Disclaimer: I'm not arguing or debating anything on ideological or theological grounds; this should all just be read as a word salad of my inner turmoil, with no higher purpose except maybe therapeutic relief for me. Upon rereading this months later, I'm not sure I still stand behind everything I wrote here.
Like many other Muslims, a pretty pious childhood characterized my years from ages nine to fourteen, and even before that. I enjoyed reading the Quran, fasting, praying, and attending Taraweeh. I don't think that's unusual; religious kids usually stick close to how their parents have brought them up since parents play that god-like figure for them in early childhood. However, I gradually lost my faith around the age of fifteen or sixteen due to various factors, including questioning my own identity, which I'll probably mention in detail later in the text.
The thing that triggered, or at least heavily furthered, my stance on religion was watching the movie PK, especially the emotional scene where the main character questions why some people deserve hell and others do not.
The first time I actually experienced a personal "crisis" of faith was when I was forced to be circumcised at the age of six—without any anesthesia. This is a more personal and traumatic story, so I won't discuss that here.
Around the age of eighteen, I started delving deeper into psychology, learning a lot about mental health and my own traumas. I then began exploring enlightenment, secularism, and socialism. I believe these concepts hold significant importance in the modern world.
Some time passed. I started reading history and philosophy. I would see a therapist sometimes frequently, sometimes not; at some point, I wasn't looking for therapy anymore. I also began to lose appreciation for the fact that my issues were reduced to "individual" trauma-related issues, rather than societal issues that we are all affected by to some extent.
At some point, I was just looking for more perspective than what psychology alone offered. I think often about Carl Jung, Albert Camus, Byung-Chul Han, and YouTubers like Dr. K. They made me repeatedly question different narratives and ideologies, for which I am grateful. Sometimes feeling empty and confused, I would occasionally believe I found something I could stand by, only to break the illusion of certainty and feel empty again.
After experimenting with psychedelics, I began to feel spiritual awe again, even if only for a day. I felt certain that this experience was what I had been looking for.
I became interested in cultivating that feeling of spiritual awe again.
The more I read about capitalism (and its main critique by Marx), neoliberalism, secularism, and how these concepts are likely related to widespread societal alienation since the beginning of industrialization, the more convinced I became that all humans must have some sort of "common spiritual experience"—see "Entzauberung der Welt" and "Müdigkeitsgesellschaft." This experience is probably what everyone longs for to some extent.
I heard the term "whitewashed" being used against me; it was not intended to be malicious. This prompted me to question its meaning and research more into it. I learned about (post-)colonialism and Eurocentrism, and how these issues still affect the modern world. This realization led me to question my own views—made me ponder whether I have some internalized (self-)hatred against Islamic culture or even against Indian/Desi culture.
Then, by chance, while reading history, I came across Sufism, Rumi, and the spread of Islam throughout the world, along with many great Muslim thinkers of the past (Al-Ghazali, Ibn Sina, etc.). It felt comforting to know that people have tried to attain spiritual connection with discipline, and some may have even succeeded. Though I remain critical of Islam, I have become more open to learning about it again, in a more genuine way than during my teenage years. I learned that Wahhabism and Salafism are not the only ways to interpret Islamic teachings.
I discovered various disagreements between different denominations and scholars of Islam, the meaning and purpose of "political Islam," and the controversies that many ex-Muslims often point out from different Muslim perspectives. I watched most of the series on the Seerah of the Prophet by Dr. Yasin Qadir—until it became a little too fantastical for me. I started reading the meaning of the Holy Quran: Extended Study Edition by Yahiya Emerick, but I didn't finish that either. I read about Islamic psychology, "Islamism," and its historical evolution, poetry, and many other matters of Islamic culture, which somehow reawakened that feeling of awe—the thing I had longed for—within me again.
I am still not entirely sure about all matters and hoped to find at least historically or traditionally understandable answers to strengthen my beliefs again—though I wasn't just looking for answers that satisfied me personally (or my "nafs") but that could make sense for humanity in general (or at least I tried).
Feeling more hopeful about my beliefs and life in general became a welcome change. Even though I didn’t have answers for all my doubts, praying, fasting, and practicing religious traditions provided routine, discipline, and some hope—something to feel inspired by—again.
Then, during Ramadan of this year (2024), a seed of doubt planted itself in my mind again, growing distance between me and my faith. I am not sure where it came from...
