Encouraging the Sceptics

The Gospel of Matthew opens the New Testament with words not nearly as memorable as those at the start of Genesis. One would not expect every Christian to know these words, though one would expect them to be aware that it is Matthew that comes in the beginning.

However according to a recent survey by Richard Dawkins 65% of the UK’s self-labelled Christians were unable to name the first book of the New Testament. Even more incredibly 48% stated that they ‘do not have strong religious beliefs’ at all.

Dawkins terms these people ‘Cultural Christians’; those who do not believe in or practice Christianity but still have an affinity towards a religion that they cannot escape. These people have affection for the village church, will sing raucously along to ‘All things Bright and Beautiful’ and could probably rattle of a few lines of the ‘Lord’s Prayer’. But this as far as their religion goes.

Today it is seen as more controversial to be a person of faith than not, with books such as The Chronicles of Narnia no longer written but instead Philip Pullman’s atheistic His Dark Materials and The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ. Religion appears to be very firmly on the back foot, the Church of England alone having seen church attendance decline by just under 200 000 over the last decade. However in his new book Religion for Atheists, Alain de Botton proclaims that religion is too important to be left to believers. One doesn’t have to join the ranks of the militant neo-Atheists to be a non-believer, but does one have to believe to find the worth in faith? And in terms of university life, what do the faith societies offer the sceptical student?

Over the course of a few weeks I attended an assortment of events put on by the faith societies at the University of Liverpool. These events were well organised but despite the heavy promotion there was often a lack of attendees there who weren’t a member of that society. This meant that occasionally I felt like a lost lamb (or black sheep) who had stumbled into the wrong room and been mistaken for part of the choir. At one of the Islam Society’s (ISOC) events there were a few stray students who peered in but kept their feet firmly out, admitting that that they were daunted to venture any further.

An ignorance of a religion can lead to a feeling of intimidation of that religion. In her talk for ISOC’s Awareness Week, Lauren Booth, former journalist and sister-in-law to Tony Blair, described her gradual conversion to Islam and the consternation it caused many of those who knew her. Her conservative Catholic mother had appeared surprisingly calm over the phone, and only when she saw Booth wearing the hijab did she exclaim ‘Muslim! I thought you said Budhism!’

Booth emphasised the importance of educating people about the realities of different religions, supporting what these faith societies are doing. I found an intellectual gratification at these events devoid of the moralizing aggression of a street preacher or the heavy drones of a Religious Education lesson.

One of the weekly workshops put on by the university’s National Hindu Students Forum (NHSF) discussed the common preconceptions of Hinduism; the meaning behind the supposed multiple gods, and their relationship with the cow, for instance. I came to see how each conclusion made was a personal one, contingent on that individual’s relationship with Hinduism.

‘What one person may like may be the complete opposite of another person’s opinion,’ the Vice President Trusha Kothari was to say to me. ‘Hinduism accepts the basic differences in every person in taste, temperament and capacity.’

I found a similar lack of rules and regulations at the Christian Union (CU) events. I spoke with Andy Taylor, a former member of the CU who emphasised the importance of the society cutting back to the heart of Christianity. ‘If it’s not about Jesus, it’s not worth it,’ he repeatedly said.

Andy went on to say that the CU brought up ‘life’s big questions’. Though this may be the case, more often than not I found that these questions weren’t answered. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It has been said that trying to explain religion in practical terms would be like launching a scientific investigation into literature. I may never understand what made some of the Sisters cry as Lauren Booth described the first time she felt Allah’s presence in a mosque, or the feeling of the girl who told me, unabashed and beaming of her conversion to Christianity from a life of drugs, anger and rebellion. The lack of answers doesn’t detract from the worth of the questions.

Whether it’s a debate on those questions, learning Bollywood dance or attending one of the charity projects that these societies arrange, there is much a student of ‘no faith’ can find in engaging with these societies. Trusha was effusive in her encouragement for all to join in with the Hindu festivals: ‘From exploding fireworks together on Diwali or smearing colour on each other in Holi, our festivals have religious stories behind them, but the morals are universal; whether it be the triumph of good over evil, or starting a new year afresh!’

