Oddly, science and religion, using their broadest notions, have been pitted against each other in a war over certainty. For many anti-theists, religion dupes the faithful with easy answers to unanswerable questions. In other words, for creating false certainty. By those religious people who see science as an adversary, science is criticized for not having all the answers. In other words, for accepting, even embracing, uncertainty. I am not trying to suggest that science and religion are fundamentally incompatible–that a person cannot be a scientist and a theist. I am merely exploring how the two disciplines deal with certainty and uncertainty.

In the US, we live in a culture where changing one’s mind is unacceptable, even in the face of new evidence or changing circumstances. (Writing for Applied Sentience, Aaron Gertler explores this phenomenon in more depth.) A cursory survey of accusations of politically flip-flopping in election rhetoric proves that point. We live in a world where questioning long held assumptions is met with derision even when the evidence falls against a popular belief. The debates over vaccines and global warming make that point.

Despite science’s foundation of questioning and acceptance of the inevitability of error, for most people, science does come with a sense of certainty. How many times was I told in college by my science major friends that they preferred science to humanities because in science there were right and wrong answers? Yes, college science majors. Maybe that was the case on their exams, but science in no way promises certainty.

Science does promise greater and greater understanding. Science is a path to ever increasing clarity. But it is the nature of that path that attracts the greatest criticism–constant questioning, continuous reassessment, and continual willingness to change. Willingness to admit new theories in the face of greater evidence is science’s greatest characteristic.

Perhaps I am confused by humanity’s hunger for certainty because for me uncertainty is much more comforting. This may be my mother’s fault. As long as I can remember she’s told me, “when you stop learning you die.” What is there to learn if we already know the answers–both to the big questions and the small? Knowing that there are always ideas and phenomena to explore gives life meaning.

The magician Penn Gillette, who makes his living not by not revealing mysteries,said, “One of the most rewarding feelings in life is the ‘aha.’” This is a pleasure uncertainty offers the world. The reward of the “aha” is not the erasure of uncertainty. Though, of course, in any specific case uncertainty has been largely erased, all the other mysteries still exist. The “aha” is so sweet because such hard work was required to create it (most of the time).

But this is not the main comfort uncertainty provides me. Knowing there are things that are unknowable, at least for me, at least in my lifetime, makes me feel like part of something bigger–this complex, infinite universe with new wonders at every turn.

I don’t know the comfort of certainty that some religions provide with supernatural explanations. So it is impossible for me to compare that comfort to mine. But for me, not knowing makes the world a miraculous place. I want to live in a miraculous, awe-inspiring world. But supernatural explanations of miracles do not induce awe. Their certainty does not inspire. The vast array of wonder in this world excites me often because of their mystery. The never-ending search for natural explanations fuel me. My world is full of unexplained miracles. And I like that. It is not the uncertainty that makes them miracles. It is the journey of discovery that makes them miraculous.

This piece was originally published with Applied Sentience. Read the original here.

]]> http://interbelief.com/why-i-love-being-uncertain/feed/ 0 http://interbelief.com/why-are-there-so-many-secret-atheists/ http://interbelief.com/why-are-there-so-many-secret-atheists/#comments Wed, 09 Jul 2014 16:00:00 +0000 http://interbelief.com/?p=414 [Read more...]]]> Recently I attended a meeting for atheists and agnostics. The primary purpose of the group, as I understand it, is to function as a community of support. To start the meeting everyone was asked to introduce themselves by relating their religious history. Having just recently written about my how my religious history is unusual for an atheist , I was curious what I would hear. I was worried that everything I had written would be contradicted just days after it was published. It wasn’t.

Mostly what I heard was not surprising. Most of the people present had been raised in families of various degrees of religious adherence. Several people came from extremely religious families. Their stories were of not fitting in. Their family’s religion didn’t make sense to them. They felt like frauds participating in religious rituals. Finally telling their families of their true beliefs resulted in strained relationships or, in at least one case, total abandonment by their families. Finding communities of like minded people, like this one, was life saving.

Other stories were of less religious upbringings. These were households that only went to church when the grandparents were in town. They only attended temple during the high holidays. Of course they believed in God, but that belief didn’t have much impact on day to day lives. When they realized they actually did not believe, the biggest change was their perspective on their life. How they lived it remained much the same.

There was one other person who, like me, was not raised in a religious family. Like me, this person’s extended family was religious, but their immediate family was not. There was some tension among her extended family about their beliefs, but by and large they were not an issue.

What surprised me was that when several people “came out” to their religious family members, some family members revealed their atheistic beliefs in turn. One woman discovered that her mother, father, and only sibling were all also atheists. Her entire nuclear family had all been acting for the sake of the others for decades. The parents, though atheists when their children where born, did not want to indoctrinate their children. They took their children to a church in the denomination of their extended family. They allowed, indeed encouraged, their children to attend churches of other denominations with their friends. When they wanted to go to church camp they did. The two sisters both explored several religions but ultimately decided none of them made sense for them. But they continued to feign Christianity when the family was together.

