A Personal Reflection and a Call for Alternatives
Let me be honest: I don’t want to be at the interfaith table. Not because I’m bitter or anti-religion. But because I no longer belong there. And I know many others feel the same.
Those of us who left religion didn’t do so lightly.
We walked away from tradition, community, and in some cases, family. We didn’t just reject a belief system we reclaimed our autonomy.
So when we’re invited to interfaith spaces, I can’t help but wonder: Are we being included or contained? Are we truly welcome, or merely tolerated for appearance’s sake?
The truth is, these conversations are not built for us. The language is theological. The assumptions are metaphysical. And the moral frameworks begin and end with the divine.
Let’s be honest about the Singapore context: Atheists are included in interfaith dialogues not because the religious groups are eager to hear from us but because the government insists on a harmonious mosaic.
In reality, we have nothing in common beyond a shared nationality. We do not pray to different gods we don’t pray at all. We do not seek salvation through different paths we seek meaning right here, in this life. And yet, we’re expected to sit quietly, smile politely, and not disrupt the flow.
Some atheists push for inclusion at the interfaith table because they don’t want to be left out.
They want to prove that we too are ethical, compassionate, community-minded. But for many of us especially those who’ve left religion we feel no sense of loss. There’s nothing to be excluded from because we’ve already chosen a different path. In fact, we are relieved to no longer be part of that ecosystem. We’re not bitte and not broken. We’re free.
Perhaps those born outside religion may find value in interfaith conversations. They may gain cultural understanding, context, or empathy. But for the rest of us? We’ve already done the theological wrestling, the moral rebuilding, the lonely deconstruction. We don’t need a panel discussion to remind us what we’ve left behind.
If we don’t belong at their table, we must build our own.
And that’s where in my view we need the Secular Humanities Collective or Humanistic Communities come in. Spaces that focus not on belief, but on shared human experience grief, love, values, wonder, justice. Not sacred texts, but life stories. Not tolerance based on distance, but connection based on empathy.
This is not about “interfaith.” This is about interhuman dialogue.
Religious groups love to speak about tolerance until it is their own followers who begin to question, doubt, or leave. So I ask sincerely: How tolerant are you when your own numbers start to dwindle? What happens when your own child embraces a different path or no path at all?
Will you still speak of “respect”?
Or will that word vanish when belonging is no longer on your terms? These are questions that interfaith spaces rarely ask, and maybe they should.
So I don’t want to be at your table. Not because I reject you but because I want to build a different kind of table.
One made of honesty, shared values, critical thought, and radical compassion. You are welcome to visit. But I no longer need to sit beside you to feel valid.
Because my worth was never dependent on your invitation.
Norhaiyah, 2025
