She responded that she was a humanist. I was thrilled. Another one encountered in the wild. But without taking a breath she continued, “actually I do not know what a ‘humanist’ is. I do know that I don’t call myself a feminist because I believe in the equality of men and women.”

She asked me to explain what humanism is, since she calls herself one but doesn’t actually know what the term means. I started to explain about how humanism is an ethical tradition, but she interrupted me to continue: “I believe in the equality of all people. I extend that equality to plants and animals. We need to recognize the spirit of all living things and their equality.”

I was starting to like this woman, though thinking that it wouldn’t hurt her to interrupt less and listen more. I liked where she was coming from. I also believe in the equality of all people. I wouldn’t use the word “spirit,” but I also believe animals and plants need to be valued. We need to recognize our symbiotic relationship before it is too late. But I’m getting off topic. After decreeing the equality of all living things, my newly discovered humanist abruptly took us in an unexpected and unsettling direction.

“I think atheism is the biggest evil facing our society today. Atheists are grotesque.”

Where did that come from?

I am not going to relay the details of how our conversation ended. I will say I did not reveal that she was talking to an atheist. She didn’t really give me an opportunity. But there are a few aspects of this exchange worth talking about.

To begin with, this is not the first time the “humanist” label has been used by someone who doesn’t understand the history and current usage of the world. Just last week, Joseph Gordon Levitt made waves when he tweeted about how he learned about the definition of humanism. I do wonder how this woman would feel if she knew that what the label embraced describes a movement of consciousness presently chock full of self-described atheists.

I do regret not relieving her of her ignorance. But I’m not sure if, with the opportunity to do it over again, I would do anything differently.

On reflection, I believe the reason I didn’t say anything was because of her use of the words “evil” and “grotesque.” I think I was worried that someone who used such words to describe a group of people could conceivably turn violent if made aware that she was unwittingly aligning herself with such a group. Combine that with the simultaneous knowledge that she was speaking to such an evil, grotesque person, and I had no idea how extreme her reaction would be. This is a situation every atheist faces when choosing when, whether, and to whom to reveal their beliefs. And not always do you have such a clear understanding of the other’s position on atheism before opening (or not opening) your mouth.

But even that fear and misunderstanding of atheism isn’t what most concerns me about this conversation. What most concerns me, is that this is a woman who claims boldly that she believes in the inherent equality of all people—who even includes plants and animals in this equality. Yet, atheists are grotesque “things” off the equality spectrum that she assigns to the entire universe. How can these two convictions exist together in one person? How can a person who stridently advocates for recognizing the equality of all—including non-human life—viciously and categorically leave out a vast and growing group of people?

I hope this woman met the humanist contingent at the climate march, because I believe the climate march is exactly the kind of space where her hateful beliefs might begin to change. Ideally she met a humanist and commiserated about the state of environmental justice and hatched plans to make it right. Ideally they bonded over their concern for the environment (if only because of its impact on us humans). Ideally then, and only then, did she ask what humanism was. Because getting the answer then maybe startled her enough to reevaluate her beliefs even the tiniest bit.

This opportunity, albeit fantasy in this case, is why I want to talk about the climate march. Much has been said of the march itself and I don’t need to add my voice to that chorus except to say that I support its goals and hope it is the beginning of some real change in policy and attitude when it comes to making and keeping our planet healthy. I do want to talk about what the march represents beyond climate change.

At the march there were likely representatives of almost every incarnation of the human experience. 400,000people of every race, age, gender, religion, and even politics marched in NYC and thousands more marched in at least 166 parallel demonstrations around the world. Immigrant rights groups came. So did labor unions. Student groups, seniors, artists, scientists, native communities, and, yes, faith groups. Conservatives marched too, though they may have kept a low profile.

The humanists did assemble and marched among a larger group of interbelief participants. That means there were humanists marching alongside Muslims who were marching alongside Sikhs who were marching alongside Jews who were marching alongside Mennonites. And it doesn’t end there. Everyone in the interbelief contingent was marching alongside the other groups assembled because of their commitment to environmental justice.

For me, humanism is about equality. The core challenge humanists face is realizing that equality. The increasing support for the environmental justice movement, demonstrated by the turnout and coverage of the People’s Climate March excites me for that realization. Environmental justice is a worthy and important cause on its own merits and that conversation should be held loudly and with immediacy. But the conversation also provides an important opportunity for realizing human equality.

