The Bloomsbury Handbook of Religion and Migration 9781350203853, 9781350203884, 9781350203860

Table of contents :
Half Title
Series Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
Illustrations
Figures
Tables
Contributors
Preface
Mapping migration and religion in the twenty-first century
Acknowledgements
Introduction
Chapter 1: Global migration, religious diversity and integration in regions of the West: Challenging a ‘Westphalian’ circumstance
Migration, diversity and integration in contemporary global society
The nature of migration in the context of nineteenth- to mid-twentieth-century global society
Globalizing reconstruction of religions and states
Developing a ‘Westphalian’ model of difference
The complex glocalization of religions and (nation-)states
The difference of migration in the post–Second World War era
Religious and cultural diversity in Western countries: From assimilation/exclusion to integration
The four British settler societies
Western European societies
Conclusion
Chapter 2: Sikh activism in diaspora: Migration and representation
Introduction
Early Sikh activism: Institutions and religious symbols
1984: The ongoing impact of Blue Star
Post 9/11: Hate crimes and securitization
Conclusion
Chapter 3: Shifting religiosity of Polish immigrants in Ireland: Between alienation and revitalization of religion
Theoretical background
Irish and Polish socio-religious patterns
Methodology
Results
Discussion
Conclusion
Acknowledgement
Chapter 4: Polish diasporic Catholicism in Scotland
Introduction
Diasporic religion
Network of autonomous parishes
Religious-cum-patriotic songs
Metaphor of the pilgrim
Festive rituals and rites of passage
Sacred artefacts with national meaning
Conclusion
Chapter 5: Korean Christians in the diaspora: Resilience, migration and religion
Introduction
Data material and methods
Resilience, migration and the function of Korean churches in the diaspora
A short history of Korean Christians in Germany in the light of resilience as adaptability
Korean labour emigration to West Germany
The ‘growth’ of Korean churches in West Germany
First networks and structures
Challenges and uncertainties in the beginning
Cooperation with the established churches
Two types of resilient Korean churches
The ‘persistence’ type: Conservation of the shared cultural heritage
The ‘transformation’ type: Post-traditional reorganization and glocal engagement
Conclusion
Chapter 6: Social change and ethnic identity in a Korean congregation
Introduction
Transnational relations
Second-generation youth
Multicultural interaction
Responses to religious diversity
Conclusion
Chapter 7: Gender matters: Second-generation Buddhists, Hindus and Muslims growing up in Canada
Gender matters
The difference that gender makes
Gendered goals
The embodied nature of religion
Conclusion
Chapter 8: Making space through public engagements: Canadian Ismaili Muslims
Introduction
Consequences of othering discourses on Canadian Muslims
Canadian Muslim settlement
Internalizing their ‘otherness’: The negotiation and projection of Canadian Ismaili Muslim identity
Takfirism and its consequences
Making space for Canadian Muslims and their diversity: Broadening the discourse through public engagement
Conclusion
Chapter 9: Political images and the politics of images: Orientalism and moral frameworks in constructing narratives about Muslim and Arab populations in Brazil
Introduction
The construction of collective imaginations about the Arab population in Brazil
September 11, a narrative event
The Leila Khaled Occupation
The Jornadas de Yarmouk and the visibility of the Syrian conflict: The emergence of selective solidarity
Conclusion
Chapter 10: Faith-based schools in Canadian immigrant-origin communities: From identity retention to social inclusion
Introduction
Religious schooling in the public sphere
Identity retention and transformation
The evolving role of Catholic schools for immigrant communities
The Jewish experience
Dutch Calvinist, or Canadian Reformed, schools
Muslim schools
Conclusion
Chapter 11: Research on migration and religion in the Latin American context: A systematic approach
Preliminary remarks
The systematization of research on religion and migration according to the chronology of the migration process
The systematization of research on religion and migration according to the analytical predominance of religion or migration
The systematization of research according to the range of the migration-religion relation
Synthesis
Concluding remarks
Chapter 12: Religion and im/migration in the global city
Globalized spiritualities
Spatialities and controversial houses of worship
The struggle for visibility
Becoming and being local
Civic participation
When is an immigrant religion no longer an immigrant religion?
Chapter 13: Immigration, religion and civic engagement
Introduction
Religion, immigration and civic engagement
Competing or complementing? Immigration and leadership roles
Data and methods
Data
Dependent variables
Independent variables: Immigrant worshippers and immigrant congregations
Control variables
Findings
Discussions and conclusions
Chapter 14: Migrant movements: Filipino Catholic culture and religious heat in Canada*
History of Filipino migration to Canada
Doing religion in Manitoba
Chapter 15: Religion, migration and the Chinese in diaspora
Religions in China
Chinese popular religion and migration
Christianity and Chinese migration
Chinese Muslims and migration
Migration and religious transnational networks
Conclusion
Chapter 16: Transnational religious networks and the revival of Buddhism in post-Mao China
The network under and after Mao
Chapter 17: Islam, internal migration and queer travels in Indonesia
Introduction
Situating the chapter: Queer migration and mudik
Beginnings
Returning home
Conclusion
Chapter 18: Come from away but here to stay: Religion and migration in contemporary discourse
Introduction
Beyond the parallel society debate
Lived religion and intersectionality
Conclusion
Conclusion
Notes
Chapter 1
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 14
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
References
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Conclusion
Author Index
Subject Index

Citation preview

THE BLOOMSBURY HANDBOOK OF RELIGION AND MIGRATION

Also Available from Bloomsbury The Bloomsbury Handbook of the Cultural and Cognitive Aesthetics of Religion Edited by Anne Koch and Katharina Wilkens The Bloomsbury Handbook of Japanese Religions Edited by Erica Baffelli and Fabio Rambelli with Andrea Castiglio The Bloomsbury Handbook of Religion and Nature Edited by Laura Hobgood and Whitney Bauman The Bloomsbury Handbook of Religion and Popular Music Edited by Christopher Partridge and Marcus Moberg The Bloomsbury Handbook to Studying Christians Edited by George D. Chryssides and Stephen E. Gregg

THE BLOOMSBURY HANDBOOK OF RELIGION AND MIGRATION

Edited by Rubina Ramji and Alison Marshall

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA 29 Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin 2, Ireland BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2022 Copyright © Rubina Ramji, Alison Marshall and contributors, 2022 Rubina Ramji and Alison Marshall have asserted their rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Editors of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgements on p. xvii constitute an extension of this copyright page. Cover image © Romana Kassam. ‘Salt Wounds’ depicts an immigrant woman in a shalwar kameez standing in front of the Ismaili flag on Khushali. The two hands and salt shakers in the upper right and left corner symbolize the colonial cost that immigrants sometimes pay to ‘belong’ in Canada. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Control Number: 2021952928. ISBN: HB: 978-1-3502-0385-3 ePDF: 978-1-3502-0386-0 eBook: 978-1-3502-0387-7 Series: Bloomsbury Handbooks Typeset by Deanta Global Publishing Services, Chennai, India To find out more about our authors and books visit www​.bloomsbury​.com and sign up for our newsletters

CONTENTS

List of Illustrations viii List of Contributors x Preface xv Acknowledgements xvii Introduction 1 Rubina Ramji and Alison Marshall 1 Global migration, religious diversity and integration in regions of the West: Challenging a ‘Westphalian’ circumstance Peter Beyer 2 Sikh activism in diaspora: Migration and representation Jasjit Singh 3 Shifting religiosity of Polish immigrants in Ireland: Between alienation and revitalization of religion Marcin Lisak

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4 Polish diasporic Catholicism in Scotland Michał Adam Palacz

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5 Korean Christians in the diaspora: Resilience, migration and religion Sabrina Weiß

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6 Social change and ethnic identity in a Korean congregation Michael Wilkinson

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CONTENTS

7 Gender matters: Second-generation Buddhists, Hindus and Muslims growing up in Canada Rubina Ramji

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8 Making space through public engagements: Canadian Ismaili Muslims Alyshea Cummins

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9 Political images and the politics of images: Orientalism and moral frameworks in constructing narratives about Muslim and Arab populations in Brazil Helena de Morais Manfrinato Othman

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10 Faith-based schools in Canadian immigrant-origin communities: From identity retention to social inclusion Mariia Alekseevskaia and Philippe Couton

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11 Research on migration and religion in the Latin American context: A systematic approach Frank Usarski

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12 Religion and im/migration in the global city Petra Kuppinger

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13 Immigration, religion and civic engagement Zubeyir Nisanci

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14 Migrant movements: Filipino Catholic culture and religious heat in Canada Alison Marshall 15 Religion, migration and the Chinese in diaspora Tan Chee-Beng 16 Transnational religious networks and the revival of Buddhism in post-Mao China Brian J. Nichols 17 Islam, internal migration and queer travels in Indonesia Diego García Rodríguez

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247 259

CONTENTS

18 Come from away but here to stay: Religion and migration in contemporary discourse Paul Bramadat

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Conclusion 289 Alison Marshall and Rubina Ramji Notes 291 References 304 Author Index 349 Subject Index 356

ILLUSTRATIONS

FIGURES 4.1 4.2 11.1 13.1 13.2 13.3 13.4 14.1 14.2 14.3 14.4 14.5

The icon of Our Lady of Częstochowa (‘Black Madonna’) at the Jasna Góra Monastery, Częstochowa, Poland Image of the Black Madonna of Częstochowa at the Shrine of Our Lady of Lourdes and Saint Bernadette in Carfin, Scotland Research on religion and migration – analytical framework Immigrants and non-immigrants in US congregations Church-related civic participation (bonding social capital) Leadership roles in the church Civic participation outside church Chicago’s Dr José Rizal commemorative statue, near Wrigley Field, and site of first Knights of Rizal chapter Image of Dr José Rizal at 2015 Winnipeg Street Festival Santo Niño de la Suerte (suerte meaning ‘luck’ in Spanish) Filipino in Toronto, Ontario Aklan Ati-atihan Manitoba Float, Santo Niño display at 2015 Winnipeg Street Festival Dr José Rizal Park Opening 21 June 2014, Winnipeg, with Knights and Ladies of Rizal

65 68 175 205 206 206 206 225 226 227 228 233

TABLES 3.1 3.2

Correlations for Selected Factors of Religiosity (rho Spearman Correlates)48 Scale of Religiosity among Polish Immigrants (%) 52

ILLUSTRATIONS

13.1 Descriptive Statistics for Independent Variables 13.2 Ordered Logistic Regression Models Predicting Church-Related Volunteerism, Leadership Roles in the Congregation and Civic Participation Outside of Church 14.1 Research Participant Data for Province/City of Origin in the Philippines/Canada, Religion and First Occupation 14.2 Change of Religion after Migration

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208 222 228

CONTRIBUTORS

Mariia Alekseevskaia received a PhD degree in sociology in 2021 from the University of Ottawa. Her doctoral thesis focused on analysing the impact of Dutch-Canadian Reformed schools on their graduates’ social and political engagement. Mariia’s areas of interest include settlement and integration of ethnically, culturally and religiously diverse immigrants, refugees and international students. Peter Beyer is Emeritus Professor of Religious Studies at the University of Ottawa, Canada. His major areas of research include religion and globalization, sociological theory of religion, religion and migration and religion in contemporary Canada. His publications include Religion and Globalization (1994); Religions in Global Society (2006), Religion in the Context of Globalization (2013); and Growing Up Canadian: Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists (with R. Ramji, 2013). Paul Bramadat is Professor in the Religion, Culture, and Society Program, and Director of the Centre for Studies in Religion and Society at the University of Victoria, Canada. He has worked for years on the relationship of religion and spirituality to diversity, health, security and civil society. He is the author of The Church on the World’s Turf: An Evangelical Student Group at a Secular University,  and co-editor of several books, including Religion at the Edge: Nature, Spirituality, and Secularity in the Pacific Northwest; Urban Religious Events: Public Spirituality in Contested Spaces;  Public Health in the Age of Anxiety: Religious and Cultural Roots of Vaccine Hesitancy in Canada; and Religious Radicalization in Canada and Beyond.

CONTRIBUTORS

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Tan Chee-Beng (PhD, Cornell University, 1979) had taught at the University of Singapore, University of Malaya, the Chinese University of Hong Kong (CUHK) and Sun Yat-sen University, Guangzhou. He is currently Adjunct Professor at CUHK. A cultural anthropologist, he has done research in Malaysia and China. His major publications include, as author, The Baba of Melaka (2021), Chinese Religion in Malaysia (2018), Chinese Overseas: Comparative Cultural Issues (2004) and The Development and Distribution of Dejiao Associations in Malaysia and Singapore (1985), and, as editor, After Migration and Religious Affiliation (2015), Routledge Handbook of the Chinese Overseas (2013), Chinese Food and Foodways in Southeast Asia and Beyond (2011), Chinese Transnational Networks (2007) and Southern Fujian: Production of Traditions in Post-Mao China (2006). Philippe Couton is an adjunct professor of sociology at the University of Ottawa, Canada. He has done research on migration and related questions for many years and has published studies on immigrant social and political participation, the historical sociology of migration and immigrant economic achievement. Alyshea Cummins has a PhD in religious studies from the University of Ottawa. Cummins is currently a postdoctoral research fellow for the Transmission of Religion Across Generations project (University of Ottawa) – examining how (non)religion is passed on from one generation to the next and the factors that contribute to the (un)successful transmission of religion across generations. Cummins is also a postdoctoral research fellow for the Nonreligion in a Complex Future project (University of Ottawa), examining nonreligious identity and nonreligious immigrant identities. In addition to her research activities, Cummins is an instructor of Religion in the College of Humanities and in the Department of Sociology and Anthropology at Carleton University. Alongside her research and teaching engagements, Cummins serves as the member-at-large for the Canadian Society for the Study of Religion (CSSR) and as a committee member for the Religion and Migration unit at the American Academy of Religion. (AAR). Petra Kuppinger is Professor of Anthropology at Monmouth College in Monmouth, Illinois. She has conducted research on space, globalization and consumerism in Cairo, Egypt; space, culture and Islam in Stuttgart, Germany; and urban sustainability in Stuttgart. Her publications include Faithfully Urban: Pious Muslims in a German City (2015). She edited Emergent Spaces: Change and Innovation in Small Urban Spaces (2021). With George Gmelch, she coedited Urban Life (6th ed., 2018). Her work has been published in City & Society, Culture and Religion, City and Community, Anthropological Quarterly, Social and Cultural Geography, Journal of Urban Affairs, Space and Culture,

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Contemporary Islam, Built Environment and The Geographical Review. She served as President of SUNTA (Society for Urban National and Transnational Anthropology, a section of the American Anthropological Association) and the editor of City & Society, and currently serves on the Executive Board of the American Anthropological Associations. Marcin Lisak, Doctor of Sociology, holds MPhil in ecumenics from Trinity College University of Dublin and PhD in sociology from Cardinal Stefan Wyszynski University in Warsaw. He was a visiting professor in Pontifical University of Saint Thomas Aquinas in Rome, Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley, California, and Institute of Saint Thomas in Kiev, Ukraine. He is a researcher in the Institute of Catholic Church Statistics in Warsaw. His fields of expertise are sociology of migration, sociology of religion, globalization and social ethics. Alison Marshall (PhD, University of Toronto, 2000) is Professor in the Department of Religion at Brandon University and is the recipient of multiple local, national and international grants and awards, including the William Norrie Arts and Culture Award for her fifteen years of work with the Chinese community in the Province of Manitoba. Marshall is also the author of three monographs in the field of Asian religion and history, including The Way of the Bachelor: Early Chinese Settlement in Manitoba and Cultivating Connections: The Making of Chinese Prairie Canada (2014). Her third book, Bayanihan and Belonging: Filipinos and Religion in Canada, written in 2018, examines the history and cultures of migrants from the Philippines from 1880 to 2017. Brian J. Nichols is an associate professor in the Department of Humanities at Mount Royal University, Calgary. He holds a PhD in religious studies with a concentration in Buddhism from Rice University. His forthcoming book Lotus Blossoms and Purple Clouds: Monastic Buddhism in Post-Mao China draws on ethnographic study and non-canonical sources to broaden the conception of Buddhist monasticism as a lived tradition. His interests include Buddhism in contemporary China, material and spatial studies of religion and the emerging fields of ecodharma and contemplative studies. Zubeyir Nisanci teaches at the Department of Sociology at Marmara University in Istanbul. He received his PhD from the Department of Sociology at Loyola University, Chicago, where he also taught various courses as an instructor between 2009 and 2014. During his master’s studies at the Hartford Seminary, Zubeyir Nisanci worked as a research assistant at the Hartford Institute for Religion Research. His areas of interest include immigration, religion, quantitative methods, family, youth and civic engagement.

CONTRIBUTORS

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Helena de Morais Manfrinato Othman is a doctoral student in the Social Anthropology Program of the Universidade de São Paulo and works at the Religions in the Contemporary World (PPGAS/USP;CEBRAP). Her research is about Palestinian refugee families in the Leila Khaled urban occupation and its notions of Palestinian diaspora, blood and family, as well as the impact of left-wing movements, humanitarian help and the war frameworks of the Syrian conflict. Michał Adam Palacz is a postdoctoral researcher in the School of History, Philosophy and Culture at Oxford Brookes University, UK. He obtained a PhD from the University of Edinburgh in 2016 and his research interests focus on the history of migration and medicine. He is currently working for the Max Planck Society – funded project ‘Brain Research at Institutions of the Kaiser Wilhelm Society in the Context of Nazi Injustices: Brain Specimens in Institutions of the Max Planck Society and Identification of Victims’, July 2017–October 2023. Rubina Ramji is Associate Professor of Religious Studies at Cape Breton University, Canada, and serves as Chair of the Department of Humanities. She has held numerous offices within a number of professional associations, including Chair for the Religion and Migration Group of the American Academy of Religion and President for the Canadian Society for the Study of Religion. She has also served on the editorial boards of various academic journals and is currently serving as a film editor for the Journal of Religion and Film. Her research focuses on the construction of religious identities among second-generation Muslims in Canada as well as the representation of Islam in North American mass media. She is the co-editor of Growing Up Canadian: Muslims, Hindus and Buddhists (2013) with Peter Beyer, and author of numerous articles and chapters in books, including Religion in the Public Sphere: Interdisciplinary Perspectives across the Canadian Provinces (2014); Religion and Canadian Society: Contexts, Identities, and Strategies (2012); Globalization, Religion and Culture (2008); and Women and Religion in the West: Challenging Secularization (2008). Diego García Rodríguez holds a PhD in gender and sexuality studies (UCL), and MSc in Asian studies (Lund University/NUS). His PhD examined the everyday religion of Indonesian LGBTIQ+ Muslims. He developed a theoretical framework to conceptualize queer religious agency, moving away from traditional conceptualizations of agency as resistance to religious norms and paying attention to the myriad ways through which queer Indonesian Muslims embody religious rituals through submission. Drawing upon twelve months of ethnographic fieldwork in Java, he explored the development of progressive Islam in the country and the role of whom he called allies of queer Muslims in promoting sexual minority rights. Following his PhD studies, Diego began

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a research project on the impact of taking antiretroviral medications on the everyday lives of people living with HIV in Brighton, England. Diego is currently co-editing a special edition of the journal Indonesia and the Malay World on LGBT moral panics in Indonesia. Jasjit Singh is an associate professor in the School of Philosophy, Religion and the History of Science at the University of Leeds. His research examines religious identity and processes of religious transmission among Sikhs in diaspora, including a developing interest in the impact of the digital realm. Dr Singh has a strong track record in academic and non-academic publications and regularly engages with policy makers on contemporary issues relating to religion and identity. He has a strong track record in academic and nonacademic publications and often appears on national and international media, speaking about issues involving Sikhs in diaspora. Frank Usarski graduated in religious studies from the University of Hannover (Germany) and lectured at various German universities before he moved to Brazil in 1998. Since then he is professor of Ciência da Religião at the Pontifical Catholic University of São Paulo, where he founded both the periodical REVER – Revista de Estudos da Religião and the Centro de Estudos de Religiões Alternativas de Origem Oriental no Brasil (CERAL). Within this study group, he is responsible for the historical and sociological study of Buddhism in Brazil. Sabrina Weiß is a postdoctoral researcher in religious studies at the Faculty of History, Art and Area Studies at the University of Leipzig, Germany. Her main interest concerns the relation between religion, migration and youth engagement in Germany. She is the author of the monograph Migrantengemeinden im Wandel. Eine Fallstudie zu koreanischen Gemeinden in Nordrhein-Westfalen (2017) and is currently working on a monograph on the role of religion in civic engagement in youth organizations from diverse ethnic and religious backgrounds in a pluralistic society. Furthermore, she is involved in the work on two research projects: When Healing Fails: Cognitive Dissonance and Resilience Factors in Failed Religious Healing. A Comparative Study of Three Local Christianity’s (2019–23) and Constellations of the Relation of Religious Minorities and Majorities in Plural Societies (2019–23), both funded by the German Research Foundation. Michael Wilkinson, PhD, is Professor of Sociology and Chair of the Department of Sociology and Anthropology at Trinity Western University, Canada. His recent publications include Brill’s Encyclopedia of Global Pentecostalism (executive editor, 2021) and After the Revival: Pentecostalism and the Making of a Canadian Church (co-author, 2020).

PREFACE RUBINA RAMJI

MAPPING MIGRATION AND RELIGION IN THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY My parents and siblings were all born in East Africa – it was their homeland. They were living in Jinja, Uganda, when Idi Amin staged a military coup, overthrowing the then president Milton Obote in 1971. As Idi Amin rose to power, with the backing of the military, he began killing Obote supporters, journalists, students, lawyers, military and civilian personnel, holding public executions of anyone who opposed him. Idi Amin became known as the Butcher of Uganda. He created killing squads that would dump the bodies in the Nile River, which ran behind my parents’ property. My parents would watch bodies being dumped every day and they began to fear for their lives. Then, Idi Amin set his sights on South Asians living in Uganda. My family were South Asians living in Uganda. Idi Amin claimed that he wanted to give Uganda back to ‘ethnic Ugandans’, ordering the expulsion of my family and all South Asian minorities within ninety days. At first, the Asian minority weren’t sure what Amin would do to those who had Ugandan citizenship, like my family. But as the bodies of his enemies piled up, other countries stepped up to offer refugee status to some of the 80,000 South Asians living in Uganda at the time. Everyday my parents would line up at the Canadian embassy, hoping to be able to get out before someone was killed. They would wait anxiously for their number to be called, hoping that we would all pass the requirements for refugee status. They were being persecuted for their skin colour, even though Uganda was their only home. Even the banks were under military rule, so they could not access any money. The military came to my parents’ house and would demand

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bribes in order to continue ‘remaining safe’. My parents packed up what few belongings they could take with them and fled the house, leaving the keys to their business, home and cars to those who had worked for them. Abandoning everything, they finally were given refuge by the Canadian government, giving them only twenty-four hours to leave; the airport was fifty miles away, and there were checkpoints at every mile along the way. The few belongings they did have were searched and taken away. Almost to the airport, my father was dragged out of the car and forced to kneel at gunpoint. My mother was sure my father would be shot (as had happened to others) but by sheer luck, another army officer recognized my father as the person/owner who gave him his first job in the jazz club. He let my father go, and my family was able to escape to safety, arriving in Canada with only the clothes on their back. I came to Canada with my family as an infant – marking me a refugee. My passport to my home country had been taken away from me, and I spent much of my childhood worried that if I could not stay in Canada, I would have no home to call my own. The one place that felt like home to my family was the congregational place of prayer: the khana (a mosque). All who had come as refugees, who were Ismaili Muslim, would come together to pray and socialize, creating their own minority community within their new homeland. Faith played a major role in maintaining my ethnic and cultural identity. Today, it still remains a place of refuge.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book is dedicated to my dear family: Lilly, Abdul, Nilam and Alnoor (d. 2020). When Asian-Ugandans were exiled in 1972, it took courage to start over. You left as refugees, leaving behind everything you knew. I am forever grateful that we made Canada our new home. Thank you. These stories are dedicated to you and to all the migrants of the world. Rubina Ramji

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Introduction RUBINA RAMJI AND ALISON MARSHALL

The story of migration is not new. For millennia, people have travelled across territories and trade routes on horseback and by foot, through maritime circuits by ship and also by plane – the way Rubina Ramji’s family fled as refugees to Canada (Mann 2012; Yu 2001). Like today’s migrants and refugees seeking asylum and the compassion of strangers in foreign lands, many but not all migrants of the past have brought with them distinct cultures, deities, traditions, languages and even what we today call religion. The term ‘religion’ is a distinctly Western one only introduced to China for instance via Japan in the 1890s. In fact, many Muslims, Hindus and Buddhists living in other parts of the world have questioned the use of the term ‘religion’ in relation to their own experiences, practices, rituals and organizations (Woodhead et al. 2009). We do not apply a fixed definition to religion, as it is always being constructed in new ways. The Bloomsbury Handbook of Religion and Migration focuses on the intersection of religion and migration in Asia, Europe and the Americas, drawing on new and previous studies of religion and migration (Warner 1998, 2011; Orsi 2012, 2006, 1999, 1985; Manalansan 2006, Csordas 2009). It provides a view of religion and migration with chapters and content weighted towards diverse and global Sikh, Muslim, Hindu, Daoist, Christian and Buddhist perspectives, reflecting the research areas of the co-editors, Rubina Ramji and Alison Marshall. The content of the book covers regional and transnational contexts examining institutionally based and everyday religiosity, gendered religion and religion across generations. The volume explores the experiences of first- and second-generation Muslim migrants and refugees (Sunni, Shi‘i, Ismaili, Ahmadiyya, Sufi) from Uganda, Syria, Lebanon, Kenya, Tanzania, Indonesia and Pakistan. Four chapters touch on Buddhism and Catholicism in China, Malaysia, Singapore, the Philippines and the Americas. Several chapters