Why am I telling this story to an interfaith community? Because despite the evidence from their childhood that their parents were open to any number of religious traditions, both sisters were afraid to tell their parents that they were atheists. Atheist beliefs are viewed, even subconsciously, as something fundamentally different than theist beliefs. I don’t know how many times I have witnessed interfaith discussions that concludes with “at least we all believe in God.”

I was dismayed at this atheist meeting by how quickly my comments about my work with religious people were dismissed. I was told that the work I wanted to do was losing battle. The only worthwhile work in this area was to protect nonbeliever’s rights as religious people are constantly working to take them away. I, of course, stood my ground explaining why interbelief engagement is both necessary and worthwhile.

Not everyone spoke against my work. Some quietly applauded it. But those who spoke up spoke loudly. These were the people who had been hurt by religion and religious people. They want nothing to do with religious people. Not ever.

After the meeting I got to thinking about the presence of these two kinds of atheism: secret atheists and anti-theists. It reminded me that interbelief work is not only about the big picture, as it is most often portrayed. Usually when interbelief moments are reported it’s when rabbis are invited to the Vatican. It’s when interfaith services are held in the wake of a tragedy. It’s when a church donates it’s space to a Muslim community that does not yet have it’s own building. These are wonderful moments. I support them. It’s hard enough getting positive stories into the news.

Hearing these stories made me remember that while interbelief work at the community, national, and international level is important, it is ultimately about the personal level. It’s about keeping families together. If we can’t keep families together, what hope is there for bring communities separated by race, religion, and nationality together?

This post was originally published with State of Formation. Read it here.

Growing Up

Looking back, there were moments. At Hanukah one year the rabbi’s wife told me I was going to hell when she discovered that I didn’t know how to play dreidel. Before one meal with my stepfamily my stepcousin, who was about eight at the time, chastised me for having my eyes open during grace. I explained to her that the only way she could know that was if her eyes were also open. I was surprised at my cousin’s Bat Mitzvah when all the cousins were asked to come to the front to read a passage. I walked nervously to the front wondering if my family remembered that I had not had a Bat Mitzvah and could not read Hebrew.

San Albino Church Mesilla, a Catholic Church near my hometown of Las Cruces, New Mexico

As an adult I have learned that there was strife behind the scenes. My Catholic grandparents were worried about the influence of my Jewish mother and wanted to pay for Catholic boarding school to save my soul. I am probably responsible for shortening my grandmother’s life. When she handed me a rosary at my grandfather’s funeral when I was ten years old I asked what it was.

It is probably clear by now, one side of my family is Jewish and one side is Catholic. On both sides my relatives range from devout to high holiday adherents to atheists. My stepfamily is nondenominationally Christian. My mom would probably call herself culturally Jewish. My dad calls himself a devoutly fallen away Catholic. Religion was a nonissue in my house. God was not discussed, but the subject wasn’t avoided either. It just didn’t come up. Just like in the rest of my life.

A Different Narrative

I’m not just previewing the first chapter of my memoirs. I tell you all this to explain that I am not nor was I ever an angry atheist. I am not a recovering theist. I never had to “come out” to my family. My decision to pursue a Masters in Religion was probably a bigger shock.

Yet I have been reluctant to join the atheist community. I only recently started accepting the atheist label. And I still prefer humanist. My reluctance was not because of the stigma and prejudice, but largely because I don’t like to be defined by a negative, in this case a lack of belief. I prefer to be defined by what I do believe in: the innate equality of all humans and right to have and to pursue happiness.

Now that I have accepted the atheist label, I am still reluctant to participate in the community. Why? Because a large part of the conversation is about why or how to leave religion. I didn’t realize how deep my reluctance was until I was asked to participate in the second annual International Day of Doubt. On June 1st atheists around the world posted on Facebook an invitation to religious people who were doubting their beliefs to message them. It was an opportunity to find a community and talk to people who had gone through a similar struggle. I should explain that I am in no way knocking people and organizations that provide support and guidance for those who have realized their beliefs are different from the religious beliefs of their family, friends, or community. I have infinite sympathy for the difficulty of that situation. But I struggled with the decision to participate in Day of Doubt or not. Ultimately I decided not to. My reasoning, right or wrong, was that since I had never been religious I was not the right person to talk to about the struggle of leaving religion if someone did contact me. I am still not sure I made the right decision.

Building Bridges

I’m not just previewing the first chapter of my memoirs. I tell you all this to explain that I am not nor was I ever an angry atheist. I am not a recovering theist. I never had to “come out” to my family. My decision to pursue a Masters in Religion was probably a bigger shock.

Yet I have been reluctant to join the atheist community. I only recently started accepting the atheist label. And I still prefer humanist. My reluctance was not because of the stigma and prejudice, but largely because I don’t like to be defined by a negative, in this case a lack of belief. I prefer to be defined by what I do believe in: the innate equality of all humans and right to have and to pursue happiness.