We all live on this planet together. We all experience the effects of climate change and environmental ravishing differently, unique to our own circumstances, but we all face the same problem. So we all have a role to play in the solution. The conversation we all must have about the solutions for environmental justice is an opportunity for even more. It is an opportunity for people who are different—who have different ideas, different life experiences, different beliefs—to meet each other through their similarities. When we meet because of a shared problem our differences become an afterthought. The differences are still there, and they can be discussed later, but our relationships will form before our differences have a chance to drive us apart. And with those relationships formed, we have a real chance to realize equality.

This was originally posted with State of Formation.

Earlier this month, three State of Formation Contributing Scholars were invited to attend and present at the North American Interfaith Network annual conference. Responding to the conference’s opening plenary lecture, Ellie Anders, Wendy Webber, and Esther Boyd collaborated on this piece in an attempt to bring some of the conference’s discussion of honest communication and the risk of offending others to the rest of the State of Formation community.

Esther Boyd: The opening plenary lecture given by Reverend Dan Buttry offered an excellent framework for the rest of the weekend – specifically when he described “First Date Interfaith Dialogue”, using as an example the first time he went out with his wife Sharon. He had been too timid and self-conscious to tell her that he did not like popcorn, rather than risk offending her, he ate an entire bowl, leading her to believe for the next several years that he loved the stuff. His story of awkward young love is a great metaphor for dialogue. When we engage in interbelief conversation, we often act timid. We are afraid to offend those around us and afraid to express a vulnerability that might leave us offended, even if it might have long term ramifications later. We were challenged to move beyond that self-consciousness and fear of offending someone for the sake of honest and fruitful communication. I thought it was a great metaphor, and a useful analogy for entering dialogue spaces for the first time.

Wendy Webber: I find the first date metaphor to be incredibly useful and plan to adopt it as a kind of shorthand in the future. The call to move past “first date” conversations in interbelief work illustrates the new interbelief landscape. In the past, simply getting members of different traditions together in one room was something to be celebrated. It still is in many contexts. And in those contexts should still be embraced. But in contexts where interbelief is already embraced by the participants, it is spinning wheels to simply celebrate our coming together. Those of us who have already forged belief-crossing relationships are ready to put those relationships to work. We are ready to ask the hard questions that only intimate friends (or to follow the metaphor more closely, partners) can ask, because the relationship is a solid foundation for a rocky conversation. I hope it is clear that I don’t mean that these old and dear friendships are literal. They are an understanding that we interbelief activists can share as strangers because we all agree on the importance of the cause.

EB: I continued to think about the first date metaphor later in the conference, especially when one of the speakers said that we don’t need to build more bridges – we need to use the ones we have. If we are going to actually be effective peacemakers, educators, world-changers, it can’t be enough to smile at each other in the same room. We have to roll up our sleeves and wade into some of the muck together, and that requires a level of honesty and communication that can be tough to cultivate when people are nervous about offending one another or saying the wrong thing.

Ellie Anders: The first date metaphor played out for me standing in the Dunkin’ Donuts line Monday morning, talking about this past Ramadan. I explained to Noorin, another attendee, that this year I participated in a way completely new for me. I decided to fast along with my Muslim friends and when we went to break the fast, I was given a yogurt drink. Normally, I love yogurt, but this was unsweetened and watered down. I did not enjoy it at all. In spite of strong objections by my taste buds, I continued to drink. Noorin chided me as I recounted the evening: “Move past first date mentality.” She was right, I completely missed out on the opportunity to talk about why the drink was significant. Or to learn that it really had no significance at all, and I wouldn’t be insulting anyone by passing for water.

WW: The first date metaphor was also tested for me at the conference. I was excited that so many people at the conference did take the call to move past first date conversations. One woman asked me why “secular” is often put before “humanist.” If there can be religious humanists, she asked, how is there a cohesive humanist community? But, it wasn’t just about belief issues. One person asked me how I, a white woman, reacted to a black speaker forcefully discussing white privilege. Neither conversation was easy.  They weren’t easy because they weren’t superficial, which allowed both to lead to deeper and more concrete relationships.

I did not always successfully move past “first date” dialogue. When I found myself sitting next to a Scientologist at a meal I had a hundred questions I wanted to ask, but refrained from fear of insulting him with my lack of knowledge. (I don’t know if his questions and comments were kept superficial from a similar motivation.) As a result our conversation remained superficial and I failed to learn much about him and failed to share much of me.