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explore the topic in Europe including studies of Korean Christian migrants in Germany, Polish Catholics in Scotland and Ireland and Sikhs in Great Britain. The remainder of chapters deal with a North American context, including Canadian studies of Korean and Filipino Christians and Catholics; Muslim, Buddhist and Hindu migrants; urban religion and migration; civic participation; and faith-based education. Unlike many published works on the subject, this handbook is not specifically focused on the story of religion and migration within the United States (Chafetz 2002; Chen 2009; Haddad et al. 2003). Often chapters in this handbook approach the intersection of religion and migration from more than a first-generation perspective. As our book emphasizes, the story of religion following migration is complex. While migration tends to intensify first-generation religious affiliation and practice, the case of one point five- and second-generation religiosity is starkly different, and evolving (Beyer and Ramji 2013). In our understanding of migration and migrant religiosity, we do not restrict the definition to first-generation settled migrants and their journeys. By examining multiple generations of migrant families, we can better understand the intergenerational differences that take place: understanding how countries of origin affect migrants’ lives, as well as other transnational ties; differing levels of integration in host countries; socio-economic factors; and religious behaviours, which impact transnational behaviours – from education, property ownership and even voting patterns (Klok et al. 2020). We define migrants as those who freely choose – are forcibly displaced and seeking asylum – to settle in a region different from the one in which they were born, travelling long distances, from one country to another. Chapters in this handbook show the histories and experiences of those who have left home in search of better lives as refugees, and economic and sponsored migrants and through internal, external or return migration. While we do examine historical trajectories of migration, many of the chapters in this volume investigate the relationship between religion and migration taking place across the globe at the current moment. Significantly, a few dwell on the especially potent images and stereotypes related to 9/11 and the Syrian refugee crisis as well as the implications of the Covid-19 pandemic and the association of newcomers with health-care crises and contagion. How we understand religion in a global society has changed. It was once thought that religion would disappear and society would become secular, and now the prevalent thinking is that most people will eventually have no religion (Lim and MacGregor 2010). But as the chapters in this volume show, people are not done with religion. Religion helps many – not all – migrants stitch together the fabric of global societies, whether this is through families, youth programmes organized by religious institutions or religious interventions at a national level. Migration facilitates the movement of beliefs, practices, religious education and also people – the religious workers such as nuns, monks, imams

INTRODUCTION

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and priests – needed for congregations and religious literacy in the diaspora. The very process of migration challenges borders, both geographic and conceptual, by disrupting dominant ideologies including ones related to secularity and the trending of society towards religious nones (Woodhead, Kawanami and Partridge 2009). Migrations have resulted in the mixing of people and also the blending of their beliefs and practices in novel ways as the chapters in the book show. Race and ethnicity continue to shape global migration policy and by extension migrant religiosity. Labour shortages are addressed by stop-gap measures with exclusionary tendencies, including Temporary Foreign Worker Programs. Temporary Foreign Worker Program often attract low-skilled migrants from the Global South, and especially Latin America, Asia and Africa who are so desperate to leave their homes and families, and do unpopular lowwaged contract labour on the kill floor of meat processing plants (Nakache and Kinoshita 2010). Such programmes are often hastily conceived to fill a temporary labour shortage, and often don’t take into consideration the long-term needs or human rights of a migrant such as healthcare, language acquisition, sponsorship of family members or the desire for permanent residency and citizenship (Satzewich 1991). Religion also fashions the view of an ideal global immigrant in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. That ideal immigrant from the perspective of the People’s Republic of China or many European nations might not be Islamic. Several chapters in this handbook focus on the subject of Islam, as it is currently having a significant impact on global migration policies. Other chapters are devoted to related discussions of this important topic as it relates to patriotism, multiculturalism and xenophobia. In Canada and the Americas, as the chapters show, the dominance of Christianity has created the conditions for historical (e.g. The Chinese Exclusion Act in the United States) and more contemporary institutionalized racism and exclusionary legislation mentioned already such as the Temporary Foreign Workers Program in Canada. Mass mobilizations, protests or prayers from Asia to Europe to Africa and the Americas may be the practices people use to articulate their dissatisfaction with dictators and disconnects from democracy. But churches, temples, mosques and home altars and shrines are where many people throughout the world turn and move to once the protests have ended and people have migrated or taken refuge elsewhere. Christianity today is very much a diverse post-Western global religion but in many parts of the world Christianity remains synonymous with “white” European dominance. The chapters provide an understanding of migration challenges and opportunities in what are still Christian-dominant Western nations in Europe and the Americas, and also in Asia, where the dominance of Islam or state atheism in the People’s Republic of China shapes belonging and minoritizes newcomers. Throughout the volume authors examine

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the different ways migrants and refugees have interacted with governments, the media and the public through religious imagery as coping mechanisms, as a way to fight Islamophobia; to enhance inclusion and diversity, to make connections to other communities; to encourage settlement and integration; to encourage conversion; to teach Islam to non-Muslim communities. Gender is a strong theme throughout the volume and one that hasn’t always received much attention in scholarly studies of religion and migration. In North America, we typically think of migration in terms of the first large wave of mostly male Chinese migrants who came to build transportation networks in the 1800s that later facilitated migration throughout the Americas. Sending and receiving nations-preferred-male migrants. And so the fathers and sons of Chinese and other migrant families travelled by ship as cheap labour needed to build the railways while wives and daughters remained at home to care for parents and perform the rituals of absent firstborn sons (Dirlik 1999). Migrant men often lived in bachelor societies and apart from wives and children who were excluded from joining them by racist legislation (Marshall 2011). It’s hard to think about gender in the migration story without thinking about family. Families are often left behind when one member of the family migrates for better work elsewhere. Gendered migration pathways have meant that many migrants are stereotyped as queer because they lived and worked in all-male not-family groupings with wives and children (Shah 2011; Marshall 2012). Male migrants were sometimes seen as queer and also simultaneously regarded as sexual predators who might defile a community’s European-born daughters, or wives. The 1960s represent another key moment in the gendered migration timeline. This is when economic need not race allowed for mostly Catholic but also sometimes Muslim and Protestant Christian Filipino and migrant nurses, and teachers to come to Western nations in large numbers (Boyd and Grieco 2003; Choy 2006; Cordova 1989; Cruz 2012; Oishi 2005; Stasiulis et al. 2005). The women came alone, without their husbands or children, and so this gendered pattern of migration meant they could be sent to remote areas with dire educational or health-care needs; back home the children of women migrants were raised by mothers, sisters and husbands. As these examples of gendered migration show, the degree to which a person is accepted in host societies is often determined not only by their socio-economic status, migrant cultures, religion or sect (as in the case of Ismaili Muslims who have been discriminated against by broader Muslim society) but also by the degree to which their gender and living situation conforms to dominant social norms. In the modern era, as Diego García Rodríguez explains, gendered return migration can transform these social norms in Indonesia. Here Diego García Rodríguez sheds light on the significance of internal and return migration of Wendy, a

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Muslim waria (transfeminine individual) who finds agency and belonging as Wendy moves back and forth along internal migration pathways. Migrant gender also manifests itself in the feminine or masculine stereotypes circulated in the media or at the grassroots level (Ghavami et al. 2016). Gender can also be seen as determining who in a migrant family passes along and teaches the religion to the next generation. Gender can be seen in the dominance of men as religious migrant workers who populate Korean migrant churches in West Germany. In Marshall’s chapter it’s the women who are the most active in saint devotion and festivals while the men venerate secular saints and figures such as Rizal. Jasjit Singh’s work unpacks the histories and cultures of Sikh stereotypes that fix migrant and especially Asian identities as martial and masculine (Chua and Fujino 1999). In Asian, Muslim and other global contexts, migration has been strongly gendered, limiting the crossing of borders to male economicmigrants. Aside from gender, approaches to religion and migration focus on institutional religion practised and located in mosques, temples and churches and lived experiences of religion (McGuire 2008). Beyond mosque and temple, the chapters examine lived experiences of migrant religiosity before home altars and shrines, and in day-to-day life. The chapters include social-scientific quantitative approaches as well as qualitative research. While some chapters are by authors who have used ethnographic research methods and collaborative community-based approaches that advocate for the needs of groups under study, others rely on statistical analysis, secondary sources and sociological theory (Warren et al. 2018; Kellett 2009). A variety of theoretical and methodological vantage points are used to investigate migrant religiosity. Many chapters in the volume are grounded in embodied ethnography (participant observation fieldwork, interviewing with/without surveys, oral history collection and qualitative analysis), others are more social scientific in their approach and foreground the significance of quantitative data and statistics. Still others are grounded in sociological theory and non-Western and historical approaches to religion. In this way, the handbook resembles and draws on the work of R. Stephen Warner (1997), Peter Beyer (2000), James Spickard (2017) and Lori Beaman (2012). Distinctively this handbook aims to reveal the story of international diversity and coverage, though the work follows that of Peter Kvisto, which covers the subject in both North America and Europe (2010). We examine the religious networks in home countries where the migration journey begins and also those in host countries where people try to settle. The chapters, from a diverse array of international contributors, examine how religious beliefs and practices in these three contexts shape and are shaped by social, cultural, gendered, political and economic forces (Clarke and MacDonald 2017; Beyer and Ramji 2013). Authors pay careful attention to these forces that influence people as they migrate from one place to another,

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integrate, assimilate, become alienated in host nations or return home (Tweed 2006, 1997; Beyer 2000). The chapters address questions about how religiosity changes as people cross borders (Smith 1978). Many Christian migrants are easily welcomed into Christian-dominant host societies. But for those whose beliefs and practices don’t match so well with that of their new home, the relationship between religion and migration is more fraught. For Muslims and Buddhists, and those belonging to lesser-known sects or having folk practices, fitting into a new society requires omitting homeland religious practices at least in public, and adapting others to the expectations and needs of new communities in the diaspora (Marshall 2011). Overall, sometimes we see that religion intensifies after migration but more often than not we see the negative influence of migration on religious beliefs and practices. In racist and hostile global contexts and especially ones with exclusionary laws that prohibit the public display of religion a person will likely feel the weight of Islamophobia or xenophobia. Here, a migrant will have little freedom to practice their chosen religion (Bhabha 1994; Marshall 2018; Chaves and Gorski 2001; Garbin 2017; cf Cummins chapter in this volume). And so in these cases, a person forsakes or downplays that part of their tradition and identity, so as to ensure the belonging of their family and future generations in a new world. The handbook is organized by region of study, not religion. We considered organizing it by religion but many chapters examine more than one. And while some chapters also cover multiple regions, a common theme among them was that particular regional or gendered cultures, not particular religious or denominational ones, shape migrant religiosity. Regional migrant cultures have historically been determined by legislative ones, for instance in the Christian-dominant Australia’s race-based Chinese Immigration Act passed in 1861. Australia’s exclusionary act set the precedent for legislation that would be enacted in other Christian-dominant nations, including New Zealand in 1881, the United States in 1882 and Canada in 1885, that sought to limit the migration of people defined as Chinese. Such race-based exclusionary legislation created a decades-long trend to limit the rights of migrants and their families in host nations. Dominant regional culture might be located in the host nation as for instance in increasingly secular Poland. A shorter history of Polish migration to Ireland may lead to weaker ties to Catholicism in that nation than in Scotland, where Polish migrants have been coming for more than eighty years. Catholicism seems to have developed into distinct rituals linked to specific deities and religious and patriotic songs and narratives that help migrants straddle belonging in Poland and Scotland. But sometimes that dominant regional ethos can be located in home nations. We begin the handbook with Peter Beyer’s overview on the subject from a sociological perspective. Beyer’s contribution is followed by a series of chapters examining religion and migration in different regions of the world. It

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was difficult to arrive at a way to order these regions and chapters, especially since some of them straddle different regions. Should we begin with chapters from our own vantage point in Canada? Or should we start with Asia, the decentred perspective which was the inspiration for this collaborative work? Global scholarship on religion and migration doesn’t often foreground Asia so we have opted to do so here. The second chapter in this volume showcases the work of Jasjit Singh on Punjabi Sikh activism that has been used to transform hyper-masculine martial stereotypes mostly in Great Britain but also in other parts of the world. The Polish diaspora is the subject of the two subsequent chapters. Michał Palacz explains that Polish Catholicism is a form of diasporic religion in Scotland, while Marcin Lisak examines the transformed religious terrain inhabited by Polish immigrants in Ireland who seem to either cleave to their religion or become alienated from it. Their different takes on what happens when Catholic migrants leave Poland suggest that the host country’s cultures and histories, not ethnicity, determine the link between religion and migration. The section on Europe concludes with Germany. Sabrina Weiß’s chapter suggests that resilience is what enables migrants and migrant churches to thrive in her West German study. The remaining chapters in the volume develop an understanding of the topic in Canada, United States, Latin America and Asia. Michael Wilkinson’s chapter explores the significance of a Korean congregation in Toronto for migrants who came from Seoul, Korea. These transnational ties raise questions about ethnic and religious identity. Two chapters within the section on Canada touch on the migration experiences and histories of early Muslim migrations as well as contemporary migrations – in the face of rising Islamophobia. Specifically focusing on Canadian Ismaili Muslims, Alyshea Cummins looks at identity formation, identity politics and the institutionalization of Ismaili Muslims living in Canada for the past fifty years. Rubina Ramji’s chapter examines the intergenerational impact of migrated religions in Canada, how the secondgeneration constructs religious identity, especially from a gendered perspective. Mariia Alekseevskaia and Philippe Couton’s contribution demonstrates the ways in which religious education has the potential to transform newcomer success. Zubeyir Nisanci, using US Congregational Life survey data, investigates how immigrant members of a congregation are involved in their both ethnic and national communities, and how they demonstrate civil participation in these communities. Petra Kuppinger expands our understanding of the ways immigrant religions have transformed urban (and also suburban) spiritual geographies, in both Europe and North America, challenging the idea of the secular nature of these global cities and the overlooked role of immigrant religions in these spaces. Frank Usarski’s interpretative framework for the study of religion and migration in Latin America sums up key moments in Latin American migration

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history, emphasizing the role of transportation and technology in facilitating a migrant’s complex and long journey. If you have always wondered how Japanese migrants or Tibetan Buddhism came to Latin America, read this chapter. It touches on Buddhist, Christian and Japanese popular religious migration histories and events in Peru, Mexico, Brazil, Guatemala, Bolivia, Honduras and El Salvador. Helena Manfrinato’s chapter continues to highlight the diversity of religion in what most people think of as a very Catholic Latin America. She focuses on Muslim religious stereotypes that have emerged as a result of 9/11 and the Syrian refugee crisis. Alison Marshall’s chapter on Filipino migrants explores the significance of dynamic socio-religious heat that helps newcomers belong on multiple levels. Tan Chee-Beng’s contribution provides an introduction to the topic of religion and migration in China and Southeast Asia. As Tan’s chapter shows, the practice of a Chinese migrant’s religiosity, whether it was Muslim, Christian, Daoist or Buddhist, was strongly linked to efficacious Fujianese or Toisanese community building in the diaspora. Brian Nichols’ chapter shows the ways that religious pilgrimage helps Chinese migrant communities and religious workers network, fundraise, build and rebuild temples and institutions. As Nichols demonstrates, monks draw on old and new Minnan Buddhist pilgrimage routes. Diego García Rodríguez’s chapter and the story of Wendy, a Muslim waria and internal migrant, are told in the handbook’s penultimate chapter, ‘For waria migrants, the opportunity to support their family members was part of a complex scheme in which success, responsibility and acceptance intersect. As Wendy described, being accepted as a waria Muslim came in exchange for the support that she provided to relatives in the form of money and other resources.’ Paul Bramadat’s chapter in the volume critically engages with others presented in the handbook, providing a global/big picture chapter, by considering the macro-level issues that emerge out of the more regionally/transnationally focused chapters on migration flows, religious communities and host societies. Together, these scholars and chapters take on board the major issues facing migration today and demonstrate that religion remains not just a part of a migrant story, but, for today’s religious migrants, it is the story.

Chapter 1

Global migration, religious diversity and integration in regions of the West Challenging a ‘Westphalian’ circumstance PETER BEYER

MIGRATION, DIVERSITY AND INTEGRATION IN CONTEMPORARY GLOBAL SOCIETY The migration of human beings from one part of the globe to another is as old as human history (Manning and Trimmer 2020). Indeed the ancestors of all peoples everywhere in the world, with the possible exception of some of those in certain parts of Africa, originally, even if often in very distant (pre-)history, came from somewhere else. Thus, global migration over the last century is, as such, nothing new or unprecedented. What is new and unprecedented is the speed and extent of global migration and, in that context, the nature of the society or societies in which it takes place (Castles and Miller 2003). This is now a global society to an ever-increasing degree: temporally, spatially and socially the world of human societies is now tied together more and more; and most of the world’s people live in awareness of this reality (Robertson 1992). Migration happens faster, there is much more of it and it affects virtually all parts of the world, whether as the source of migration, goal of migration or

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both. In sheer numbers, global migration since the middle of the twentieth century is unprecedented not only because there are so many more people in the world today than there have ever been but also because those people can and do move more easily, more rapidly and more widely. In this circumstance, the unprecedented nature of contemporary global migration has helped to bring about new ways of understanding what it is that is actually going on; and this around the world, and not just in certain places, for instance the so-called West.1 This concerns, among others, the concept of migration itself; how the (cultural) differences among people, migrant and nonmigrant, are understood; and the prime concept for addressing difference in the context of migration, namely integration, what one might call ‘how to live well together’ with differences (Beaman 2017). What constitutes migration? What is potentially challenging about migration? And how does one answer this challenge? Most people still understand migration as more than moving from one place to the other. The move also has to be the more or less permanent displacement of people from one place to another, whether this is from a rural to an urban area, to a nearby country or half-way around the world. Added to this feature, however, is the notion that the migrant is also, more often than not, assumed to be (culturally) different, and not just because they have moved. They ‘belong’ to their place of origin which is assumed to be culturally different and culturally specific from the place to which they migrate. Migration assumes cultural difference, and a cultural difference that is often assumed to be important enough to pose a challenge. The potential issue with migration is therefore how to deal with these cultural differences when, as a result of migration, they end up in the same place. Integration is then the answer to the question. It names the way that the differences will again become identity, in most cases, specifically national identity. The newcomers and the established populations have to be integrated within the society to which the migrants have come; and if they are not successfully integrated, then there will be problems, often conceived as problems of ‘social cohesion’. That is a fundamental assumption. One of the prime dimensions of assumed cultural difference that is often at issue, and that is furthermore frequently considered to be precisely the sort of difference that can be problematic, is that of religion. Migrants are assumed to bring their religious identities with them; and if the dominant religious identity in the receiving country is different, the question seems almost automatically to arise as to whether this may not be problematic. In the social-scientific literature this situation is often expressed as the challenge of religious diversity: somehow this diversity has to be ‘dealt with’, although not necessarily in that the migrants’ religions (or lack thereof) are assumed to be incommensurate with the culture and religion in the receiving country (see, from a vast literature, Lefebvre and Brodeur 2017; Giordan and Pace 2014; Bramadat and Koenig 2009; Bouma,

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Ling and Pratt 2010; Berman, Bhargava and Laliberté 2013; Beaman 2012; Meister 2011). That is indeed sometimes the case, currently especially when it comes to Islam (Klausen 2007; Farrar et al. 2012; McLoughlin 2005); in the North American past, with respect to Roman Catholic, Eastern or other minority Christianities (Farrelly 2018; Vaughan 2018). Mostly, however, the issue of integration derives from the assumption that the migrants and the receiving country have to make adjustments to integrate/‘accommodate’ the religious differences (Beaman 2012). For the receiving country, this could take the form of removing whatever privileges the dominant religion may have hitherto had or perceived to have had, including removing privileged status for all religion. Or it can take the form of positively according those privileges – or rights – also to the newly arrived religions and their carriers. Thus, for instance, the recently arrived migrants may have their religions taught in schools as the dominant religion had been; the new religions may be accorded the right to perform their religions in a variety of ways that the dominant religion did not do or require; or the public symbols of a country might be adjusted so as not to demonstrate or render so visible the dominant religion. As for the migrants themselves, they may be expected to make – and researchers will go out and look for – adjustments to their religions, to accommodate their religious beliefs and practices so as to conform more to the style and even content of the dominant religion as a sign and method of integration (sometimes read as assimilation; see, from an enormous literature, Rousseau 2012; Warner 1998; Kurien 2007; Guest 2003; Ebaugh and Chafetz 2000; Moghissi, Rahnema and Goodman 2009; Harding, Hori and Soucy 2014; Hinnells 2007). Such changes may be felt, presented and observed under such headings as religious transformation, hybridization or another similar label, but the assumption will be that the new land requires such adjustment for the sake of integration; that those who do not adjust will likely be marginalized (i.e. not integrated), with all the social, economic and political disadvantages that such marginalization might entail. This chapter takes a closer look at each component of this scenario of integration: the assumed nature of migration, the assumption of (cultural and especially religious) difference and the anticipated transformations attendant upon integration. It does so, however, not so much by looking directly at various concrete country or regional cases, but rather by interrogating how the assumptions just outlined have even come to be; and how a positively valued integration – integration is a good to be sought – is itself an indicator of a changed situation with regard to the way religion is understood and structured in contemporary (global) society. Put differently, the argument will be that changed patterns of global migration already reflect changed understandings of difference and thereby changed understandings of religion and its role in society.

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THE NATURE OF MIGRATION IN THE CONTEXT OF NINETEENTH- TO MIDTWENTIETH-CENTURY GLOBAL SOCIETY Migration takes place in specific social and historical contexts. These contexts determine the nature of migration, how it happens, why it happens, how it is lived and understood, and therefore what consequences it has. Over the past few hundred years, that context has been increasingly a global one informed by, among other features, the imperial, economic and colonial expansion of what have come to be known as Western nations, in particular Great Britain, France, Spain, Portugal, Russia, the Netherlands and other European countries (Manning and Trimmer 2020: 136–93). In the twentieth century and now in the twenty-first century, the United States and more recently Japan and China joined the powerful whose global influence is remarkable virtually anywhere. Just as important, however, is that this global expansion engendered significant social transformation in all parts of the world, including in the imperial countries themselves. All areas of the world have responded by seeking to appropriate and transform the developing globalizing social structures and cultural models (Meyer et al. 1997). In their development, the universalizing structures and models have been increasingly particularized in different ways in different parts of the world. Tying the world increasingly together has resulted not just in a certain homogeneity across the world but also as importantly in reimagined and reasserted heterogeneity and difference (Robertson 1995). The categories of difference have in the process also universalized, and this very much includes the categories of differences carried by migration. We imagine ourselves as different, but around the world along the same conceptual lines, such as culture, race or religion. Just as important, however, this differentiation has not been egalitarian. Quite the opposite. The historical process of tying the world together has been informed by the structuration of difference on the basis of power inequalities; and these follow the same lines of differentiation as the heterogeneity overall, especially the vexed categories of difference that human rights codes seek to exclude as legitimate categories of differential power distribution: race, culture/ethnicity/national origin and religion; and intersecting all of these, class, sex and gender. It is of critical importance to understand that all these categories have been reinvented in the process of the globalization of world society. It is also important to understand that global migration has been structured in terms of them, and one might even say, in part driven by them. The how and the why of global migration during this modern period is attendant upon the nature of the global restructuring. Technological developments, first in the form of evermore efficient sea vessels that could traverse the globe, joined by new means of land – especially railways and then

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automobiles and highways – and air travel provided the means. The building of colonial empires was key in providing the, above all but not exclusively economic, motive for migration as the European powers essentially moved people in the process of developing their capitalist markets and production. The transatlantic slave trade from the seventeenth to the nineteenth centuries is the clearest example of forced migration for the sake of economic empire building; the encouragement of migrants within the boundaries of the colonial empires, also for the sake of the economic development of both colonies and imperial heartlands, exemplifies the more voluntary kind. People, initially mostly, not only from Europe but also from colonized territories, such as South Asia, were enticed to abandon their homelands for the colonies, already starting in significant numbers with the Spanish and Portuguese New World colonies in the sixteenth and then seventeenth centuries. In the subsequent two centuries, the British Empire was the major, but not the only, location and occasion for migration. The result is that today, Spanish, English, and Portuguese are the dominant languages of almost all the settler colonial societies founded by the Europeans. As regards religion, of course, the same process has assured that Christianity is still the dominant religion in all those places that were the major recipients of this settler migration. The situation and the developments were, however, different in important respects depending on the global region. These differences are important for understanding the differing situations with regard to migration, the consequences of migration, and the attendant religious diversity in that context. Although the European powers eventually exerted their power in all of Asia, and even made colonies of significant portions thereof, this continent was not the recipient of significant global migration, including from Europe. This is the case at the beginning of the twenty-first century as well. The Middle Eastern oil-producing nations were in the latter part of the twentieth century a partial exception, as is the case of Israel. As a consequence, very little of Asia – of which Indonesia is a part, but not the Pacific Islands that include the Philippines and Papua New Guinea, and which are in sizeable majority Christian – has become dominantly Christian and most parts have maintained their historical religions, if almost always in reconstructed and reimagined form. The situation on the African continent was similar, but with two important differences compared to Asia: by the end of the nineteenth and in the first part of the twentieth centuries almost the entire continent was carved up as European colonies; and southern Africa, especially in what are now the states of South Africa and Zimbabwe, saw significant migration from Europe, especially from Great Britain and the Netherlands and from other parts of the British Empire. In terms of religions, that has meant a greater religious diversity in those parts that were the recipients of migration, with however a clear dominance of Christianity in almost all the southern states; but the northern portions,

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including the countries of the Sahel, have, in the process, become more Islamic. The latter is more of a consolidation of Islam as the dominant religion in these parts than it is a matter of importing and then spreading a religion, as is the case in most of the Christian areas in the rest of the continent. What for the Europeans was the ‘New World’, including Australia and New Zealand/Aotearoa, contains a different story: these were the principal lands of European migration and settlement, a process that in every case involved the displacement, marginalization or destruction of the Indigenous inhabitants, their cultures and their societies. These territories became European settler societies as a result of migration, but with significant variations. In the Americas, the European settlers were accompanied by the forced migration of Africans through the transatlantic slave trade that ended only in the early to mid-nineteenth century. Thereafter, one witnesses an uneven sequence of more massive European migration until the last-third of the twentieth century. There was migration from other parts of the world – and in Great Britain’s case, from other parts of the British Empire – but it was comparatively minor and, after the late nineteenth century, increasingly restricted in favour of white Europeans to the point that relatively little non-European migration was possible until after the middle of the twentieth century. This is important in the present context because it meant, as in most of southern Africa, that the only institutional religion that had a significant and eventually dominant presence in the settler societies until that time was Christianity: in South America and Quebec, mainly Roman Catholicism and in the rest of North America and in Oceania, in significant majority Protestant variants. Other religions had an exceedingly minor presence during this long period, with the partial exception of the Jewish religion, Judaism being the only other religion with a significant presence in the European source of most of this migration.

