Is it harder to "come out" as an atheist if you're black?

Liam McLaughlin speaks to members of the London Black Atheists group about the consequences of their decision to turn their backs on religion.

When Clive Aruede’s twelve-year-old daughter asked him “What is science?” he couldn’t have known quite how much it would change his life. But when I meet him in a gloomy bar in Borough, Clive pinpoints this innocent question as the beginning of a long and arduous journey towards atheism.

The phrase he uses is that he “came out”, which implies that he had been hiding ‘in the closet’ – that he felt the beliefs or lifestyle of an atheist would be seen as objectionable to wider society. But being an atheist in the UK is hardly controversial. In the 2011 Census around 14 million people – a quarter of the UK’s population – claimed to have ‘no religion’. But for Clive this didn’t matter, because Clive is black.

According to figures from Christian Research in their 2005 English Church Census, black people are much more likely to be religious than most other demographic groups. The census showed that though black people only made up around 2 per cent of the population at the time, they nonetheless accounted for 7 per cent of churchgoers nationwide, and 44 per cent of churchgoers in London. In fact, at the time his daughter asked him about science, Clive was included in these figures because he, too, was a practicing Christian – a Eucharistic Minister, no less.

Lola Tinubu also fell into this demographic, though she had already been questioning God and religion since she was young. “It started with the tribal culture,” she tells me. “I asked my father about his relationship with my mother because I didn’t understand the inequality, and he said ‘That’s what God wants’, so that bothered me.” But despite her growing doubts throughout her teenage years, she went along with the tide of belief. When she came from Nigeria to the UK, she even joined an Evangelical church and preached in public. She laughs about this, and supposes she did it mostly because she needed to feel a part of a community.

For both Clive and Lola, like many millions of other black people, belief in God was never a matter of choice – it was just a fact, like the sun or the sky. The Bible held all the answers to any question they could possibly ask, and church formed the backbone of their social life. They grew up attending church every Sunday – filling the rest of their time with Bible studies and prayer meetings. Neither ever had the space to ask why.

For Clive though, the moment came when his daughter asked him about science. As he researched a response for her, he discovered a world of fascinating information he hadn’t known about before, which began to make him wonder if the Bible really did have all the answers. He was determined to find out more, so he read up on science regularly, and the tensions between what he was learning and the received wisdom of religion only got more strained.

Eventually he felt he had to make a choice. He could either continue believing in the supernatural power of God or instead embrace all he had been reading, and accept that science, not God, is responsible for the natural world. It was an extremely difficult process, but he settled on accepting atheism. For someone of Clive’s background, the social ramifications of such a decision are huge, but as a part of his “coming out”, he sent an e-mail to all his contacts, designed to explain himself. He was immediately inundated with outraged messages and attempts to prove he was wrong. Two people even flew over from Nigeria to talk with him in person.

For Lola, the final straw for God and religion came when her religious father visited from Nigeria. It turned out he enjoyed watching popular science TV shows. “That’s the irony of it!” says Lola. “He loves science!” But when he saw how genuinely interested in science she was, he told her “Facts are not the same as truth.” Lola realised that this absurd statement was “cognitive dissonance – he couldn’t reconcile his own beliefs with the facts.”

That was it. First she began asking difficult questions in Bible study. Then she stopped going to church altogether. She also stopped going to other social functions where prayer would form an inevitable part of the program. Her friends would often call, asking where she was, imploring her to come to the next event. But she couldn’t. Her self-imposed absence from a primary social hub of Nigerian culture – church – left her with no friends or social life, and this warm, vivacious woman ended up spending a year in treatment for clinical depression. It is often “a very long journey” for black people to become atheists, she says.

It was the same for Clive: “It’s been a very uncomfortable experience.” As far as his friends and family were concerned, “It was like claiming I was a demon or a devil.” He says it is still causing problems within his family, and this shows how difficult it is to become an atheist from a background where religion is everything. He stresses that for many black people, “Religion is woven into the whole texture of your life. It’s everything. It’s reality…part of your identity.” 