EA: Often people want to engage with the “other” but they are afraid of being offensive. My answer to that objection is always yes, yes you will probably offend someone. And when you do, or I do, we talk about why it was offensive, and we confront our own stereotypes. Then hopefully we learn to have those difficult conversations and come out on the other side with a much deeper relationship having faced a challenge together and overcome it. We must give ourselves permission to be offended, be offensive, and build relationships based on those dialogues.

WW: Part of our early conversations with “others” should acknowledge that this will happen and discuss what we are going to do when it happens. The first date metaphor provides some language to do this.

EA: It can be helpful to agree to safe space rules before you begin, such as the “OUCH!, OOPS!, AHHA!” rule. When someone in the room hears something that is offensive they stop the conversations by saying “Ouch!” The person who was speaking immediately responds “Oops!” The conversation then turns so the two parties can honestly discuss the offense and model this process for the group. At the end we hope for the “Ahha!” moment. Sometime this will happen, sometimes it won’t, but it is always worth the time spent. Similar rules help set the tone for deepening relationships.

EB: There is great potential value in being offended. It’s important that we learn to move past offense and discomfort in ways that are open and affirming, and not close ourselves off or shut out others. We have to learn how to grow from intentional, often awkward recovery. I heard a few offensive statements during the conference, and when they were particularly problematic I addressed them. Those conversations weren’t comfortable, but I think (I hope) that we both came away having learned something we wouldn’t have if I kept my mouth shut.

WW: Esther, I was offended a few times, too. Part of what it made me consider is what my role is as a participant in interbelief work. Just as I need to recognize that I will offend, I need to recognize that I will be offended at some point–something that should be considered ahead of time so that one’s reaction is not coming from the emotion of being offended. The conversations you had with people about words or actions that offended you were better to have than keeping silent. But keeping quiet in reaction to an offensive statement can be as important as speaking up. The real trick is to know when to speak and when not to. There are many many issues that need to be addressed in these kinds of settings. “Yes, this specific issue hits home for me. But maybe it is best for me to let this one slide because there is a bigger issue that needs to be addressed by someone else. I can be heard next time.”

EB: Wendy – that is an excellent point. If we got up and hollered every time we were offended we wouldn’t get anywhere. Many times what offends us are matters of language and limitation and simplicity – not malevolence or ignorance. While we can often let the former slide, it can be necessary to address the latter.

WW: The challenge is to recognize the difference.

EA: Addressing those in public will often turn people away. Doing so in private tends to make people much less defensive and willing to engage in self reflection later.

EB: When we feel defensive we become reactive instead of reflective. There isn’t trust, and there can’t be vulnerability, which makes it so hard for us to share parts of ourselves with others in meaningful ways. This is especially important for me when working with students. Not to say that college students are any more clumsy than the rest of us (they are not), but for many of them, college interfaith communities are their first encounter not only with intentional dialogue across differences, but real community building with folks of different religious backgrounds, and it’s where they learn to be offended and move forward.

WW: Being on the defensive puts us in a fog. It’s sometimes hard to really hear what the other is saying because you are too busy formulating a response.

EB: Balancing honest communication with the risk of offense can be a challenge. We must be careful about our language. It helps to know when we need to table something for later, and when we are in situations where we can take a break if needed.

WW: And having the conversation about how we will handle offense up front is important. We are very used to doing this in large groups that have specifically come together for discussion. But we rarely do it in individual encounters and relationships. When we are relying on friendship it is easy to assume that friendship itself will be able to absorb the offense. But it is not always so easy. Having the conversation one-on-ones is a good, often overlooked, practice.

EA: Honesty is the best policy. If something is really that offensive and hurtful you should definitely tell them because if it was offensive to us, we can almost guarantee it is going to hurt someone else later. So the question for us is really how willing we are to be honest and vulnerable. Others will mirror our response and when we react with compassion, the offender often mirrors our emotional response.

WW: It sounds hokey, but a challenge we can give ourselves is to really put yourself in the other’s shoes. My students in my religious education class in Uganda were struggling with the idea that there are polytheists in the world. It was just too far from their experience to comprehend. We had discussed empathy the day before, so we did an exercise where we imagined we were polytheists who believed in reincarnation and discussed the consequences of such beliefs on how one would live their lives. After, the students were better able to accept the idea of polytheism and we were able to have a respectful discussion. Rather than trying to understand the other from our own perspective, try understanding them from their own.