GLOBALIZING RECONSTRUCTION OF RELIGIONS AND STATES Developing a ‘Westphalian’ model of difference Both in the old Western countries of Europe and in their settler societies on other continents, the global migration from the later eighteenth to the middle of the twentieth century coincided with the progressive construction and reconstruction of modern nation states, their corresponding national identities and Christian religion. The latter part of this three-century period also saw the extension and the appropriation of that construction and reconstruction in virtually every other part of the world, above all non-Western nation states and non-Christian religions. These globalizing reconstructions have provided us with the categories of difference, both religious and cultural, in terms of

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which the ‘problem of global migration’, the ‘problem of religious and cultural diversity’ and the ‘challenge of integration’ are currently understood. Describing their development is therefore important for appreciating what is happening today with respect to what is centrally at issue here. As noted, the process of Western imperial and colonial expansion that began during the sixteenth century was led by particular European powers. All of these powers arose only in the few centuries immediately before this time, and none of them was able, or even tried, to consolidate itself – that is, conquer – in Europe before then expanding outward like almost all other empires had done until that time. What we know today as Europe was never a single political entity, not even during Roman times. It always contained a plurality of political powers, in the post-Roman centuries generally very limited in extent and culturally, politically and economically quite weak. The understanding of Europe that prevailed after the eighth century CE had less political boundaries than it did religious ones: Europe was where Western Catholic Christian religion dominated. Within that territory there arose, after roughly the ninth century CE, competing states, many of which became imperial and colonizing states over time. If Europe was politically disunified, the opposite was the case religiously. During these same centuries leading up to the beginning of European expansion, one witnesses the progressive build-up of the Christian church in (Western) Europe, a historically peculiar institution that with ever greater success asserted itself as, on the one hand, a specifically religious institution that could claim to determine what was religion and what was not and, on the other hand, the necessary foundation of society. It claimed to be distinct from (secular) society and yet foundational for it. By the beginning of the sixteenth century, however, this idea partially unravelled: the Protestant Reformation – an explicitly religious restructuring effort – brought in its wake a century of intra-European war that ended up being resolved by overlaying a new religious diversity onto the constantly changing political diversity. In the famous formula contained in the Treaties of Westphalia in 1648, each state in Europe would be ‘sovereign’ in its territory and determine which religion (Christian ‘confession’) would prevail on that territory: cuius regio, eius religio (to the ruler the [right to decide the] religion). Religious difference was thereby mapped onto political difference. Then, in subsequent centuries, especially after the end of the eighteenth century, a further critical transformation occurred: Europeans came to the idea that the states were not, in fact, the expressions of their rulers, but rather that of the peoples which inhabited them, those peoples conceived as nations ‘belonging’ to the states and their respective territories just as the states and territories ‘belonged’ to the people. These nation states each continued to have their religion or Christian confession, in some cases as official or stateestablished religions, in others simply as the dominant national religion. Most

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states had only one; some had two. The logic of this ‘Westphalian’ model (Beyer 2012), however, had the effect of thereby creating ‘national minorities’, both religious and cultural ones, and of problematizing these minorities, resulting in fluctuating responses ranging from toleration and sometimes even a certain degree of internal autonomy to marginalization, persecution and attempted assimilation. With hindsight, we can see that the orientation to minorities in each country eventually conditioned the response to the arrival of significant global migration in the later twentieth century. A number of these national minorities joined the migratory waves to the settler societies, often precisely to try to escape their marginalized minority status, but they constituted a small portion of the overall migration from Europe. Moreover, the settler societies went about constructing their own national identities and narratives following the same logic as the old countries and, especially after the mid-nineteenth century, increasingly formed their explicit or implicit immigration policies in tune with these new and emerging national identities; migrants were judged according to how well they ‘fit’ into the national narrative, whether culturally, racially or religiously. The more they were seen to resemble the model of the imagined member of the new nation, the more welcome they were; the less they were deemed to fit, the more did the settler countries try to exclude them (Kelley and Trebilcock 2010). All four of the British settler societies imagined themselves as white (European) and Christian; other cultures/races and other religions were suspect and at best grudgingly accepted. Historical minorities that did not fit the image, such as African Americans in the United States and Indigenous people in all four countries, were systematically marginalized or subjected to absorption policies that today we call ‘cultural genocide’. The somewhat older Latin American settler societies followed what in certain respects was a more ‘mestizo’ path, imagining themselves as a mix of new and old world; but they still ended up favouring the same combination of white and Christian. The complex glocalization of religions and (nation-)states These religious and national developments along ‘Westphalian’ lines in European countries coincided with the gradual spread and increase of European influence and even domination during the same centuries. The forms that this influence took and the global responses to this European imposition varied, but their outcome was that the idea and reality of the (nation-)state was appropriated almost everywhere by the end of the twentieth century, and so was, to a lesser extent and in more ambiguous ways, the idea and reality of religion. The result is that today the world’s land mass is (with the partial exception of Antarctica) divided without remainder into a little more than 200 globally recognized sovereign states – exceedingly few European colonies remain – and in the vast

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majority of these states there exists today one or at most two dominant religions. Most states also have, therefore, corresponding minorities, both religious and cultural, whose situation more often than not parallels that of historical minorities in the Western states. Beyond this generalization, however, the way that this globalized construction of religious and cultural/national difference has taken place, which is to say its glocalization, has varied considerably. The appropriation of the nation-state model began historically with the emancipation of territories colonized by the European powers: first, the United States in the later eighteenth century, followed by most of the Latin American and a few Caribbean countries in the nineteenth century. The nineteenth century also saw the progressive autonomy of the three other British settler societies, as well as more or less successful nationalist movements in Eastern Europe. Japan joined the movement in the latter half of that century. The twentieth century has seen the double process of the break-up or fall of the final traditional empires, notably the Ottoman and the Chinese, and the progressive establishment of nation states on all or part of their erstwhile territories. The many areas around the world subject to colonialist rule gained their independence mainly after the Second World War, including in most of Asia, Africa, the Pacific Island countries and the Caribbean island nations. A few countries, such as Thailand and Ethiopia, while never under formal colonial rule, also reconstructed themselves as variants on the nation-state model during this same century. The entire transformation, from the late eighteenth century on, was, however, never egalitarian: the modern global nation-state system was and is structured into a rough hierarchy in terms of power and influence: various distinctions have operated to express this hierarchy, such as that between developed and underdeveloped; between first-, second- and third-world countries; between core, semi-periphery and periphery (Wallerstein 1979); and more recently between the Global North and Global South. These distinctions, both among nation states and in terms of power differences, have significantly informed the context of global migration since the latter half of the twentieth century; in terms of how the cultural differences of migrants and receiving countries are understood, and also in terms of the push-pull factors driving this global migration. The appropriation of the religion model has shown not only some parallels but also significant differences. In general, however, the result has been a very rough isomorphism between nation state and religion. Much like the construction of nation states occurred on the sites of longstanding peoples, and notwithstanding the many cases where nations were constructed to correspond to the forming states, so did the reconstruction of religions occur on the sites of already longstanding religious cultures. Of particular note in this regard are three sorts of reconstruction. First, there are the religions that

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already had a long history of institutionalization as distinct religious ways of life or traditions, using their modern names, notably Islam and Judaism. These underwent a series of ‘reforms’ in the eighteenth to twentieth centuries, parallel, but also different, to the reforms that Christianity underwent in this context. Second, there were the diverse religious cultures that were reimagined as a single religion for the modern context, sometimes leading to the construction of more than one religion. The clearest examples of these are Hinduism, Sikhism and to an extent Jainism in the South Asian context. A less clear example is Buddhism. Third were the religions that during this period constructed themselves as ‘new’ religions for the first time, and of these, there is a great variety, including Baha’i, Cao Dai, I Guan Dao, Candomblé, Vodoun and a variety of so-called Japanese new religions. To all these have to be added a large variety of ‘internal variants’, somewhat equivalent (but also different) from the Christian confessions, and very often on the basis of very longstanding historical lineages. As examples, one could mention the many varieties of Buddhism, Islam, Hinduism and Judaism, all with mutually recognized distinct subdivisions that are at times in harmony and at other times at odds with one another, much like the nation states. Finally, of particular note is that just as not all cultural peoples around the world ended up constructing or founding nation states for themselves – witness to which is the plethora of subnationalist movements around the world, from the Basques to the Kurds, from the Québécois to the Hmong – so did not all religious cultures yield one of the modern religions. The most notable case of this absence is that there never had developed a religion in China that corresponds to the development of Hinduism in India, and this is because of an express refusal to do so on the part of the putative carriers of such a religion. Something similar can be said for the whole host of what are sometimes referred to as ‘folk religions’, for the ‘Indigenous religions’ around the world, and for what is collectively known as African Traditional Religion(s).2 The main significance of these complex historical developments in the present context is that they describe how the categories of difference that inform our central question emerged, and emerged globally the way that they did. Global migration presents a challenge in the contemporary context because it has brought about, or at least seems to be leading to, what Nederveen Pieterse (2003) has referred to as a global mélange, a mixing of categories that have been developed and that today are still understood as solidly distinct. The underlying idea and assumption is that the world is divided socially into peoples that are different and into corresponding religions that are different and that these people typically are assumed to carry; this assumption and idea structures both the problem of religious diversity and therefore also its supposed solution, which is integration.

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THE DIFFERENCE OF MIGRATION IN THE POST–SECOND WORLD WAR ERA The post–Second World War context has presented a challenge to the mapping of cultural and religious differences onto global territory through the ‘Westphalian’ model that associates particular people with their particular religion(s) with particular territorial states. In a nutshell, the greatly increased migration to the various Western countries from now virtually all parts of the world puts into question the religious and cultural identities of those countries to the extent that they continue to be understood this way. The question of integration takes on its importance from the fact of the received modelling combined with the cultural and religious diversity that this migration has carried and continues to carry. It is in this context that the question of religious diversity and the related issue of integration took on their current form in the various Western countries. After the war, a number of critical factors gradually changed. The post-war period saw the burgeoning of international organizations, both governmental and non-governmental (Boli and Thomas 1999). These contributed to an increase in social structures to enable migration. Technological developments, including the greater development of telephone, television and international air travel made the world more reachable and more visible to people around the globe. The period saw the rise of what is now a global human rights regime which strove to put the entire world’s people on an equal footing, irrespective of all the reconstructed differences (Spickard 1999). Gradually the situation ushered in a cultural shift towards a greater cosmopolitanism, at least among many of the powerful elites of the world, an attitude that saw value in the differences and regarded them as of equal value (Hannerz 1990). To this has to be added the definitive end of all but remnants of the European colonial empires, but the historical ties among the different parts of those erstwhile empires still informed the flow of migration. Finally, as already adumbrated and perhaps most important, the power stratification among the different parts of the world continued, represented perhaps best in the idea that there were different ‘worlds’ in the world, above all the ‘First’ world predominantly of the West and the ‘Third’ world of the poorer and marginalized regions and countries outside that sphere. Another way of putting this was to talk about the ‘developed’ and ‘underdeveloped’ (or ‘developing’) worlds, with the latter assumed to be on the way to ‘development’. In the meantime, however, the power differentials between the worlds created significant push/pull factors that encouraged a significant number of people to migrate, seeking to escape the negative situations of their home countries, attracted by the possibilities of the rich countries, or both. The result of the cultural, technological, socio-structural and economic changes was the tremendous increase in global migration which could challenge the way that the Western countries understood themselves,

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including in terms of the power hierarchies of which these countries were an integral part. Understanding the situation and the responses of Western countries, however, requires one to go at least in a summary way to the level of the countries or the level of several key country groupings or regions.

RELIGIOUS AND CULTURAL DIVERSITY IN WESTERN COUNTRIES: FROM ASSIMILATION/ EXCLUSION TO INTEGRATION A detailed understanding of Western countries’ situations and responses would require an entire chapter for each one of them. Therefore, for the present purposes, I limit myself to two groups of countries: the four British settler societies and European countries. With respect to these, I also limit myself to three issues: the nature of the diversity introduced by more recent migration, the possibly changing nature of the assumptions about the religious and cultural identities of the states and the ways that the new diversity has been addressed, especially with reference to the older ways of addressing the ‘minority’ question. Each Western country since the middle of the twentieth century has been characterized by differences in the extent and composition of migration flows, the kind of responses to these flows, and the outcomes in terms of the effects on the migrants and on the receiving societies. The former includes effects on the religious identities and expressions of the immigrants and their descendants, as well as on the nature and degree of their integration into the power structures of their new societies. The latter includes the effects on the national identities of these societies and on their economic, political and cultural life. Put differently, migration has changed – or at least is changing – the migrants and the settled populations of the societies to which they immigrated. A useful general distinction can be made between three groups of Western societies in this regard. There are the British settler societies of North America and Oceania, the European societies, and the Latin American societies. Although migration to the latter had been significant from the later nineteenth until the middle of the twentieth centuries, it has not been nearly as much so during the contemporary period. Therefore, Latin American countries have not been nearly so much changed by this sort of migration during the more recent period since about 1970. In terms of religious diversity, however, many Latin American countries have changed significantly during this time; but mostly as a result of religious change among the established population, for instance in the rise of Evangelical and Pentecostal Christianities or the growth in African New World religions. Because of this difference in the timing of migration, I leave the Latin American countries aside in the following analysis, and concentrate on the four British settler societies and the societies of (mostly Western) Europe

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The four British settler societies The four British settler societies in the post-war period have a number of things in common. All four of them, beginning in the 1960s, changed their immigration policies – which means, of course, that they had immigration policies – for the first time in their history to allow significant migration from parts of the world other than Europe. Even the substantial number of immigrants that arrived in the period immediately after the war were overwhelmingly still from Europe (the author is one of them). By the 1970s, this had begun to change significantly. Today, while European immigrants still constitute a significant portion of the yearly total arrivals, the largest groups have become those from Asia, especially South and East/Southeast Asia, from Latin America (especially in the case of the United States) and to some degree from Africa. While a good portion of the migration has arrived as Christian, other religious identities have also been heavily represented, above all Muslims and also Hindus, Buddhists, Sikhs and those with no religion (especially from East Asia). The level of religious and cultural diversity now present in all four countries has risen enormously, even if it all still only represents relatively limited minorities, with the notable exception of certain large urban areas like Melbourne, Toronto or New York. A further commonality is the longstanding existence in each of these countries of historical minorities: Indigenous peoples in all four of them, African Americans and Hispanics in the United States and French-speaking populations in Canada, notably the Québécois. In this regard, all four of the countries had historically and at least until recently conceived and constructed themselves along Westphalian lines. They saw themselves as prevailingly white, their people carrying adapted European cultures, and as Christian, albeit not of only one confession. Immigration policies have been in tune with this vision, non-whites, non-Christians and non-Europeans being for the longest time from discouraged to outright excluded. The already present historical minorities that did not fit the national image were treated accordingly: segregation and marginalization of African Americans and attempted assimilative destruction of Indigenous peoples (the Maori of New Zealand are a partial exception). All four countries have officially been welcoming to the new cultural and religious diversity that the new migration has been bringing; but in all four of them, the older ‘white Christian’ vision still has a significant presence, often making itself felt in less than overt ways, such as the recent Trumpism in the United States. The successful integration of the new migrants and their descendants into the power structures of each state varies and by various standards can be considered wanting, but on the whole it is not disastrous. What is, however, notable, if not exactly surprising, is that the arrival of the new religiously and culturally diverse migration has been accompanied by often highly conflicted and halting efforts to rethink the relations between the

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historical national dominant group and the respective historical minorities. Addressing the marginalization and historical outright attempted destruction of these minorities has become much more serious in all four countries, beginning at the same time as the changes in immigration policies in the 1960s and 1970s. Correspondingly, one can see what amounts to the gradual deconstruction of the Westphalian models in these countries, from, for example, multicultural visions of the country in Canada and Australia and the further deprivileging of Christianity – persistent Islamophobia notwithstanding – and even of religion overall, to potent successors to the civil rights movement in the United States and noticeably more serious moves towards the acknowledgement and inclusion of Indigenous peoples as distinct into the national fabric and vision in all four countries. At the time of writing, these transformations are, of course, all still contested in these countries, both with respect to whether they are genuine and whether they should be happening at all. But there can be no doubt that none of the four countries is what it was as recently as the 1960s; and that migration and the resulting religious and cultural diversity have been instrumental in the transformations. Western European societies In spite of their many differences, like the four British settler societies, European countries show many similarities when it comes to the three issues addressed here. As in the former, these similarities derive from shared history, the fact that all of them have followed one version or another of the Westphalian modelling: from their geographical location on the far northeastern subcontinent of the Eurasian land mass and, more recently, the integration of most of them – with the recent exception of the UK – into the European Union or the Schengen area. It therefore makes sense to treat them as variants just like the four British settler societies. As concerns the patterns of post-war migration, some Western European countries notably Germany, France and the UK saw, again for the first time in their histories, significant numbers of people from outside Europe arrive in significant numbers beginning already in the 1950s and then the 1960s. In the case of France and the UK, these were largely people migrating from the erstwhile empires, from Northern Africa, the Caribbean and South Asia (also by way of Africa) in particular. In Germany, as in a few of its neighbours, it was a case of importing ‘guest workers’ to work in the rapidly growing post-war economy during a period that the French aptly labelled ‘les trente glorieuses’. These countries therefore have a longer history of dealing with the new diversity attendant upon this immigration, although it is arguable that they did not do so seriously (let alone effectively) until the decades after the 1970s, just as in the British settler societies.

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In the remainder of the Western European countries, with some exceptions, the significant migration began only in the 1980s and even the 1990s, and therefore the history of dealing with diversity there is correspondingly much shorter and more recent. Moreover, in all countries outside of the UK, an important and growing segment of the immigrant population is and has been, not regular immigrants, but rather refugees, whose reasons for migrating and reception in European countries is different because, much like the ‘guest workers’ of the previous decades, they can be seen as ‘temporary’ inhabitants that may not require a rethinking of the religious and cultural identity of the country. It is therefore only in some Western European countries – for example the UK and Sweden – that the received Westphalian structures and self-understandings are in serious question. Correspondingly we do not see many concerted efforts to rethink the relation with historical minorities, let alone work their diversity into the national vision and fabric. Indeed, what seems to be more evident in the current circumstance is the strength in many Western European countries of ‘anti-immigrant’ and anti-diversity movements, including political parties that, far from fading, appear if anything to be gaining in strength. This does not, of course, mean that there are not localized more positive responses to the diversity, notably in some large urban areas. Westphalianism, while under serious pressure in Western Europe, still appears to be more dominant than it is in the British settler societies.

CONCLUSION One can summarize the situation in Western countries concerning religious diversity, migration and integration in the post-war period as follows. Almost all of these countries have seen substantial global migration during this time. In most countries, the dominant sources of this migration have been particular regions, whether those that are close by as is Eastern Europe, the Middle East, and Africa for Western Europe or Latin America and the Caribbean are for the United States; or the former empire as in the UK. The other three settler societies, Canada, Australia and New Zealand, do not have such a ‘natural’ source, and therefore their immigration has been less dominated by particular groups. With respect to religious diversity, there is also a broad similarity. Islam has become the second largest positive religious identity in just about all the countries, something that is not just a consequence of what source countries are involved but also simply of the sheer number of Muslims in the world: since this has been largely a global migration, the second largest global religion understandably provides the second largest number of migrants. At the same time, however, and not principally as a result of migration, almost all the Western countries have seen substantial growth in their nonreligious population. The

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religious landscape has transformed significantly, and one might venture to say that religion itself has become a more contested category overall, and not just because of increased diversity. With regard to the question of integration, there seems also to be a broad commonality. Generally, the post-war immigrants have achieved a certain amount of integration, but as concerns the more recent immigrants and those not from other Western countries, this is so far rather incomplete and at best an ongoing process. Immigrants are mostly accepted, albeit sometimes grudgingly – and this alongside a certain amount of overt resistance from certain segments of the established dominant populations. This concerns religious as well as other dimensions of integration. Correspondingly, very few of the Western countries have seen a transformation in their national identities away from the Westphalian model. They do not yet see themselves as something other than European/white, predominantly (at least culturally) Christian societies (Beaman 2020), although perhaps in many cases, notable those of Canada, Australia, the United Kingdom and Sweden, this process has substantially, if haltingly started. It is unlikely that global migration will cease in the near future; it is rather more likely that it will increase. Therefore the dynamics of diversification, difference and integration are likely to continue; and it is difficult to see how this will not lead to a continued transformation of Western societies. These will without doubt maintain, and even develop, their particular differences, but the commonalities across societies will continue as well, and perhaps increase. With regard to religion, however, matters are far from clear. Religious diversity is increasing in all these societies, mostly as a result of immigration; but religion is also at the same time an increasingly contested category, and not just because of its diversity. The dynamics and differences with regard to religious transformation and religious diversity appear at the moment to be highly unpredictable. Are we heading in the direction of a more greatly defined and institutionalized religious diversity, including as a result of continued migration? Are we heading in a direction in which diversity is among the forces that are leading to a greater deinstitutionalization of religion overall? Or are the directions things are taking going to vary significantly according to where in the world we are talking about? Regardless, the categories of difference, of which religion is one, appear to be in flux even as they are in increasing contestation. Much as few would have predicted the post-war story of unprecedented global migration and its transformative consequences, what the next half-century or so will bring is just as difficult to foresee.

Chapter 2

Sikh activism in diaspora Migration and representation JASJIT SINGH

INTRODUCTION The image of a Sikh in the popular imaginary is of a bearded, turban-wearing male, though there are clearly many Sikhs who do not meet this image. Most Sikhs do, however, share a common heritage from the Panjab region of India, though there are also long-established communities from Pakistan and Afghanistan as well as small numbers of Sikh converts. Although there are no reliable figures on the overall size of the worldwide Sikh population, various government data highlight how a Sikh presence can be found in many parts of the world. According to the 2011 Indian census, 20.8 million Sikhs live in India (1.72% of the Indian population) of whom 57.7 per cent live in the Panjab region (Census2011​.co​​.in 2011). The largest populations of Sikhs outside India are to be found in Canada, where the estimated 500,000 Sikhs make up 1.4 per cent of the population (Statistics Canada 2011), in the United States with an estimated 500,000 Sikhs (Joshi 2006) and in the United Kingdom with an estimated 450,000 Sikhs according to the 2011 census (ONS 2011). Much of the pre-twentieth-century migration of Sikhs from the Indian subcontinent was a consequence of their codification and racialization as a ‘martial race’ by the British during the days of Empire (Streets 2004: 173), which led to the recruitment of large numbers of Sikh men into the British Indian Army following the annexation of Panjab. Several scholars including

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Tatla (1998: 69) have described how this link led to the presence of Sikhs across the British Empire, including in Hong Kong, Malaysia, Singapore and Shanghai, where they were placed by the British as policemen, to ‘help provide internal security in the colonial plural society being created on the Malay peninsula’ (Dusenbery 2008: 194). Indeed, for Roy, this transnational movement of Sikhs from Panjab facilitated by the British Empire established a continued ‘hypermobility’ among Sikhs (2016: 82). While the Shanghai Sikh population has now virtually vanished, long-established Sikh populations can still be found in Malaysia, Singapore and Hong Kong (Singh 2015a). There are also growing populations of Sikhs across Europe, particularly in Italy (Myrvold and Jacobsen 2012) and Spain (Garha and Domingo 2019) and also in Australasia, where, as per the 2016 census, Sikhism was the fastest growing religion in Australia, growing by 74 per cent between 2011 and 2016 (Abs.Gov.Au 2018) and in New Zealand which reported 40,908 Sikhs in the 2018 census (Stats.Govt.NZ 2019).

