Surrender

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God only ever seems close when I’m in pain or afraid and for that I feel guilty. The moment something goes wrong, I come crawling back. It’s almost ritualistic now, the way I mentally escape, fleeing as far as my mind can stretch. The furthest place it can imagine, that’s where I believe God is. Usually somewhere in the depths of the universe, past burning planets, past light itself. And there, in that vast silence, I kneel. I beg. I promise.“I’ll let go. I’ll stop trying to control everything. Just guide me. Give me peace, relief, anything—I’ll follow. I’ll listen. I’ll trust the path.” I don’t know why I do this. But there’s something undeniably calming about surrendering. And yet, I’m not even sure who or what I’m surrendering to. All I know is that I’ve clearly been fighting it and I’ve been punished for it. “I’m just one stupid human girl, naive enough to believe I ever had control. But I get it now. I’m powerless. I have no say. It’s all in your hands. I’m sorry for resisting.” In my mind, I offer up my beating heart still warm, still heavy. It’s theirs now. I’m too tired to carry it anymore. And even as I struggle to lift it, to hand it over, the relief washes over me instantly. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

My family is mostly Muslims, with a few Catholics scattered in—thanks to my grandfather, who married a few times or at least had kids with a few women. Some of his wives kept their own religions, which now seems surprisingly progressive for the time. There has been a history of religion-related conflict in the country but nothing I had seen or experienced directly. I find that most of us Indonesians are very respectful of each other’s beliefs and have deep respect for one another. My mother never imposed anything on me, she’d say that God will find me when he does and whatever I end up believing in, she trusted that I would know best for myself. She told me all she could do is give me the things she knew and have learned herself through her own spiritual journey, but the Truth will come to me. 

This was different compared to the rest of my family who have always been told from an early age what it was they needed to believe in. However, this “freedom” she had given me in a way made me feel isolated, even though no one ever judged me or her for it. During the holy month of Ramadan, when all of my other cousins went to pray, a piece of me envied them. I envied them for  connecting with other kids in the village through their beliefs. I envied them for knowing how to read and speak Arabic and how beautiful it sounded when they would pray quietly. I admired the beautiful robes they would wear and imagined how nice it must be to be able to pick out the prayer mat. I thought about how nice it was that they shared the struggle of fasting together and how breaking it was something truly special and not just another meal like it had been for me. 

When I briefly expressed that I too wanted to pray and learn more about the holy book, I was met with delighted faces like they had been waiting for me all along. They sat with me and taught me how to say certain prayers, letting me sit behind my aunties so I could follow their movements during worship. “But I don’t know what to say,” I’d whisper.

“Just talk to Him,” they’d reply. “He’ll still listen. You can learn the proper way later.” And so I sat there struggling to find anything to say but express gratitude for my life and my family and asked Him if he’d make sure I get a Blackberry phone. 

I even considered covering my hair, in hopes it would make me feel more connected to Him. As I tried the headscarf in the store, I was complimented by the vendors and how beautiful I looked with a hijab. In some ways, I finally felt like I was fully apart of the family. However, my heart was never really in it. It didn’t last very long though as soon as I left Java and went back to the secular French international school I was attending, all of that was out of the window. 

I tend to picture God as a father figure, a calm, steady male presence who will guide me through the chaos. And yet, the idea of God as a woman resonates more deeply with me. It makes more sense, somehow. Still, like most of the world, I’ve been shaped by the notion of a male God—indoctrinated, really. Maybe that association goes back to when my father died. For a while, my deceased father was my God. 

I was just a little girl when my mother told me he was everywhere.

“Everywhere?” I asked.
“Everywhere,” she said, as we sat on the steps of the house we moved into after she met her second partner. I imagined thousands of tiny versions of him—perched in trees, swinging off stars, crawling through grass, hiding behind cabinets. “He’s always keeping an eye on you,” she told me. I didn’t find that comforting. I found it deeply unsettling. How was I supposed to get away with anything now? Does he watch me pee? 

With time, I understood what my mother was trying to say: that my father would always be with me, watching over me, protecting me in ways I may never fully understand. 

So when I grew up and started to learn more about Islam, I found it hard for me to connect with Him. God to me was a comforting figure, one that didn’t judge me or instilled fear. As much as all of my family members kept on telling me how much God loved me or how he would protect me, this feeling of fear kind of lingered, the feeling that everything I did was wrong. It confused me a lot as a child, I could see how the religion was meant to inspire goodness but I was constantly reminded that I would never be good enough. I struggled to fully immerse myself in it because there were too many things that didn’t sit right with me, especially the lack of tolerance for certain people and perspectives. 

