Wylie questioning what it means to live, to have, or to believe.

This Friday we will have been in Cape Town four weeks.  Following orientation, I have already completed three days of my internship and a full day of classes at UCT, day-tripped twice to Muizenberg beach, listened to Freshlyground perform at Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden, rocked to Swedish House Mafia (at an ostrich farm no less), fearlessly used the public trains, mini-buses, and taxis, strolled by parliament and St. George’s Cathedral in Cape Town, eaten one million potato and pea samosas, and discovered that shoes are optional in public places.  I am excited to continue exploring and experiencing some of the fun, happy things that Cape Town has to offer. 

While I continue to grow and learn, I have been struggling with many things within the context of my South African adventure.

This blog post is going to focus mostly on my struggle with confronting religion, and will be framed within two specific encounters.  I have been struggling with the question of religion here— not necessarily with my own belief or disbelief in God, but with my comfort in faith-based situations and answers.  As an atheist, I think that religion can be extremely effective at organizing collective action, but has little success when it comes to explaining how the universe functions.  I also struggle to understands the benefits of faith (ex. why is the belief in God equally important to acting in a Godly manner?)

My first experience with religion in South Africa was during orientation, when we went to Sivuyile National Baptist Church in Guguletu (a township in the Cape Flats.)  We participated in Sunday worship, which lasted for about three hours and was conducted completely in Xhosa.  It was my first time going to church in maybe five years.  Regardless, I felt like I understood the spirit and family of the congregation, even if I didn’t share the same convictions.  I loved the music the most.  Unlike most church choirs, the music came from the whole congregation instead of from a central location in the front— the effect was being surrounded by a great swell of music and rhythm.  It was clear to me that having such a church in the community was important, and that the church’s love could combat poverty, crime, and depression.  I donated R20 to the offering plate because I had a positive experience, and I would like to go back again. 

My second experience was MUCH more challenging.  As previously mentioned, my internship is in the heart of one of the biggest, most impoverished townships— Khayelitsha.  During the day, we go deep into the informal settlements to make house-to-house visits in order to provide information about our organization, access to clinics, and TB/HIV/AIDS testing. 

On one such visit, we were invited into a shack where three young men were living.  When we walked in, all three had bibles out and were listening to a slightly older man (maybe 30).  We talked about our organization and its goals, and asked the men about their lives. 

I learned that the man who led the bible group was a born again Christian who had been “saved” by Jesus Christ a year ago.  For about ten minutes, the man looked me directly in the eyes and told me about his life.  Prior to being “saved” he admitted to sexually assaulting young women (and getting away with it), “being with too many girls,” distributing drugs, and being addicted to alcohol.  He said that only Jesus Christ had saved him from getting HIV, and that only God and his Son could save me (or anyone) from the epidemic.  He also argued that “keeping Him in your mind and heart at all times is the only way to escape Satan and HIV.”  The two other men professed similar beliefs, and additionally argued that TAC should advocate for preventing HIV/AIDS through abstinence only.  I felt very uncomfortable during the experience, but also grateful for his honesty and for the thoughts and emotions it flared in me.        

I faced many internal conflicts.  Firstly, I didn’t know how to be both respectful of his beliefs and convictions while also staying true to mine.  When he demanded that I seek Jesus as my savior, I didn’t feel like I had the agency to tell him that I didn’t have a relationship with Jesus. It felt soulless, and potentially dangerous, to disagree with his ardent faith— so I didn’t.  However, I was bothered that he wanted us to advocate for a HIV/AIDS prevention policy that has consistently proven in the field to be impractical and dangerous.  I was obliged, by my role as a TAC representative and by my own beliefs, to say that God doesn’t have the ability to protect individuals from HIV or AIDs— only responsible behavior does.  While I was proud of him for finding a lifestyle that made him a better person, I still feel conflicted about the ability of faith to act as a deterrent against cruel and hurtful behaviors. 

Secondly, I was angry at the man for only seeking his forgiveness through God.  This is a man who openly admittedly to ruining many lives— the lives of family and friends, the lives of women he victimized, and lives of people for whom he fueled toxic addictions.  If he truly felt a sense of remorse or compassion, he would be approaching his victims instead of feeling satisfied by God’s opinion.  By abdicating his guilt to God, he ignored the victim’s needs for reconciliation or retribution.  The man said that his form of penance would be conducted via youth groups and mission work through his church.  I am unconvinced— I don’t think church work is an adequate response in a society where so much crime, especially gender-based violence, goes unnoticed and ignored.  In addition, the man had an obligation to confront the root causes behind his violent and abusive behaviors, not blame it simply on “Godlessness.”

Thirdly, and most strangely, I found myself angry with this God for receiving so much of the man’s love.  Behind every perpetrator is a victim, and this man was surely a victim.  I was faced with an old question, even a clichéd one: if God loves his children, how could He allow rape, abuse, hunger, thirst, shame, war, beatings, torture or any of the other horrible things that happen in Khayelitsha, and in the rest of the world?  The idea that it’s “not for us to understand” is deplorable.  God did not protect this man.  He did not protect the victims, who were innocent.  He did not make his creations fairly or equally—why do I have the right to good health, a fair education, a kind and loving family, and a beautiful home, while he had grown up in that very same shack— a structure long forgotten by the government, by luck, or by God?  It is wholly based on luck, and a God who allows luck to rule man’s existence has not created a fair or loving place.

Sivuyile National Baptist Church shows me that God can be a relief.  But being in the informal settlements shows me something very different.  The South African concept of Ubuntu dictates that seeing people suffer dehumanizes oneself—this is why the idea of God in the townships is such a struggle for me.  Seeing people in undignified living conditions is painful, hard, and surely ungodly. 

Maybe readers, fellow UConn students, or future experiences will hold answers for me.  Until then, I am lucky for experiences that let me question what it means to live, to have, or to believe.   

"Family dinner"  with Wylie at far right