EARLY SIKH ACTIVISM: INSTITUTIONS AND RELIGIOUS SYMBOLS Sikhs began to settle in Canada at the start of the twentieth century as sojourners working primarily in the lumber industry in British Columbia. This immigration of mainly Sikh men lasted only a few years before the Canadian government severely limited entry to Sikhs and other migrants, beginning in 1908, which was followed by ‘more than three decades of immigration restricted to the wives and children of men already in the country’ (Johnston 2005: 1099). In 1914, these restrictions led the Canadian government to deny entry to the Komagata Maru, a ship chartered by Gurdit Singh with 376 mostly Sikh passengers onboard, who were detained in the port of Vancouver for two months and then escorted back to Hong Kong from where they had departed. When in Hong Kong, Gurdit Singh publicly espoused the aims of the Ghadar movement which was agitating for the independence of India from British rule (Johnston 1979). Indeed, the anti-colonial Ghadar movement established mainly by SikhPanjabi labourers (Ramnath 2011: 9), who lived and worked on the West Coast of the United States and Canada (Ogden 2012), can be regarded as one of the first examples of a Sikh-inspired activist movement in diaspora, with the Komagata Maru incident continuing to stand out in the collective memory of Sikhs as a key event in the history of Sikh activism. Indeed, Sikh resistance to the British Empire played an important role in the movement of Sikhs across the Empire, most notably with Bhai Maharaj Singh, the leader of an anti-British insurgency in Panjab (Mishra 2017: 551) who was one of the first Sikhs to arrive in Singapore as a convict placed by the British. Bhai Maharaj Singh now

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serves as an important figure in the historical narratives of the Singaporean Sikh community (Li Jen 2009: 182). The role of narratives from the Sikh tradition in inspiring these early Sikh activist movements is clear. Although often presented as a secular movement, Gill (2014: 25) argues that the Ghadar movement was Sikh in character as the historical stories of Sikh struggles in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries ‘are implicated in those of twentieth century anti-colonialists’ meaning that the legacy of the Sikh tradition holds a ‘foremost stake in the impending Ghadar revolt’ (2014: 30). As Wallace (2011: 85) explains, several Sikh led activist movements emerged in the lead-up to and following the independence of India, including the 1920–5 Gurdwara Reform Movement to restore control of Sikh gurdwaras, the Panjabi Suba movement demanding the creation of a Panjabispeaking state and the struggle by Sikhs against Indira Gandhi’s authoritarian regime in 1975–7. The impact of the politics of Punjab on the migration of Sikhs and on subsequent diasporic organizing and activism has been examined by Singh and Tatla (2006: 94) who highlight how many Sikh organizations in Britain have links to political organizations in Panjab. The early twentieth century also saw the establishment of the very first Sikh organization in Britain, the Khalsa Jatha of the British Isles (KJBI) formed in 1908, which was responsible for setting up the first gurdwara in the UK at Shepherd’s Bush in 1911 thanks to the patronage of the Maharaja of Patiala who was visiting London at the time (Bance 2007). While small groups of Bhatra Sikh men made their way to Britain as early as the 1920s (Ballard 2000: 127) the migration of more number of Sikhs to Britain to address the industrial labour shortages following the Second World War (Ballard 2000: 129) led to the establishment of several gurdwaras across Britain. For these Sikh migrants, gurdwaras ‘served to alleviate the loneliness, heartache, and sense of unease that came from being in an alien land’ (Helweg 1979: 81) serving as important spaces for Sikhs to congregate for both religious and cultural events. Since the establishment of the Khalsa Jatha Gurdwara in London, which was the only gurdwara in the UK until 1951, the number of gurdwaras in Britain has proliferated following a common trajectory (Singh and Tatla 2006: 72) involving: the renting of a house or hall for communal gatherings (1950s/1960s); the purchase of larger, inner-city premises (1960s/1970s); the construction or modification of existing premises for all-purpose gurdwaras and the creation of separate institutions by disgruntled factions within the original founding body or by castes (1980s); and more recently, at the turn of the millennium (1990s/2000s), the emergence of imposing grand ‘new cathedrals’. Similarly, Sikhs in Canada established the first Gurdwara in Vancouver in 1908 followed by several smaller ‘mill colony’ gurdwaras across British

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Columbia which existed alongside and for the duration of these mill colonies. The 1950s saw the creation of the Akali Singh Society in Vancouver and Victoria, followed by the establishment of Gurdwaras in small BC towns during the 1970s and 1980s and then by the establishment of ideology group based gurdwaras after 1998 (Nayar 2011: 46). On the East coast, the first Gurdwara in Toronto was established in 1969 (Scott 2012: 348) followed by Gurdwaras in Montreal and Ottawa. In the United States, Sikhs established the Pacific Coast Khalsa Diwan Society in 1912 and built the first gurdwara in Stockton, California, in 1915 (La Brack 2005: 1101). The oldest segment of the American Sikh population, which descended from eighteenth-century settlers to the west coast, was followed in a second phase of migration in the middle of the twentieth century by Sikh students visiting the United States for higher education and who unlike the first phase of migrants subsequently gained professional careers (Mann 2000: 260). The third and most prominent segment of the Sikh community arrived in the United States following the passage of the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 and ‘often arrived as family units and were generally highly educated, financially secure, urban based, and socially and religiously diverse’ (La Brack 2005: 1096). Similarly, the relaxing of immigration laws in Canada in 1961 led to migration from cities and villages in Panjab constituting the main source of Sikh migration (Johnston 2005: 1076) as up to this point only those originating in a few select countries including the United Kingdom and Ireland were permitted to settle in the United States and Canada (Borjas 1993). While much of this early Sikh migration involved Sikh men, many of whom only wore turbans for ceremonial purposes, as numbers increased there was greater self-confidence for wearing turbans and keeping beards (Singh 2006: 158). These visible markers of belonging have meant that wherever they have settled, Sikhs have quickly mobilized around issues of turbans, kirpans and beards which have impacted on community building itself (Singh 2006: 158). In Britain, the increase in the number of turbaned Sikhs entering the labour market in the late 1950s and 1960s led to tensions relating to the accommodation of turbans in company uniforms leading Sikhs to mobilize around these issues. The turban campaigns were the first mobilization by Sikhs in Britain with Gyani Sundar Singh Sagar’s campaign in 1959 in Manchester and Tarsem Singh Sandhu’s in Wolverhampton in 1967, both being supported by their local gurdwaras. Sandhu’s campaign was also supported by the emerging UK branch of the Panjab-based political party the Shiromani Akali Dal (SAD) and the local Indian Workers Association (IWA) (Singh and Tatla 2006: 127). These cases were forerunners for the Mandla v Dowell Lee case which arose in 1978 when a Sikh student, Gurinder Singh Mandla, was refused admission to Park Grove School in Edgbaston, Birmingham, on the grounds that his turban was not

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in accordance with the school uniform. The Mandla case further highlighted the impact of the politics of Panjab on Sikhs in diaspora as in 1982 a Sikh political party, the SAD, launched a campaign for greater autonomy which was supported by its chapters in Britain and for whom the Mandla v Dowell Lee case ‘encapsulated the demand for the distinctiveness of Sikh identity’ (Singh 2006: 162). Like Sikhs in Britain, Sikhs in Canada have also mobilized around issues relating to the wearing of turbans, kirpans and beards in the public sphere, including the case in 1990 of Baltej Singh Dhillon, a Sikh who wished to wear the turban as part of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) uniform. Despite the public resistance to this change to the RCMP uniform, an amendment was made allowing Sikhs to wear turbans (Gereluk & Race 2007: 118). Following migration in the mid- to late-twentieth century therefore Sikh activism has tended to focus on the establishment of campaigns relating to the public recognition of Sikh identity and of the right for Sikhs to wear turbans in the workplace. As turbaned Sikhs entering the workplace at this time were mainly Sikh men, much of this early activism was facilitated by Sikh men. Many scholars have noted, however (Mandair 2015), that activism among Sikhs in diaspora changed significantly following the storming of Harmandir Sahib by the Indian army in June 1984 during Operation Blue Star.

1984: THE ONGOING IMPACT OF BLUE STAR Sikhs around the world ‘reacted with extreme anger and sadness to the Indian army’s action in the Golden Temple’ (Tatla 1999: 113) immediately taking to the streets in Vancouver, New York, Edmonton, Calgary, Toronto, San Francisco, Los Angeles and in Hyde Park, London, to protest (Tatla 1999). Sikh outrage about Operation Blue Star (for a concise account of the lead-up to these events, see Mandair 2015) led to the assassination of Indira Gandhi by her Sikh bodyguards in October 1984 which was ‘followed closely by violence against Sikhs in Delhi and other parts of north India on the evening of 31 October 1984 lasting through 4 November 1984’ (Devgan 2013; 207). Indeed, despite an extensive body of academic literature and numerous reports which have examined the November 1984 violence against Sikhs, for Ahluwalia, ‘there remains a deep scepticism amongst Sikhs in both India and the diaspora about real justice and adequate reparations’ (2010: 108). The events of 1984 led to numerous Sikh asylum seekers arriving in the United States and Canada in the late 1980s and early 1990s fleeing India (Crossette 2004, Denton 1986). Reflecting the politics of Panjab, Khalistan focused Sikh organizations in Britain including the International Sikh Youth Federation (ISYF) gained prominence at this time (Singh 2015b) taking control of several gurdwaras across the UK (Singh

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and Tatla 2006). These organizations were primarily concerned with influencing government policy towards India and with protesting the visits of Indian politicians to the UK (Singh and Tatla 2006: 109). Through their close links with groups and leaders in Panjab, according to Singh and Tatla (2006: 112), many of these organizations also provided financial assistance to those involved in the Khalistan movement and to the families of those killed by the security forces. The diaspora response included a meeting at Madison Square Gardens in New York on 28 July 1984 for Sikhs from the United States and Canada which led to the establishment of the World Sikh Organization (WSO) (Tatla 1999: 95–7). The period immediately following the events of 1984 saw numerous clashes between Sikhs based on their support of, or opposition to Khalistan (Tatla 1999: 135). During this time several Sikhs, particularly in the UK and Canada, were also accused of plotting against visiting Indian state officials, especially those officials implicated as being involved in orchestrating the anti-Sikh violence in November 1984 including Kamal Nath, Sajjan Kumar and Jagdish Tytler all of whom were named in the ‘Who Are the Guilty?’ report published by the People’s Union for Civil Liberties (Kothari 1984). In October 1985, four members of the ISYF were arrested in Britain for plotting to murder Rajiv Gandhi, the Indian Prime Minister at the time (Tatla 1999: 123). Sikh activists also protested Kamal Nath’s visit to Toronto in March 2010 (Aulakh 2010) and New York in April 2010 (PTI 2010). Reports of these events impacted on the representation of Sikhs, with regular headlines appearing in print and broadcast media about ‘Sikh extremism’ alongside pictures of turbaned Sikh men. Following the assassination of Indira Gandhi in October 1984, for instance, newspapers in Britain reported on how gurdwaras had been taken over by ‘Sikh militants’ and ‘Sikh extremists’: The divisions in the British Sikh community will re-emerge this month in a High Court battle between moderates and extremists for control of one of the biggest temples in Britain. . . . There are about 2000 temples serving the Sikh community in Britain but only 60 of those are large enough to be politically significant. Thirty-two of those are said to be in the hands of the ‘extremists’, that is militantly supporting an independent Khalistan. (Dowden 1986) The events of 1984 also saw the emergence of the annual rally which is now held every June in London. This rally serves both to demonstrate against the events of June and November 1984 and to commemorate those who lost their lives. As in Britain, the aftermath of 1984 saw several peaceful protests across Canada, while some acts of violence also occurred related to Khalistan issues, including the 1985 attack on former B.C. premier Ujjal Dosanjh (CBC n.d.) and the murder of Canadian journalist Tara Singh Hayer (Matas 2012). There

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were also plots and protests against the visits of Indian state officials, including the 1986 assassination attempt on Malkiat Singh Sidhu (CBC News 2019). The bombing of Air India Flight 182 in 1985, Canada’s worst mass murder to date, led to the banning of two Sikh organizations, the ISYF and Babbar Khalsa International (BKI), that remain on the current list of Terrorist Entities in Canada (Public Safety Canada). While it is beyond the scope of this chapter to examine this deplorable act in depth, it is important to note that the bombing was widely condemned by Sikhs at the time (Auerbach 1985). Recent Sikh activist campaigns have highlighted how migrant networks have shaped Sikh activism in diaspora with a focus on the plight of Sikh political prisoners imprisoned under the Terrorist and Disruptive Activities (Prevention) Act (TADA), an anti-terrorism act enforced between 1985 and 1995, and more recently the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act (UAPA) (Singh 2019). The scheduled execution set for 31 March 2012 of Balwant Singh Rajoana who openly confessed to being an accomplice in the assassination of Beant Singh, the chief minister of Panjab in the early 1990s, led to the emergence of a worldwide #IPledgeOrange protest movement (Singh 2020), with the corresponding grassroots ‘Kesri Lehar’ campaign maintaining a presence outside 10 Downing Street, the residence of the British prime minister, for six months from April 2013 (Singh 2015b). The shooting in October 2015 by the Panjab police, of Sikhs protesting against beadbi (desecrations) of the Guru Granth Sahib (BBC News 2015a), led to a protest by Jagmeet Singh who was appearing as a guest on the live BBC ‘Sunday’ programme (BBC News 2015b) and outside the Indian High Commission in London in the same month. At the time of writing, a Scottishborn Sikh, Jagtar Singh Johal, has been held in India for over 1,000 days without charge over his alleged involvement in a series of murders in 2016 and 2017 (Paterson 2020). In response, a #FreeJaggiNow campaign has been running since Johal’s arrest in November 2017 and is continuing to mobilize Sikh activists in diaspora around the issue. It is clear, therefore, that the events of 1984 and its aftermath continue to have an important impact on Sikh activism in diaspora. For Tatla (2012), the lack of support from the Indian High Commission on issues of Sikh identity in the late 1960s and early 1970s during these turban campaigns led some Sikhs in Britain to begin to question their identity as ‘Indian’, which was further impacted by the events of 1984, as demonstrated in the various UK census campaigns in the lead-up to the 2021 UK census (Canton 2021).

POST 9/11: HATE CRIMES AND SECURITIZATION Beyond the events of 1984, Sikhs have mobilized in diaspora for other reasons. The raising of the profile of Muslims in Britain following the Rushdie affair in 1988, for instance, led Sikh youth in Britain to mobilize, leading to the formation

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of the British Organisation of Sikh Students by Sikh university students in the early 1990s (Singh 2015b). Similar national Sikh youth organizations have been established in countries with significant Sikh populations including, for example, in Singapore where the Young Sikh Association was established in 2003. Malminderjit Singh (2009: 83) explains how the Young Sikh Association Singapore (YSAS/YSA) was established to help challenge stereotypes about Sikhs as ‘there was a general sentiment within the community that their fellow Singaporeans did not fully understand them, a problem that undoubtedly boiled down to a lack of visibility’. In a similar vein to issues faced in the United Kingdom, the United States and Canada, Singh (2009: 83) notes that some turban-wearing Sikhs in Singapore ‘felt ostracised and peculiar about their different physical appearance and shed these representations of their identity in an attempt to reduce the differences with other ethnic groups’. Indeed, turban-wearing Sikhs in diaspora have been significantly impacted by the events of 9/11, as their racialization as ‘Muslim-looking’ people (Sian 2017, 43) has seen an increase in hate crimes against Sikhs including the murder of seven Sikhs in an attack on a gurdwara in Oak Creek by a white supremacist in August 2012 (Curry et al. 2012). The significant increase in the number of hate crimes in the aftermath of 9/11 led to the establishment of several Sikh representative organizations across the diaspora including the Sikh Coalition which ‘logged over three hundred separate incidents of bias-based incidents against Sikhs within the first ninety days after September 11. They included the murder of Balbir Singh Sodhi in Mesa, Arizona, the stabbing of Swaran Kaur Bhullar in San Diego, California, and the firebombing of a Gurdwara in Cleveland, Ohio’ (Singh 2011). Both male and female Sikhs have been victims of hate crimes in mass shooting in the United States, including at Oak Creek. Indeed, in her study of the lived experiences and challenges faced by Sikh women following 9/11, Sandhu highlights how her Sikh female respondents reported facing significant issues including ‘hypervigilance, fear, vicarious trauma, powerlessness and survivor guilt; feeling othered and like the perpetual foreigner; loss of trust in the nation; less direct experiences of post-9/11 discrimination; facing multiple marginalization, specifically intracommunity gender discrimination; action-oriented coping; Sikhs being brave and strong warriors; and differences in experience between first- and second-generation immigrants’ (2019: 6). Although not subjected to the same types of hate crimes as they have been in Western countries and despite their long histories of settlement, Sikhs in Singapore, Malaysia and Hong Kong have also faced issues related to the wearing of the turban. In September 2019, Sheena Phua, a social media influencer from Singapore, posted a message on Instagram about two turban-wearing Sikh men who were obstructing her view at the Singapore Grand Prix. Her post triggered a huge social media response leading to media accusations of racism which led the YSA of Singapore to invite Phua to visit a gurdwara to introduce and educate her

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about the Sikh tradition (Yong 2019). A Sikh turban-related issue hit the headlines in Malaysia in September 2018 when a newspaper commentator, Raja Petra Kamarudin (RPK), wrote a post about a Sikh government official, Amar Singh, entitled ‘Amar Singh’s Turban Must Be Too Tight’ (Kumar 2018). Amar Singh accused Raja Petra of using ‘a demeaning and derogatory statement to ridicule a person due to race’ (NST 2018) while the Communications and Multimedia Minister Gobind Singh Deo condemned Raja’s remarks for undermining ‘the most basic values we Malaysians uphold’ (Landau 2018). In Hong Kong, Sukhdeep Singh, a Sikh turban-wearing trainee doctor, explained how: The sad reality is, when I’m wearing scrubs and a lab coat, I get treated differently. If I’m wearing normal clothes, no one would believe I am a medical student. . . . Patients might develop a different perspective on people with turbans in Hong Kong when they see me, a turbaned doctor, and, hopefully, start to view other ethnic minorities differently. (Tsui 2019) Sukhdeep Singh noted the need to ‘manage’ his appearance for his patients, as ‘you don’t want to scare sick patients even more. As a community, we still need to address these sensitive issues through education’ (Tsui 2019). These incidents which generally relate to Sikh male-turban wearers highlight how racism, racialization and the wearing of religious dress continue to raise issues for Sikhs across the world. The post 9/11 context has seen an overall increase in the level and type of securitization faced by religious and ethnic minorities in Western democracies (Cesari 2009) with Bramadat and Dawson noting that in Canada, securitization is ‘far more commonly experienced by Muslims and Sikhs than by Christians’ (2014, 12). Indeed, the post 9/11 racialization of Islam in the West as a ‘terrorist threat’ has meant that brown skin has become a proxy for ‘Muslim’ leading to numerous hate crimes against Sikh individuals (Roberts 2015). The racialization of those with brown skin as suspects also results ‘in the conflation of that racial group’s diverse religions with each other . . . [meaning that] the diversity of belief within each religion is erased’ (Joshi 2006, 219–220) which has led Sikh activists to create educational resources to educate Sikhs and non-Sikhs about the Sikh tradition, particularly online (Singh 2014). As I argue elsewhere, Sikhs have become victims of being ‘Apparently Muslim’ (Singh 2019) in two ways: first, as victims of hate crimes by white supremacists targeting brown people and, secondly, by being victims of suspicion by the nation states in which they live. Several Sikh organizations have been established to challenge discrimination against Sikhs, to highlight hate crimes, and to investigate human rights abuses through the legal campaigns to enable Sikhs to wear the turban and 5Ks in schools and workplaces. The WSO in Canada, for instance, has been involved

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in advocacy around several community issues including turban and kirpan campaigns (WSO 2011) while also assisting non-Sikhs to assert their rights to wear particular types of dress, for instance the right of an Alberta student to wear a kilt (WSO 2010). These include the 2001 case of Gurbaj Multani, a twelveyear-old boy who accidentally dropped his kirpan while playing in school and who was subsequently banned from attending school by the school governing board (Gereluk and Race 2007: 116). Similarly, United Sikhs have challenged cases of discrimination faced by Sikh children in schools. While Sidhak Singh was banned from his school in Victoria, Australia, for wearing a patka (SBS Punjabi 2017). One of the few cases of a Sikh female being banned from a school was that of Sarika Singh who was excluded from her school in Wales in 2008 for wearing a kara, which the school felt went against their uniform policies (Gillian 2008).

CONCLUSION While there are no specific narratives within the Sikh tradition exhorting the virtues of migration, the hypermobility of Sikhs established during the colonial period continues to impact today. As a visible minority with a distinct religious identity, Sikhs, particularly those wearing turbans, have faced discrimination wherever they have settled, leading to regular mobilization around these issues. Although as demonstrated, many of the early incidents of discrimination took place against turban-wearing Sikh men, all turbaned Sikhs, including the increasing number of turbaned Sikh women now experience similar incidents of discrimination. These incidents have led Sikhs to establish their own institutions and organizations in new contexts demonstrating how migrant networks and the act of migration have shaped Sikh activism in diaspora. Through various stages of Sikh migration, individuals, institutions and networks have driven Sikh mobilizations around various local, national and international issues. In this chapter, I have demonstrated how different types of publicly visible Sikh activism (Singh 2020) have been impacted by migration leading to the establishment by Sikhs in diaspora of various national organizations including the Sikh Coalition (US), WSO (Canada) and Sikh Council UK. Indeed, many Sikh organizations, particularly in the United States, are creating alliances with civil rights movements as they see ‘the fight for civil rights and social justice as consistent with Sikh values’ (Luthra 2018: 289). For Luthra, much of this activism is also a consequence of the events of 1984 and their aftermath which ‘mobilized Sikhs in the diaspora to become politically engaged’ (2018: 289), leading Sikh organizations to produce resources around 1984 including Ensaaf, Surat Initiative and the 1984 Living History Project. Organizations including the National Sikh Youth Federation (NSYF) based in the UK publicly articulate the need for Khalistan as a sovereign Sikh state by raising awareness about the

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context and continuing impact of the events of June and November 1984. This ‘diasporic nationalism’ related activism (Singh 2020) is most publicly prominent in the form of the rallies, protests and events relating to the events of 1984. Although some of the organizations established by early Sikh migrants persist, several youth organizations are emerging using social media and organizing events outside gurdwaras to gain influence (Singh 2015b). Yet gurdwaras with their large congregations and guaranteed income from donation boxes continue to play important symbolic and political roles. Rather than becoming involved in gurdwara management, either being put off by the inherent factionalism they observe in the gurdwara committee system, or because they do not have the time or inclination to become involved in the day-to-day running of these large institutions, many Sikhs focus their activism into single issue campaigns and organizations, for example campaigning on issues relating to the environment (Mooney 2018), with these organizations and those responsible for establishing them becoming increasingly influential. While much of the activism undertaken by early Sikh migrants related to issues faced by Sikh men in relation to the wearing of turbans and beards, Sikh women have been involved in this activism throughout. Whether supporting in fundraising initiatives, in helping establish gurdwaras, in participating in rallies and events, Sikh women are regularly involved in Sikh activism focusing on providing aid relief in diaspora in the form of Sikh charities including Khalsa Aid, a UK-based Sikh charity, which has provided disaster relief in Albania, Turkey, Somalia and Pakistan and most recently food relief during the Covid-19 pandemic (Reed 2020). The establishment of Khalsa Aid in the UK in 1999 by Ravi Singh has led to further branches being established by Sikhs in other parts of diaspora including Canada and India. Other examples of similar organizations include the Seva Food Bank established in Toronto which serves food to lowincome families and the Khalsa Food Pantry and Khalsa Peace Corps in Los Angeles which provide meals to the destitute. In Britain, Sikhs have established several food relief organizations in cities across the UK including the Midland Langar Seva Society in Birmingham, the Kirpa Food Bank in Wolverhampton, Guru Nanak’s Free Kitchen based in Doncaster and Edinburgh, the Bedford Langar project, the Sikh Welfare and Awareness Team (SWAT) based in London and Nishkam Help based in Birmingham and Leeds. The vision behind much of this humanitarian activism lies in the spirit of seva or selfless service, a central tenet of the Sikh tradition. Indeed, these Sikh tenets clearly act as the glue binding many Sikhs together in networks and through the act of migration. The fact that Sikhs are a visibly distinct minority community in whichever context they migrate to, means that the very act of migration itself impacts on Sikh religiosity, as Sikhs are required to educate others, establish institutions and be prepared to understand, explain and enact their values and identities, shaping their activism in their new homes.