One nation under God

One of the most important revelations Clive and Lola had upon accepting atheism was seeing in full the corrosive effect religion has on their homeland, as well as many other countries in Africa.

Nigeria is a complex mesh of ethnicity, language, and religion, with much diversity and mixing amongst its people. Broadly speaking though, according to the CIA World Factbook, Nigeria’s religious make-up is 50 per cent Muslim, 40 per cent Christian, and 10 per cent indigenous beliefs, such as the Yoruba religion. Non-belief doesn’t even figure in the statistics. Islam is predominant in the twelve northern states, to the extent that they are all under partial or full Sharia law, where blasphemy can be punished by execution. The central and southern regions can be thought of – with many caveats – as majority Christian.

The prevalence of religion in Nigeria has only entrenched it as an unquestionable absolute – a law of nature as real as the second law of thermodynamics – such that even the most intelligent Nigerians often fail to identify the causes of Nigeria’s problems, and instead believe that the supernatural is their cause and solution. As Lola puts it, “Rationality is not allowed to supersede belief.” This invariably creates an environment where democracy is sidelined and despotism can flourish. With the divine as the final judge, accountability is seen as pointless. And since various supernatural forces are held responsible for problems, politicians can often get away with no punishment. In fact, Lola tells me that when a politician is confronted with a particular problem the best response – the one which will be lauded most by the media – is that he will pray. Thanks to the central importance of religion in Nigeria and many other African countries, elites are freed of the necessary checks on power and are able to do whatever they wish. Perhaps the best example Clive and Lola can find of this attitude is under the rule of Nigeria’s dictator General Sani Abacha, when people simply said of his brutality, “God will deal with him.”

The catch-22 in Nigeria is that because religion prevents the state from properly functioning, it leads to a lack of effective institutions – most importantly a welfare state. Perversely, religion then fills this vacuum, thereby forcing millions of people into reliance on churches or mosques for their very survival – compounding the political breakdown through the social dominance of religion. Tithes and donations (normally around 10 per cent of income) effectively constitute taxes, and Christians in particular have turned this into a business where the top religious leaders can become billionaires. Indeed, Pastor E A Adeboye, founder of the Redeemed Christian Church of God – a Pentecostal church with branches across the world – is one of many top pastors in proud possession of a private jet.

Wider Nigerian culture reflects this overbearing focus on religion, with TV networks broadcasting hours of sermons and religious talk shows, and some universities requiring prayers at the beginning of lectures. In short, Nigeria is stuck. “There’s no progress,” says Clive. “All you see is more and more churches and mosques…all the effort and ingenuity of the people goes into religious activities. It’s holding us back.” Lola goes further: “In Nigeria religion is a force for evil.” She believes that if nothing changes soon, religious fundamentalism – in the form of the Islamist group Boko Haram – could cause a civil war. Then they speculate as to how many Nigerians have had great ideas but no way of realizing them due to the amount of time and space religion takes up in their lives. “If Einstein was born in Nigeria. . .” Lola says, “. . .he’d be a pastor!” finishes Clive.

One world under reason

Regardless of the rise in arguments highlighting the dogma of atheism, it has been an overwhelmingly positive experience for Clive and Lola.

While Lola’s first feeling upon becoming an atheist was sadness for everything she hadn’t known, Clive’s was anger - anger at being deceived by religion since childhood. Anger at all the wasted years and the wasted efforts stuck in the confines of religious belief. But after this wore off, the wonder and excitement of gaining knowledge took over. “I was motivated to catch up with everything I didn’t know which I thought I should know,” says Clive. Lola admits learning still makes her feel “like a kid in a candy shop.” She attends lectures regularly, loves Brian Cox, and recently went to a recording of Dara Ò’Briain’s Science Club. “It was so exciting!” she enthuses.