Now that I have accepted the atheist label, I am still reluctant to participate in the community. Why? Because a large part of the conversation is about why or how to leave religion. I didn’t realize how deep my reluctance was until I was asked to participate in the second annual International Day of Doubt. On June 1st atheists around the world posted on Facebook an invitation to religious people who were doubting their beliefs to message them. It was an opportunity to find a community and talk to people who had gone through a similar struggle. I should explain that I am in no way knocking people and organizations that provide support and guidance for those who have realized their beliefs are different from the religious beliefs of their family, friends, or community. I have infinite sympathy for the difficulty of that situation. But I struggled with the decision to participate in Day of Doubt or not. Ultimately I decided not to. My reasoning, right or wrong, was that since I had never been religious I was not the right person to talk to about the struggle of leaving religion if someone did contact me. I am still not sure I made the right decision.

For those who have experienced serious problems with their families and loved ones, Recovering from Religion may be able to help.

These phrases coming from the atheist community are not nearly as bad, but they, and similar language and actions, are not helping either. There is no doubt that these kinds of phrases are helpful for those embracing atheistic beliefs, especially if doing so means breaking or straining relations with family and friends. But they also contribute to the prejudiced atmosphere between theists and atheists. They grate against the ears of those who still hold religious beliefs. To them they are attacks.

How is it possible to build a bridge when both sides are attacking each other? It’s not. Attacks on the religious community do not make it easier for atheists to leave them or remain in them but live openly. Attacks affirm some religious people’s prejudice that atheists are not worthwhile people. Theists who refuse to associate with atheists see only the label and not the person. These phrases coming from the atheist side do the same thing. One side must start building the bridge. Hopefully the other side will see construction and will be inspired to start building from their side as well.

It is, of course, unfair to lump all atheists together as attackers. Just as it is unfair to claim that all religious people think atheists are evil. But as long as atheism is strongly associated with anti-theism I will resist association myself. My resistance is not because of the prejudice atheists face from the religious, but because of the intolerance atheists aim at the religious.

This week’s blog is at Applied Sentience. You can read it here.

My relatives were persecuted.  We are pretty sure all my family members who did not immigrate to the United States when my great-grandparents did, before the war, perished during the war. As far as I am concerned, the fact of their murder is not relevant to my reaction at the museum. I cried for every unjust act committed during the Holocaust. I do not want to malign the strong and just reaction that anyone would have when their loved ones and their people are persecuted and killed.  But do I have to be related to care so much?

Prayers for the victims of the Cambodian genocide.

Then I spent last August in Cambodia, which is healing from its own genocide.  The wounds are still fresh.  Millions of people perished, yet before I began preparing for this trip the genocide was barely in my consciousness.  I knew that it had happened, but not much more.  I now know much more.  And I cried for every unjust act committed in Cambodia.

But why didn’t I know about it?

I didn’t know about the Rwandan genocide until an Academy Award winning film about it was released.  I should have known.  I am interested in the world.  I am a student of war and peace and violence and nonviolence.  But, I did not learn about these genocides in school.  I never saw a documentary or read a book about them.  They were not discussed at home.  I think I didn’t know about these atrocities because the victims were too dissimilar from myself.  Just as the Israeli woman assumed my tears were for relatives, Cambodians and Rwandans were too distant from myself–nationally, politically, racially, religiously–to get true attention.

There was an assumption in Israel that my tears were for the my relatives who died in the Holocaust.  The assumption included a larger assumption that I am more likely to shed tears for the victims of the Holocaust because I am of Jewish decent than someone who is not Jewish.  The flip side of this is that I am not of Cambodian or Buddhist decent, so I would naturally care less for their genocide as for the genocide of the Jews.  Even if that were true, rarely does someone suggest I should shed equal tears for the victims in Rwanda who were not targeted because of their religion but where in fact largely Catholic. I am also of Catholic decent. They are as much my people as the Jews who died in the Holocaust are.

At S-21, the school-turned-torture-prison in Phnom Penh that is now a museum, there are rooms full of pictures of the victims of the place.  There are hundreds of photos, row after row, room after room.  Some of the faces show defeat, some show defiance, some show a haunting bit of a smile.  One room is dedicated to the, mostly Western, foreigners that were also taken to S-21.  Their photos are displayed along with their histories and the accusations that brought them to the prison.  Why were all the foreigners’ stories shared while the nationals’ stories remained largely untold?  Because the foreigners’ stories provide a point of connection for the museum visitors who are mostly Western tourists.

For me the most important section of the Holocaust museum was a room dedicated to heroes of the Holocaust who attempted and often succeeded at helping the persecuted groups of the Holocaust.  We have all heard tales of people who, at great personal risk, hide victims of persecution in their homes, sign illegal visas so persecuted people can escape the country, or smuggle supplies into ghettos to relieve the suffering.  We hear these stories and we love these stories.  I believe that as least part of the appeal is that these are people helping each other not because they are related, not because they share a religious or philosophical position, and not because they have anything to gain, but because it is the right thing to do.  Period.

This post is also published at State of Formation.

Witchcraft accusations are very real. And very destructive.

