I am a Christian.
Raised Catholic, born in Zimbabwe, educated nine years in South Africa and a citizen of Botswana. If this is not truly African, then I am unsure what is. Although in my high school I attended Anglican Sunday service, I knew I was praying to the same God. As many other religions praise the same God – there are different dominions and variants in how we celebrate and give thanks to the creator. However, I have not gone to church in a while. I had come to accept that it is not for me and that my relationship with God only grew stronger outside the church. As I navigated triggers of harm, if not experienced them whether in connecting with my peers through my voluntary work, in recreational activities or when someone reaches out for support. It then pains me when I see the kind of religion, or institutions rather, that give spiritual refuge today.
Botswana’s parliament recently approved a State of Emergency (SOE). My family history reminds me of how I should not be surprised or scared. As it includes three others experienced in Zimbabwe during a state-sponsored ethnic cleansing in the Southern part, Matebeleland and one in Malawi due to student uprisings. As a human rights activist, the relinquishing of any forms of accountability, freedoms and liberties through an SOE are so much more life-threatening as a queer young individual. Although our colonial laws created an atmosphere of possible persecution, they allowed for pursuing our freedoms through activism and securing legal recourse where needed. Navigating travel permits to access essential services and having no oversight body to curb abuse from law enforcement are barriers to surviving distancing. Even more harrowing is the isolation for a group that is already socially isolated. So, according to capitalism, spiritual refuge should be one of the many self-care tools for coping. This is difficult.
I recently dropped off a food package to my retired mother, who lost a tenant as the country went into lockdown. Leaving her with no income and only her religious channels and bible. She began turning to religion when my parents divorced. Having chosen sides, I was deeply connected to the pain she experienced and could understand why my own relationships were broken. She has not recovered. Thus playing evangelist television 24 hours a day and praying at every moment she reminds herself. This has made it even more difficult for me to accept how many dominions or institutions take advantage of those who live perpetual in desperation. From soliciting contributions from the poor whilst pastors live in luxury and afford bodyguards. I keep wondering why a man of the cloth needs security in an Africa that reveres and relies on them in times of politicking or public health.
As a queer individual, I have had the pain of being asked inappropriate questions influenced by what is said at the pulpit. I have heard many of my peers delay self-acceptance and living truthfully for the fears created by how scripture is interpreted. I ask myself why scripture is not used when we are told not to call out those who abuse us at home or school. Yet being the same vessel subjected to perpetual violence, it is who I love or how I identify that is an inconvenience to what they say God wants. I ask myself how I am to separate my Africanness with my queerness in the same way detractors do when justifying my existence. How am I expected to survive formal or informal work, seeking service delivery or paying bills when I cannot escape how religious leaders have influenced people in public society?
Queer-antine is a double-edged sword. The pulpit has moved virtual and the crisis has forced religious leaders to reframe their messaging. It means walking through a store for essentials, there is a little less stigma in the isles or at the till. That I can support my community without fear of having to turn to scripture to counter what triggered someone into depression. That we can exist and still praise God in our autonomy and consent. That I not longer receive long scripture paragraphs every two hours because the rapture is happening. I am allowed to breathe a bit, with hopes that I do not read any triggers that take me back to the inescapable pain of harming myself as an abomination. Amidst all these uncertainties and restrictions, I am liberated.
Liberated to fully understand my relationship with God and need not reconcile what public discourse dictates. Liberated from the guilt of ending my engagement because my partner had chosen to rely on religion out of desperation to economic and health problems in his family. That I can heal my old wounds through virtual community care work. I am reconnected to affirming my survival and showcasing our beauty and resilience as a community. In the same way, I cannot separate being Christian, African or part of a generational legacy that has survived SOEs and harm; I cannot separate my queerness. Queer-antine has forced me to reflect and accept these realities. That there is no other way to living my truth. That this acceptance is a transformation of renewed hope in a time of challenge. A time to chart a new path and demand better circumstances for all young queer people to navigate in spiritual, political, learning, work and public society.
Dumi is Pan African and unequivocally non-binary queer feminist working on eliminating the barriers between grassroots experiences and global policy-making through Success Capital.
The views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in this Op-Ed by the Writer are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of The Rustin Times.