Her newfound happiness hasn’t stopped some Nigerians accusing Lola of thinking she is white. “They think if you’re an atheist you’re rejecting the culture and the society – that you’re a traitor, that you’ve allowed the West to take over your mind. But rationalism isn’t the property of the West. It’s universal!” In fact, “Atheism has freed me to love the world…I can go to any part of the world and belong. My tribe is the world.” She describes a recent incident where she made friends with a Chinese woman at a humanist event. She says she would never have had the opportunity to share that experience had she not become an atheist. “It was so beautiful, so amazing. . . but religion is so divisive. Everybody else is wrong. If you mix with them, you’re mixing with evil.” Clive agrees, and adds, “We’re all part of the same human society.”

Late last year Clive, Lola, and two other friends organized the inaugural meeting of the London Black Atheists. Lola says of it, “Apart from having my child, it’s one of the best things that’s happened to me. It’s given me a new lease of life.” Clive explains how important it is to have a forum where black people can come if they are experiencing doubts about their belief. Through their focus on discussing science and philosophy, it acts as a support network for black people who are already atheists, or who are grappling with the possibility of “coming out”.

Listening to Clive and Lola converse during the few hours I spend with them, I get an insight into how the London Black Atheists operates – allowing space for joint learning and sharing stories. They have already held a number of events, and are going from strength to strength. “We just got our hundredth member today,” Clive tells us. “Guess what his name is. . . Christian!”

For more information about leaving religion, visit The Apostasy Project, which provided aid to some people mentioned in the article.

For many, having a religion is an important part of belonging to a community. Photo: Getty

Liam McLaughlin is a freelance journalist who has also written for Prospect and the Huffington Post. He tweets irregularly @LiamMc108.

Getty
Show Hide image

What does it mean for Ukip if it loses in Stoke-on-Trent Central?

The party’s prospects are in question if it fails to win over the “Brexit capital” in Thursday's by-election.

“The Only Way Is Up!” blasted through a hall in Stoke-on-Trent Central on a damp Monday evening earlier this month. It was the end of a public Ukip meeting, in which Nigel Farage and his successor and by-election candidate Paul Nuttall made their rallying cries to an audience of around 650 supporters.

But even then, a fortnight ago, the note of triumph in the dance classic was tinged with uncertainty. “We’ve won the war, but we’ve yet to win the peace,” Farage admitted to the sympathetic crowd. And while this message is supposed to make Ukip’s fight relevant even in the context of Brexit-bound Britain, it betrays the party’s problem: the battle that was its raison d'être is over.

Failing fortunes

Since then, the party has had more to contend with. Its candidate in the Labour seat has been caught lying about having “close personal friends” killed at the Hillsborough disaster. This comes on top of a number of other false claims, and an investigation into whether he falsely registered his home address as being in the constituency.

After these scandals – and a campaign seemingly unable to turn out apathetic voters (which I covered a couple of weeks ago) – Ukip’s chances in the West Midlands seat look worse than expected.

Initially the main challenger to Labour, Ukip is now being predicted for third or even fourth place in the seat, behind a Tory party that essentially stood aside to give Nuttall room, and to focus on a concurrent by-election campaign in Copeland.

It’s in Labour’s interest for the campaign to continue looking like a close Labour-Ukip fight, in order to keep hold of tactical voters. But both the Conservative and Lib Dem campaigns are feeling more buoyant.

“We are relatively confident that Ukip are not going to win, and that is quite a change,” the Lib Dem campaign coordinator Ed Fordham told me. “That has actually relieved lots of voters of the emotional risk of letting in what they perceive to be an unpleasant, far-right option . . . and voting for who they would like to represent them.”

One local activist chirped: “It will hopefully be a terrible result for Ukip.”

So what will it mean for Ukip if it loses?

Great expectations

Ukip has a lot riding on this seat. Farage called the by-election “absolutely fundamental” to Ukip’s future. Its new leader, Nuttall, took the risk of running as the party’s candidate there – riding his reputation on the by-election.

This created a lot of hype about Ukip’s chances, which the party has privately been trying to play down ever since. Even before the scandal surrounding Nuttall, he was emphasising that the seat had only been Ukip’s 72nd target, and told me he had taken a gamble by running for it. “The way it’s being written up as if this is the one – it wasn’t,” he insisted.