Another challenge we can give ourselves is to recognize the things in your own tradition that are points of contention and come up with ways to discuss them in advance. I am currently trying to come up with responses to the “you are going to hell” line. This is a possible flashpoint that so often comes up because of my tradition. If I am prepared for it, if I am ready to discuss it, I can better control my offense. And if I can mitigate my anger than I can effect the tone of the conversation and hopefully avert escalation.

EB: That is a great point, and definitely worth further discussion.

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.

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.

This year traveling with Pathfinders Project has provided a stark reminder of just how uncommon my experience is. Unlike my experience in the US, these days I am usually the only nonreligious person in a group. More importantly, I am positive that most assume that I am religious almost without exception. Blessings are bestowed upon me without thought. My Sunday activities have often been directed by the closures of certain businesses due to religious services.

Yet, even with Pathfinders Project, which is an expressly humanist endeavor, this year I have rarely felt even the slightest inkling that maybe I should hide or spin the nature of my true beliefs. This was the case in Cambodia where we were working at a Buddhist pagoda everyday. This was the case in Uganda where even the public schools are parochial and built on Christian or Muslim foundations. This was the case in Ghana where we talked to alleged witches who affirmed the validity of witchcraft, even as they faithfully covered their hair for their Islamic faith. This was the case in Haiti where we didn’t work on Saturdays because the mason for our project was Seventh-Day Adventist. This was the case in Ecuador where we were stopped on the street regularly by evangelical Christians looking to add another member to their flock. This was the case in Colombia where we had trouble finding restaurants that were open for dinner on Sundays. This has been the case in Guatemala where we are working currently.

Being in Antigua, Guatemala during Lent, we were regularly waylaid bystreet processions carrying figures of Jesus during different parts of the passion. We could not walk around town on the weekends without encountering hundreds of men and boys dressed in royal purple robes. In the mornings many streets were closed so thatalfombras (rugs) depicting Lenten scenes could be made in the middle of the street from sawdust and flowers.

Maybe I’m naive. Maybe revealing our humanist foundations was dangerous on any number of occasions on this journey and I just didn’t feel it. And there certainly have been moments I have hesitated before answering. But it wasn’t until here in Guatemala that I truly worried that the answer might have troubling consequences.

We are doing a home-stay in Antigua. The home where we are staying has angels and crosses decorating the walls. Jesus figurines and Bibles lie about the house. Every meal begins with a prayer. Here, for the first time on this trip, I honestly thought our lack of religion might be an issue. When the issue came up, I did feel it was a definite possibility that we might be sent packing.

It came up, as it often does, in a discussion about my degree, a Masters of Art in Religion. When the inevitable question arose and I answered that I am not religious, a long discussion about religious beliefs commenced. Thankfully, we were not immediately asked to leave. Our hosts started by explaining where they were coming from. Unsurprisingly, in Guatemala, they were raised Catholic. But they are not religious. They wanted to be very clear, they believe in God, they are just not religious. Though they didn’t use the term, it sounded very “spiritual-but-not-religious” to me.

At this point I was no longer worried about being kicked out. We were having a discussion. And it turned out to be one of the best interbelief discussions I’ve ever had in my life.

In my experience, which I cannot claim to be representative, those who fall in the spiritual-but-not-religious category tend toward liberal theology. Not our hosts. They don’t believe in evolution. They generally find faith in the mystery more compelling than scientific explanations. We spent a long time discussing how one can understand how the world began. They described the mystery of creation. We described the growing scientific knowledge of the big bang. I want to emphasize that I am not trying to put down their beliefs or evangelize my own. I want to emphasize how incredibly unexpected a friendly conversation between people who hold these points-of-view is.

But this was friendly. It ended with affirmations of respect for each other’s beliefs on both sides. Our hosts told us that they care only about good hearts. It was clear from their emphatic repetitions of this sentiment that they were worried that we might no longer feel welcome following this conversation.

I started by saying that I am lucky in my circumstances. I generally don’t even feel a moment’s hesitation to hide my beliefs, which is certainly not the case for many nonreligious people and religious minorities in the US and around the world. And while I’ve experienced being a minority on this trip in ways I never have before, the sum total of my experiences have been positive. If I, a nonbeliever, can have an easy and nonjudgmental conversation with people whose beliefs are so diametrically opposed to mine, perhaps there is hope.

This was originally 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.