully considered grounds, and during my childhood up until the age of independent reason (say about 11 or 12) I truly believed in the Christian God. Belief in a god is a leap of faith, and some find it in themselves to jump and others prefer to know where the water is. Reasoned argument will get you nowhere; there are no sound reasons to believe in a god and an accompanying theology. You just do or you don’t. It’s not rational, that surely is the point of faith, and that is also the problem for people like me, who tend to anthropologise religion rather than adhere to it.
But I hesitate to explain the reasons for my godlessness to Swazis who ask about my faith status. I find myself suddenly squeamish. Pretty much every Swazi I know has lost a family or close friend to HIV/AIDS. Those that haven’t lost someone themselves knows someone who has. They live in the shadow of the valley of death. So how do you say “I do not believe that there is a Creator, a divine purpose or any meaning to our lives on this planet”?
Before I arrived, my organisation was fighting a maintenance case on behalf of a mother who had been abandoned by her husband. He would not give her maintenance payments for their children’s support. Save The Children prepared the legal case for her, but before it was heard, she insisted on dropping the proceedings. Why? Because he had gone round to her place one night and told her that if she did not stop making problems for him, he would make the problem go away. And that was that. Would you say to her or any of the believers who worked on that case: “My view is that our species evolved from single cell organisms over the course of long millennia, and each of us here living today is simply here, and living, and the span of years between first opening our eyes and last closing them is all there is. There are no rewards for the meek and the poor or punishments for the cruel and the wicked. There can be no justice in any world but this one”?
Don’t get me wrong - the argument that life is easier to live when one believes in God is not a logical argument for the existence of God. Of course not. But is it an argument in favour of religious living? Or at least, an argument against expressing views that may disturb the faith of another?
It’s much easier to derisively describe religion as an opiate for the masses when life is as it is in Australia – to be enjoyed, not survived. We forget that when Karl Marx delivered that line, opium wasn’t a recreational drug, it was a painkiller. It’s not about choosing to live in a fool’s stoned paradise, it’s like nationwide heavy duty Panadol for coping with the serious hardship of the day-to-day. If you do not have enough to eat today, and you do not know if you will be able to feed your children tomorrow, and yesterday was your husband’s funeral, then have faith, sister, faith in a merciful Providence who cares even for the fall of the sparrow. And if you don’t believe in God, then what limits are there on what you will do and from whom you will take? To pay your children’s school fees? To make ends meet? To stay alive?
The idea that it is impossible to have virtue or public order without God is fallacious (and let’s not rehash the old arguments, they’re dull and we all know our Bertram, Hitchens, Dawkins etc). But I think it is easier to follow moral guiding principles when you have the twofold blessings of a Christian community. First and most importantly, a church and a cohesive community to which you are held accountable socially. Secondly, a belief that the hardships of this life are things set to try us, and a choice to see each day as a moral action in virtue. I think that second belief bestows dignity on hardship. In the circumstances, I think it is a choice of optimism and joy. But it is also a choice of patience and passivity.
To begin a believer, and then to reluctantly but inexorably tear that faith down means, for a time, leaving your worldview in a state of nihilism. I’ve chosen (as have many of my godless brethren) to rebuild from that nihilistic point, and work out my own ethical principles (all constantly scrutinised, since they aren’t writ in stone anywhere). Mine are essentially optimistic, but they are actively so.
I choose to believe in the inherent potentiality of each human being for dignity, virtue and happiness. I believe the greatest crimes are against that potentiality. To cripple a boy’s mind through poverty, the constant insecurity of basic needs. To deprive a girl of self-worth beyond chattel status to a beating, cheating husband. To teach an illegitimate child that it does not belong to a family. These are the greatest crimes. They are not the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that can be resisted with the Mandela-like fortitude of a fully developed adult. They are the forces that weave and warp a character from the cradle and deny men and women access to the potentialities of their own selves. On what basis do I say this? I can’t give you an answer beyond an utter gut conviction. Because it is wrong. It is just wrong.
The main difference is, I don’t believe in another world where justice is dispensed. This is the only world we’ll know and the only chance we’ll get for fairness.
If everyone in Swaziland woke up tomorrow and no longer believed in justice in the next world, what would happen?
Would there be a revolution?
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