Perhaps it was caused by failing to abstain from certain behaviors, which led to justifying my actions by disassociating myself from religious teachings. Or maybe it was something else—perhaps the feeling of awe dissipated because daily prayers felt mundane again. Instead of a spiritual experience, they felt like a chore. The harshness and judgment from many other Muslims irritated me, pushing me away from my belief. Perhaps it was the zero-tolerance of other Muslims’ (oftentimes too literal) understanding of the teachings and their internalized fear of hellfire. This all strikes me as an "appeal to fear" fallacy—at least from a non-religious viewpoint. Maybe it was the realization that "good" people who don't believe in Islam are condemned to hell according to Islamic teachings. I know how the dominant schools of fiqh in Islam address the Euthyphro dilemma ("it is right because God commands it"); a multitude of criticism exists regarding that, but I won’t delve into theological debates here. Perhaps it was the fact that most Muslims (at least on sites like Reddit; I need to filter that shithole) only display selective empathy. This may be a general internet debate phenomenon, or perhaps it’s a human tendency toward selective empathy, but if that's true, it's too cynical for me to accept. Maybe it was the all-encompassing nature of Islam that contradicted my other interests and joys in life (e.g., I love anime and music, including the haram stuff). I understand the potential harm and recognize it as escapism; I accepted that years ago and don’t feel shameful for things I genuinely enjoy. Maybe it was a combination of everything.
Maybe it was just that my prayer times tool failed to adjust to summer time, and I wasn't motivated to readjust it again. It's likely that this tool was what motivated me to pray in the first place.
For all the Muslim readers, I am aware that many of the things that caused me to distance myself from faith do not "disprove" or "refute" the self-proclaimed "truth" of Islam, and many of the seeds of doubt stem from internal desires of my "nafs." I also recognize that I'm not making any "rational" arguments against Islam—yada, yada, yada. I've heard all that many times already. That is not what I'm trying to convey here, anyway. If you read carefully, you'd know that this whole rambling has been about my personal struggles from the beginning.
No justification is needed for believing or not believing in the teachings of Islam. I am aware that this opinion comes from a more individualistic secular point of view. I’ll probably justify my beliefs anyway because I've been conditioned to always justify my doubts and disbelief. I want to blame someone for that, but it’s probably better to refrain from doing so here (lol).
Oftentimes, belonging feels elusive and comfort seems out of reach. Growing up in Austria, the experience of otherness permeated life, leaving a sense of foreignness no matter how hard I assimilated. Though I felt most at home during college, when no one questioned my ethnic or religious background, a growing and vocal portion of (mostly Hindu) Indians views Muslims as invaders, treating them differently—not well. This alienation from my Indian identity complicates the Muslim aspect of it. With this Muslim part of my identity, a true sense of home eludes me in both Austria and India (yes, I know that "home" is more a feeling than a place). For most of my extended family, I am more Austrian than Indian. I cannot deny this, as I have spent 99% of my life in Austria, and my Hindi and Urdu are not great either.
Too many contradictions exist between Islamic thoughts and secular perspectives. Secular paradigms like socialism often make more sense to me than Islam (by the way, there is even an interesting overlap between the two).
One truth remains: identity is a complex topic. There is no simple "I am Muslim/ex-Muslim/Indian/Austrian/etc." in my life, nor in anyone else's, because identity encompasses much more than a simple label. National identity is often rooted in imperialism. I need to remember that people can love or hate someone simply because of where they were born, and it does not make sense to take pride in that. In my case, it means I have little pride to identify with a certain culture or faith. Instead, I feel more inclined to understand the situation and the people, regardless of faith or nationality.
I learned this the hard way, through years of studying history and cultural movements. It was a great reminder that if someone were to write the history of mankind, they might classify different peoples into a single group or label—like "Muslims"—but in reality, identity is much more complicated. Belief is not chosen but inherited, which raises the question: is there even freedom to choose one's faith?
Many people seem to be looking for certainty in the face of fear and anxiety. There is a yearning for belonging, for acceptance—sometimes accompanied by the need to reject others to feel accepted. When I hear ex-Muslims recount their stories, my heart aches for them. I can empathize with their struggles, having endured similar feelings of isolation due to my family's traditional views on faith.
A strong faith might not define my existence right now, but the identity of "Muslimhood" lingers in my life. I stand against anti-Muslim sentiment not out of faith but from a sense of solidarity with those who suffer because of their beliefs, realizing that our identities and struggles transcend faith itself.
Critiquing Islamic ideology does not equate to Islamophobia, just as critiquing the Israeli government does not necessarily reflect prejudice against Jews or Antisemitism. There is value in Islamic teachings, and the contributions of historical Muslim thinkers should be acknowledged, even if that means critiquing modern interpretations and making yourself unpopular in the Muslim community.
My journey is filled with uncertainties and revelations, and perhaps it resonates with those grappling with their own complexities of faith, identity, and belonging.