Do you hate religion? extract, book 2, travelling

book 2, travelling, part 2, Otaon

Alice twitched her mouth. ‘Terry Pratchett makes a compelling case for a balance of powers.’
‘He does. But I always wondered how to get there, once you are stuck with a leading power.’
‘That’s a good point. Get unstuck? Maybe hope that the leading power will get a wise leader who elevates his fellow nations?’
‘Hm. But if you don’t want a new world power, then what do you want?’
‘Just an untroubled life and a few adventures.’
‘That answer is a mistake.’
‘Only if you think, I usually go by what I want. You know, I just wish we had the freedom to be more original again.’
‘And better than everyone else.’
‘Being better is never original. It’s just topping something that already exists. The sad thing is that we’re becoming so uniform, all following one ideal and similar dreams. The same phone, the same car, the same apps and abs, the same clothes, the same holidays, the same TV-shows, the same high rises, the same brands, the same jobs. Same, same, same — when there could be wondrous worlds around every corner. And at the same time, there are these power plays, this need to be better and stronger and more advanced and lording it over others, showing the world who’s in charge. In charge of what though? To make us even more the same? Why can’t we create our unique worlds, our authentic personas or groups? And when we come across other people, we could simply go for: “Oh, my. You really are different. That’s interesting.”’ 
Prince Harun frowned. ‘And you think we need secularism to become original?’
‘Look, I was a Christian in an Evangelical Free Church. And one of the things that gave me a punch in the stomach, after I broke with my faith, was to realise what an arrogant, self-righteous prig I had become. I believed I was better than all non-believers because I was saved. I believed being a Christian was the only acceptable way of life. I still feel ashamed about the person I was then: all humble in my believes and words, all superior in my actions and poise. And I didn’t even know how arrogant I was.’
‘Hm. Do you hate religion?’
Alice straightened a little and put her bandaged hand on her thigh. ‘No. Not religion. I hate the things I did to others in the name of religion, and the things that were done to me in the name of religion. And funny enough, it was a pastor who told me: “Don’t repress your hate. It’s good to acknowledge it. That’s the way to beat it.” It’s how I feel, but I don’t act on my hate. I haven’t yet managed to cut it out. I wish I knew how to. You see, when the idea for Easy Town came up, I knew I had to deal with religions. And I didn’t want to. Out of this conflict, the idea for the Gods Garden was born. Not a garden for gods but a garden full of gods. And I almost feel at peace with it. I wish I could impose a minimum age. Say, no one below the age of twenty-eight should have access to the garden, and parents shouldn’t be allowed to involve their children in religious practices. If I could do that, then I could be at peace with adults deciding to worship one god or another, I think.’
‘Why twenty-eight?’
‘The older I get the more I realise how terribly young I was in my teens, twenties, even thirties and probably in my forties too, come time. But at twenty-eight, most people have some understanding which can help them to make such a big decision without regretting it too much, later.’
‘And those who decide to believe are ignorant in your eyes?’
‘Not necessarily. So long as people have the tools to weigh their options, it’s okayish, I think. It’s a choice. And to some extent, one choice is as good as another, so long as the believe remains a personal and private matter. A child doesn’t have that choice. It knows and understands too little. But it believes it has a choice, like I did.’
‘You really were a believer?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘This is personal to you. You are not just rationalising. You have seen things. And things happened to you.’
‘Yes, and I happened to others. Do you want to know one of the worst things I ever did?’
‘Maybe not. But I will listen.’
‘I was in secondary school when I convinced a schoolfriend to believe in God. Her mother opposed the new-found faith, and threatened to take her own life if her daughter didn’t break with our group. My friend came to me, asking for advice. I can still see us, sitting in a street café, looking at the Ku-damm in Berlin. I listened, and then I told my friend that obeying God was her one and only duty. Therefore she had to continue to come to our meetings. I told her that serving God was more important than her mother’s life. I told her that she had to let her mother commit suicide. And I believed I was giving her the right advice, that she had, in fact, no other choice than to serve God no matter the costs. To this day, I haven’t forgiven myself this heartless, fanatic presumptuousness.’
Prince Harun frowned. ‘What happened?’
‘My schoolfriend never came back. I never saw her again. And I can’t tell you how grateful I am for that.’
‘Hm.’
‘The things we do for faith. The people we are prepared to misguide, sacrifice, hurt, humiliate, judge, beat or kill. For faith.’
Prince Harun stared at the samovar, lost in thoughts. After a while he said: ‘You still have a missionary drive about you.’
‘Am I still intense sometimes? Yes. Do I still I get carried away? Yes. But the only belief I hold these days is that we can do better.’
‘Hm. What is the worst that happened to you?’
‘I’m not sure. The vilification of the body? The crippling conflict between wanting to be a good Christian and being a human? Or the fact—’ Alice paused. ‘The fact that not a single person in this religious group protected an underage girl, and told another girl that her pregnancy was God’s punishment because she had sex out of wedlock. How can a pregnancy be a punishment?’