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Chapter 3

Shifting religiosity of Polish immigrants in Ireland Between alienation and revitalization of religion MARCIN LISAK

The study of religion – which is an eminent part of the origins of sociology such as in the reflections of Durkheim, Marx, Weber, Znaniecki and Czarnowski – continues to be relevant today in analysing current migration. A large part of research on the relationship between religion and migration examines groups differentiated on the basis of religion. Many studies on religion and migration are focused on Muslim immigrants or other non-Christians migrating to Europe and their relationships with the receiving countries. In contrast, the point of our interest is to juxtapose subpopulations which are religiously comparable like Polish immigrants and the hosting Irish society, both predominantly Catholic. Consequently, this chapter undertakes an analysis of the newest, postEU enlargement in 2004, Polish emigration to the Republic of Ireland in terms of their alternating religiosity and social cohesion. In turn, this chapter, as a part of a wider research project, examines the transformation in religiosity of Polish immigrants living in Ireland in the context of two theoretical concepts: the revitalizing (theologizing) thesis that refers to desecularization versus the alienating thesis that underpins secularization especially in the sense of

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evaporating traditional and institutional forms of religion (Warner 1997, Cadge and Ecklund 2007, Hagan 2008, Connor 2011, Kouros and Papadakis 2018).

THEORETICAL BACKGROUND Consideration of the role of religion in the assimilation process leads to the debate on whether the religiosity of immigrant congregations operates as a ‘bridge’ to promote assimilation or as a ‘barrier’ to protect boundaries and to fortify separation (Warner 1997, Connor and Koenig 2013). In other words, is religion a significant or irrelevant part of the migratory experience? Accordingly, the main goal of this chapter is to acknowledge to what extent religion matters at the grassroots of international migration between EU countries. The understanding of various facets of immigrant religiosity can lead to the question of whether religion works better to connect people or to disintegrate them (Yinger 1970). One can state that along with the migratory experience ‘religious performance is driven by socio-economic motives relating to the establishment of networks and bridges that connect them to the local population’ (Garcia-Muńoz and Neuman 2013: 2) or, on the contrary, that immigrants’ religiosity serves as a ‘balm for the soul’ and a buffer against the distress of emigration and a barrier protecting against a potential integration (Connor 2012). The latter statement is popular in the American context, while scholars prefer the social meaning of religion in the life of international migrants (Smith 1978, Warner 1998, Straut Eppsteiner and Hagan 2016). In this light one may consider whether religion, in the context of migration, submits to secularization or whether, conversely, it creates the tone for an aspect of desecularization (Casanova 2006). The role of religion is far more limited within Europe that emerges as a secular exemption to a highly religious world. Notwithstanding that, one may recognize both societies, the Irish and Polish, as irregular for the rest of the continent. The level of religiosity is still relatively high for Poland and also for Ireland. Even so, Poles become increasingly indifferent with regard to religion over time. Admittedly, religiosity undergoes various and complex changes that cannot be understood as a one-direction process or as a linear and ineluctable transformation. Following that, the exponents of the secularization thesis admit that ‘secularization is a tendency, not an iron law’ (Norris and Inglehart 2011: 4). Hence, the nexus of migration and religion should not be oversimplified to a basic framework: decrease/increase or secularization/rebirth and alienation/ revival of religion (Massey and Espinoza Higgins 2010). Accordingly, I will explore, due to the limited capacity of the chapter, as a main hypothesis the alienating impact of international migration on religiosity. Therefore, I suggest that the longer Polish immigrants remain in Ireland, the more likely it is that their Polish immigrant religiosity will decline. The decline is due to the lack of cultural support, the weakening of societal ties,

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the fading of social control and pressures of the dominant society. In short, the precariousness of the migratory situation leads to the assumption that ‘God can wait’. Migrants choose to spend time to better socio-economic status rather than attending to religious/spiritual aspirations (Gray 2013, Fanning 2018). The study undertaken in Great Britain by Krotofil (2013) examining new Polish immigrants partially supports the hypothesis of declining immigrant religiosity. Case studies carried out in Ireland also support this theory (O’Mahony 2010, Gray and O’Sullivan Lago 2011, Lisak 2016). On the basis of the pilot research, it is clear that the religiosity of Polish immigrants in Ireland is declining. For instance, in 2015, on a regular basis fewer than 8 per cent of Polish immigrants attended Catholic Masses celebrated in Polish, in some popular regions: Greater Dublin, City of Cork, City of Galway and Tralee in county Kerry (Lisak 2015). Nevertheless, the decline of measurable religiosity is not an inevitable trajectory of the times since secularization is neither a prevailing paradigm nor an overpowering process (Stolz 2020).

IRISH AND POLISH SOCIO-RELIGIOUS PATTERNS Polish immigrants living in Ireland are the largest group of the non-Irish population currently living in Ireland (Gilmartin 2015). Nevertheless, Polish migration to Ireland is a relatively new phenomenon that started in 2004 with the accession of Poland to the European Union and the opening of the Irish labour market (Loyal 2011). The Central Statistics Office in Dublin notes that the number of Polish immigrants reached 122,515 in 2016 (2.6 per cent of total population).1 Contemporary Ireland and Poland are primarily Catholic countries, and for this reason the decline of Polish immigrant religiosity over time in Ireland is intriguing. The analysis of the European Social Survey (ESS) allows for comparison of the two datasets. Hence, the level of affiliation to Roman Catholicism dropped evidently in Ireland since 2002: from 78.6 per cent to 62.2 per cent. In comparison with Poland, it dropped slightly by 5.5 percentage points (pp.) in sixteen years: from 91.3 per cent in 2002 to 85.8 per cent in 2018. Other denominations are far less popular with around 3 per cent of Protestants in Ireland and less than 1 per cent of Orthodox in Poland or Muslims in Ireland. On the contrary, there was a group of non-affiliated upsurges in both countries. The increase in Ireland is significant with 13.0 per cent of nonaffiliated in 2002 and yet 31.2 per cent in 2018. Diversely in Poland the rise is moderate with 5.3 pp. for sixteen years and 12.7 per cent as a result in 2018. Moreover, a subjective dimension of religion for the Irish and the Polish seem to be relatively religious. On the 0–10 scale, where 0 means ‘not at all religious’ and in the opposite 10 means ‘very religious’, both nations are over the mean value for Europe, which is 4.47, although the index is clearly declining. In 2018

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the result for Ireland is 4.91 (it was 5.8 in 2002) and even higher for Poland with 6.11 (6.53 in 2002). In both Ireland and Poland attendance at religious services and frequency of prayer are on the decline. Whereas in 2002 there were 54 per cent very regular churchgoers in Ireland and 55 per cent in Poland, the index in 2018 has fallen to 32 per cent for Ireland and to 45 per cent for Poland. Most recently even 22 per cent of Éire inhabitants never attend, corresponding with 6 per cent non-attendees in Poland. Meanwhile, on the point of individual prayer, 62 per cent of Irish society did practice very frequently (i.e. every day and more often than once a week) in 2002, corresponding with 60 per cent in Poland. Up to 2018, that percentage dropped off by 15 pp. in Ireland and by 17 pp. in Poland. Interestingly, the frequency in Ireland is still higher (47%) than in Poland (with 43% subsequently). Nonetheless, quite the opposite are the inhabitants who never pray, with only 11 per cent in Poland and 21 per cent in Ireland (ESS 2020). To sum up, it is evident that the secularization processes have amplified in both Ireland and Poland. Ireland remains a Catholic country but with much lower indexes of religiosity (Halikiopoulou 2011). Similarly, Poland is still relatively religious and predominately Catholic society but with a growing deficit of practices. Even so, on the religious map of Europe, both Catholic nations stand out from the rest (Voas and Doebler 2014).

METHODOLOGY Since a design of sociological research must explore effective and adequate methodology, our team decided to apply a quantitative survey across the Polish subpopulation in Ireland. As EU-citizens, these Polish nationals are legal immigrants although it is too complicated to identify where exactly they live or where they work in Ireland. Therefore, the goal of our research is to fill a gap in the current research on the social condition of Polish immigrants in Ireland. On these grounds we implement respondent-driven sampling (RDS) as a convenient method for sampling from hard-to-reach subpopulations, especially immigrants. Data has been collected through a peer-referral process in which current sample members harness existing social networks to recruit additional sample members (Salganik and Heckathorn 2004). RDS has proven to be a practical method of data collection in many difficult settings and has been adopted by a couple of migration researchers around the world (Tyldom and Johnston 2014). RDS refers to the social network. It combines ‘snowball sampling’ with a mathematical model that weights the sample to compensate for the fact that the sample was collected in a non-random way. While applying RDS the first task of the researcher is to choose the initial recruit: the seed.

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Such a respondent has to recruit three further intermediate respondents from his/her social network. Step by step the referral chain expands itself up to the methodologically significant level five. Nevertheless, the sampling of potential respondents out of level five and in number 500 or more can guarantee a sample that is without significant systematic bias. Thus, we frame samples that are made of the final respondents. In May 2018, the researchers started to build referral chains in three locations: Dublin City, Cork and Galway. The estimated scope of the sample was 1,092 respondents, including 729 final ones. Since the response was not satisfactory enough, the research team has developed, in November, another referral chain in the town of Lucan, county Dublin. Finally, by the end of 2018, the researchers have collected 532 questionnaires (out of 1,456) from the target respondents out of level five. Eventually, after the preliminaries, 520 questionnaires have been qualified on for subsequent research processing.

RESULTS The results of RDS survey are sufficiently convergent to the data on gender and age based on the newest national census 2016 of Ireland. The sample characteristic is as follows: gender ratio, women (F) = 48.9 per cent, men (M) = 51.1 per cent; age median = forty years (F = 38; M = 40); residence in Ireland = median twelve years. Almost a half of the respondents (49.2%) belong to cohort thirty-six to forty-five years of age. Another 21.3 per cent belong to cohort twenty-six to thirty-five, likewise 19.7 per cent belong to cohort fortysix to fifty-five years. A vast majority (61.1%) of the respondents are married (F = 64%, M = 58.6%). In all, 10.8 per cent of the sample are divorced, 2.7 per cent separated and 1.9 per cent widowed. A relatively low percentage of the respondents are single (F = 14.6%, M = 15.8%). Besides, the immigrants are relatively well educated (women are more highly educated): namely, 13.6 per cent completed primary occupational education (F = 9.2%, M = 17.8%), 45.9 per cent = secondary education (F = 43.8%, M = 47.8%), 35.3 per cent = third level education (F = 40.2%, M = 30.7%) and postgraduate and higher 5.2 per cent (F = 6.8%, M = 3.8%). On the ground of religiosity, the results of the survey correspond with a classical approach to five dimensions of religiosity developed by Glock and Stark (1965). Nevertheless, the variables have been redesigned and converted to meet the aims of the research project. For the purposes of this chapter, I consider and afterwards interpret the following indicators: beliefs, institutional belonging, religious self-description, practices and activity. Hence, as revealed by the survey, over two-thirds (67.8%) of immigrants believe in God or supernatural power. Women (73.1%) are more likely to believe than men (63%). One out

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of eight (12.4%) does not believe. The index of believing in afterlife is slightly lower. In all, 62.4 per cent of Polish migrants believe in life after death. Similarly, women (67.6%) are more likely to believe than men (57.7%). In total, 15.8 per cent of immigrants do not believe in afterlife. The religious profile of the immigrants’ subpopulation is dominated by Catholics: 86.4 per cent of respondents declare that they are adherents of Catholicism. A further 3.6 per cent belong to other Christian denominations (with 1.4% of Protestant). Non-Christian religions represent 1.4 per cent of the sample. The second biggest group (8.6%) asserts as nonreligion. Reflecting the findings of the study and this chapter, interestingly immigrant self-assessment as religious has declined. Over a half of the sample (51.2%) stated being religious at the time of migration to Ireland. Correspondingly, at the present time 32.8 per cent of immigrants affirm their religiousness. Nonetheless, it is evident that a pre-migratory indicator of religiousness is noteworthy. Yet 64.9 per cent, out of 15 per cent self-assessed as very religious before coming into Ireland, remain very religious at the present time on immigration and a further 20.8 per cent remain rather religious. However, religiousness among the subgroup of ‘rather religious’ (45.4%) before migration differs slightly. Yet 36.2 per cent of such respondents remain rather religious but a further 6.5 per cent declare being even more religious after living several years in Ireland. It is a noteworthy result that one out of five (19.4%) among them is converted into rather or strong nonreligious. The indicators of less religious or nonreligious have altered, albeit in a different way. Yet 88.3 per cent, out of 15 per cent self-assessed as rather nonreligious before coming into Ireland, remain rather nonreligious on immigration and a further 6.5 per cent turns out nonreligious nowadays. In all, 5.2 per cent of them have become very (3.9%) or rather religious. Beyond that, 9.5 per cent of respondents are strongly nonreligious and remain without any change, which is predictable. The subgroup of undecided (‘hard to say’) follows a line of attenuation. Yet slightly over a half (56%), out of 24.3 per cent undecided, cannot self-assess their religiousness, so they declare being still undecided. Notwithstanding that, yet one-third of the undecided turn out rather nonreligious and a further 8 per cent turn out strongly nonreligious while living on immigration in Ireland. Respectively, when asked directly about their change of religious belief, the respondents measure their situation in an undetermined way. In total, 7.3 per cent of immigrants state that their religion belief became strengthened. And 33.9 per cent state no change, and 18.4 per cent declare it weakened. Over one-fifth (22.5%) are undecided in answering. Notwithstanding this, a further 17.8 per cent treat the question as non-adequate which allows us to interpret these answers as denying religiousness categorically. Meanwhile, the indicators linked to religious practices compose a set of significant variables. Much like in the previous question the respondents

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declared, how often they did practice religious rituals, that is public services (like for instance Mass which are common for Catholics) just before migration and how often they do practice at present in Ireland. Namely, before coming to Ireland 17.4 per cent of migrants attended once a week or more often but only 8.3 per cent attended in 2018 while living already in Ireland. A few times a month but not every week attended 23.6 per cent before and 11.4 per cent in 2018 respectively. A few times a year attended 37 per cent before and 45.3 per cent in 2018. In total, 11.1 per cent did practices on special occasions only (i.e. rites de passage) before migrating to Ireland and 17.9 per cent in 2018 in Ireland. Never attended 10.9 per cent previous to migrating but 17.1 per cent in 2018 in Ireland (chi-square = 788.4, p < 0.01). In sum, as many as 41 per cent of respondents did attend public religious services, on a regular basis: that is at least a few times a month, before emigrating from Poland or another country. This index dropped to 19.7 per cent in 2018, when living in Ireland. Whereas 22 per cent of respondents attended only on a special occasion or never did attend before migration to Ireland. In the same categories, the index rose by 13 pp. up to 35 per cent on immigration. The drop in praying or meditating is less significant. Akin to attending religious practices, the index of individual prayer is on the decrease but slightly. In all, 39.7 per cent of respondents did pray or meditate very often a few times a week before emigrating. Currently in Ireland 29.6 per cent of immigrants do it with fair regularity. For comparison, 34 per cent of immigrants practised individually not more than a few times a year and other 15.1 per cent never prayed or meditated before the migration to Ireland. Nowadays, after spending some time as immigrants, almost 40 per cent pray or meditate occasionally and a further 19.3 per cent never do. Another aspect of religiosity is linked with religion-based social activity and participation. In the time before moving out to Ireland 10.2 per cent of the respondents were affiliated to a prayer group or special chaplaincy. Moreover 8.2 per cent of them did work as volunteers for a religious organization. The situation changed with their stay in Ireland. In 2018, only 3.7 per cent were affiliated with a prayer group or special form of chaplaincy and just 2.5 per cent were socio-religious volunteers. The process of change directs accordingly: one out of five members of a prayer group before emigration was still affiliated and active in 2018. On the contrary, a negligible subgroup (1.7%) became members of a prayer group while staying in Ireland. In the case of a voluntary organization that linked with religion, the transformation comes in a similar way. Only 14.3 per cent of immigrants persist as active volunteers after some years spent in Ireland. The subgroup of new volunteers is analogous with a negligible size of 1.5 per cent. In addition, one can admit that language is essential as a mean of communication if applied to religion. Therefore, in this survey, the respondents

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have been asked about their language preference for public religious services. The outcomes are as follows: 18.6 per cent attend liturgy that is given in Polish only; 27.8 per cent prefer the Polish language, but infrequently also English; 18.1 per cent prefer English, but infrequently also Polish; 8.1 per cent attend religious services that are given in English only. Furthermore, 4.5 per cent remains uncertain (‘hard to say’) whereby as much as 22.9 per cent declare that the question does not apply. Since the connections among religious and cultural rituals and habits are essential for setting an adequate view of religiosity, the research has explored the domain of traditional customs. Respectively, the respondents depicted their practices in two time categories: before emigrating to Ireland (prior) and currently (in 2018) upon immigration (now). The results are the following: Wigilia (Christmas Eve dinner) = 96.8 per cent prior and 94.1 per cent now, opłatek (sharing Christmas bread) = 93.5 per cent prior and 87.5 per cent now, singing Christmas carols = 51.7 per cent prior and 36.6 per cent now, fasting on Good Friday = 46.9 per cent prior and 33.3 per cent now, fasting on regular Fridays = 28 per cent prior and 13.5 per cent now, getting ashes on Ash Wednesday = 35.3 per cent prior and 14.7 per cent now, święconka (blessing for Easter food) = 80.5 per cent prior and 65.8 per cent now, confession before Easter or/and Christmas = 39.6 per cent prior and 18.4 per cent now, Eucharistic procession on Corpus Christi = 30.8 per cent prior and 5.7 per cent now, the Way of the Cross service = 30.2 per cent prior and 8.6 per cent now, mealtime prayer = 4.5 per cent prior and 3.1 per cent now, visiting family graves = 79.9 per cent prior and 36.2 per cent now, and furthermore celebrating the Polish Independence Day (11 November) = 33.3 per cent prior and 11.4 per cent now, celebrating the Saint Patrick’s Day (17 March) = 7.1 per cent prior and 75.9 per cent now, celebrating the Valentine’s Day (14 February) = 48.1 per cent prior and 56.4 per cent now, observing the Halloween (31 October) = 8.9 per cent prior and 53.8 per cent now and finally attending Christmas party = 13.8 per cent prior and 60.7 per cent now. Some distinctive rituals for Polish Catholicism and broader cultural religiosity continued on as preferred at the time of emigration. Currently in Ireland, over 94 per cent of Polish immigrants eat the family-dinner (vigil) on Christmas Eve (24 December) and 87.5 per cent share opłatek – a form of thin, unleavened, white bread that is identical to liturgical hosts. Furthermore, during the Easter celebration, on Holy Saturday mainly, two-thirds of immigrants (65.8%) visit churches to get the blessing for Easter food (święconka). In this category, however, there is a drop by 15 pp. Around one-third still fast on Good Friday and sing Christmas carols. On the other hand, there is a sharp decrease in supplementary but strictly religious (not just cultural) practices like confession (–21 pp.), procession on Corpus Christi (–25 pp.), Way of the Cross (–22 pp.), receiving ashes on Ash Wednesday (–21 pp.). Furthermore, some nonreligious

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practices, that are common for the Irish society, become more popular among the immigrants – for example over 60 per cent of Polish immigrants attend Christmas parties and over 53 per cent observe Halloween.

DISCUSSION As regards indicators of religiosity, it appears that Polish immigrants are less religious than their co-nationals living in Poland. If we compare the research outcomes with large-scale surveys, it is evident that immigrants do secularize faster. As an example, the Pew Research Center (PRC) acknowledged in 2015– 16 that 87 per cent of Polish self-declared as Catholic (the decline of 9 pp. since 1991) aside from 7 per cent unaffiliated. Notwithstanding that, 45 per cent attend religious services weekly, 86 per cent believe in God, 27 per cent pray daily, and 29 per cent consider religion as very important in their lives, 48 per cent as somewhat important, 20 per cent as not too important or not important at all (PRC 2017). Whereas in Poland, the CBOS (Public Opinion Research Centre) reports on subjective religiosity, that 84 per cent of adult Poles count themselves as deeply religious, 8 per cent as religious and 8 per cent as nonreligious. That indicator remains stable over two decades. As regards practising, 49 per cent (declining) declare regular participation in religion services, 38 per cent do attend but irregularly and 13 per cent (growing) do not practice (CBOS 2018). Such general results ought to be confronted with age cohort stratification. For that reason I weight the data of ESS-Round-9 for inhabitants of Poland against the outcomes of the project survey adequate for Polish immigrants living in Ireland. The data are re-scaled to better weigh up the criteria of comparison. The indexes in all age categories of religiosity, as measured by practices among immigrants are much lower. Since the most numerous age group among Polish immigrants is a cohort of thirty-six to forty-five years of age, this category is most valuable. After this age cohort, the next cohorts are as follows: twenty-six to thirty-five and forty-six to fifty-five years of age. These three cohorts together account for 90 per cent of the immigrant population. Among inhabitants of Poland aged from thirty-six to forty-five years, 42.6 per cent attended ‘very often’, further 23.5 per cent attended ‘often’ and 19.9 per cent ‘rarely’, 8 per cent ‘very rarely’ and 6 per cent ‘never’ (ESS 2020). In comparison, among Polish immigrants: 7.7 per cent practised ‘very often’, 12.5 per cent ‘often’, 19.7 per cent ‘rarely’, 44 per cent ‘very rarely’ and 16.1 per cent ‘never’. Besides that, among people living in Poland aged from twenty-six to thirty-five years, 34.3 per cent attended ‘very often’, 20.9 per cent ‘often’, 28.5 per cent ‘rarely’, 7.9 per cent ‘very rarely’ and 8.4 per cent ‘never’. Respectively, the indicators for immigrants are the following: 5.5 per cent ‘very

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often’, 13.8 per cent ‘often’, 17.4 per cent ‘rarely’, 45.9 per cent ‘very rarely’ and 17.4 per cent ‘never’. In turn, the results for the cohort aged forty-six to fifty-five years are the following: attending ‘very often’ = 48.4 per cent in Poland and 10 per cent in Ireland, ‘often’ = 20.3 per cent versus 8 per cent, ‘rarely’ = 19.8 per cent versus 28 per cent, ‘very rarely’ = 7.3 per cent versus 38 per cent in Ireland and ‘never’ = 4.2 per cent in Poland versus 16 per cent in Ireland. For general population the outcomes are the following: attending ‘very often’ = 46.2 per cent in Poland and 8.3 per cent in Ireland, ‘often’ = 20.3 per cent versus 11.4 per cent, ‘rarely’ = 20.7 per cent versus 21.3 per cent, ‘very rarely’ = 6.6 per cent versus 42.2 per cent in Ireland, and ‘never’ = 6.2 per cent in homeland versus 16.8 per cent on emigration in Ireland. One can identify that in the category of ‘frequent’ attending the gap between the immigrants and their Polish counterparts is about 30–38 pp. The immigrants also do not attend at all with a difference of 9–14 pp. By far the immigrants attend religious services less often than Poles who live in their homeland. The indicator of immigrants’ religiosity is similarly and strongly lower also in the category of prayer/meditation. Namely, among those living in Poland aged thirty-six to forty-five years, 42.8 per cent prayed or meditated ‘very often’, 10.4 per cent ‘often’, 14.3 per cent ‘rarely’, 19.5 per cent ‘very rarely’ and further 13 per cent ‘never’. On the other hand, among immigrants: 21.5 per cent prayed or meditated ‘very often’, 9.7 per cent ‘often’, 10.5 per cent ‘rarely’, 38.5 per cent ‘very rarely’ and almost one out of five (19.8%) never do. Respectively, the results for the cohort aged twenty-six to thirty-five years are the following: in Poland 36.1 per cent ‘very often’ versus 14.7 per cent on emigration, ‘often’ = 11.9 per cent versus 18.3 per cent, ‘rarely’ = 19.8 per cent versus 28 per cent, ‘very rarely’ = 28.3 per cent versus 40.4 per cent and ‘never’ = 15.5 per cent versus 18.3 per cent, respectively. Furthermore, the results for the cohort aged forty-six to fifty-five years are the following: ‘very often’ = 44.3 per cent in Poland and 13 per cent in Ireland, and then respectively ‘often’ = 12.0 per cent versus 6 per cent, ‘rarely’ = 9.3 per cent versus 18 per cent, ‘very rarely’ = 21.3 per cent versus 45 per cent in Ireland and ‘never’ = 13.1 per cent versus 18 per cent. For general population the outcomes on prayer/meditation are the following: ‘very often’ = 46.5 per cent in homeland and 18.8 per cent on emigration, ‘often’ = 12.2 per cent versus 10.9 per cent, ‘rarely’ = 9.6 per cent versus 11.7 per cent, ‘very rarely’ = 19.5 per cent versus 39.5 per cent and ‘never’ = 12.2 per cent in Poland and 19.1 per cent in Ireland. In sum, the immigrants pray less often. In Poland adults of twenty-six to fifty-five years of age pray very often with a difference of 21–31 pp. In contrast, the immigrants do not pray at all with a difference of 3–5 pp. Moreover, in the category of ‘praying/meditating very rarely’ the gap between the immigrants and their Polish counterparts is about 12–24 pp. Such a juxtaposition validates the tendency of the evaporating religiosity of Polish

