God of Germany and Nigeria

Berlin, Germany. December, 2018. “Germany is not a Christian Country!” Dr. Volker Berresheim said, looking at me over the rim of his glasses. For some reason, he reminds me of someone trying to fit into a new shirt. Since he was trying to fit into his newly minted office as Germany’s Ambassador of Religion and […]

Berlin, Germany. December, 2018.

“Germany is not a Christian Country!” Dr. Volker Berresheim said, looking at me over the rim of his glasses. For some reason, he reminds me of someone trying to fit into a new shirt. Since he was trying to fit into his newly minted office as Germany’s Ambassador of Religion and Foreign Policy, an appointment he took up four weeks before our lunch meeting at the German Foreign Office in Berlin, I thought that might be why.

There were a number of people at the table–his colleagues, officials from the Goethe Institut, a handful of Nigerian journalists and people working in interfaith and conflict mediation. But as he spoke, Berresheim’s eyes narrowed on me since I had made reference to Germany’s very strong Christian traditions and history–I mean, this was after all the country where in 1517, Martin Luther revolted against the Catholic Church, birthed Protestantism and created a division that has marked church history ever since. A country that has had strong Christian traditions since the 4th century.

Naturally, religion was going to come into the conversation, considering his position and the fact that our visit to Germany was themed Religion and Media.

It was in the advent season (the four weeks before Christmas) when Christmas markets, with their bright lights and carnival atmosphere and ubiquitous nativity scenes, had sprung up around Berlin. They were enchanting places. Filled with people, and fun Christmassy decorations and paraphernalia. Families, young and old, trooped to the markets during the day for shopping. In the wintry nights, the markets transform into enchanting forests of lights with wood carving enactments of the nativity scene, some a dozen feet tall, milling away to melody like giant music boxes, filled stalls selling candies and nuts, loaded carts showcasing winter accessories, some Christmas-themed. It is a children’s heaven and a curious adult’s delight. Here and there the excited cries of children, and from a distance, sometimes the cold winds blew the giggles of adults too. There was a reason after all why the markets were originally called Christkindlmarkt (Christ child market) in German. Perhaps for the sake of the infant Jesus, the markets are designed to appeal to children.

But beyond the pervasive smell of toasted chestnuts at the entrance of every market, and scenes of happy families arriving or departing, what lingers the most with a visitor is the sense that the tradition, with obvious religious roots, has transformed into a cultural and social enterprise. A chance for families to reunite and spend time together. With only 30 per cent of Berliners admitting to be practicing Christians, it was surprising to see many people at the markets. Speaking to some of them, they confessed they are not religious and were only there because it was a family tradition and a great place for Christmas shopping.

With time, everything evolves. Even religion.

At the Erzbistum Berlin, (The Archdiocese of Berlin) on Niederwallstrafse, Joachim Opahle, head of Church Broadcasting, offered us tea, coffee and views about how sensitive and easy it is to broadcast religious content in a diverse city like Berlin, as well as the complicated but efficient relationship they have with their protestant coreligionists.

Because of its history with the wars, with propaganda and demagogy, Germany has devised means to control who puts out what information. The Catholic church has held the sole right to broadcast religious contents since after the war. But since half the Christian population of Germany is Protestant (recent statistics by German Research group Fowid places Catholics at 28 per cent to Protestants at 27 percent, with 37 percent of the entire population not practicing any religion, as at 2017), the Catholic church has had to accommodate the other Christian group in the broadcast space.

“The relationship has been very cordial,” Opahle said. “The Protestants have their programming, which is aired, and there has never been any problem.”

Most of the content, though targeted at the faithful is designed with consideration to people of other faiths or persuasions, especially since they are broadcasting within a secular environment, he said.

Historically, Catholics and Protestants have never seen eye to eye. Hundreds of thousands have been killed by both sides in a brutal bid for ascendency. The ThirtyYears’ War of the 18th century, which killed one third of the German population, was initially a confrontation between Catholics and Protestants.

But this is a different age and, despite rising intolerance and terrorism, different religious groups are learning to share the same space with each other.

At Petriplatz in the heart of Berlin, plans have been made to construct the Berlin House of One, a building with a church, a mosque and a synagogue all under the same roof, with a central meeting hall connecting them.

In Nigeria, sometimes even members of the same faith cannot share the same building.

Jos, Nigeria. Late 1990s to 2000s.

On the busy Adebayo Street in the heart of Jos, a city fractured along religious lines, a church and a mosque have shared the same wall since 1959 when Yoruba traders from Ogbomosho, who had settled in the city, decided they needed a place to worship according to their different faiths. In a city that has over the last 20 years torn itself into a patchwork of exclusive Muslim and Christian communities, the buildings have become symbolic.

But this is not a story of those buildings. It is about a small mosque in the eastern part of the city, where a community of Muslims in the Dutse Uku area realized they could put the small patch of land in their midst to better use other than the dumpsite it was. They all chipped in and built a mosque. The majority of the contributors had affiliations with the Izala sect and when the sect splintered into two factions, there were contentions over control of the mosque.

This was the scenario my family and I, unaware of this drama, walked into when we moved into the neighbourhood. Due to its proximity to where we lived, it became the most convenient place to pray. We soon realized that neutrality was not condoned by one faction who had adopted George Bush’s mantra of “if you are not with us, you are with the terrorists.” In this case, replace the terrorists with the other side.

That was how my brothers and I were lumped into a faction we did not really belong to. It could have cost us big time.