But Stoke-on-Trent, where 69 per cent voted Leave, has been labelled the “Brexit capital”. According to political scientist Rob Ford, the author of Revolt on the Right who has been studying Labour’s most Ukip-vulnerable seats: “It should be a pretty favourable seat for them, pretty favourable demographics, pretty favourable [negative] attitudes about the EU, very high Brexit vote there and so on.”

In other words, if Ukip can’t win here, against a weak Labour party, where can it win?

Struggle for seats

Brexit is central to Ukip’s by-election campaign. The party has highlighted Labour’s splits over Europe, pointed out the Labour candidate Gareth Snell’s Remainer credentials, and warned that the government needs to be held to account when negotiating Britain’s exit.

But Ford believes this rhetoric is unlikely to work, since the Tories are already pursuing a “hard” Brexit focused on immigration control. “A difficulty for Paul Nuttall and Ukip is that people are going to say: why would we vote for you when we’re getting what we want from the government? What’s the point right now?” he said. “I can have all the Brexity stuff, all the immigration control stuff, but with none of the incompetence and serial lying about Hillsborough – I think I’ll take that!”

So if rerunning the EU referendum doesn’t work, even in such a Brexit-heavy seat, this means trouble for Ukip elsewhere in the country. A Ukip councillor in a top Ukip target seat with similar demographics to Stoke believes it’s “crisis time” for the party.

“It is very sad to say, but Ukip has lost its way,” they told me. “It’s still a strong party, but after losing Nigel, it’s lost a little of its oomph. The new gentleman [Nuttall] has been silly with the comments he’s made. That’s a big worry in some regards. You need to be a people person. It’s a serious situation at the minute.”

If Ukip can’t prove it can win parliamentary seats – even in favourable by-elections – then it will be difficult to prove its authority as a political party come the general election.

Leadership lament

Should Nuttall lose, Ukip’s leadership will come into question. Again. During a tumultuous time late last year, when the favourite Steven Woolfe left the party after a physical altercation, and Diane James quit the leadership after 18 days, commentators asked if Ukip was anything without Farage.

When Nuttall eventually took over, the same voices warned of his threat to Labour – citing his northern and working-class roots. It’s likely this narrative will change, and Farage’s golden touch pondered again, if Nuttall fails to win.

But rather than panic about its national leader, Ukip must look carefully at those who commit to the party in local campaigns. On the ground in Stoke, running Nuttall as a candidate instead of a local Ukipper is seen as a mistake.

“I don’t know why they did that,” one local activist for an opposing party commented. “If they’d run Mick Harold, they would’ve won. He’s a Stokie.”

Harold, the deputy chair of Staffordshire County Committee, and chair of Ukip’s Stoke-on-Trent Central/North branch, won 22.7 per cent of the vote for Ukip in the constituency in 2015. He insists that he stands by his decision to step aside for Nuttall, but does highlight that Ukip should increase its vote share.

“If we’re increasing our percentage share of the vote, we’re still moving forward and that’s how we’ve got to look at it,” he told me. “I got 22.7 per cent in 2015. I would think this time we’re going to certainly get somewhere around the 30 per cent mark.”

Would it have been more likely to achieve this with Harold as candidate? “Whatever happens, happens, we’ve just got to move forward,” he replied. “If you’ve made a mistake, you move on from it.”

I have heard similar misgivings from local activists in other parts of the country – people who have achieved impressive results in local elections and the general election, but haven’t had much thanks from the national party. “We need to get professionalised now,” one such campaigner said. “Because we’ve got grassroots people who are not career politicians [doing all the hard work].” They say their local party is fed up with leadership being dictated by “personal grudges” at the top of the party.

***

As I’ve written before, I don’t think this is the end of Ukip. Once Brexit starts to bite, and it’s clear immigrants are still needed to fill jobs, there will be resentment enough to make space for them again. But losing Stoke will highlight the challenges – of purpose, leadership and local organisation – that the party will need to overcome for its next stand.

Anoosh Chakelian is senior writer at the New Statesman.