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immigrants and therefore validates the main hypothesis that makes claims on the alienating impact of international migration on religion. Besides that, the contrived data allows us to test the hypothesis in diachronic perspective. A basic juxtaposing of bivariate data, when it is available, points to a strong decline in public practices among regular churchgoers by 21 pp. Correspondingly, one observes a moderate decline in individual practices among praying/meditating regularly by 10 pp. Additionally, the results of selfassessment on religiosity point out a strong decline in subjective religiosity by 19 pp. among ones who assess themselves as religious. The chi-square test for the dataset is 834.3 with statistical significance p < 0.01 and confirms a decreasing trend. The combined results suggest that religiosity of Polish immigrants living in Ireland is in decline. Accordingly, the research outcomes prove, to a certain degree, that international migration is negatively related to immigrants’ religiosity. Nonetheless, the hypothesis, based on secularization and alienation tendencies, demands a more precise analysis. Hence, we process with testing the correlations (Table 3.1) by using the Spearman rank-order correlation coefficient or other nonparametric tests if appropriate. We find out that the degree of association between several variables that operationalize religiosity and social features (as independent variables), such as level of income, level of education, relationship status and type (cohabitating unions, civil marriage and religious marriage), length of stay in Ireland and future plans regarding migratory decisions (excluding undecided), is in various cases statistically significant. The lowest income is related to higher parameters of religiosity. The strength of correlation is highest, on a statistically significant level, at this point. Respondents with lower incomes declare believing in God or a superpower and believing in the afterlife as much stronger. They view themselves as religiously engaged and more often think that their religiosity has consolidated during migration. Furthermore, the immigrants who have lower incomes do practice more frequently both publicly and individually. Also, they talk about religion and acknowledge the meaning of religion in everyday life and morality more frequently. The respondents with lower incomes are more strongly interlinked with religious institutions regardless of whether these are chaplaincies for immigrants or local Irish parishes and other religious organizations. They do prefer attending religious services that are said only or mostly in Polish. Also, the level of education is correlated to religiosity. The respondents with a lower education level, such as primary or secondary schools, account themselves much more religious than those with tertiary education. Also, the immigrants with lower education attend public religious services more frequently and far more often prefer the Polish language in liturgy. Moreover, they acknowledge the meaning of religion for everyday life, morality and migration plans more frequently. Additionally, this subgroup is more strongly bound to the Polish

TABLE 3.1:  Correlations for Selected Factors of Religiosity (rho Spearman Correlates) English language skills (currently)

Length of stay in Ireland

Future plans for migration (currently)

Income

Education level

Type of relationship

Believing in God or supernatural force

0.179**

---

0.334Y**

---

---

0.136*

Believing in afterlife

0.162**

---

0.375Y**

---

0.092*

---

Being a religious person (self-assessment)

0.337**

0.160**

0.440Y**

−0.161**

---

0.145**

Change of religiosity (selfassessment)

0.233**

---

0.415Y**

−0.134**

−0.147**

---

Attendance in religious services (currently)

0.293**

0.138**

0.496Y**

−0.115**

−0.120**

---

Individual prayer or meditation (currently)

0.293**

0.095*

0.413Y**

−0.107*

---

0.128*

Talking about religion and spirituality

0.202**

---

0.334Y**

---

−0.157K**

---

Sharing Christmas bread

---

---

0.222Y**

---

−0.129K**

---

Blessing for Easter food

0.250Y**

0.171Y*

0.327Y**

0.193Y*

−0.124K**

---

Confession before a religion feast

0.328Y**

---

0.315Y**

0.196Y*

−0.091K*

0.232Y*

Fasting on Fridays

0.288Y**

---

0.204Y**

0.200Y*

---

---

Eucharistic procession on Corpus Christi

0.259Y**

---

0.253Y**

---

−0.079K*

---

Way of the Cross

0.272Y**

---

0.223Y**

0.216Y**

−0.069K*

0.218Y*

Attending a prayer group or chaplaincy

0.167Y*

---

0.139Y*

---

---

---

---

---

0.141Y*

---

---

---

Religion’s meaning for everyday life

0.201**

0.112*

0.430Y**

−0.148**

---

0.209**

Moral meaning of religious rules and norms

0.318**

0.171**

0.416Y**

−0.205**

---

0.182**

Role of religion for the decision on migration

0.256**

0.114**

0.300 Y**

−0.178**

---

0.111*

Attachment with a Polish chaplaincy

0.331**

0.224**

0.458Y**

−0.192**

---

---

Attachment with a local Irish chaplaincy

0.192**

---

0.349Y**

---

−0.132**

---

Volunteering for a religious organization

Language preference for 0.195** 0.223** --−0.247** 0.116* 0.319** religious services Statistical significance: *p < 0.05; **p < 0.01; K = tau-b Kendall coefficient; Y = Yule phi coefficient. Based on own research (2018).

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chaplaincy in Ireland. Forms of relationship and engagement also are associated with religiosity. The variable ‘type of relationship’ is set in three categories: religious marriage, informal cohabitation and civil marriage. Polish immigrants who live in religious wedlock are more religious in all delineated categories, but particularly in frequency of attending religious services (0.496 phi-Yule), selfaccounting as religious individuals, frequency of individual prayer/meditation, attachment with a Polish chaplaincy or attributing to religion the significance in everyday life and in morality. In contrast, the correlation between singles and their level of religiosity is not statistically significant. Another deciding factor of immigrants’ religiosity is the acquisition of language. With the length of stay in Ireland, the immigrants improve their language skills. More fluent English notwithstanding, the respondents associate with weaker religiosity. Immigrants who practice the English language better become less religious. They attend public religious services less frequently and pray or meditate rarely. Besides, they account themselves as less religious and attribute to religion weaker meaning in life, morality and migration plans. Nonetheless, the length of stay on migration has an impact on religiosity directly. The longer the duration in Ireland, the lower the religiosity tends to become: that is, infrequent attending of religious practices, including very common practices for Poles like sharing Christmas bread and blessing Easter food and less talk about religious issues. Consequently, these common practices and attitudes remain common but they become more socio-cultural and less self-referential religious. Finally, religiosity correlates with plans of further migration. Polish immigrants who want to leave Ireland sooner are more religious than those who want to stay longer or for good. Mainly, the immigrants planning to emigrate from Ireland in the near future or at least within two to five years are associated with slightly stronger beliefs in God or a supernatural power, more often account themselves as religious and appreciate more the meaning of religion and its influence on morality. They interlink a more rapid relocation with religion as well. Therefore the correlations point out that religiosity of Polish immigrants becomes weaker the longer they live in Ireland. There is a direct correlation between time spent away from Poland and decline of religiosity. This correlation must be considered alongside higher levels of income and education. The former is evidently and positively correlated with the length of living in Ireland. On the other hand, the latter is positively correlated with knowledge of English. Furthermore, both features – skills in English and level of education – have an impact on the range of income being intercorrelated as well. Both indirectly and directly, the length of stay is associated with the changing of religiosity. Immigrants with higher incomes and education levels, a better knowledge of English and those who live longer in Ireland and wish to stay even longer are prone to become less religious. Thus it is reasonable to confirm that, in the case

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of Polish migration to Ireland, the migratory experience prompts an alienating influence onto the religiosity of immigrants. Additionally, the outcomes of research allow us to develop a scale of religiosity for Polish immigrants that is helpful to examine the range of theologizing/revival concept. The scale design is based on central parameters. The index is created by combining fourteen individual measures of religiosity that correspond to such main categories, which are as follows: belief, practices, subjective, experiential and consequential. Consequently, a level of religiosity is measured by five variables that are scored from +2 to -2 and by two variables that are scored from +1 to -1. The former measure includes believing in God or supernatural power, believing in the afterlife, attendance in public religious services, frequency of individual prayer or meditation and self-assessment of one’s religiosity. The latter measure includes the importance of religion in one’s life and the importance of religious rules and norms in morality. Additionally, a scale is created by seven other variables that are scored 1 or 0. Two variables correspond: attending a prayer group or chaplaincy and volunteering for a religious organization. The other five variables – as linked to Catholicism that is a religious affiliation for 86.4 per cent of respondents – indicate the following practices: fasting on Good Friday, getting ashes on Ash Wednesday, Eucharistic procession on Corpus Christi, Way of the Cross and confession before feast days (Easter or/and Christmas). The scores for each of these fourteen individual items are then summed. Respondents who scored 19–14 are categorized as ‘highly religious’ on the scale, those who scored between 13 and 8 are categorized as ‘moderate’ and those who scored 7–0 are categorized as ‘lowly religious’. Diversely, those who scored between −1 and −6 are categorized as ‘moderate nonreligious’ and finally those who scored between −7 and −12 are categorized as ‘highly nonreligious’. Cronbach’s alpha for the scale is 0.877 and is not improved if any of the fourteen variables is deleted from the scale. In Table 3.2 we assign the results into three categories that correspond to religion: Catholicism, other denomination and non-affiliated. The index prefers the Catholic mode of religiosity thus it better denotes this type of religious tradition. Even so, as many as 26.6 per cent of Catholics are qualified as nonreligious. Besides, a further 42 per cent of respondents are scored as low-religious. In the general subpopulation of Polish immigrants at most 27.5 per cent are highly or moderately religious. On the contrary, 32.7 per cent are highly or moderately nonreligious. The outcome of a scale design shows that the subpopulation of Polish immigrants living in Ireland is religiously diverse. An indicative subgroup of highly religious (8.6%) respondents co-occurs with those who are categorized as highly nonreligious (10.9%). Even the adherents of Catholicism are contrasted while representing 10 per cent of highly religious and 6.2 per cent of highly nonreligious. If one weighs the results of scale analysis against the evaluation

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TABLE 3.2:  Scale of Religiosity among Polish Immigrants (%) Level of religiosity (scale range: from −12 to +19)

Catholic

Other denominations

Non-affiliated

General (n = 501)

Highly religious (+14 to +19)

10.0

0

0

8.6

Moderately religious (+8 to +13)

21.4

8.3

0

18.9

Low-religious (0 to +7)

42.0

50.0

11.9

39.8

Moderately nonreligious (−6 to −1)

20.4

33.3

28.6

21.8

Highly nonreligious (−12 to −7)

6.2

8.3

59.5

10.9

100

100

Total 100 100 Chi-square = 129.413; Eta-coefficient = 0.409, p < 0.01.

of the main hypothesis about declining religiosity on emigration and against the theoretical dichotomy secularization/revitalization, one can consider that both conceptualizations, mainly alienating and theologizing thesis, do not explain the phenomena comprehensively. The nexus of international, and simultaneously intercultural, migration and religion, is far more complex. It depends on social processes at the macro and mezzo level but is also highly dependent on individual experience. As for the current analysis we can acknowledge that religion is still a significant social factor for some people living as immigrants, since almost 9 per cent of Polish immigrants are highly religious and a further 19 per cent are moderately religious. However, if we juxtapose these 27.5 per cent of relatively religious immigrants with those who have been evaluated as relatively nonreligious, that is almost one-third of all (32.7%), now religion becomes far more ambivalent. It corresponds with the biggest group of low-religious immigrants which are four out of ten (39.8%). Even though a majority of Polish immigrants lose ties with religion, the rest of them seek meaningful religious institutions and traditions. Consequently, we observe rather a transformation of religion than its ultimate twilight. Even a collapsing institutional Irish Catholicism ‘unseated from political and social dominance still sees a role for it [religion – ML] in public life, attending to the pastoral needs of ordinary people’ (Cochran 2018: 66), what basically includes also non-Irish inhabitants. Such a need for religion or spirituality prompts an ongoing transformation of the migration-religion nexus.

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CONCLUSION In the context of migration, this study tries to provide a sociological analysis of the relations between the spatial mobility and the transformation of religiosity. From this vantage point, it is more evident that religion is ambivalent as a social factor. Even in the much comparable religious context of Polish and Irish Catholicism, which is still a dominant religious denomination for both societies, institutional religion is far more driven by societal diversity or cultural and historical relativism. Overall, this research has a number of conceiving arguments in favour of the secularization thesis. It may offer an explanation as to what extent a large number of immigrants become less religious during their migration stay in Ireland. The cohort of Polish immigrants becomes less religious, losing their religious practices, attitudes, norms and values. Following the process of secularization, the migrants’ religion loses ties also with ethnic identity and with social control (Fuller 2002, Bruce 2011, Bader 2015). The secularization thesis lacks, however, its explanatory power to delineate the integral phenomenon (Mandes 2016). The impact of migration on individual religiosity unveils an idiosyncratic and heterogeneous character of traditional religions. For some migrants, religion strengthens, for others religion weakens in their individual experience. A part of migrants esteem religion as significant whereas other disregard religion and neglect its social role. Hence, religion plays an ambivalent role on emigration, becoming an immensely individualized societal aspect. A specific, contextualized and individualized experience of migration can rejuvenate the religious identity of migrants who are social agents and actors. Correspondingly, religion as a part of societal and cultural structure can be reconstructed as a result of sociocultural change and existential problems that are triggered by migration. Nevertheless, such an impact is diverse and heterogeneous. Some migrants, while emigrating from the homeland, can undergo religious alienation, but others may experience renewed faith and religious involvement. There is not, obviously, only one general answer to the question of how migration has an impact on religion. In certain contexts migration may be a revitalizing factor; in others it may be an alienating one. Therefore ‘religion cannot be either a bridge or a barrier in general’, as Kouros and Papadakis (2018: 343) showed in the context of the Republic of Cyprus. It is an oversimplification to focus on the dichotomies like alienation/revitalization and bridge/barrier or integration/ separation (Yinger 1970). As regards the discussion about alienating and revitalizing the role of religion on emigration, one has to point out the third operationalization: that is, individualization. Overall, this chapter indicates a solid decline of religiosity that is, however, not straightforward. The analysis paints a much nuanced picture of the relationship between attitudes towards institutional religion and

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lived religiosity with its practices and beliefs. Polish immigrants in Ireland are an example of religious transformation. Many immigrants still self-identify as adherents of a religion, but how they live out their religious identity has become an increasingly individual and personal matter. Such an individualization of religion consists in believing in God and the afterlife, but not obeying the official teaching of institutional religion and relativizing religious rules and norms (Andersen and Lavan 2007). The case study of Polish immigrants living in Ireland points out that within a secular context the individualization of religiosity is a prevailing reaction to the stress and challenges of migration. Following this line of thought, I turned to an alternative explanation – which is individualization – that seeks the balance between alienation and revitalization approaches. The category of individualization allows one to overcome the limits of the bridge-barrier dichotomy while interpreting the impact of migration on religiosity (Connor and Koenig 2013). Notwithstanding this, the concept of individualization needs a further development to avoid terminological eclecticism or theoretical vacuity. Hence, I see at least two directions for advancement. One of them leads to Margaret Archers’ reflexivity and dialectics of critical realism within the sociology of religion (2000). Her dialectics of subjectivity and objectivity and of individual agency, social structures and culture can be helpful in overcoming the gaps of dichotomy. In a similar vein, it is evident that neither social agency should be reduced to social structure nor the structure should be reduced to agency. The other proposal refers to Niklas Luhmann’s approach (1977) to religion as a specific and irrefutable system of meaning and communication. Religion as a differentiated subsystem cannot be reduced to other components of social life. In consequence, a consideration of religion’s meaningfulness and specifically religious forms of communication help to avoid rather an ineffective debate between proponents and critiques of the secularization thesis. A transformation of religiosity, that is an undeniable outcome of the research on Polish immigrants living in Ireland, forms a complex problem for every migrant individually, but it also depends intensely on the fluid social context and shifting structures.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT National Science Centre (Poland), Grant No. 2017/25/B/HS1/02985 Religion versus Migration: The Determinants of Religiosity of Polish Immigrants in Ireland (2018–2020).

Chapter 4

Polish diasporic Catholicism in Scotland MICHAŁ ADAM PALACZ

INTRODUCTION The global Polish diaspora has continued to keep their national identity alongside Roman Catholic faith since the 1830s (Alvis 2016: 150). In contemporary Scotland, where Poles constitute the largest foreign-born population (National Records of Scotland 2018: 4), many Polish Catholic immigrants attend religious services in their native language, venerate the Virgin Mary as Queen of Poland and enjoy singing the religious-cum-patriotic hymn ‘God, Save Poland’ on Polish national holidays. The origins of the Polish Catholic diaspora in Scotland can be traced back to the 1940s, when thousands of Polish soldiers and civilian refugees arrived in the country. Poles mainly settled around Edinburgh and Glasgow, and the number of Polish Catholics in post-war Scotland was estimated at 17,000 (Zubrzycki 1956: 70; SCA DE 68/8/4). The wartime refugees established a network of autonomous parishes, which was organized under the umbrella of the Polish Catholic Mission in Scotland (hereafter PCM). They created religious narratives of displacement and invented rituals that connected them spiritually with their lost homeland. Many of these institutions and practices have been adopted by Polish Catholic immigrants who came to Scotland after Poland’s accession to the European Union in 2004. The existing literature on the topic tends to view Polish parishes as inhibitors of traditionally understood assimilation. This chapter suggests instead that

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Polish Catholicism in Scotland can be seen as a genuine example of a ‘diasporic religion’. In this form of religiosity, migrants and their descendants create spiritual communities which transcend time and space in order to symbolically unite them with coreligionists in the homeland. This chapter will analyse how the practice of ‘diasporic religion’ empowers Polish migrants in Scotland to overcome the feeling of alienation from the host society through the use of church institutions, theological discourses, festive rituals and sacred objects which are inscribed with national meaning. The Polish minority in Scotland is defined for statistical purposes by ethnic identification (‘White Polish’),1 rather than birthplace (‘born in Poland’), in order to include multiple generations and both recent immigrants and descendants of wartime refugees (Bond 2017: 27). According to last census data, 76.7 per cent of Poles in Scotland were overwhelmingly Roman Catholic, while Christians of other denominations and followers of non-Christian religions composed, respectively, 4.2 per cent and 0.6 per cent of the Polish community. At the same time, 11.3 per cent of Poles in Scotland declared no religion and 7.2 per cent did not state their religion (Scotland’s Census 2011, Table DC2201SC). In comparison, Roman Catholics in Poland made up 87.6 per cent of the population in 2011, while other Christians and adherents of non-Christian religions accounted for only 1.3 per cent and 0.05 per cent, respectively. In the last census, 2.4 per cent of Poles declared no religion and 8.7 per cent refused to state their religion or their responses were not recorded (Główny Urząd Statystyczny 2015: 95). The data suggest that after settling in Scotland, some Polish Catholic immigrants become nonreligious or convert to other denominations, such as the Church of Scotland, which are virtually absent in Poland. It is worth noting that Jews are missing from the list of religious identities above, as they represent a negligible religious presence in Scotland today. Historically Jews were the most visible ethno-religious minority among Polish migrants and in 1931 they made up the majority of Polish-born residents in Scotland (Ziarski-Kernberg 2000: 14–24). The Jewish community, which made up 10 per cent of pre-war Poland’s population, was annihilated by the Nazis in the Holocaust, but a few thousand Polish Jewish refugees found a safe haven in wartime Britain. However, the prevalent identification of Polishness with Catholicism, together with instances of anti-Semitism in the Polish Armed Forces in the West, contributed to the alienation of Jews from the Polish diaspora (Goldman 1984: 42–3; Engel 1993: 108–37). While the Yiddish-speaking refugees were rather quickly integrated into local Jewish communities of East European origins, the mostly middle-class, Polish-speaking Jews preserved a distinct Polish Jewish identity which separated them from both Catholic Poles and British Jews (Zubrzycki 1956: 214–15). According to the 2011 census, there were only thirty-nine adherents of Judaism in Scotland who identified as

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‘White Polish’ (Scotland’s Census 2011, Table DC2201SC). The predominantly Catholic Poles are therefore one of the most religiously homogenous groups in contemporary Scotland, second only to Pakistani Muslims (Bond 2017: 34). Scotland became a Protestant majority country after 1560 and the Church of Scotland is still the largest religious group. In 2011, 32.4 per cent of Scottish people professed this Calvinist Presbyterian denomination, compared to 15.9 per cent of Roman Catholics. Islam was the largest non-Christian religion but Muslims made up only 1.5 per cent of the population (Scotland’s Census 2011, Table KS209SCb). Following the Reformation, the Catholic Church in Scotland had been suppressed for 300 years, and the number of local Catholics only began to rise in the second half of the nineteenth century, largely because of the arrival of thousands of immigrants from Ireland, Italy and Lithuania. Some Scottish Catholics, especially in the area around Glasgow, have preserved a militant Irish identity until today. This has manifested itself in support for Irish nationalism, including raising funds and smuggling guns for the Irish Republican Army during ‘the Troubles’ in Northern Ireland. However, most of the newcomers adopted a low public profile, as they suffered from sectarian discrimination and xenophobic hostility which culminated in the anti-Catholic riots in the Edinburgh suburb of Morningside in 1935 and the anti-Italian pogroms of June 1940. The Scottish Catholic hierarchy has for its part managed to downplay the national consciousness of Irish, Italian and Lithuanian faithful, fearing that separate parish organizations and other public displays of nonBritish nationality would internally weaken the church and provoke a hostile reaction of the Protestant majority (Bradley 1996; Devine 2008; Douglas 2002; Hickman 2002; McCready 2000; O’Donnell 1998; Ross 1978; Sponza 2000; Walls and Williams 2003; Ugolini 2011). In contrast to other migrant groups in Scotland, Polish Catholics who arrived in the country during or immediately after the Second World War were not only able to preserve a distinct national identity but were also allowed to develop an autonomous network of Polish parishes that still exists today. On the other hand, the Polish wartime diaspora in Scotland was predominantly male, with a 6:1 men-to-women ratio, and thus a high rate of intermarriage with nonPolish and non-Catholic spouses meant that only a few refugees outside the large centres of Polish settlement, such as Glasgow and Edinburgh, were able to pass down a Polish Catholic identity to their Scottish-born children (ZiarskiKernberg 2000). With regard to the more recent immigrants from Poland who arrived in the country after 2004, it is too early to predict to what extent their Scottish-born children will preserve a Polish Catholic identity. Although Poles in contemporary Scotland share church buildings with other Catholics, religious services in Polish are obviously not accessible to those who do not speak the language. The Polish community therefore remains largely isolated from the local church which over the last few decades has been increasingly diversified

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by the arrival of Catholic immigrants from non-European countries, such as the Philippines, India and Nigeria. Polish Catholicism in Scotland is characterized by the preservation of outward manifestations of religious faith, such as traditional songs, seasonal devotions, festive customs, rites of passage and sacred artefacts, which are distinct from the popular piety of other Catholic communities in the country. The axiomatic identification of Catholicism with Polish patriotism, which is strengthened by a strong Marian devotion centred on the veneration of the Virgin Mary as Queen of Poland, is also maintained in the diaspora. There are two aspects which nonetheless differentiate Polish Catholics in Scotland from their coreligionists in Poland. First, many Catholics cease to practice their faith after arriving in the new country, because of a lack of social pressure to observe religious duties and an increased exposure to other belief systems and secular worldviews. While the percentage of Catholics who attend Sunday Mass in Poland has oscillated between 43.2 per cent in 2004 and 36.9 per cent in 2019 (ISKK 2020: 30), it is estimated that only 10 per cent of Polish immigrants in Britain regularly go to church (Grzywaczewski et al. 2013: 177–8; Romejko 2015: 292). Secondly, those migrants who belong to Polish parishes in Scotland continue to engage in religious practices not only to fulfil their spiritual needs but also to rekindle emotional bonds with the homeland and reconstruct a sense of belonging in the host society. The phenomenon of Polish diasporic Catholicism in Scotland will be explored in more detail later.2

DIASPORIC RELIGION The understanding of the religious life of Polish migrants in Britain has been shaped by an approach that was pioneered by Thomas and Znaniecki (1958: 2: 1511–49). They have argued that the need for separate Polish churches in the United States was not caused by the unavailability of religious services, which could have been performed by local Irish-American clergy, but arose from the fact that Polish parishes primarily served as community centres and hubs of social activity. This framework has been adopted by Zubrzycki’s sociological study of Polish immigrants in Britain (1956: 122–33) and Sword’s historical account of the formation of the Polish-British community (1989: 428–36). Whereas Stachura (1997) and Ziarski-Kernberg (2000) have specifically discussed the role of autonomous parishes and lay associations in the life of the Polish community in Scotland, their accounts focus mostly on the organization and internal dynamics of church institutions rather than on the significance of religious practices and outward manifestations of spiritual life, such as songs, festivals, rituals and sacred objects. It has traditionally been claimed that autonomous religious institutions have inhibited the ‘assimilation’ of Poles in Britain by helping them to preserve their

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national identity. Such a one-sided perspective is also visible in a more recent study which argues that allegiance to native language and traditions prevents Polish immigrants in Aberdeen from integrating with the local Scottish church (Trzebiatowska 2010). A more comprehensive approach has been adopted by Gula (1993) who has emphasized the importance of communal prayer and the observance of traditional Polish Christmas and Easter customs for maintaining symbolic and material connections with the homeland. As mentioned in the introduction, this chapter goes beyond the lingering paradigm of linear assimilation by suggesting that Polish Catholicism in Scotland can be seen as a form of ‘diasporic religion’. Tweed (1997) has introduced this concept in his study of the Cuban American shrine of Our Lady of Charity in Miami. Diasporic religions are translocal, as they enable devotees to symbolically move between the homeland and the new land, and trans-temporal, as they constantly transport practitioners between constructed past and imagined future. For many immigrants and their descendants, these horizontal dimensions of religious practices are as important as the vertical ones that connect them with the deity. Diasporic religions allow displaced devotees to unite with their compatriots in the homeland by creating imagined moral communities that bridge the natal land with the new country. These trans-locative and trans-temporal flows are predominantly expressed through religious narratives, theology, institutions, rituals and artefacts. Tweed’s theoretical model, inspired by fieldwork among Cuban Catholics in late-twentieth-century Miami, is applicable to diasporic groups in different times and places. The concept of diasporic religion has been employed in a study of Silesian Catholic expellees in post-war Germany (Alvis 2010: 852–6). Tweed himself has pointed to striking parallels between Cubans and Poles during some points of their respective national histories. Both have suffered through wars and struggled for independence. Both turned to Marian devotion to express their nationalist sentiments and revolutionary impulses. All this remains evident, for instance, in the artifacts and rituals at the National Shrine of Our Lady of Częstochowa in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, where many Polish Americans have pilgrimaged since it was dedicated in 1966. (Tweed 1997: 141) Unlike other countries with a sizeable Polish diaspora, such as England, France, Germany or the United States, where large groups of labour migrants from Poland had been arriving alongside smaller cohorts of political exiles since the nineteenth century, the Polish Catholic community in Scotland emerged out of displaced soldiers and civilian refugees who settled in this country after the Second World War. The form of religiosity developed by these victims of forced migration can therefore be seen as a genuine example of Tweed’s diasporic

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religion, and the enduring appeal of Polish Catholicism in contemporary Scotland can only be understood if one takes into account its historical origins.

