I’ve taken to attending the modest Christian services that a handful of inmates hold at 6 pm on Saturday and Sunday – not because I’ve had some sort of jailhouse conversion, but rather as a way to further improve my Indonesian.
I doubt anything will ever shift me from what Richard Dawkins would call a “strongly agnostic” position, but I’ve always been fascinated by religion and the grip it has on believers. My Dad was Jewish, but having “married out” he never followed the faith and I have no recollection of him ever attending a synagogue. Rather, I remember him flirting frequently with whatever religion was flavour of the day, be it baptist, methodist or even, briefly, a dabble with Jehovah’s Witnesses.
For the one hour a week school used to devote to religious education, I would flit between denominations trying to learn as much as I could while never subscribing to one particular faith. I recall a phase when I was born again and prayed earnestly each night, but the discovery of girls and my first remembered wet dream put paid to that. A career spent covering war and conflict – most with a religious undertone – as well as natural disasters in countries that were avowedly anti-secular, did little to change my mind.
It’s difficult to be an atheist in Indonesia – in fact it is effectively against the law. The constitution recognises Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Catholics, and Protestants, and even the most mundane official form requires you to check a box stating which faith you adhere to; there is no atheist option.
I used to stage a petty protest and insist officials wrote ‘non-believer’ whenever I filled in a form – the final straw being asked my religion when I applied for a Starbucks loyalty card. That changed, however, immediately after my arrest and, cynically I know, I had no hesitation in marking myself down as believing in God. I knew the time would come when I’d have to swear an oath in court, and my petty protest would be met with bafflement at best or prove very damaging at worst.
Despite a general antipathy to religion, I’ve been very impressed with how the various faiths get on so easily here in jail. There is a small covered quadrangle that serves as an inter-denominational prayer room, the four walls painted with the Islamic declaration of faith, a Hindu swastika, a Buddhist rune and a Christian cross. In practice, only the Muslims use it for worship, gathering four times a day for prayer; their pre-dawn prostrations have to be performed in their cells due to lock-up. After each prayer they also do something I haven’t seen elsewhere in the Islamic world, they chant for 10 minutes. It starts slowly but builds until it echos down the corridors, and despite the ‘choir’ members being regularly rotated, they maintain a consistent harmony.
The Hindus gather each evening in front of a small temple facing Mount Agung in the yard and they also chant, although more melodiously. The prayers are led by a studious-looking Brahman who has been busted for crystal meth for a second time, but he takes his duties seriously despite wearing a sarong emblazoned with the Harley Davidson logo. Outside volunteers provide the Balinese with all the offerings needed for their ceremonies, but the incense sticks are prized by everyone. Whenever you need to “drop the kids at the pool,” you light a stick and place it at the entrance to the toilet door. It serves as a visual warning that the loo is occupied and the scent also masks the smell.
The handful of Christians sit in a circle and pray, sing a hymn and read from the bible. They are definitely the least harmonious of the faiths, but make up for lack of melody with volume.
They take it in turns to choose a weekly passage to discuss and I was somewhat surprised the first week when Martinus, a young Papuan chose an Old Testament passage that consisted of God smiting entire tribes, including women and children, in what would be classified as genocide today.
One thing all three religions have in common is that after the main evening gathering the congregations line up and shake hands, or make salaams or clasp palms with the entire jail population. It is a time consuming, but bonding process.
I notice that new arrivals tend to avoid their prayers – regardless of faith – for the first few days, and wonder if perhaps the shame of their guilt is too fresh for them to confront their maker. They all end up drifting back, however.
In that vein, I’ve had a few emails from friends saying they’d pray for me, or urging me to pray and put my faith in God. Previously I would like have engaged them in debate, arguing about the pointlessness of such activity, but I welcome their messages now and appreciate their sincerity.
On Saturday I was tasked with the reading and the prayer. When they asked me a few days ago I wrestled with my conscience for a while before accepting. Would it be fair for a non-believer to lead the service? I decided if I made it a lesson rather than sermon, I’d be deceiving no-one – least of all any deity who happened to be eavesdropping – and I could give thanks, instead of prayer. For the lesson I chose Hebrews 13:3 – short and sweet:
“Remember the prisoners as though in prison with them, and remember the ill-treated as if you are within them.”
The passage may not have been as exciting as their usual diet of smiting and begetting, but the mention of prisoners and empathy for them clearly delighted my ‘congregation’.
For the closing prayer we all joined hands and I gave thanks for their companionship, and thanks for all the inmates who treated me with kindness and respect despite our circumstances and for helping me find my feet in this dark place. And I gave thanks to all my friends and family who have stood by me through this ordeal, never judging and never complaining despite the turmoil I have brought into their lives.
And this I believe from the bottom of my heart.