I am not alone in my ignorance. Most of the people I’ve talked to about my experience visiting Kukuo—one of several camps for alleged witches in northern Ghana—reacted just about the same as I did: “There are still witchcraft accusations? That many? In the 21st century? Accusations that are taken seriously?”

Yes. Yes. Yes. And Yes.

In Ghana, these very real witchcraft accusations are founded on, what is to me, very shaky evidence. An accuser need only say they saw the person in a dream and that is enough for an accusation to be taken seriously. Later there might be a test where a chicken is slaughtered and the position the chicken takes when it dies reveals the truth or falsity of the accusations. Such trials are not mandatory and happen infrequently.

A witch’s hut in Kukuo.

Dream evidence is especially problematic because of malaria. Malaria is a huge problem in Ghana and in northern Ghana it is largely misunderstood. Many residents only know that an illness is occurring, not the cause. The illness is not associated with mosquitos at all. The illness is often attributed to witchcraft. Witchcraft accusations increase during malaria season. It does not help that a symptom of malaria is vivid dreams.

Women—they are almost always women—are in constant danger of being accused. Especially if they don’t have a man to speak for them. Especially if they cannot produce children, due to age or biology. Especially if they have a little economic power. In other words, if they don’t conform to the gender role Ghanaian society requires they conform to.

For example, if a woman, especially a widow or single woman, runs a successful business, she might choose to help her community by giving loans. I spoke to several alleged witches in Kukuo. Most of their accusers were people who owed them money. For me the interpretation is obvious. This person did not want to pay. It is easier to accuse and have the debt wiped out than find the money to make good on it. This is a personal grudge. But there is a broader issue.

Wealthy men, even single wealthy men, who lend money to members of their community are rarely, if ever, accused of witchcraft by their debtors. Why? Why are women vulnerable when similarly situated men are not? Because these single, successful women are threats to the system. Not only does the individual accuser benefit when their debt is wiped out, but the community status quo is preserved when the woman is banished and her business redistributed.

An accusation leading to banishment means leaving with only the clothes on one’s back. But it often also means beatings—beatings in the woman’s home community and in every community she encounters on her way to one of the refugee camps for alleged witches. The camps are safe places, but not easy ones. In the camps the women still struggle to acquire basic necessities. From Kukuo, water is several miles away. Many of the women are reliant on what food is donated to them or what they can find in fields after harvest. Their roofs leak when it rains so they cannot sleep. Most of these women are in their 70s or older.

Their existence is not widely known and the fact of their existence is unbelievable to many, but these camps are real. I have seen them. These are difficult places to live, but they are, at least, places to live. Alleged witches are regularly killed in Nigeria and other west African nations that do not have camps.

I encountered these camps as part of a humanist service trip called Pathfinders Project. As humanists, from our perspective, there is no supernatural power at play. For every evidence of witchcraft we encountered we saw a natural, not supernatural, explanation. Malaria, dysentery, common childbirth complications. For every accusation of witchcraft we saw human, not spiritual, motivations. Jealousy, greed, power.

We met many alleged witches in Kukuo. I do not believe I met a single witch.

I do not believe witchcraft is real. I do believe these people do. (I should point out that while every alleged witch we talked to denied her guilt, every one affirmed the existence of witchcraft.) I also believe that witchcraft allegations are often used as a pretext to advance despicable personal agendas.

These women need help. But how? Addressing the situation in the camps themselves is easy. Okay, not easy, but easier. Easier than addressing the underlying problem. Clean water is manageable with time, money, and helping hands. So are the food, shelter, and other challenges are challenges poor communities around the globe face. But addressing these issues does not nothing toward ending the need for these camps, which must be the ultimate goal.

As a devotee of interbelief dialogue and cooperation, I do not believe it is respectful to address this situation by attacking the belief in witchcraft. Not only is it not respectful, it’s not practical.

So, how does one address this human rights abuse without attacking the core beliefs that are, if not causing, perpetuating it?

Education would help. Education, about malaria, for example. In the capital, Accra, in southern Ghana, there are very few accusations. Yet, the belief in witchcraft is still widespread. The lack of accusations cannot completely be explained by an understanding of malaria, but I believe it must be part—a large part. Why don’t the residents of Accra levy witchcraft accusations when they fall ill with malaria? It’s not because they don’t believe in witchcraft. It’s because they recognize the symptoms and causes of malaria. There is an alternative explanation that makes more sense. Witchcraft activity is delegated to another realm and Accra’s women are safe. Safer.

The hardest interbelief moments are the ones where the beliefs of each side are directly at odds. In this case there is no talking around our differences. There is little common ground to stand on together. Yet, I utterly believe that a Ghanaian alleged witch and an American humanist can work together. And not only on the common ground problems, but on the difficult, belief influenced problems too. The problems are human problems and humans can work together to solve them.

But in Kukuo it’s not just a humanist and an alleged witch who can work together beyond beliefs. The mullah in Kukuo—whose beliefs do not align with the alleged witch or the humanist—is committed to closing the camp by eradicating the need for one. Here is an opportunity for true interbelief cooperation that can make a real difference in the lives of hundreds women, if not more. I am excited to see it come to fruition.