In his book De Botton goes on to argue that religion is the ‘most successful educational and intellectual movements the planet has ever witnessed.’ Whether or not this is the case there is certainly a value in the faith societies for students not of that faith even it if is simply the pleasure of learning and meeting strangers. University is about nothing if not about that.

Bertie Digby Alexander

London 2012

Originally published in Ellipsis Issue 5 Spring 2012 -  http://ellipsisliverpool.blogspot.co.uk/

Student 200636787

Any account of a day in the life of a student has to begin with a hangover. I would feel that I was exposing the truth behind a much loved myth if I was to write otherwise – even if the student in question had had an early night after an evening of tea and a couple of episodes of The Wire.

After stumbling through the remnants of last night’s fancy dress costume, Student 200636787 makes it to the bathroom to scrub the handlebar moustache off his face and cleanse his hair of silly string.

Showered and refreshed he leaves Room 54B to catch his morning lecture. On the way out he passes a comatosed Flatmate 54J sitting on the kitchen counter with a half-eaten bowl of crunchy-nut cornflakes floating limply in warm milk. Sadly, no time to chat.

His bank account isn’t healthy so he is unable to pick up breakfast at either Quick Chef (where the vegetarian sausages provide the best recorded argument on why to give up meat) or Cuthbert’s (where the heart-shaped biscuits that arrive with his coffee never fail to lift his mood.)

After the lecture the crowd disperses with a heavy stream heading towards the Sydney Jones Library. 200636787 finds the library horribly distracting with everyone working so hard so will walk instead to the Plaza Café next to the Metropolitan Cathedral; sterile and home to all OAPs in Merseyside, but with little chance of being disturbed.

At 2PM, 200636787 has a committee meeting so scuttles off to the Guild Courtyard – not nearly as romantic as it sounds. He sits here for an hour nodding along and trying to say something sensible before heading back to his flat.

Back there Flatmate 54J is now singing along to Oasis full blast – 200636787 hurries into his room before Flatmate 54K is out and screaming for the music to be turned down. Here he dwells over Sir Orfeo for the rest of the afternoon highlighting a few lines and writing the odd note.

That evening he attempts to find the Harold Wilson Room (or was it the Macausland Lounge?) in search of his rehearsal with the Theatre Society (LUDS). He finds neither and spends the next hour and a half skulking around dusty staircases and dingy underground passages.

Eventually he ends up in the Saro Wiwa bar and waits for fellow thespians to arrive before the shutters come down. Once they are down, if they’re feeling grand, it’s to the Philharmonic for a pint of ale; if they are looking for a fine blend of class and kookiness, they will probably end up in either Santo Chupitos or Mello Mello (-or if they are not, Walkabout and Baa Bar are more appropriate.)

Or maybe he leaves his wallet and the student cliché on top of Sir Orfeo, and simply settles down to The Wire and mug of green tea.

Bertie Digby Alexander

London 2011

Originally published on http://liverpoolstudentmedia.com/

Student Demolition 10/11/10

On the 10^th of November 2010, 52 000 students and lecturers united in a common cause marched through London protesting against the cuts to Higher Education. Amongst the throng were 10 coach loads of students from Liverpool, up since 5am, no longer bleary eyed and yawning but singing and shouting and determined to have their collective voice heard.

Placards in hand, we had joined the back of the march at Trafalgar Square and in minutes were sandwiched between protesters from all around as more joined us every second. The sheer size of the protest took us all by surprise and we were quickly hyped up with the hysteria, screaming into the air with the rest, ‘No Ifs! No Buts! No Education Cuts!’