NETWORK OF AUTONOMOUS PARISHES After their arrival in the country of asylum, refugees often set up translocative religious institutions to re-establish severed relations with the lost homeland (Tweed 1997: 96). The vast majority of Catholic Poles who found a safe haven in Scotland during the Second World War were either soldiers or military dependents. Spiritual welfare of these exiles was initially in the care of around fifty Polish military chaplains. Ecclesiastical jurisdiction over them was exercised by Józef Gawlina, the field bishop of the Polish Armed Forces, who was authorized by the pope to organize and administer the religious life of Polish refugees (Gula 1993: 153; Zubrzycki 1956: 123–4). Demobilization of Polish troops who remained in Scotland after the war required a reorganization of the chaplaincy network. Ludwik Bombas, the most senior Polish priest in the country, was appointed the rector of the PCM in 1948. Fr Bombas was nominated by Cardinal August Hlond, the primate of Poland, but his candidacy was put forward by Andrew MacDonald, the archbishop of St Andrews and Edinburgh (SCA DE 68/8/10; Zubrzycki 1956: 123–4; Gula 1993: 151–66). The PCM was modelled after a permanent Polish chaplaincy that was set up in England and Wales in 1894. Similar institutions had previously been established in other countries with a large Polish Catholic diaspora, such as France and Belgium (Wójcik 2012: 175). The rector of the PCM was entrusted with organizing and coordinating the religious life of the Polish diaspora. The PCM was initially staffed by nine demobilized chaplains who set up a network of so-called personal parishes in places with a sizeable Polish community. Four priests were active in the Archdiocese of St Andrews and Edinburgh, another four in the Archdiocese of Glasgow and one in the Diocese of Dunkeld (SCA DE 68/8/4; Gula 1993: 166n34). The offices of the PCM were located in the building of the Polish Ex-servicemen’s Association in Edinburgh (SCA DE 68/12/20). The relationship between Polish priests and their flock did not derive from ecclesiastic jurisdiction over a given territory but was based on personal ties and shared national identity. This type of parochial organization for Catholic refugees and migrants was envisaged by the pope in the apostolic constitution Exsul Familia (Pius XII 1952). The number of Polish parishes in Scotland decreased in the subsequent decades, but arrival of new priests from Poland became possible after the fall of the Iron Curtain. The Episcopal Conference of Poland entrusted the PCM to Pallotine Fathers from the Poznań Province of the Society of the Catholic

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Apostolate, and Fr Marian Łękawa SAC was accordingly appointed the rector of the PCM in 1991. His offices were located in the General Sikorski Memorial House in Glasgow, also known as Dom Polski (Polish House), a building owned by the Polish Social and Educational Society. Fr Łękawa was succeeded in 2018 by another Pallotine, Fr Leszek Więcaszek SAC, parish priest of St Joseph’s Church in Dundee and chaplain to the Polish community in the Diocese of Dunkeld (PCM 2020a; Więcaszek 2020; Grzywaczewski et al. 2013: 180; Romejko 2015: 266). The network of Polish chaplaincies in Scotland expanded after 2004 to meet the spiritual needs of thousands of Polish immigrants who arrived in the country after Poland’s accession to the European Union. As of 2020, at least a dozen Polish priests (both regular and secular) are active in twenty-four churches in fifteen towns. While some of the clergy are working within the framework of the PCM, others have been invited by Scottish bishops and are ministering not only to the Poles but also to the native faithful (PCM 2020b; Romejko 2015: 290–1). Regular Sunday Mass in Polish is celebrated in sixteen churches in eleven towns, including twice a day in St Mary’s Cathedral in Edinburgh, St Mary’s Cathedral in Aberdeen, St Anne’s Church in Glasgow and St John the Baptist’s Church in Perth. In large cities, local Poles are able to attend Mass in their native language also on weekdays, whereas in the smaller towns of Aviemore, Dingwall, Invergordon and Thain, the Sunday Mass in Polish is held once a month. The more remote places in the Scottish Highlands, such as Thurso and Fort William, are visited by Polish priests only during Christmas and Easter holiday seasons. In addition to celebrating the Eucharist, Polish priests administer other sacraments and provide pastoral care to their compatriots. They hear confessions in the native language of the immigrants, confer baptisms and bless marriages. The priests preside over traditional prayers, such as nabożeństwo majowe (May devotion) to the Mother of God or gorzkie żale (bitter sorrows) devotion on Lenten Sundays. Polish parishes offer marriage preparation courses and invite priests from Poland to hold Lenten and Advent retreats. Apart from regular Sunday observance, some Polish Catholics are also involved in their own lay communities, such as the Charismatic Renewal group in Glasgow, the Neocatechumenal Way and Bible Study groups in Edinburgh and the Living Rosary groups in various parishes (PCM 2020c). Although formally under the jurisdiction of Scottish bishops, Polish personal parishes are largely autonomous. Polish Catholics follow their own spirituality and observe feasts and solemnities in accordance with the Polish rather than Scottish liturgical calendar. However, unlike the PCM in England and Wales, which owns thirty churches and twelve chapels around the country, Polish congregations in Scotland are accommodated in local Scottish churches (Grzywaczewski et al. 2013: 177; Romejko 2015: 290–1). The exception was

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Edinburgh, where Archbishop MacDonald offered a small church, St Ann’s Oratory, for the exclusive use of the growing Polish Catholic community in the 1940s (EUA GD46/9; Bober-Michałowska 2013: 80). In the early twenty-first century, however, the dilapidated building was sold off by the diocese and the Polish congregation moved to St Mary’s Cathedral in Edinburgh. Because of the lack of their own churches, Polish priests depend in many practical aspects of their ministry on the goodwill of Scottish parishes that rent their buildings to the Poles. An alternative arrangement to Polish personal parishes has recently been introduced in the Diocese of Aberdeen, where Polish-language chaplaincies have been integrated with local Scottish parishes in Aberdeen and Inverness.

RELIGIOUS-CUM-PATRIOTIC SONGS A persistent penchant for interweaving religious songs with patriotic lyrics is another characteristic feature of Polish diasporic Catholicism in Scotland. Tweed (1997: 95) argues that members of diasporas often remember and compose stories that narrate collective history, express suffering and disorientation of displacement and form bridges between the homeland and the land of exile. Polish Catholic refugees in Scotland have likewise used traditional church hymns and newly composed songs to symbolically move across time and space, between the pre-war Poland of their memories and the liberated Poland of their dreams. Modlitwa Obozowa (Camp Prayer) was written in September 1939 by a Polish officer, Adam Kowalski, in an internment camp in Romania, and quickly became popular among displaced soldiers and civilian refugees from Poland (Tomaszewski 1976: 60–1; Bober-Michałowska 2013: 86–7). Polish troops would often sing the ‘Camp Prayer’ at the end of their daily training in the Scottish countryside: Oh, Lord in heaven, Stretch your hand of justice! We call upon you from foreign lands and ask for a Polish roof and a Polish weapon. (Chorus) Oh God, crush this sword, which cut our Homeland Let us return to a free Poland! To raise a fortress of a new force in our home, our home.

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Oh Lord, hear our lamentations, Oh, hear our wanderer’s song! The blood of martyrs calls upon you From the banks of Warta, Vistula, San and Bug (Chorus) Oh God, crush this sword . . .3 The translation of the lyrics unfortunately does not do justice to the poetic quality of the Polish original, but specifically diasporic tropes are easily discernible in the English text of this song-prayer. The author emphasizes the dislocation and estrangement of exile through the use of phrases, such as ‘foreign lands’ and ‘wanderer’s song’. At the same time, however, his narrative invokes the familiar landscape of the lost homeland, which is symbolized by the four rivers: Warta, Vistula, San and Bug. The song juxtaposes the traumatic present of occupied Poland (‘the sword that cut our Homeland’ and ‘the blood of martyrs’) with an imagined collective future when God leads the Polish exiles back to a liberated homeland. Perhaps intentionally, the song invokes parallels with the biblical lamentations of Jews who suffered in the Babylonian exile. While ‘Camp Prayer’ was specifically composed for dispersed soldiers during the Second World War, Boże, coś Polskę, which can roughly be translated as ‘God, save Poland’, is a traditional religious and patriotic hymn dating back to the early nineteenth century (Trochimczyk 2000). Polish refugees in Scotland would often sing it at the end of religious services (Tomaszewski 1976: 107–254). The lyrics invoke an image of Poland as God’s chosen nation and allude to the golden age of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, which in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries waged many victorious wars against Orthodox Muscovy, Lutheran Sweden and the Islamic Ottoman Empire.4 The song acquired a new meaning during the German occupation and subsequent Soviet domination of Poland from 1939 to 1989, when Polish Catholics used the last verse of its chorus to implore God to return them to a free homeland. The communal singing of Boże, coś Polskę symbolically moved the refugees from the glorious past of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, through the traumatic present of war and exile, towards an imagined future in liberated Poland. This alternative national anthem remained in vogue even after the fall of Communism, but the last verse of the chorus has been changed to invoke God’s blessing upon a free Poland (Trochimczyk 2000). The updated version is still sung by Polish Catholic congregations in contemporary Scotland, usually at the end of Polish-language masses to celebrate national holidays of 3 May (Constitution Day and Feast of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Queen of Poland), 15

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August (Polish Armed Forces Day and Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary) and 11 November (Polish Independence Day).

METAPHOR OF THE PILGRIM Biblical parallels and metaphors of pilgrimage are typical for theologies that are developed by adherents of Christian diasporic religions. Cuban exiles in Miami, for example, claim that their national patroness, Our Lady of Charity, has protected them during the passage across the Straits of Florida. They also hope that one day She will lead them back to their Promised Land of democratic and capitalist Cuba (Tweed 1997: 95–6; 2006: 110–11). Polish Catholics in Scotland likewise interpret the experience of migration through a religious lens. Familiar theological tropes help them to come to terms with their often precarious position in the host society. The metaphor of pilgrimage was introduced with reference to Polish émigrés in the biblically styled The Books and the Pilgrimage of the Polish Nation by Adam Mickiewicz (1833), Polish national poet, who spent most of his adult life in French exile. Mickiewicz’s literary works, permeated with a spiritual longing for the lost homeland, were very popular among Polish wartime refugees (Tomaszewski 1976: 71; Bober 2005: 223). The diasporic theology of Polish Catholics in Scotland has been shaped by this metaphor and centres on the veneration of the Icon of Black Madonna of Częstochowa (see Figure 4.1). In August 1940, shortly after the evacuation of Polish troops from France, Field Bishop Gawlina organized a pilgrimage of Polish soldiers to the Marian shrine in Carfin near Motherwell in North Lanarkshire. Poles have visited the Scottish Lourdes ever since and the date of their annual pilgrimage has purposefully been set on the last Sunday of August to fall as close as possible to the Feast of Our Lady of Częstochowa, Queen of Poland, which is celebrated in Poland on 26 August. Polish immigrants visit Carfin Grotto to join in prayer and spiritually connect with their compatriots who participate in the traditional pilgrimages to the Marian shrine in Częstochowa (Gazeta Niedzielna 1951; Instytut Duszpasterstwa Emigracyjnego 2017; PCM 2019; Harris 2015: 112–21). A copy of the famous Icon of Black Madonna was donated to Pluscarden Abbey in north-east Scotland by Polish soldiers as a votive offering after the Second World War. However, this medieval Benedictine monastery has only recently emerged as an alternative centre of Polish diasporic Catholicism. The initiative to organize a Polish pilgrimage to Pluscarden came in 2006 from Peter Moran, the bishop of Aberdeen. Bishop Moran learnt about the tradition of pilgrimaging to the shrine in Częstochowa during a visit to Poland and decided to transplant this annual custom to his diocese, where the arrival of Polish immigrants has doubled the number of Roman Catholics. In 2007, an

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FIGURE 4.1:  The Icon of Our Lady of Częstochowa (‘Black Madonna’) at the Jasna Góra Monastery, Częstochowa, Poland. Photo credit: Andrzej Otrębski (13 October 2015), https://commons​.wikimedia​.org​/wiki​/File​:Czestochowa​_MB​_Czestochowska​ .jpg. Creative Commons License (CC BY-SA 4.0), https://creativecommons​.org​/licenses​ /by​-sa​/4​.0/.

estimated 15,000 Polish pilgrims from Scotland and other parts of the United Kingdom arrived in Pluscarden Abbey, which was quickly dubbed the ‘New Częstochowa’. The collective experience of singing and praying in their native language as well as swearing the traditional oaths of loyalty to the ‘Queen of Poland’ has reportedly made the migrants-pilgrims feel, as if, for a while, they were transported back to their homeland (Stangret 2006, 2007). The flourishing tradition of Polish Catholic pilgrimages in Scotland perfectly demonstrates the trans-locative feature of diasporic religion which enables migrant devotees to symbolically move between their country of origin and the foreign land in

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which they reside. The metaphor of migration as a pilgrimage emphasizes the temporary character of the sojourn and contains within it the promise of a providential return to the homeland.

FESTIVE RITUALS AND RITES OF PASSAGE Diasporic rituals help displaced devotees to forge horizontal bonds with others in the homeland and in exile. Using shared national and religious symbols, Cuban Catholics in Miami can ritually align with their compatriots and coreligionists who remain on the home island (Tweed 1997: 97). Poles in Scotland have also engaged in rituals that unite them with their families and homes back in Poland. Wartime refugees have passed Polish Easter and Christmas traditions onto their children and sometimes even grandchildren. When the more recent immigrants arrived in Scotland after 2004, they found Polish priests performing the traditional blessing of food baskets on Holy Saturday as well as celebrating the Resurrection Mass (Rezurekcja) on Easter Sunday morning and the Shepherds’ Mass (Pasterka) at midnight on 24/25 December. The Christmas Eve vigil supper, known in Polish as Wigilia, is arguably the most important family ritual in Poland. During the Second World War, instead of joyfully singing Christmas carols, Polish refugees would immerse themselves in recollections of their loved ones who were left behind in occupied Poland or were scattered across the four corners of the world (EUA GD46/5; Tomaszewski 1976: 77–9; Ryn 1979: 106; Mitus 2006: 476–7; Bober-Michałowska 2013: 89–93). Polish families in contemporary Scotland cultivate their attachment to the homeland by celebrating the traditional Wigilia supper of twelve meatless courses, which are often prepared from products bought in the local Polish deli shop. The age-long custom of setting aside one empty plate for an unexpected guest assumes new meaning for families separated by migration. Some Christmas Eve rituals, however, reconnect Poles in Scotland with their loved ones both symbolically and materially. At the beginning of Wigilia supper, Polish families would traditionally break off and exchange pieces of a special rectangular wafer, called opłatek. This non-sacramental bread not only reminds one of the Host but also symbolizes forgiveness and reunion of the family. Poles in Scotland have engaged with their relatives in Poland in a trans-locative ritual of sending and receiving pieces of opłatek since the 1940s (Ryn 1979: 105; Scotsman 2013). Diasporic rituals also surround rites of passage, such as births, marriages and funerals. The function of diasporic funeral rites is to preside over the future of the departed and to revitalize the migrant group which has been disturbed by the death (Tweed 2006: 143–7). For example, a typically Polish diasporic ritual was observed in 1942 at the funeral of a refugee pathologist, Wacław Stocki, who was buried in Mount Vernon Catholic Cemetery in Edinburgh. As part

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of the graveside service, a piece of Polish soil was thrown into the tomb of Dr Stocki (Scotsman 1942). In fact, during the Second World War, many refugees would stop just before crossing the Polish border to pick up a piece of their native land and take it with them into exile (Tomaszewski 1976: 255–6; Arend 1964: 420). Different diasporic burial rites have been introduced in the early twenty-first century by Polish-owned companies that specialize in organizing funerals in Scotland and other parts of the United Kingdom in cooperation with Polish consulates and Polish parishes. The available services include not only burial and cremation but also repatriation of bodies and ashes to Poland. Polish immigrants in contemporary Scotland have likewise given a new meaning to the zaduszki ritual of commemorating the dead on All Saints’ and All Souls’ Days (1–2 November). Unable to visit family graves in Poland, they light candles and lay wreaths on the tombs of Poles who were buried in Scottish cemeteries, for example on the graves of 381 Polish soldiers in Wellshill Cemetery in Perth or in the burial plot known as the ‘Tomb of Lonely Poles’ in Mount Vernon Catholic Cemetery in Edinburgh (Zeller 2019). Through this adaptation and re-interpretation of the zaduszki ritual, Poles in Scotland preserve national traditions abroad and maintain spiritual communion with dead members of the diaspora.

SACRED ARTEFACTS WITH NATIONAL MEANING Tweed (1997: 97–8) points out that religious artefacts, such as utilitarian objects, art works, architecture and cultural landscape, have the ability to symbolically transport migrants to their homeland’s constructed past and imagined future. The common use of sacred objects with encoded national meaning by Polish Catholic immigrants can be seen as a quintessential example of diasporic religiosity. Aleksander Jabłoński, a refugee physicist, who arrived in Scotland from the Soviet Union in 1943, was born into a Polish noble family in the Russian Empire. Before he left the parental manor to study at a private Russian-language gymnasium, he had received from his father a medallion with the image of Our Lady of Częstochowa and an inscription on the reverse: ‘Remember that you are a Pole’ (Jabłońska-Frąckowiak 2004: 38). The same icon was invoked by a batch of Polish medical students who offered a special gift to Sydney Smith, dean of the Medical Faculty of the University of Edinburgh, as a token of their gratitude for his role in preserving Polish science and learning during the Second World War. The students carved their signatures and a dedication on a silver pectoral plate with the image of Our Lady of Częstochowa on one side, and the White Eagle, the coat of arms of Poland, on the other (Tomaszewski 1976: 280). A similar combination of national and religious symbols was used by soldiers from the Polish garrison in Edinburgh who commissioned and donated a

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FIGURE 4.2:  Image of the Black Madonna of Częstochowa at the Shrine of Our Lady of Lourdes and Saint Bernadette in Carfin, Scotland. Photo by Natalie Warren (17 March 2007), https://commons​.wikimedia​.org​/wiki​/File​:Our​_lady​_carfin​_grotto​.jpg. Public Domain. The Polish inscription reads: ‘Mary, Queen of Poland, we fly to thy protection – Poles in Scotland.’

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monstrance to St Mary’s Cathedral in 1944. This late baroque-style religious artefact was embellished with stones brought from Poland and ornamented with emblems of different Polish provinces and the Cross of St Andrew, the national symbol of Scotland (Catholic Herald 1944). The monstrance is still occasionally used by the local Polish parish which congregates in St Mary’s Cathedral. The use of religious objects to construct a sense of belonging in contemporary Scotland is also visible in the PCM’s Chapel-Chamber of Merciful Jesus (Kaplica-Izba Jezusa Miłosiernego), which is located on the first floor of the Dom Polski in Glasgow. Decoration of the chapel resembles the interior of a traditional peasant cottage and the walls are adorned with votive offerings and devotional images, including two copies of the Icon of Black Madonna and a painting of John Paul II. A votive altar with a sculpted image of the Black Madonna (see Figure 4.2) has become the focal point of Polish pilgrimages to Carfin Grotto. The chapel, adorned with national symbols of Poland and Scotland, and inscribed with a bilingual invocation to Our Lady of Częstochowa, Queen of Poland, was erected on the grounds of the Scottish shrine in the 1980s, following the initiative of Fr Wincenty Nagi-Drobina, the then rector of the PCM. Twenty years later, Joseph Devine, the bishop of Motherwell, unveiled a statue of John Paul II next to the Polish chapel. Although the Poles welcomed this attempt to honour the Polish pope on Scottish soil, the artistic quality of the monument has been criticized (Więcaszek 2020). The importance of sacred objects with inscribed national meaning was further demonstrated when Polish Catholics filled churches in Edinburgh, Glasgow and Carfin to venerate a copy of the Icon of Black Madonna, which visited these three locations in November 2012 as part of its ‘From Ocean to Ocean’ peregrination around the world ‘in defence of life’. The visit of Our Lady of Częstochowa in Scotland was co-organized by Scottish Catholics and attracted participation of local pro-life activists. The events in Glasgow and Edinburgh were also attended by representatives of the Greek and Russian Orthodox communities. Black Madonna’s transnational appeal demonstrates that certain elements of diasporic religiosity can actually foster integration of immigrants within the universal church.

CONCLUSION The conventional manner of looking at Polish Catholics in Scotland from the vantage point of narrowly understood ‘integration’ with the host society ignores the way in which many Poles actually perceive their own experience of migration. This chapter has instead demonstrated that the form of Catholicism which emerged among Polish migrants in contemporary Scotland can be analysed from a broader perspective that takes into account the significance of its various features, such as autonomous parishes and Polish-language

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chaplaincies, traditional Polish songs with interwoven religious and patriotic lyrics, diasporic theology centred on the metaphor of the pilgrim, translocative rituals and rites of passage and sacred artefacts which are inscribed with national meaning. All these elements of diasporic religiosity enable Polish migrants in Scotland to spiritually connect with their homeland, and at the same time, empower them to reconstruct a sense of belonging in the Scottish society. The arrival of thousands of Polish immigrants in predominantly Protestant Scotland has generally been welcomed by the local Catholic clergy. After enduring centuries of sectarian discrimination, the Catholic Church in Scotland has struggled in recent decades with ongoing secularization, declining priestly vocations and dwindling numbers of parishioners. Many Scottish clerics have therefore hoped that churchgoing Poles would revive their own congregations. The bishop of Aberdeen, for example, invited priests from Poland to provide pastoral care to the newcomers in the belief that religious service in Polish would be a ‘transition stage leading to the full integration of Poles into the local parishes’ (Trzebiatowksa 2010: 1062). Far from gradually disappearing, Polish-language chaplaincies have actually become a permanent feature of Catholic life in Scotland. While most churchgoing Poles consider Mass in their native language indispensable, local clergy and parishioners, many of whom are descendants of Irish and Italian immigrants, bewail the newcomers’ unwillingness to interact and express concerns over the appropriation of shared church buildings (Trzebiatowska 2010: 1061–6). The expectation that Polish immigrants would simply assimilate into the local church was rather naïve. Polish priests, who were invited by Scottish bishops to their dioceses after 2004, have revived diasporic institutions and traditions that go back to the 1940s. The newly arrived Poles have adopted theological narratives, religious rituals and sacred objects that had been introduced by Polish wartime refugees. From a broader historical perspective, the claim that ‘religio-national mythologies’ (Trzebiatowska 2010: 1069) are hampering the integration of Polish immigrants seems to be a moot point. Many recent immigrants regard their stay in Scotland as a temporary sojourn with the expectation that they will one day return home. Even though this ‘myth of return’ (Anwar 1979) is not always fulfilled, there is little incentive for these immigrants to integrate with local church structures. At the same time, however, an ethnic form of Catholicism did not inhibit the upward social mobility of Polish refugees in post-war Scotland. In fact, some of their Scottishborn children and sometimes even grandchildren are still attending the Mass in Polish. Despite unavoidable conflicts between the ‘old’ and ‘new’ generations, there is a clear continuity in the religious life of the Polish Catholic diaspora in Scotland.