This was originally published at State of Formation.

After all my clothes were hanging to dry, I rinsed my sweat off in the shower.  I poured myself a glass of water from a 3.5 liter bottle or water that we keep stocked in the fridge.  Then I realized, again, the miracle that drinkable water is available from almost any tap in the United States.

Clean, drinkable water is only available from bottles on Isla Puná.  Bottles that are carried by boat from the mainland.  Bottles that are too expensive for many of the residents to afford.  On Puná, if you can’t afford bottled water, you probably can’t afford the fuel to boil the water you take from the contaminated wells either.  Ailments from contaminated water is one of the most pressing healthcare issues on the island.  That is why the Pathfinders  have come to Puná, to help provide drinkable water that is purified and filtered right here on Puná.

The most well known well in Puná. But it is surrounded by poorly constructed septic tanks and animal roam freely near the open top. Testing has showed high levels of bacterial contamination.

Our goal is drinkable water.  That can only be accomplished for the community by the community.  But we can help.

Two days ago I had a conversation on the street with a local shop owner about the clean water situation on Puná and what we, working with Water Ecuador,  were doing about it.  This shop owner had stopped me on the street before asking me about the water.  Unfortunately, my Spanish is not advanced enough to tell him more than the most basic facts about our scheme.  This time was different though.  This time I had someone with me who speaks much better Spanish than I.

After we explained the water center we are constructing, he asked me why I was here.  I understood this question in two ways.  One, why am I working on water?  Two, why am I in Puná working on water?  So I had two answers.

Why am I working on water?  Because water is life.  I know that is corny, but it is true.  Where I grew up in southern New Mexico.  We have a water problem too.  We have drinkable water coming from our taps, but we don’t have enough.  We are a desert in a decades long draught.  Our river is drying up and our water table is dropping.  As different as the issues are, I believe Puná’s water problem is New Mexico’s and New Mexico’s is Puná’s.  Water is water.  And water is finite.

Water is an issue that will unite us beyond our differences–locally and internationally.  I am working on water because water is a human issue.  And I am human.

In response, the shop owner gave me an adage: “Si uno no vive para servir, no sirve para vivir.” (“If you don’t live to serve, you don’t serve to live.”)  He gets it.

Why am I in Puná working on water?  Because I was invited to.  Simple as that.  When Pathfinders Project was being organized dozens of organizations around the world were contacted to see who would be interested in our help.  It was important that the proposed relationship was clear.  We were coming to help local organizations with local problems that they’ve identified.  We are helping hands, not saviors coming in with the “answers.”

We explained, we are not here with agenda.  Not a political agenda.  Not a religious one.  We are only here to help and connect with people.

“Who, then, will run the center after you leave?” the shop owner asked.

“You,” we said.  Well, you the community.  We are helping to build the water center, but it will take the community to make it work.  His excitement was apparent.  He believes in the power of community.  Change only happens at the community level.  Any bigger and there is too much politics.  Too many egos.  Too much bureaucracy.  Ok, these last ideas are my interpretation of what he means by community being the only level that has the power to effect change.  But I agree that communities working together are powerful.

In my conversations with other Puná citizens, it is clear that clean water is exciting.  The fact that the water is coming from and purified in Puná is more exciting.

That’s why this project is going to work.

Last month in Haiti I joined a rural community coming together to build twenty latrines for twenty individual families.  All members of the community contributed to the completion of each and every latrine.

Not one latrine would have been completed without the involvement of all of us in community.  Community is essential to surviving in such remote, underdeveloped circumstances—but it didn’t feel like mere survival.  It felt like real unity.

In December I witnessed a community in northern Ghana that welcomes strangers banished from their home communities because of witchcraft accusations.  This community invites alleged witches to become part of the community even though giving refuge will be a burden.  The struggle of these individual outsiders becomes the struggle of the community as a whole.  And the solutions for the refugees become solutions for the community.

Before that I worked at a school in Uganda struggling for recognition and legitimate placement in the larger community.  Kasese Humanist Primary School is one of three humanists schools in a nation that requires students to answer questions like, “Who is your Lord and savior?” in order to graduate from school.  Yet, at our going away party, a member of the board of education told us and the gathered crowd of faculty, students, and parents that he welcomed the school and its contribution to the welfare of the community.  The chief of the village similarly thanked us for coming and supporting a school that has done so much for the children of his community.

Communities such as these are novel in my life. I have never experienced such community in the States.  That’s not to say they don’t exist in the States.  I know they exist, just not in my experience.

To me, community means something more than a group of people with common interests or goals.  Community is more even than a support system.  A healthy community supports and uplifts every member.  A sick community leaves individual members to fend for themselves.  Yes, some of the fittest individuals will survive, but no individual can thrive as an island.

Living in an authentic, healthy community means every member is equal in the community.  It means meeting each person and saying, “It’s not just your problem.  It’s our problem—my problem.  We will work on it together.”  It means asking of every person, “What do you need to be happy?”  That’s what authentic faith communities do.  In my opinion, faith communities have traditionally been the primary communities serving in this function.

