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A harrowing account of a young apostate in the United Kingdom.
You’d think your parents would be the first to tell you about your heritage, your sense of belonging, who you are – your identity. Not in my case. I had always assumed I was of a West Indian/Jamaican background, or at least part of me was. The only indication that I was of Pakistani heritage was in the accent, manner and cultural apparel of my mother; a lone foreign voice within a British and integrated family. If I barely knew my ancestry, why would I even think to consider if I had any religious beliefs. Yes I was dedicated into a mostly Jamaican Pentecostal Church as a child, but being four years old at the time, Church for me meant Sunday School: synonymous with singing songs and colouring in pictures of fishes, loaves and a figure on a cross. I’d heard the terms ‘Jesus’, ‘Christ’ and ‘God’, but that’s all…
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Source: On Looking Back in Anger