The cuts we were marching against will result in some universities having to raise tuition fees up to as high as the stratospheric figure of £9000 per year. It is thought that even this increase will not be enough to plug the whole axed open by the 40% reduction in government funding leading to some Humanities courses to be cut from certain institutions altogether. Such dark prospects had invigorated students across the country; peaceful passion and exuberant energy on show as we paraded past Downing Street. The signs and banners to be seen were brilliant, ranging from the wonderful, ‘Tuition fees = £9, 000. Student debt = £40, 000. The look on Nick Clegg’s face when he loses Sheffield Hallam = priceless’ to the blunt, ‘Clegg is a c***!’

Indeed it was the Liberal Democrat leader who was receiving the brunt of the abuse from the crowd, many of whom had voted for his party due to his pledge to abolish student fees. One memorable sign declared him, ‘The second worse Nick in politics.’ He was receiving a bashing inside Westminster as well as Harriet Harman likened him to a naïve first-year: ‘You’re at freshers’ week. You meet up with a dodgy bloke and you do things you regret.’

Police had deployed many of their officers outside the Liberal Democrat offices, with only five to guard the Conservative Headquarters, Millbank, which left it vulnerable to the 200 wayward protesters who infamously invaded the building early in the afternoon. Once inside these hotheads smashed windows, lit bonfires in the courtyard and occupied the roof, from where one launched a fire extinguisher down to the crowd below. This fringe group saw it as civil war; one insurgent shouted at us as we passed to turn around and help him ‘take back Millbank!’ and a text message sent from the roof declared, ‘This is only the beginning . . !’

The riots resulted in ten people in hospital and thirty five arrests. NUS president Aaron Porter rightly condemned the actions of this ‘minority of idiots’ as ‘despicable’, our own Student President Josh Wright echoing these remarks.

These people sabotaged the positive impact the march could have had, one columnist writing the next day, ‘The public will have little sympathy for students who plea poverty but can afford to bunk off their studies, pop up to London and beat up policemen.’ All we can hope for is that the majority of the public will see past the aggressive few and look to the peaceful masses. Some of our group from Liverpool were shocked and flattered when one Liberal Democrat MP stopped them on the street to shake their hands and apologise for going back on their promise on student fees. Walking through Westminster at dusk, cars were now flowing once more and all that remained to be seen of the march were a few discarded pickets, collapsed and lifeless on the pavement. But this is not to say that the march was at all in vain.

52 000 is a big number. Though marches often fail to force governments to retract their policies, they often force them to think twice before planning similar future proposals. Demolition 10/11 can be seen as the beginning of a ripple of resilient response as others affected by the cuts take to the streets and show that they are not prepared to be stifled, or give up hope for the future.

Bertie Digby Alexander

Liverpool 2010

Originally published in Ellipsis Issue 2 Spring 2011 - http://ellipsisliverpool.blogspot.co.uk/

In Praise of a Lonely Planet-less Trip

Greece was the furthest I had ventured from home before, and then it was a four day Classics trip with my school, full of clipboards, roll calls and hats sporting the school logo. Therefore the prospect of flying on my own across the globe and spending six weeks in the little town of Luang Prabang in Northern Laos was both daunting and exciting.

Laos is a beautiful country, completely landlocked by China, Burma, Vietnam, Cambodia and Thailand. Consisting of predominantly mountains and thick forest, the country has a variety of beautiful towns, the best known being Pakse in the south, and Luang Prabang in the north. The latter is the second biggest in Laos, and although hasn’t yet been graced by a McDonalds or Starbucks, is the most popular tourist destination in the country.

Pocketed between the Nam Kan and the Mekong River, Luang Prabang is a perfect meeting of cultures; though peppered with ornate, golden Buddhist temples, lasting tributes to the Land of a Million Elephants (Lan Xang Kingdom – from the 14^th-18^th century), it still shows the effect of its colonisation (ending in 1949), with numerous cafes and bistros lining the streets under arching French balconies. 