So, in that sense, it is unfortunate that institutionalized religions are losing numbers. Raised in a nonreligious household—one of the growing numbers of families dropping out of institutionalized religious communities—I’m sure has contributed to why I lacked the sense of an authentic community as a child.  Maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe my experience is an anomaly.  I would like to think so.  But I don’t think so.  I think we in the States are largely losing authentic community.  And the communities we do have are often created from the inside out by a process of exclusion.  The lines of who is in are defined by who is out.  In terms of community, how authentic is that?

What we need today are not fundamentally exclusive communities, but authentic communities that participate in forging authentic community with others.  Christians with Hindus.  Jews with Muslims.  Religious with atheist. Inclusive not exclusive. I’m not suggesting that we erase the lines that makes individual communities unique.  I’m not arguing for one homogeneous community.  That is impractical and disrespectful to individual dignity.  I’m not even recommending that communities stop their private activities.  I’m suggesting that disparate communities meet each other as they meet themselves—as equals struggling in the same fight for happiness.

My point is not that we need to boost institutionalized religious numbers.  That is not my place nor prerogative.  Healthy faith communities create and grow authentic community.  But they are not the only healthy communities—and there are certainly faith communities that are anything but healthy.  Regardless of faith, healthy, authentic communities heal a violent world—especially communities that unite disparate people.  The extinction of healthy communities would entail the extinction of humanity.  Humanity might survive and thrive by expanding the scope of authentic community—from supporting and uplifting just us to supporting and uplifting all of us.

This post was originally posted on State of Formation.

A constant refrain as we visited Kukuo, a camp for alleged witches in northern Ghana, was that the accused women are part of the larger community not merely adjacent to it.  Their huts are scattered throughout the community and among the compounds of the other residents.

Kukuo from an alleged witch’s home.

Kukuo is special in this way.  The other camps for alleged witches exist next to, but separate from the community that houses them.  The alleged witches and their daughters and grandchildren who come as helpers to the camp make up about a third of Kukuo’s population.

Another constant concern relayed to us was how unsafe the women’s sending communities were for them—i.e. the communities that accused them of witchcraft, their home communities.  These sending communities are where these women raised families, businesses, and friendships.  These sending communities are where they struggled alongside their neighbors to survive.  Yet one day after decades together their communities turned on these women.  Ultimately, the communities accused the women of betraying the community itself.  They, allegedly, betrayed the community by wishing and perpetrating harm on it—by using “powers” to kill or injure their rivals.

While the sending communities banished their members on no more evidence than a dream and the happenstance of in what manner a chicken died, Kukuo was building these women huts and working to secure a safe place for them to return to.  For every woman who arrives in Kukuo the youth of the community are tapped to build them a place to live and protect her.  They protect her physically from her attackers and work to change the hearts and minds of the sending community so that she can safely return home.

The women are safe from their attackers in Kukuo, but they struggle.  They are almost all old women who cannot carry water from the well.  Their accusers usually have stolen their money and possessions so buying food is impossible.

All of an alleged witch’s possessions inside her home.

The Kukuo community provides them with a hut, but they don’t have the means to maintain it.  Many of the women cannot sleep lying down when it rains because their roof leaks too heavily.  But Kukuo is still the best option for most of the women.  Several of them told us they would not leave Kukuo even if the opportunity came.  Their home communities were too volatile—a second accusation too easy.

I am struck by the contrast.  One community beats and banishes their own.  The other welcomes strangers that will be a burden on themselves and their community without question.  In fact, when the Ghanaian government pledged to close the camps for alleged witches by 2012, the chief of Kukuo balked.  “How can we refuse those who come?” he asked us.  The government can do what it will, he will not refuse to help the women who manage to make it to his community, which is a trial itself.  The camps are not happy-go-lucky places to live.  But the camps are not the problem.

How can such contrast exist?

Life happens outside in La Fond-Jeanette.  With corrugated zinc roofs, during the day the houses are too hot.  Without electricity, at night they are too dark.  At any time of day neighbors could and would visit our house to talk.  The maze-like trails that connect every house on the mountain pass through many yards on their way.  Several times a day a person passed through our yard with a bucket of water on their head on the way home from the river or carrying the day’s harvest of chinas (like oranges, but better) in the basket made with the front of their shirt.  These passings are not intrusions but moments of community coherence.  The meetings are part of the lattice of community that is essential to survive in these mountains.

It is because of this pervasive sense of community, I believe, that the mason—who patiently taught us how to build latrines in Haiti—went out of his way to help us down the mountain.  He met us at 4am at our house, which is about a 30 minute climb down one mountain and up another from his house.  To catch the truck out of the mountains we needed to hike two and a half hours up and down the mountains.  He walked with us.  He walked with us in the dark and in the cold merely to provide an extra strong back just in case our packs became too heavy for any one of us to carry alone.  Then he turned right back around and walked home.