As much as I was told that God forgives and that he loved me no matter what, his followers on Earth never failed to make me believe that this wasn’t the case. For instance, my grandmother’s sister constantly telling me how I shouldn’t be showing so much leg and shoulder every time we’d visit her. Or the men during Ramadan telling me I shouldn’t be surprised if I ever got raped. I was twelve wearing overalls. Although very open-minded and accepting of everyone, my family still fears that one of us would turn out gay. 

I was told many times that it was important to distinguish what was really written and interpretation. That the people who weaponised it or used to it to justify certain acts were not “true muslims” but without the weapon itself, would there be any pain? 

I recall that one time my two classmates in 7th grade having a debate about God, the atheist asked the muslim girl, if God were real why would he let such atrocities happen to innocent people all time? She responded by saying that our experience here on Earth was a test to prove that we are worthy of Jannah—paradise—where pain and suffering ceases for those who deserve it. From that moment on I knew I couldn’t stand behind it. 

I still carry certain shame and guilt for not fully devoting myself to the religion I was born into. And beneath that, there’s a lingering fear, fear of what it might mean if it turns out to be true, fear of facing the consequences of not believing, and the terrifying thought of eternal punishment. If that’s the case, then all I can do is hope that living with kindness and striving to be moral will count for something. That, when the time comes, it might be enough to earn forgiveness.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

In parallel, I was immersed in the mystical world of Balinese Hinduism. It surrounded me, and its presence could be felt as soon as you set foot on Balinese ground, the smell of incense immediately taking over. It could be seen in the beautiful, bright Canang Sari offerings placed on sidewalks, shrines, shop counters, or even vehicles—a daily expression of gratitude toward the Gods. It could be heard in the late-night ceremonies, accompanied by Gamelan, a powerful ensemble of traditional percussive instruments, and the chants of priests reciting in Sanskrit. 

Although, I was not apart of a Balinese family, I have attended many ceremonies growing up. One ceremony in particular, I will always remember. I was maybe about 5 or 6, I was invited by my neighbour who was my age to come to her house for a ceremony. I put on my traditional balinese outfit and my little flip-flops and walked on over. We sat criss-cross apple sauce right in front of the priest, an older gentleman with long, fine white hair tied neatly in a bun, a matching white beard, and dressed entirely in white garments. He was surrounded by a burst of colours: vibrant offerings, an array of foods, ceramic pots—and on either side of him, small cages filled with baby chicks.

I remember thinking how cute they were, secretly hoping he’d let us play with them once the ceremony was over. But then he began to chant, words I couldn’t understand. And without pause, he reached into one of the cages, gently holding a chick in both hands:  one on its tiny head, the other on its fragile body and snap.

I froze in horror.

The chick’s headless body flailed in frantic circles before finally collapsing in the dust. I sat there, stunned and sick, unable to process what I had just witnessed. The rest of the day passed in a haze of sadness and confusion. I couldn’t stop wondering, how was that fair? Why did that sweet, innocent little chick have to die… for us?

I went home upset and did not understand why the chick had to be sacrificed, it didn’t even have the time to grow fat enough to eat. It died for nothing, I thought. 

I have always had such admiration for the Balinese religion, I had thought many times about learning more about it and loved the whole philosophy behind it all. The importance of balance and the respect for the land and everything that grows and lives on it. But deep down, I knew I could never truly belong to it. Balinese Hinduism isn’t just a religion, it’s a way of life, woven into the island’s culture, ancestry, and community. It lives through daily rituals, caste traditions, and temple ceremonies, often passed down through generations or embraced through family ties. 

On top of it all, Balinese women are some of the strongest I’ve ever known, bearing responsibilities I could hardly imagine, often with very little recognition. They live within a strict patriarchal system, where they’re expected to uphold religious duties at home—crafting offerings, tending to household shrines all while managing domestic responsibilities. Despite their vital role in temple life and daily rituals, women are often excluded from leading ceremonies and are barred from entering temples during menstruation, as they are considered ritually impure.

Beyond the home, many are also expected to contribute a second income, balancing spiritual, domestic, and economic duties. There is immense pressure to have children, as procreation is seen not only as a social expectation but also a spiritual obligationcrucial for maintaining lineage and enabling reincarnation. Women who are unable to conceive may be viewed as less than, their worth tied to their ability to continue the ancestral line.

Leaving a marriage is rarely a real option. Upon marriage, a woman leaves her family and community to join her husband’s. If she divorces, she risks losing her place in both worlds no longer accepted by her husband’s family, and not always welcomed back by her own. She’s left in a liminal social space, disconnected from the structures that once gave her belonging. To make matters worse, children typically remain with the father, as they are considered part of his lineage. A mother may only see her children if the father’s family permits it.