My uncle had lived out there for twenty years and the plan was that I would work in his hotel, at reception and on the bar. This was a wonderful chance for me to immerse myself in the town’s life and mix with the wonderfully, friendly locals. From the monks clad in their orange robes to the little old lady who sold me dragon-fruit in the morning, I received wide smiles and chirpy Lao-chatter (on their part) wherever I went.

This welcoming national character could be seen in the locals my uncle employed at the hotel, who were to show me the ‘real’ Luang Prabang, the side that is so often missed. I would feast on the barbeques in the cramped alleyways behind temples; play badminton in the red dusk on the crumbling school playgrounds and drink in their bars and nightclubs.

Their willingness for me to get involved was evident from the outset when, in my first week, I was invited to two engagement parties and a wedding. More nuptials than I’d ever been to in my life. At these events food was forced upon me from every side, bits of which I would tentatively place into my mouth, not knowing – before, during or after – whether it was fish, fruit or desert. The staple food in Laos is ‘sticky-rice’, which you can roll into a ball in your hand and eat with sauce or maybe a piece of dried seaweed. This I got used to, though the raw egg and clotted ox blood was a challenge to adapt to.

At the parties, it was the dance floor that was the real snake pit. What I assumed was free-style dancing was in fact a very précised routine involving specific twists and turns depending on the song playing. My embarrassed partner would blush and bow their head in shame as I grinded across the tent in complete cultural-naivety and after one too many bottles of BeerLao.

My memory of Luang Prabang that stands out above all others was the night my co-barman Onn, took me through the mountains circling the town, to the home village of his girlfriend. We were going to what he called, her ‘Initiation Ceremony’. It turned out to be not nearly as sinister as it sounded. She was leaving the province to become a teacher and this was to be her goodbye party. On the back of Onn’s scooter, we chugged up and down the tracks snailing over the yawning blue mountains for about 40 minutes until reaching the little village, consisting of a small collection of wooden huts where faint candle glow and low murmurs of voices escaped the walls to us below.

I remember walking into the biggest hut and being greeted by thirty dark and beautiful faces staring at me with an intensity that I had never and have never since experienced, none of them having ever seen a ‘falang’ (foreigner) before. They weren’t smiling at me but their faces were welcoming; perhaps more through their eyes than their expression. There was no sense of awkwardness or threat whatsoever.

Sitting down on the rugs Onn handed me a glass of dark brown liquid which I gulped down. I had assumed it was a type of tea, and asking him what it was made from he told me that it was just water, and thoughts of dysentery and early flights home crept into my head.

There was food going round and also a large vat, the size of a bedside table with four bamboo stalks sticking out the top. It was a local whiskey made of rice and drunk warm. Onn and myself were the last to receive it and telling me that it was rude to leave any, we got sucking for the next 20 minutes, by the end of which I lay back on the floor and began to fall asleep.

When looking back on this night it’s hard to rationalise the nervy thoughts I’d been having on the flight over to Bangkok. Save for my uncle and the guests at the hotel, I barely spoken to another westerner in the six weeks I was there and this is what made the time so special. I got to know the locals, homes and families and have a peak beyond the Western bars and tourist ‘must-see’s’.

I would now always urge anyone strapping on their walking boots and backpack not to whip through as many locations as they can but to spend time in one place. There is always more to see – I could have lived in Luang Prabang for a year and still missed things – and it was always more interesting when you peak beyond the Lonely Planet to what’s really there. I was lucky in that I had a contact in the town, but even without one, the inner life of a place is always accessible, if you’re willing to look that little bit harder for it.

I remember a couple of ladies from Florida checking in and asking whether they should try and tick off their itinerary the sunset trip up the Mekong or the tuk-tuk  ride to the Weaving Village. To their shock I told them I wouldn’t know as I had done neither.

‘But honey, you’ve been here for a month! Don’t you want to get to know the real Laos?’ I didn’t reply to this but smiled and showed them to their room.

Bertie Digby Alexander

Liverpool 2010

Originally published in Ellipsis Issue 2 Spring 2011 - http://ellipsisliverpool.blogspot.co.uk/