The importance of community—of life sustaining community—was most obvious to me as we constructed the latrines.  The latrines are small structures that only a few people can work on at any one time.

Conor and Ben place the first layer of a latrine structure as locals watch.

Yet several of the men whose homes were getting latrines came to each site to help.  Indeed as each structure progressed more and more people showed up.  This might also have something to do with the novelty of Americans working on the site.  Still, I got the sense that building the 20 latrines was considered one united project, rather than as individual structures.  It was a community building project and it did not matter that this one was not theirs.

This kind of community is striking to me.  It shouldn’t be, but it is.  The ease at which neighbors pass through each other’s space, the selflessness the mason showed in his actions toward us strangers, and the united team of builders are not how I have experienced community.  In the States, I didn’t even know many of my neighbors and several of them we avoided because of some often trivial infraction in the past.  We lived inside.  We rarely met each other—even more rarely without an appointment.  When a windstorm blew a tree into my neighbor’s house we all sympathized with their predicament, but most of us returned to our home thankful our house remained intact.  I believe the residents of La Fond-Jeanette would have rebuilt that house together in a matter of days.  Of course this is not entirely fair.  There are many communities in the States that help and support each other selflessly.  But my experience has rarely been of as unselfconscious a community as La Fond-Jeanette.

Senetu Kojo’s only possessions.

Most of the women we meet were accused by those indebted to them.  In the polygamous society of northern Ghana, women are commonly accused by younger, rival wives.  These accusations can come from anyone and at any time.  The foundation of an accusation is usually unexplained sickness or death.  An appearance in a victim’s dream can be sufficient evidence.  

Ghana’s camps for alleged witches, more commonly called witch camps, are a depressing place.  Here women who have been banished from their home communities, and often beaten and tortured on the way out, find a safe place.  They are safe because they are purified in a cleansing ritual performed by a traditional priest at the camp shrine.  If they had powers before, now they are gone.  Here they are safe from violence and further accusation that would likely come from their neighbors or their own family.  But in the camps they struggle to live.

At the camp we visited, Kukuo, women must walk miles for water each day.  In the wet season the walk is farther and steeper.  At Kukuo, the women cannot afford to rethatch their roofs, which needs to be done at least every three years, so many cannot find a dry place to lay their head.  Until the rain stops, they have to sit up or risk pneumonia.   When they left their homes their possessions were taken or destroyed.  They are forbidden to take anything with them.  So at Kukuo they do not have the capital to start a new business or farm.  Simply acquiring food is a sometimes insurmountable obstacle.  Often a granddaughter lives at the camp with an alleged witch helping her to survive.  Without a helper, for these alleged witches, some of whom are in their 70s, 80s, and 90s, the task of survival becomes exponentially higher.  But, merely being at the camp, for the granddaughter, increases the likelihood of an accusation of her own.  Guilt by association—or inheritance.  Kukuo is a safe place, not a carefree place.

Which is why the experience of husking corn with these women was so enchanting.  Action Aid/Songtoba, which advocates for the rights of the alleged witches, had donated three acres of corn to the alleged witches.  For some of the women, all their food comes through these kinds of donations.  The corn was delivered and left in a large pile in one of the larger, non-witch huts in the community.  (One of the unique things about Kukuo is that the alleged witches are not segregated into their own area.  In Kukuo they live among, and as part of, the larger community.)  To get the dried kernels from the husks the women begin by beating the corn with sticks.  They work rhythmically together singing to keep time.  Our guide and translator told us the songs were thanks to the Kukuo community for not abandoning them and for recognizing their humanity.

The beating does not rid the husks of all the kernels, so behind the beaters is a second line of women manually removing the holdouts.  Some do it with their hands.  Others rub the cobs together.  A couple had pieces of metal that looked like large cheese graters that did most of the work for them.  I sat with these women to remove my share of kernels.  The old woman on my left was laughing, smiling, and singing.  She gave me some smiles that I returned and she tried to talk to me.  Unfortunately, I don’t speak her language.

An alleged witch clapping to the work music sitting on a bed of kernels.

Fortunately, we got over our language barrier to communicate when Conor took a turn beating the cobs.  She loved it.  She giggled and slapped my knee and shook my shoulder indicating that I should take in this sight.  Her giddiness probably had something to do with the color of his skin, but I think it mostly had to do with his gender, which was conspicuous in the room full of old, accused witches.  When he finished he had half a dozen kernels stuck in his beard.

When there was a lull in the action—when we were waiting for a fresh supply of cobs—I would run my hands though the kernels looking for buried cobs.  The old lady next to me was doing this too, but she also threw kernels at me.  At first, a few at a time, but she quickly started throwing handfuls.  Laughing I threw some back at her.  During another lull she buried my feet in the kernels.  It was wonderful to interact with an alleged witch in this way.  So many of our other meetings with them were about their tragedy—how they came to be at the camp and their conditions now that they are there.  This meeting was playful and joyful.  This interaction was so at odds with the rest of our visit.  I am so glad I met this woman.  Without this woman our visit to Kukuo would have been full of only tears and frustrations.  But if she can laugh and sing and play inside a camp for alleged witches, I can leave with a little hope.

