“Did you pray Zohr?”
“Yes”
“Did you read Quran”
“Yes”
“Did you write a letter to Huzoor”
“Yes”
These are all questions my parents ask me. These are all questions to which the honest answer would be a simple “No.” Sadly, I am not afforded the privilege of such honesty. For the sake of my family, and for myself, I am forced to engage in such everyday deceptions. To answer honestly would be to violate the unacknowledged (for the most part), yet mutually understood boundaries of our relationship. Sometimes I don’t even think my parents are really asking me. It’s as if we are both engaging in this back-and-forth as if it were a script; neither of us expecting any deviation. The questions are asked but the answers are presupposed. Of course I read namaz. Of course I did. What else would be expected of an upright Ahmadi Muslim?
There is however a difference between me and my parents. They engage in these conversations as themselves - firm believers. I, on the other hand am acting as one. They might ask these questions without expecting a genuine answer, but they do expect my answer to reflect my sincerity as a believer. I participate in this game with a knowing grin, realizing that I must play by its rules to avoid exposing my true beliefs. This is the central contradiction of most closeted ex-Ahmadis’ lives. On the one hand we find so many of the Jamaat’s teachings laughable, unconvincing and downright disturbing. Yet we are forced to publicly pretend that they are truly “blessed” and wise.
I have been a kafir for around 5-6 years now. For many years I have been playing this role of a committed Ahmadi in my every day interactions with my family and friends. I am not yet ready (mentally or materially) to break it to them. I’ve sometimes experienced guilt at my own behavior - how could I lie to my own loved ones, so frequently and so easily? Yet every time I posed myself this question, I always ended up asking myself: what is the alternative? Either I tell the truth and suffer the consequences, or I lie until it is safe to be honest. Its not that I want to lie to my family - of course I don’t - but the reality is that I have to.
I recently read an essay by Polish writer Czesław Miłosz. In it he describes the inner lives of people living in Stalinist Poland; a totalitarian society where the consequences of even minor dissent are well known to all its members. Miłosz describes a phenomenon which arises as a result of such an overbearing society. Those who do not subscribe to the state-mandated party line must deal with their inability to express their true beliefs. He describes such people engage in a practice called ketman. To live in a society where one’s inner beliefs are considered heretical, one must develop the skill of a well-trained actor. By perfecting this practice, the individual is able to “permit a relaxation of one’s vigilance,” safe in the assurance that they are well-trained enough to not betray their true beliefs. Miłosz goes as far as to say that ketman provides some small satisfaction to its user, knowing that he is fooling those around him:
“To say something is white when one thinks it black, to smile inwardly when one is outwardly solemn, to hate when one manifests love, to know when one pretends not to know, and thus to play one's adversary for a fool (even as he is playing you for
one)-these actions lead one to prize one's own cunning above all else”
For the closeted ex-Ahmadi, ketman is an essential tool. It is second-nature for most of us. It allows us to protect our “inner sanctuary” of beliefs about Jamaat Ahmadiyya from the outside world. Yet there are limits to this survival mechanism. What about those values and beliefs that are truly meaningful to us? As Miłosz notes, to engage in ketman often involves the inability to differentiate between one’s true self and simulated self. This is an tendency that we must resist, if not only for the sake of our sanity.
Let me give an example to illustrate. I am a passionate supporter of LGBTQ+ rights and social acceptance. I was not always like this, of course, growing up in the virulently heterosexual and homophobic environment of Ahmadi society. I have so many friends who are not straight, and I myself still am figuring out my sexuality. For me, saying that I have prayed, when of course I haven’t, is quite easy. It harms no-one. But to say that I believe homosexuality is a sin, or a disease, is something that I cannot do. When for example, my Ahmadi friends use “gay” as an insult, I refuse to simply affirm their prejudices and laugh along with them. At the same time, I can’t actively speak out because that would be contrary to Jamaat theology. No, instead I am left in the uncomfortable position of completely refusing to interact with such comments and discussions. Better to be safe than sorry. This is the impossible position which faces us as ex-Ahmadis. How do we simultaneously ensure own safety while staying true to the core values that we hold close to our heart? It's a balancing act of Herculean proportions.
As difficult as it is however, I’ve come to terms with this compromise of not actively engaging in such discussions which go against my values. If some bigoted uncle starts to talk about a “gay agenda” to take over the world, I will retreat from the conversation. Don’t get me wrong: it feels terrible to not be able to call out such outdated and disgusting bigotry. But by refusing to interact I am able to salve my consciousness on some level, safe in the knowledge that I am not actively perpetuating the homophobic narrative.
I guess what I’m trying to get at is, being an ex-Ahmadi is torturous enough. While I am stuck in this nowhere land of closeted disbelief, refusing to compromise on some of my personal and political beliefs is a small act of resistance. At the very least, it gives me a slither of autonomy. That said, I don’t believe that there is any set-in-stone moral rule as to how far you should go to conceal your beliefs. Everybody’s situation is different. Your priority should be your safety. But I think it is important that we have these conversations with ourselves, to decide what is necessary for our survival and what is not. To decide to what extent we can allow ourselves to resist beliefs that are pushed upon us. We shouldn't let our mere disbelief characterize every aspect of our existence, losing ourselves in the process.
So far I’ve talked about environments - home and masjid - in which I have limited control. Thanks to the Internet however, there exist sanctuaries of disbelief, where I can express my opinions about Jamaat without (much) fear. These sanctuaries range from individual relationships I have with other ex-Ahmadis, to public forums such as r/Islam_Ahmadiyya. Anyone can sign up on Reddit with an anonymous account and join the conversation (and I think more people should!). Spaces like these are so important. While ketman is a survival mechanism, building networks of disbelief allows us imagine a more authentic, post-Ahmadi life while we are materially unable to actualize it. I can safely say that the only thing that has kept me sane in recent times is bonding with other ex-Ahmadis about every aspect of our shared experience. Realizing again and again and again, just how absurd it is that out of all the possibilities, we were born into this strange little community. I guess as ex-Ahmadis that’s all we can really do: embrace the absurdity.
Very beautifully put into words. I hope that one day soon, you'll be able to live authentically. In the meantime, please do keep writing!