Questioning the Faith I Inherited: My Journey Towards Independent Thought
Although I was born into the Tamang ethnic community of Nepal, which is culturally associated with Buddhism, I did not choose Buddhism as a matter of personal conviction. Like many people around the world, I inherited a religious identity through my family and the society into which I was born. In Nepal, a child born into a Hindu family is generally identified as Hindu, just as a child raised in a Buddhist, Christian, or Muslim family is often identified with that religion from birth. Yet, as I came to reflect more deeply on this reality, a fundamental question began to take shape in my mind: Do we genuinely choose our religious beliefs, or are they chosen for us before we are old enough to understand what belief means?
My personal view gradually developed that a child is not born with a conscious commitment to any religion. An infant does not arrive in the world believing in Buddha, God, Allah, or any other supernatural being. A child begins life without a consciously adopted theological doctrine. It is through family, culture, religious practices, and socialisation that children acquire the beliefs and identities of the communities in which they grow up.
I came to question whether it is fair to impose a particular theological belief system on a child before that child has developed the ability to understand, question, or make an independent choice about it. I began to see this as a serious ethical concern—not necessarily because parents intend to harm their children, but because they often pass on inherited beliefs without questioning them themselves. Many parents sincerely believe they are doing what is best for their children. Yet, in my view, good intentions alone do not resolve the question of whether children should be encouraged to accept religious doctrines without first being given the freedom to examine them critically.
I believe that every child deserves the opportunity to develop an independent mind, ask difficult questions, explore different perspectives, and eventually decide what to believe—or whether to believe in any religion at all. To me, this freedom of thought is fundamental to human dignity.
However, I did not arrive at these reflections through academic study or philosophical reading in my early years. My questioning began much closer to home.
Growing up Buddhist without understanding Buddhism
I, too, was identified as a Buddhist from birth. Yet, during my childhood, I had little understanding of what Buddha, Buddhism, or being a Buddhist actually meant. I inherited the identity, but I had not consciously examined its teachings or decided whether I accepted them.
By my adolescent years, I had begun to question the religious practices I observed within my own family. My mother would regularly engage in ritualistic worship and, from time to time, invite Buddhist religious leaders, known as Lamas, to perform religious ceremonies. During these rituals, the Lamas would recite selected religious scriptures and conduct the prescribed ceremonies. We were expected to show them respect, pay for their services, and offer them special food and drinks.
What troubled me was not simply the rituals themselves, but the questions they raised in my mind. Why did we need to perform these ceremonies so regularly? What purpose did they serve? What did the recitation of particular scriptures actually achieve? Were these practices necessary for leading an ethical and meaningful life? And what about families who could not afford to invite Lamas, pay for their services, or prepare the special food and drinks expected during such occasions? Were they somehow less deserving of spiritual blessings or a good life?
These questions stayed with me. I struggled to reconcile the resources devoted to religious ceremonies with the poverty and suffering I could see around me. I wanted to understand why these practices were considered necessary and whether their significance rested on reasoned understanding, inherited tradition, or faith alone.
My questions became even more intense when I observed certain animal-sacrifice rituals associated with religious observances in the wider society. In particular, I was disturbed by reports or instances of animal sacrifice around the celebration of Buddha Jayanti, the anniversary commemorating the birth of Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha. The contrast troubled me deeply: how could practices involving the suffering or killing of animals be reconciled with the compassion and non-harming commonly associated with Buddhist teachings?
This contradiction was difficult for my adolescent mind to accept. I could not understand how a celebration honouring a teacher associated with compassion could coexist with rituals that appeared to me to contradict that very principle. Rather than accepting the practice simply because it was part of a religious or cultural tradition, I wanted to understand its meaning and justification.
Refusing to practise what I could not understand
As these questions accumulated, I made a personal decision: I would not participate in religious worship merely because it was expected of me. I did not want to visit temples or monasteries, worship deities, or place the red religious mark known as tika on my forehead simply to conform to social expectations. I wanted to understand the reasons behind religious practices before deciding whether to participate in them.
Another question repeatedly troubled me: if supernatural beings possess the power attributed to them by religious believers, why do so many poor, sick, and vulnerable people continue to suffer? Why are people who lack money, food, healthcare, and other basic necessities not protected from hardship? Why should people endure so much suffering when religious traditions often speak of divine compassion, protection, or blessings?
I was not claiming that I had discovered definitive answers to these questions. Rather, I had reached a point at which I could no longer accept religious explanations without examining them critically. I wanted to understand why people believed what they believed and whether the practices they followed genuinely helped those most in need.
My decision was not the result of hostility towards my family or a desire to provoke others. It emerged from my need to think independently and to make sense of the world around me. I could respect people who followed religious traditions without feeling obliged to adopt their beliefs or participate in their rituals.
For me, the distinction between respecting another person's freedom of belief and surrendering my own freedom of thought became increasingly important.
When others questioned my identity
My attitude towards religion gradually became noticeable to the people around me. In a society where religious identity is often expressed through visible practices and symbols, my refusal to participate in worship or wear a tika sometimes prompted questions about my beliefs.
Friends and acquaintances would ask whether I was an atheist or a Christian. At that time, I did not even fully understand what the word atheist meant. I would respond that I was not a Christian, but that I did not believe in religious worship or ritualistic practices.
Looking back, I find this experience significant. Other people seemed to assume that if I did not practise the religion into which I had been born, I must belong to another religion. It was difficult for them to imagine that someone might simply question religious beliefs, decline to follow rituals, and choose not to identify with another faith.
I was still developing the language to describe my own position. I had not arrived at it through a formal study of atheism, secularism, or philosophy. Instead, I had reached it through observation, questioning, and an unwillingness to accept something merely because it had been handed down to me.
What mattered most was not the label others might give me, but my freedom to examine beliefs for myself.
The beginning of a lifelong habit of questioning
My adolescent questioning of religious practices became part of a broader habit of examining things that others might accept without question. I began to recognise the importance of distinguishing between inherited assumptions and reasoned convictions, between social conformity and personal understanding, and between respecting tradition and accepting every aspect of it unquestioningly.
I also came to understand that my questions did not automatically make me an expert on religion, nor did my personal doubts prove that every religious practice lacked value. They simply meant that I needed reasons before accepting claims as true. I wanted beliefs and practices to withstand thoughtful examination rather than remain unquestioned merely because they were culturally familiar.
This disposition would later influence how I approached other aspects of life, including my professional experiences and my growing interest in the social structures that shape people's opportunities, choices, and freedoms.
My journey began with questions about rituals performed within my own family. It grew into a more fundamental inquiry about belief, authority, compassion, and human suffering. At its heart was a simple but enduring conviction: people should be free to think, question, and arrive at their own conclusions rather than being expected to accept inherited beliefs without understanding them.
I was born into a Buddhist cultural tradition, but I gradually realised that being born into a religion and consciously believing in its teachings are not the same thing. That distinction became an important part of my personal journey towards independent thought.