Cape Coast Castle. The archway leads to the male dungeons. The stairs lead to the castle church.

I visited two slave castles recently—Cape Coast and Elmina in Ghana.  I am rarely so aware of my skin color.  I’m conscious that white privilege is why I am even able to say that.  It is absolutely not fair, but it is my experience.  Certainly in Africa I have been more aware of my skin color than in the United States.  Here I have often been the only white person in a crowd.  I walk down the street and hear people shout “obruni,” in Ghana, or “muzungu,”in Uganda, referencing my skin color.  Several tro tro conductors have said to me, “Obruni sit here” when they could have just as easily said, “you.”  It’s a small thing, but it shows how I am defined by my skin color in ways I am not in the United States.  It’s not the first time I’ve experienced this kind of attention.  In China, there must be a thousand photos of me that were taken surreptitiously—and some hilariously blatantly—by strangers on the streets.  Here the attention rarely feels malicious.  Mostly it seems to be result of novelty and nothing more.

Elmina Castle

But, on tour at the slave castle, my whiteness felt on display.  As our tour guide explained the physiological and physical torture these men and women were subjected to, I felt the eyes of history on me.  I am white.  And the men who carried out these seditious atrocities—who were blind to the humanity in the people imprisoned in their castles—were white.  Though I’m likely not descended from these specific men—they were British and Dutch and to my knowledge I am not—our shared skin color is enough for the connection to be made.  But for me the connection is real.  Though I am not directly related to these men, I am directly descended from men who profited from their common enterprise.  

Logtown. The plantation home in Louisiana that my ancestor built.

My great-grandfather—and his father and his father and his father—grew up in a plantation home in Louisiana—a plantation home built and operated on the backs of slaves.  I am a direct decedent of the man who built it.  I have visited this building, by the gracious invite of the current owners.  I walked through the impressive rooms and sat under the magnolia tree outside.  I envied the interior design of the guesthouse out back.  Then reminded myself that this guesthouse was the slave quarters.  I was standing in the home (if that word is even appropriate) of people my family owned.  I can’t help but wonder if any of the people who lived in the slave quarters were ever quartered in the slave castles I now visit as a white tourist.

On the day I visited my ancestral home my whiteness was glaring.  On the day I visited the slave castles my whiteness was humbling—almost embarrassing.

HH Filhiol. My ancestor who made death threats against blacks during the 1868 elections.

As I write this I feel compelled to note that my family recently discovered that one of the patriarchs of my family during the Civil War was quite possibly an abolitionist.  We know certainly that he supported the Union.  I feel the need to share this to lessen the blow—I am less guilty by association.  The fact of the matter is that, whatever this guy advocated politically, he was a slave owner.  Like Thomas Jefferson, who just never seemed to get around to “freeing” the “help” that he “owned.”  Honestly, the fact of the matter is that it doesn’t matter—at all.  My family prospered because of slavery.  And even if my great-great-great-grandfather was a closet abolitionist, his kids fought for the Confederacy—one died at Chancellorsville, and another allegedly threatened blacks with death if they voted Republican in the 1868 elections.  (My dad has his signed copy of The Clan—on which the epic racist classic film Birth of a Nation was based.) 

My family was able to afford good educations when even most whites could not.  My family has rarely been hungry or unjustly prosecuted.  (Well half my family—my other half is Jewish and came from Eastern Europe to the United States at the turn of the 20th century.  But that’s another story entirely.)  I feel compelled to share the detail about my “abolitionist” ancestor because I want it to be included in my family history.  Putting it next to the fact of slavery in my family’s past has the illusion of assuaging some guilt.  To the extent that both are facts, both should be remembered and neither should be forgotten or buried.  But this one fact does not forgive all the others.

A sign at Cape Coast that reads, “In everlasting memory of the anguish of our ancestors. May those who died rest in peace. May those who return find their roots. May humanity never again perpetrate such injustice against humanity. We, the living, vow to uphold this.”

That day in Louisiana I was not overcome with sudden understanding of how utterly reprehensible slavery was.  I already knew that.  But I did finally understand how I, who was born about 120 years after slavery theoretically ended in the United States, still profited from the institution of slavery.  My family has had its struggles and its dips in fortune, but our baseline started at a higher level than most Americans, especially nonwhite Americans.  Because of slavery.

At the end of our slave castle tours, our guides asked us to remember that though the atrocities of those castles were committed by white people against black people, now is the time to move beyond such racial divisions.  Now is the time to remember we are all human.  Both guides implored us to find in the emotions that the tour stirred in us the commitment to combat the slavery that, though often less conspicuous, still exists all over the world today.  While I agree wholeheartedly with these calls to action, I cannot—we cannot—ignore the real racism that also remains.  Often in more subtle and ambiguous forms.  I start by acknowledging my white privilege that is oh so easy to forget.  Denying the existence and results of that privilege is too hazardous to carry into the future of the world.