Faith

Gate to a Muyenga compound

I've been feeling the faith down here. You don't have to look for the church to see or hear about it everywhere; the gospel songs on the radio, the programming on the television, the features and columns on faith issues in the newspapers. Women wear headscarves or crucifixes, and there is a whole street lined with stalls of bibles and rosary beads opposite a church in town. Religion, faith and morals are in the air, in conversations and in questions.

More correctly I should talk about the churches. There are many. The majority of Ugandans are Christian but this group is divided between Protestant (Anglican), Catholic and a host of other churches including a significant new movement of evangelicals. Everyone seems to have a religion and identifies with one church or another. Its normal, widespread and notably prevalent amongst youth, which for me is unusual.

On Sundays, the human traffic along the roads is scrubbed clean, dressed in Sunday best and carrying a solid, textbook-sized bible. The girls have their hair done and wear pretty dresses which would look nice on a night out. Services go on for a few hours; you usually don't see people coming from back from church until after lunchtime.

To be honest I'm impressed with the variety and range of religions down here. The overall atmosphere is of a remarkable open-mindedness and lack of judgement about religion; people chat casually about who belongs to which church, and what the differences between the churches might be. Families go together on a Sunday but I have the impression that it is very much a free choice as to which church to attend, and that young people in their twenties go along because they've become interested and gotten involved. Which is quite a contrast to a lot of the people I see at home getting dragged along to mass by their parents, hungover of a Sunday.

Religion is important to Ugandans and – to my limited knowledge – is detached entirely from the State and the general education and health system (more or less; there are of course religious schools and at least one Islamic University). The churches are detached from the political context, although Church leaders preach on public issues, the influence of which I wouldn't discount.

“And what religion are you? Do you attend church?”

It comes up very early on in conversations with Ugandans, a polite enquiry. Its neither nosey nor presumptuous, just curious and interested. To me, as a question, it represents a touching presumption of faith; it implies a faith that you must have a connection to some religion, because everyone does. To me, this seems almost like a faith in faith itself.

In response, despite the local tolerance about these things, I have always identified myself as Catholic. It simply seems like too much trouble to explain that I'm not very religious and don't often go to mass, although I was raised Catholic and christened and attended a convent school. Its not that I'm afraid that people will disapprove, just that they wouldn't fully understand, and would want to talk it out. And for me there isn't a lot to talk about.

Some colleagues at the office, when I explained recently that Ugandans' casual interest in the topic is somewhat unusual for me, responded that it's a normal question just so new acquaintances know where they stand.

“It lets you know what you can put on the table”, explained Ronnie, the eligible bachelor of the office. It took me a few minutes to realise that he meant this literally – that people want to know about your religion so that they know what they can offer each other to eat and drink! Uganda has a minority but strong Muslim community, and – I hadn't know this before – members of several of the evangelical Christian churches also don't eat pork.

So in one sense I'm pretty impressed by the tolerance. Perhaps religion isn't an issue because Ugandans focus far more on a sense of tribal identity and loyalty, which is a source of real and potentially divisive tensions. Tribal identities are ancient and ancestral; in contrast, all religions in Uganda are relatively new and at one point or another were a matter of choice. Nowhere more so is this element of choice visible than in relation to the growth of “new” churches such as evangelicals and Jehovah's Witness, business for which is more or less booming. This is particularly the case for youth; many of the converts are young, possibly choosing the new churches over more established ones which their families attended.

I'm not sure how I feel about this. The driving force behind this new movement is mainly American, and I think what I dislike about it is how commercialised it seems. To give one example, the channel with the best reception on the three televisions I've used since arriving down here has been an evangelical Christian channel which broadcasts free to air. I've never seen a black or African face on air. All of their programs are American preachers giving sermons, Christian talk shows or gospel concerts, which are shown in short segments between very long ad breaks, which only seem to promote expensive, mail order Christian tapes, books and DVDs.

I was amused and entertained by the bible bashers who stand on roundabouts around Kampala in the clouds of exhaust fumes, gesturing wildly, thumping their bible and roaring the word of God above the grinding and beeping of rush hour traffic. At home they would have a sign warning us that the END IS NIGH, but at home they're always middle aged or older. Here, they are usually under 30.

“How long do they stand there?!” I asked Margaret once, in the car.

“Oh, all day,” she replied. It turns out they're paid to preach, although no one seems to listen. Raving at roundabouts is literally a full time job.

This kind of active marketing or recruitment to religion makes me deeply uncomfortable, although I'm not sure why. Add in rumours of American evangelical influence in supporting and triggering the current (and if you ask me, horrific) Anti-Homosexuality Bill (although thankfully some leading church figures such as Rick Warren have now publicly criticised the Bill), and I cannot shake off my doubts.

What's really funny for me though, if I'm going to be honest, is how people talk about it.

Margaret's driver Alex was taking me home a couple of weeks ago, and we mentioned a particular guy both of us knew (who is, I think, in his twenties or perhaps early thirties).

“He is Saved,” Alex said solemnly, in a very matter of fact way.

“Oh he is religious?” I asked.

“Oh yes”.

I tried to be respectful and absorbed this information as best I could. “Are you Saved, Alex?”

He smiled ruefully, amused by this question. “No, no”, he replied.

“Do you go to church?”

He laughed openly. “No!”

This amused me no end. To talk solemnly about people being Saved, as if it was a tangible state of being or a concrete fact like membership of a political party, would only make sense to me if I shared the same view. Detached observers down here do not poke fun at the church. The slightly pitying tone used by non-believers back home when talking about religion is absent. Ugandans lack the implied cynicism with which people discuss the church in Ireland; a cynicism so pervasive that I had never noticed or identified it until I was surprised by its absence.

A few days later I was taking a boda home and the driver was chatty. We were whizzing through Kabalagala at the time, an eternally chaotic, buzzing neighbourhood full of bars and markets and food being sold from street stalls. It was a Saturday evening and traffic was busy, the roads full of people heading home after their week's work.

“You are born again?” he asked me casually, over his shoulder.

“Am I what?!”

“Have you been born again?”

“Oh no, no,” I replied, trying not to giggle, and hoping that he would stop looking over his shoulder at me and watch the road instead. “Which church do you go to?”

“Jehovah”, he replied. In a Ugandan accent it richly sounds Jegh-oww-vahh. “What church are you?”

“Catholic”. He looked sceptical. “Almost all Irish people are Catholic,” I explained. He didn't look like he believed me. “So you go to your meeting tomorrow?” I asked, trying to change the conversation.

“Oh yes. You come with me? I pick you up and take you on boda.”

It was getting harder not to giggle. “Oh, no, thanks.”

“No? Why not? You should try. You would like.”

“Oh, I don't think so. I think I'll stick with the Catholic church, its ok for me”. He opened his mouth to continue and I was beginning to sense the commencement of a campaign. “My mother would be very upset if I changed,” I added hastily.

He nodded sagely and turned back to the road. He understood. The matter was out of my hands.

Who says women are powerless!