This is something I could never handle. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

I have grown up in a country that is very spiritually charged. Despite being the largest Muslim country in the world, Indonesia is deeply animistic and rooted in indigenous beliefs. This is especially true in Balinese Hinduism, where the line between the spiritual and physical worlds is almost imperceptible. I can confirm that spirits are real—and if you said you’d believe it when you see it, then I would say that I saw it, and so I believe. There are things I’ve experienced that defy logic, events that would be difficult for many in the West to accept. The energy is palpable and heavy; they are constantly around us, roaming freely among the living. I’ll save the scary ghost stories for another day.

But everything changed when I moved to Europe. It wasn’t just the physical distance—it was as if the spiritual presence vanished entirely. I began to feel that absence deeply, and I think part of it was cultural: once people die here, they aren’t remembered in quite the same way. Over time, especially living in Paris, I lost touch with the spiritual world I had grown up with. The daily reminders were gone. Instead, I found myself drawn to a different worldview. It was in Paris that I discovered Camus and his philosophy of Absurdism: the idea that life is inherently without meaning, and that our human drive to find purpose stands in direct contradiction to the universe’s indifference and randomness. God may not be real, but the dancing trees are. The sun on your skin is. The salty Mediterranean air is. We spend our lives chasing meaning, often missing the beauty of the world and the simplicity of the present moment. I found Camus’ view strangely comforting, maybe even necessary, at a time when I was trying to find my place and purpose in the world, like many do in their early twenties. It stuck for a little while, but every time I went back to the Motherland I was reminded that there was more than the eyes can see and I just couldn’t ignore it.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

My friends can tell you all about the strange curiosity I developed toward Christianity. It was odd. It all came when I was going through some heartbreak and it felt like death. I sat in my room facing the wall trying to get some relief somewhere and out of pure desperation, I tried to connect with that father figure that always brought me comfort as a kid. This time he came in the form of Jesus and in the moment it felt like the Truth. I felt warm, understood and comforted. I started going into churches I walked past to sit with my thoughts and processing whatever it was I was going through. I wept silently and surrendered to the huge statues that sat front and centre. For a moment, I thought that this was the Holy Spirit reaching out to me, the Truth my mother had mentioned. I expressed my new found faith to my close ones and was met with perplexed faces and questions, rightfully so and I’d respond, “I don’t know. It just feels right”. I attended a few Sunday services in Bali held by an American pastor in a nightclub they converted into a place of worship every Sunday afternoon. We were greeted by young and attractive members with bright smiles. It was surreal to see verses projected on the big screens near the booth where world renowned DJs would play. How unsettling it was to hear the scriptures read out loud in a space that usually was riddled with sin the night before. Church-goers wearing island dresses and linen sets, something you’d never see in other churches. It all felt like a cult but I felt seen by the lessons we were taught by the Pastor. And for a little while, I thought about baptism and reading the bible. 

But just like with Islam or Hinduism, I couldn’t fully surrender to the bible because that meant betraying the people that I loved, the people who wouldn’t be welcomed into the kingdom of God because of their own beliefs, sexuality or choices. It would be betraying the women who are getting screamed by pro-lifers making their way to the abortion clinics and the gay people forced out of their homes by their families or forced to go to conversion therapy. I may have found love for God but I love people more and for the many times God didn’t listen to my prayers, I found solace in the arms of the ones that have loved me.  How could I ever be a Christian if I didn’t believe that everything said in the Bible was right. 

The last time I was in a church was in Naples. I had been taking an afternoon stroll, trying to clear my head after a series of strange events in the apartment I was staying in. I had passed the cathedral many times before but never stepped inside.

That day, something pulled me in.

As with every time I enter a church, I was immediately met with a deep calm, a feeling not unlike my mother’s embrace, yet watched over with the quiet intensity of a teacher pacing the classroom during a test. I walked slowly, making myself as small as possible.

Light streamed through the yellow stained glass in the apse, sharp and golden, like it came from somewhere beyond the clouds. I was so caught up in my own thoughts that I didn’t notice the deep voice filling the space, measured and slow, it sounded like the voice of God itself.

I stood, almost without thinking, and followed the sound. Before I realised it, I had made my way to the very front bench, the only empty seat. 

To my right, an older Italian woman sat with her palms open to the ceiling, eyes closed. At certain words the priest spoke, her face would twitch gently, as if she felt them in her bones.

Strangely enough, after three weeks in Naples, I could understand most of what was being said. The priest’s slow cadence helped too. 

“True faith, is not something we wear on the outside. It is not a performance, nor is it a display meant to impress others. True faith is something deeply personal — it lives quietly within the heart. It is the intimate bond between you and God. Faith does not seek applause or recognition; it seeks only to respond to the love of our Creator. It is not proven through noise, but through quiet trust, humility, and devotion. Remember this: faith is within you.” 

There I wept and wept. I have searched everywhere. But, it had been with me all along. 

And it’ll always only be between Us. 

Vahine Blaise, Nova Scotia, August 2025