‘Underage girl?’
‘Me. I was underage, nearly fifteen. A man, more than ten years my senior, started a relationship with me. I was hungry for love and thought sex was love. These sexual experiences were of the weirdest kind because we knew we were sinning, we knew we were driven by our evil flesh, as it is called in these circles. I felt evil and rotten. When the elders found out, they put us on trial. Separately. A literal trial. Three men questioning and judging me, and demanding that I marry the perpetrator. A banker, a postgraduate in chemistry and a physicist with a bicycle shop, questioning a then fifteen years old girl about her sexual activities, and reading her the old testament’s verdict on sex out of wedlock. Not a single person in this religious group thought of protecting me, of kicking the shit out of that bastard who exploited a child’s hunger and deficits. All they saw was a female who had sinned, and who had to marry the perpetrator. Not one single person— not even me. I thought they were right. I would have married that arse of a man, at sixteen. But luckily, my mother denied her permission. And even luckier, I got out of that miserable relationship before turning eighteen.’
‘I am sorry.’
‘Me too. I was strong. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t just as vulnerable a child as any other child — and adult, come to think of it. Sorry, I got carried away.’
‘No. I am sorry. I should not have asked. And someone should have protected you. They all should have.’
‘They had the bible on their side,’ Alice said, opening and closing her fist. A moment earlier, she had wanted to punch something or someone, hard.
‘Can you forgive?’
Alice swallowed. All of a sudden, her chest felt heavy and tight, making it harder to breathe. 
Slowly, as if trying to find her way through unknown, maybe even hostile, territory, she said: ‘If the guilt was understood. If there was true regret, remorse, sorrow — I think then I could close that door. Let the past be the past. But forgiveness? Maybe, I don’t fully understand it. Maybe, I’m wrong to assume that forgiveness is too often used as an easy way out, as something that doesn’t hold people to account for the damage they inflicted. But I haven’t really thought about forgiveness since my religious time.’
‘And you? Can you forgive yourself?’
Puzzled, Alice looked at Prince Harun, and he added: ‘Can you forgive yourself that you were a child who still needed protection?’
Alice looked away and swallowed. She had never asked herself that question. It hurt. Tears wanted to well up. But she didn’t want them. This wasn’t the time nor the place to allow for a question like this, neither from herself nor from a stranger. 
Alice closed her eyes, focusing on her breathing, slowly, steadily. When she looked at Prince Harun again, she spoke with a quiet, defiant strength: ‘Maybe I can some day. I want to. But not today.’
Prince Harun nodded and asked quietly: ‘Then your parents are not religious?’
‘No. Quite the contrary. I was eleven when I was invited to Sunday School in this Free Church, just after we moved from East to West Berlin. Everything was new. Home was very complicated. When I became more involved with this group, my mother forbade me to go to Sunday School, and she told me to sever all ties with those people. But the church’s brothers told me I had to obey God and not my mother. And with all the mess at home, it was the perfect rebellion. And I liked singing. After some two or three years, I was so deep in that I had become— You know, it’s a long story. Stories really. Just nothing like a thousand and one nights, not even if you put in some genies,’ Alice added in an attempt to put some distance between herself and the past.
There was the hint of a smile on Prince Harun’s face, and he seemed to accept her request not to delve deeper. 
He leaned forward and filled two glasses with water. ‘Let us rest for a while. Please, help yourself,’ he added pointing to the plates with fruits.
Alice felt agitated from looking back into the past, and she welcomed the break. She wanted to forget. But these old stories kept resurfacing. She wanted to heal. But the old wounds kept aching. 
Alice sighed inwardly.
Prince Harun put his empty glass on the table and leaned back into his cushions, closing his eyes.
For a moment, Alice watched his leathery face, wondering what his stories were, and whether he had old wounds which still ached. 
Outside the wind picked up and played around the tent. Some men shouted, and a horse neighed.
Alice drank some water and tried not to think. Her thoughts had turned into little fragments anyway, like shards of a broken mirror. 
Alice ate a date and some grapes. Then she leaned back into her cushions and closed her eyes.
She was glad that Prince Harun didn’t mind silence, even in the company of a stranger.
But of course, he wouldn’t. The desert inspired contemplation not babbling.
Time passed, and with it the echoes of the past blurred a little.
After a while, Prince Harun asked into the silence: ‘Has any group agreed to be part of the Gods Garden?’
Alice opened her eyes. ‘No. Not a single group. But that’s fine too. We’ll still build the Gods Garden and put up little signs which say: “Here could be the Church of dot, dot, dot, but they didn’t have the guts to come.”’
‘You will get into trouble for this.’
‘Tell me, is there anything I could do with regard to religions that wouldn’t get me into trouble with someone? I try to treat religions as equally as possible. I try to include them as far as I can.’
‘I know.’
‘So what am I missing? What else could I do?’