Sometime in the mid-2000s, the crisis peaked when a dialogue between the two factions was supposed to hold after Subhi prayers. Strangely, as early as 5am, the mosque was filled with strange faces. A leader of one faction realized there was something suspicious afoot and excused himself on the pretext that he needed to fetch some documents relevant to the negotiations. From his hideout, he sent words to his lieutenants, one after the other, to leave the mosque under the guise of looking for him.

When I exited, I saw that clubs and bludgeons had been stacked against the wall of the mosque, waiting to be used by the invited zealots to beat up members of one faction as soon as the ‘dialogue’ commenced.

Following that dangerous turn of events, the police were asked to intervene. When the then Plateau State Commissioner of Police, MD Abubakar (who would later become Inspector General of Police) realized the two factions were irreconcilable, he ordered the closure of the mosque.

Under lock for some years, and riding on a cloud of growing infamy, it became a tourist attraction. Many people who came to see the mosque in which Muslims could not agree to pray in together were disappointed by how small and bland it was.

Several times the mosque was reopened, once by a band of infuriated Muslim youths who broke the police lock, and several times it was shut down. The Jos riots finally caught up with it and the infamous mosque was torched in the late 2000s by a non-Muslim mob.

Berlin and Koln, Germany. December, 2018.

At a building on Willdenowstraße in Berlin, we were politely asked to take off our shoes, leave them at the door and sit at a table chock full of snacks.  We were welcomed by Younes Al-Amayra, Esra Karakaya and Marcel Sonneck.

They are part of Die Datteltater (a satirical play on words only German speakers will appreciate) a young group of youtubers who use satire to challenge stereotypes about Muslims in Germany.

For their Nigerian guests, they played their youtube clips, shared the responses they got, and answered our questions.

They are young and passionate and committed but what struck me most was that Marcel, a German Christian and a founding member of the group, when he spoke of Die Datteltater would say “we” with such conviction you often wondered if he was Muslim or Christian.

“I am not a Muslim,” he said, “but I want people to understand what Muslims are all about.”

One thing that resonated during this trip was that while the church in Germany preaches to its members, it has realized the need to preach tolerance and hold itself to account.

Christian Rommert is of the Evangelical church and head of a committee investigating allegations of sex abuse within the Lutheran church. After speaking at length with the pastor, advisor and television presenter, the commitment of certain churches to hold even its own leadership accountable becomes glaring. The same cannot be said about churches in Nigeria. He told us the Lutheran Church is not only concerned with punishing erring priests, but it is also putting in place measures to ensure that abuses do not take place within the church.

In Koln, in the offices of Domradio.de through whose windows one could see the impressive Koln Cathedral just across the street, Martin Biallas struggled to explain how the Catholic Church and the radio station have addressed the changing times the church has found itself in. Issues of divorce, same sex relations, and abortions have challenged fundamental beliefs of the church and radio stations like the one he works for, a mouthpiece of the church financed by the Archdiocese of Koln, have found themselves in the wrinkle of changing times.

But Biallas was keen to talk about how the station, which covers live papal masses from the Vatican, is open to other views and how they have had Protestant as guests in their studios. Muslims too have come to speak about Ramadan, on a church radio station. They invited me, a Muslim, to their studio to talk about inter-religious relations in Nigeria.

Jos. Nigeria. Mid to late 2000s.

At Yan Trailer in Jos, a new shopping plaza was built with shops facing the Bauchi Ring Road, as if beckoning to the speeding cars on the express. The plaza was never quite finished as it remained unpainted for many years. A woman rented one of the shops and started a successful restaurant where my brothers and I often bought our lunch.

The other shops were empty for long until four of them were rented. By different churches. They mounted public address systems and commenced holding services in the business place. Sometimes one Sunday service rolled into another and all one could hear, all the way down the street, was a cacophony of two or more men of God trying to outshout each other.

But the church with the best sound system was one God’s Family Bible Church–a fitting name since only the pastor, his wife and children were regular attendees. Sometimes they were joined by one or two people. I don’t recall ever seeing up to 10 people in the church. They had rented a flat and converted their living room, which opened up to the road, into a church. Because their speakers were the loudest, they mostly drowned out the other four churches in the next building. Ironically, their membership never grew beyond the family and the two or so men who played the musical instruments.

The Godly noise wars went on for a couple of years until one after the other, the churches closed down after the Plateau State government banned non-purpose built religious places from using loudspeakers. The day the priest of the family church took down his loudspeaker his shoulders were slanted in defeat. But up and down the street, there was palpable relief, and only the respect for religion stopped both Muslims and Christians from celebrating the closure of that church as they would a Nigerian Olympic football gold.

Thinking about this on the flight back to Abuja from Frankfurt, one realizes that there is an economic and political dimension to this war of holy noises. It is a desperate desire to claim space and territory and some political relevance by noise–a racket under which social issues that affect both Muslims and Christians, people, are lost and buried–often even against people of the same faith who should be preaching the same message. As if access to God’s kingdom is reserved for those who make the loudest noise.

Germany no doubt has its local issues when it comes to God and religion and the inevitable clashes of civilizations these elicit, but they are expanding their thinking about these issues, this quagmire Nigeria is luxuriantly still wallowing in.

With the creation of a new office for religion and foreign policy and appointing a seasoned diplomat like Dr. Berresheim as its ambassador, Germany is clearly thinking of religious coexistence locally and in a global context.

As our plane parts the clouds over Abuja, capital of this religious country where unbridled pastors and imams continue to spew hate from mimbars and pulpits, especially with elections approaching, one couldn’t help thinking that these men need to be reigned in.

But what are the chances of that ever happening when religion has become a convenient economic and political tool in the hands of a few?