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The persistence of Polish Catholicism in contemporary Scotland can be best explained with the help of Tweed’s model of diasporic religion. It is difficult to measure the number of practitioners of this form of spirituality, but devotees of diasporic Catholicism are certainly a minority among recent Polish immigrants in Scotland. The shallow religious identification of many nominal Catholics has been weakened by migration to a more secularized country, where social and familial pressure to attend church services is much weaker than in the homeland (Gallagher and Trzebiatowska 2017). It is estimated that only 10 per cent of Polish immigrants in Britain attend church (Grzywaczewski et al. 2013: 177–8; Romejko 2015: 292). It should be kept in mind, however, that some religious Poles keep Sunday observance only occasionally, while others attend the Mass in English for various reasons ranging from more suitable timeslots (the Polishlanguage Mass is usually held on Sunday afternoons) to a desire to blend in with the locals. Yet the sheer amount and geographical spread of locations where the Mass is available in Polish demonstrates that there is a significant demand for diasporic religiosity among the Polish community. In some churches, such as St Mary’s Cathedral in Edinburgh, the Polish Mass is celebrated every day of the week and twice on Sunday, and is attended both by the newly arrived immigrants and the Scottish-born descendants of wartime refugees. At any rate, the number of practitioners of Polish diasporic Catholicism in Scotland is constantly fluctuating, as members of the ‘old’ generation pass away, seasonal workers return home or re-emigrate to another country and new immigrants continue to arrive. The availability of religious services in Polish has been restricted by social distancing measures introduced during the Covid-19 pandemic and it is yet to be seen what the effect of Britain’s leaving the European Union will be for the future of Polish immigrants in Scotland. Polish diasporic Catholicism has in the past ameliorated the alienation of Polish wartime refugees. Those who were unable or unwilling to return to Communist-dominated Poland often found in Polish parishes a trans-temporal and trans-locative nucleus of their lost homeland. The ‘old’ generation of the Polish diaspora established autonomous religious institutions and preserved national traditions, which, in turn, helped Poles who arrived in Scotland after 2004 to reconstruct a sense of belonging in the new country. Unlike workplaces, schools, public offices and other locations where immigrants are constantly reminded of their otherness, the Polish-language Mass creates a space where churchgoing Poles can feel at home. Communal prayer and song in their native language, observance of age-old festive rituals and veneration of sacred artefacts with encoded national meaning enables Polish immigrants to cultivate spiritual, sentimental and sometimes even material bonds with the families and friends they left behind. Maintaining such links is especially important for those who do not intend to permanently settle in Scotland. In turn, performing some religious rituals, such as the lighting of candles on the graves of Polish soldiers

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on 1–2 November, symbolically unites the ‘new’ and the ‘old’ generations of the Polish community and demonstrates to the newcomers that, as Poles, they already have a recognized place in a multicultural Scottish society. Polish diasporic Catholicism has been practised in Scotland for the last eighty years and, in the foreseeable future, will most likely continue to serve its purpose of spiritually connecting alienated immigrants with the homeland of their memories and dreams.

Chapter 5

Korean Christians in the diaspora Resilience, migration and religion SABRINA WEIß

INTRODUCTION Scholarly attention to the intersections between religion and migration has gained more and more attention over several years now. How religion shapes, and is shaped, by the movement of people from one place to another with intentions of permanently or temporarily settling is a major question in the study of religion and migration. Most scholarship on religion and migration places emphasis on explaining how religion helps immigrants face the hardships of adaptation to a new society. In this respect, religious organizations, such as ethnic churches, synagogues, mosques and temples, function as sources of social and economic support, preserve the cultural heritage and help people deal with the challenges of immigration. However, it can be noticed that religious organizations, while fostering personal wellbeing and offering strategies to reproduce and negotiate religious identity, are fiercely contested. Focusing on South Korean migrants, who came as miners and nurses about fifty years ago to West Germany, the purpose of this chapter is to redirect attention to religious and structural adaptation processes within Korean Christian churches that helped them respond in a resilient and effective manner to new community needs and various uncertainties. In the course of their development, Korean churches

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encountered a number of challenges, which had to be tackled by them. There have been internal and external challenges, which have had implications for the Korean churches – for example, internal uncertainties like difficulties arising from generational tensions, which caused a part of the younger generation to leave the Korean churches, lack of religious leadership and limited rooms and resources, leading to issues of space availability for religious and social services at the church, or external uncertainties like the arrival of new Korean labour migrants and students, or struggles to determine a fair price when they rent church space. The question is how Korean churches can meet these challenges while preserving their religious and organizational identity. It is argued that religious migrant organizations ‘are generally recognized as conservative and notoriously slow in making adaptations to changes in the social environment’ (Mullins 1988: 218), and that they face the prospect of their own disbandment if they are not able to adapt successfully. Regarding the migration history of Korean migrants, I will address the following questions: How do Korean churches respond to various uncertainties, and what type of changes and adaptations lead over time to the restoration of organizational stability and reliability; in other words, how can Korean churches prove to be resilient themselves? The thesis is that the concept of resilience can help describe the ability of Korean churches to manage crises or difficult circumstances, and negotiate the migration situation by drawing on their social and religious capital. This chapter is organized into five sections. The first section provides a short overview of the data used in the case study. The second section links the concept of religion to the challenges faced by Korean migrant churches while the third section describes the organizational development of the Korean churches in West Germany by taking into account their resources and challenges over a period of forty years. After that, it draws on empirical findings to provide a short overview of two types of resilience, wherein churches attempted to resolve internal and external uncertainties through different resilient strategies: the first ‘persistence’ type responded through preservation of their cultural heritage, whereas the second ‘transformation’ type responded through post-traditional reorganization and glocal (a.k.a. global-and-local) engagement. While both types entail attempts by Korean migrant churches to resolve similar uncertainties, the second type is better able to cope and adapt than the first.

DATA MATERIAL AND METHODS The empirical evidence in this chapter draws on ethnographic research (2011– 13) at thirty-seven Korean churches in North Rhine-Westphalia, Germany (Weiß 2017). Most churches are located in the Ruhr area, northwest of Germany, and in larger cities in the Rhineland. Twenty-one in-depth, semi-structured narrative interviews were conducted in fourteen Korean churches with first-

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(two) and second-generation (nine) members, Korean newcomers (two), German church pastors (two) and Korean church pastors (five). During this research, resilience emerged as a stabilizing factor for these religious migrant communities and their institutionalization process.1 It is not possible to deal with all of the single developments of each of the thirty-seven Korean churches in North Rhine-Westphalia in detail here, but overall it can be said that they vary in size (from small [< 50] to large [>300]), denominational affiliation and forms of community services over time. They are all led by men; half of the Korean churches have predominantly first-generation members, the other half has a mixed membership structure with first-, second- and third-generation members and so-called newcomers. These newcomers have been migrating for several years, mainly for educational or professional reasons, they often stay in Germany only temporarily. In addition, some of the Korean students founded small Korean Christian student groups close to the universities. Roughly twothirds of the thirty-seven Korean churches designate themselves as Presbyterian, seven self-identify as Charismatic or Pentecostal (Yoido Full Gospel), two as Catholic, one as Methodist, while two had yet to specify denominational affiliation. Resilience, migration and the function of Korean churches in the diaspora Since the middle of the last century, a growing body of literature on resilience has emerged. The concept, however, remains different across academic disciplines like psychology, ecology and the social sciences. The etymology of the word ‘resilience’ is from the Latin term ‘resilire’, meaning ‘to leap back, to bounce back, and to rebound’. It refers to the availability of protective resources that reduce one’s vulnerability to acute risks. Thirty years ago, the term was developed in ecology to emphasize the persistence of an ecological system’s reaction to environmental change like earthquakes, famines and pandemics. Since then, resilience has continued to be used to emphasize a system’s persistence, adaptability and transformability (Walker et al. 2004), and describes the ability to mute the influence of external shocks. The basic idea is that stable systems may not fluctuate significantly or even collapse, but resilient systems may undergo significant adaptations and return to a new vantage point. The human geographer Adger was one of the first to extend the ecological definition of resilience to social groups or communities, defining social resilience ‘as the ability of groups or communities to cope with external stresses and disturbances as a result of social, political and environmental change’ (Adger 2000: 347). From a sociological perspective, it is of interest how social resilience is activated by individuals, groups or communities during a critical period. Social resilience depends on the resources with which groups and communities are equipped, and how they can mobilize them. Limited access to resources is particularly important for the study of social resilience in a religion and migration context.

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Turner et al. (2003: 8075) make an important contribution to the debate, as they draw attention to the fact that social resilience refers not only to acute disturbances but also to slowly increasing, long-lasting, multiple threats or possible future events. Migration and subsequent developments of migration can be understood as such long-lasting, multiple threats. Religion, faith and everyday religious practices can be an important resource for migrants to respond to long-lasting threats and uncertainties. They search refuge for physical safety as well as psychological comfort after the experience of migration. Korean migrant churches become central to the lives of Korean migrants by catering to their needs through the provision of services, communication networks and resources like information about housing or about how to organize university studies in Germany. In recent decades, a number of studies give particular importance to the issue of how religion influences migration. They have emphasized the conservative role of religion, such as preservation of ethnic identity for migrant groups in modern pluralistic societies, and the traditional function of religious migrant organizations in maintaining language, ethnic customs and group cohesion (see, for example, Mullins 1987; Hagan and Ebaugh 2003). From this standpoint, Korean churches – built from scratch by Korean migrants – function as places where they can feel at home with their peers, can nurture fellowship and share their faith and their experiences as migrant workers. As diaspora churches, they contribute significantly to the social and religious wellbeing of Korean nurses and miners, especially those living in urbanized areas of Western Germany. Studies sometimes measure the success of migrant churches in terms of winning adherents or converts (Währisch-Oblau 2009), or in the ability to establish a religious community in terms of wealth and status, documented by, for example, public participation, visibility through the construction of representative religious buildings or financial independence. Positive functions of Korean churches are described primarily for the wellbeing of church members in processing the experience of migration. Past studies on Korean ethnic churches in the United States have explored various social and psychological functions: They function as social and educational centres, keep Korean homeland orientation alive and maintain Korean cultural tradition, provide emotional support to those church members who experience stress or discrimination, and function as a surrogate family (Kim 1981: 198; Choy 1979: 263; Min 1992: 1371–2). For Koreans in the United States, researchers claim that ‘the Korean ethnic church has historically been the most wellestablished social, cultural, and educational center . . . [and] has been the most inclusive and accessible social institution for Koreans in the United States’ (Hurh and Kim 1990: 30). While the positive functions of migrant churches have been sufficiently discussed, limited research has been carried out on the question why some Korean churches are more resilient than others.

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Previous research on Korean churches in the United States also showed that generational tensions, numerical increase of church affiliates, disagreement on denominational affiliation, or personnel conflicts could be causes of schisms inside ethnic churches (see Shin and Park 1988; Lee 1996; Kim 2007: 37–8). With regard to internal and external challenges that Korean churches may face when it comes to generational tensions, Song points out the following aspects: Korean churches overemphasize Korean ethnicity, the unclear mission and direction of the church, frustration with the first-generation leadership, experiences of church fights and splits (which can be described as internal challenges) and secularism and postmodern influences (which can be considered an external challenges) (Song 1999: 48). These aspects could lead to significant transformation processes so that they are no longer the same churches as they were at the beginning of their foundation. Kim (2010), for example, describes the transformation of monoethnic Korean American churches into Pan-Asian churches with a majority of non-Korean Asian members. Compared to Korean American churches, the situation of Korean Christians in Germany is much more complicated. The Korean Christian community is relatively small in size, and, so, the Korean churches have fewer resources, and the generational change within the churches is a creeping process. To understand how Korean churches in West Germany become resilient over time and how they respond to various uncertainties, we must bear in mind the migration history of Korean miners and nurses.

A SHORT HISTORY OF KOREAN CHRISTIANS IN GERMANY IN THE LIGHT OF RESILIENCE AS ADAPTABILITY Korean labour emigration to West Germany The South Korean government has encouraged its citizens to seek migrant work elsewhere since the 1960s in what was called the Korea Program, with the result that about 7.26 million Koreans now live and work in 175 countries today (Chang 2020: 18; Kim and Kim 2015: 300; Reckel and Schatz 2020). Most Korean migrants – 80 per cent – live and work in China, the United States and Japan, and the largest Korean population in Europe is in the United Kingdom (45,000 people), followed by Germany (35,000 people) (Chang 2020: 18). Korean churches throughout the diaspora2 have become the focal point of Korean migrant communities. They have functioned as social centres, offered welfare services, disseminated news from home and operated Korean schools. With this bridge-building function between country of origin and country of arrival, diaspora churches have helped to transform formerly non-Christian Koreans into Christian Korean migrants.

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Most Korean migrants who first came to West Germany up to 1977 were miners and nurses, health-care aides or doctors. In the 1960s, there was a significant need for personnel in the mining industry, especially in the Ruhr region of Germany.3 Korean miners came as short-term workers, followed by about 8,000 more people by 1977. In return, South Korea received urgently needed capital and remittances from overseas Korean migrants.4 Between the 1960s and 1970s, 10,000 nurses and nurse-aides (aged between twenty and thirty-five years) were sent by South Korea. German Catholic churches and the German Catholic Mission had already begun accepting Korean nurses to Germany by the end of the 1950s.5 They were highly qualified, mainly Korean women and held wide responsibilities and specific roles in Korean hospitals. The work was hard, exhausting and unnerving; German food and language were unfamiliar, and the Korean workers received little attention and recognition from the citizens of their host country. A three-year contract limited Korean immigration, and the guest worker programme ended in 1973. After that, Koreans could go back to their home country or find another job in Germany. The Federal Republic of Germany intended these guest workers to return to their country of origin. However, during this time, some Korean nurses married Korean miners, brought their husbands to Germany or married Germans. Despite initial plans to return after the end of the three-year contract, more than half of the Korean nurses remained in Germany and settled with their families. Some Korean men gave up their profession as miners in order to become self-employed. The immigration of Koreans was accompanied by the spread of Korean Buddhism, and Korean Buddhists today form the third-largest group (estimates assume 10,000 people) of Asian Buddhists after Vietnamese and Thai people in Germany. Korean Buddhism and the establishment of Korean Buddhist centres have not been the subject of religious studies, and further research into this field is necessary. An exception is the concise overview of Korean Buddhist traditions and Buddhist centres (with focus on Zen traditions) in Germany by Manfred Hutter (2014). He stressed that especially the Kwan Um Zen centres (Berlin (headquarter), Dresden, Hamburg, Cologne and Bad Bramstedt) in the Buddhist Seon tradition have managed to transfer Buddhist practice from East Asia to North America and Europe through an international orientation and an adaptation of religious practices for people socialized in the West (Hutter 2014: 9). In comparison, it can be provisionally stated that both Korean churches and Korean Buddhist centres make a contribution to the integration of Koreans in Germany, especially with their social services and events that promote cultural contact. In 2009, 31,248 South Koreans in Germany were counted in the statistics of the South Korean Ministry of Foreign Affairs (MOFAT).6 A community (53,000 people) of South Koreans and South Korean-Germans reside today

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in West Germany in big cities like Frankfurt, a city of consolidated companies from South Korea. They form the largest Korean community in Germany and the second largest in Western Europe (behind the community of South Koreans in the United Kingdom). In the context of integration debates, East Asians in Germany are often labelled with stereotypes similar to those used in other parts of the world such as ‘quiet’, ‘fully integrated’, ‘hard-working’, ‘compliant’ and ‘model minority’.7 Despite these positive stereotypes, Koreans are still confronted with racism and xenophobia. Korean churches are not only places of worship that provide shelter and refuge. They are also places of evangelization, politicization, empowerment and, most significantly, resilience. The ‘growth’ of Korean churches in West Germany The process of Korean church planting and development can be divided into three phases. The first, from 1963 to 1971, is the period of networking with established German national churches (excluding the national Catholic Church), while the second phase, from 1972 to 1992, is the period of networking between Korean churches and German churches in different cities at a local level. First networks and structures Since the 1960s, the first-generation (ilse) of South Korean-Germans has established dense networks consisting of cultural associations (i.e. KoreaVerband),8 sports clubs, Korean schools and Korean churches. The central concern mainly was to promote encounters of Germans and Koreans; the spread of information about developments on the Korean peninsula, especially in the fields of politics and society; support for peace and reunification in Korea; and promotion of Korean culture and traditions in Germany. Religion has continued to play a significant role in integrating Koreans in the diaspora into the host society. First, the Korean Christians met weekly in small groups in private rooms without any pastoral care. The small gatherings of religious laymen were called ‘Schwester-Bruder-Treffen’ (meeting of brothers and sisters). These gatherings aimed to alleviate physical and psychological stress and establish a social life alongside the burdensome work. The reasons for not attending German churches were related to language barriers and cultural differences. In the autumn of 1967, ten Korean Protestant parishes in North RhineWestphalia got together to form an association (kor. Yunhaphoe) for religious services. Worship and other events linked to these associations were held in different towns in the Ruhr region. As the Korean migrant parishes grew, it became apparent that there was a need for pastoral care that could not be provided by the Evangelical Church in Germany (EKD) nor by the lay groups themselves. The Evangelical Church in the Rhineland, the Evangelical Church of Westphalia and the Korean National Council of Churches (KNCC)

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commissioned the first Korean pastor Lee Young-Bin, who studied theology in Germany, to look after the lay groups and provide them with social advice. From 1965 to 1969, he supervised the Korean guest workers and then worked in Frankfurt and Munich. Many new lay groups emerged in other cities of West Germany, such as Hamburg, Munich and Frankfurt, which developed rapidly and were guided by Korean students and professors. Services provided by them took the form of help with language problems, job information, help with legal problems, help with housing problems and help with other adjustment issues. In addition, there were six private preachers in the Ruhr area who organized prayer groups and Bible study groups. This early phase of growth – according to the adoptive cycle – was characterized by two simultaneous developments: a private grassroots movement of loosely organized groups and individuals on the one side and a top-down establishment of ordered structures on the other side. Challenges and uncertainties in the beginning A primary historical source is a written report9 from the Korean pastor SungHwan Chang.10 It was addressed to the department for external church relations of the Protestant Church in Germany (EKD) in 1973; it provides insight into his experiences as the pastor for these new Korean churches in the Ruhr region. The report references the difficulties within the mission itself and the challenges faced by the Korean workers. First, he outlined the difficult socio-economic situation of the Korean workers.11 He identified poor working and living conditions as an influencing factor for various kinds of criminal behaviour like theft, brawls, threats, fraud and suicide. He then stated that it was difficult to determine the denominational differences and distribution of Korean evangelical and Catholic churches. Twenty to twenty-five per cent of Koreans would attend services, but many of them were not baptized. Pastor Chang saw ‘counselling’ as one of his most important tasks and he emphasized that his counselling was also occupied by non-Christian Koreans, who sought his help. As a Protestant pastor, he tried in various ways to systematize and unify the new churches. On the one hand, he encouraged three small parishes to join forces so that he could better serve these affiliated churches. On the other hand, he tried to identify and categorize the Korean Christian denominations. He differentiated between (1) Conservative-Orthodox (Pietism – strict conservatism), (2) Evangelical-conservative (Presbyterian, Fundamentalism), (3) Ecumenical-progressive (KNCC-Churches, secularism) and (4) Mystical spiritualism (shamanic sect) (Chang 1973: 9). In his view, most Korean churches belonged to the second and third categories. The former would be characterized by a rigorous religious way of life, such as no smoking, no drinking and no

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dancing. The latter were more liberal and were characterized, in particular, by their willingness to engage in society. He drew attention to the need for future pastors to address these denominational differences and ensure that the ‘true ecumenical line’ is followed without ‘damaging’ the pietistic members. From here, the report took on a religious-political tone. It becomes apparent that at an early stage of the institutionalization process of the Korean churches in West Germany, there were efforts by the KNCC (represented by Pastor Chang) to regulate the denominational development. Pastor Chang concluded by expressing a future vision: he envisioned the establishment of Korean churches in the diaspora as an opportunity for the various denominations to unite into one ecumenical ‘transdenominational’ church, which he stated would provide an opportunity for the development of future ecumenical aspirations in South Korea. The pastor’s vision remained a wish for the Korean diaspora in Germany. The newly founded Korean churches in Germany were ‘resilient’ to such efforts, because the members were self-determined and actively involved in shaping their community lives. Social resilience can be identified in the data material when resistance to such influence logics is articulated. A first-generation member said if the members of a Korean church disagree with a pastor’s work, then they would rather wait until the pastor’s contract is over and a new pastor is sent from South Korea than to openly and directly discuss the conflict; this is to avoid the risk of a church schism or dissolution. She believes that strong perseverance characterizes her church community. This example exposes the uncertainties around leadership issues within Korean churches, especially when internal theological and social differences arise. At the end of the 1980s, seven Protestant parishes ensured their existence and institutional development by joining the EKD; they founded a consortium of Korean Protestant parishes in North Rhine-Westphalia. This institutionalization process was accompanied by amalgamations of smaller parishes using available Korean pastors to administer the parishes efficiently. Cooperation with the established churches In 1998, seventeen Korean churches established a formal partnership at the denominational level with the United Evangelical Mission (UEM) in North Rhine-Westphalia (Kim and Kim 2015: 304). However, it should be noted that Presbyterian migrant churches do not become members of the EKD. Korean churches are autonomous and independent from Evangelic Regional Churches in North Rhine-Westphalia and the Rhineland. The circumstance accompanies this structural non-belonging that a Presbyterian Christian with a Korean migration background has a double financial burden: on the one hand, the Korean Christian pays monthly church tax to the EKD, although he is not a member of this church, but is listed as a ‘Protestant Christian’ at the German

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tax office. On the other hand, he donates monthly to his Korean church to support the church services and the Korean pastor. This is only one example of the structural discrimination of Korean churches and their members. The last phase is described as a period of establishment of the Korean association structure, meaning stimulating the growth in the number of churches and continuous association work. Korean churches in Germany are in a constant state of change ‘from locally dependent communities into self-sufficient and self-generative Christian churches by fervent worship, prayer, fellowship and theological education’ (Kim 2011: 65).

TWO TYPES OF RESILIENT KOREAN CHURCHES The Korean church’s first-generation and second-generation members and religious personnel have different perspectives on the importance of the cultural preservation function of their churches and the necessity for change and adaptation. Two different types of resilience strategies can be distinguished: cultural preservation through persistence and adaptation of religious practices and organizational structures through transformation. The ‘persistence’ type: Conservation of the shared cultural heritage Half of the Korean migrant churches are traditional first-generation Korean churches, which are characterized by a homogenous community structure (predominantly first-generation Koreans), small size (up to fifty members) and a religious, social and cultural orientation that have long been familiar to the elders and provide them with wellbeing. These Korean churches are characterized by ‘home’ country orientations (e.g. celebration of Korean festivals, Korean media consumption), which is also evident in religious practices and social events, such as worship services in Korean language, addressing the topic of migration experience, and life and experience as Koreans in Germany in worship services and prayer groups. A young Korean-German woman levelled the criticism that these Korean churches are not attractive for young people, which is reflected in the fact that the religious services are geared to the interests of the elderly. She says: ‘For the elderly, there is everything: prayer groups, folkloristic dances, and calligraphy. Every day there is something going on in the church! For the youth, on the other hand, there is actually only the choir, which is open to all church members. Korean pastors in these churches feel responsible for the older generation and they look after their spiritual welfare.’12 However, the greatest challenge for these Korean churches, which preserve their shared cultural heritage and status quo of development, is the loss of members and turnover of newcomers. Korean churches of the ‘persistence’ type experience a loss of control of the church’s future that can be described

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as an internal uncertainty. Surprisingly, some parishioners and pastors face newcomers (Korean craftsmen and international students) with scepticism. This is due to the fact that the interests of the newcomers often deviate from the social, cultural and religious interests of the first-generation, and they would also jeopardize the social peace of the community, as one Korean pastor of a Presbyterian church in the Ruhr area mentioned. From his point of view, the solution to the protection of the Korean church is to maintain the existing structures and services as they have been in place since the 1970s. He defines his mission in the community by using a metaphor: he only serves the firstgeneration and compares his role for the second and third generations with that of a ‘farmer’, who only sows the seed, which then has to grow independently. ‘Only God can decide how Korean churches will develop in the future’, he says.13 In addition, he compares the situation of Korean churches in Germany with churches (like KNCC and Full Gospel Churches) in South Korea and states that constant church growth and missionary activities are not conducive to success, as they would bring competition and financial difficulties. Instead, he preaches in his services that it is more important to be a good Christian at work and in daily life. He is convinced that protection and preservation – with God’s help – will help ensure the survival of Korean churches in Germany. Korean churches of this type are in the phase of ‘conservation’ of the status quo as migrant churches. They are resilient in that way that they want to protect the function of Korean churches as a refuge and as a centre for cultural preservation. On the one hand, they have recognized the upcoming threat of decline; but on the other hand, they lack the staffing and resources to meet the challenge. Instead, the responsibility for dealing with the challenge is externalized. From the perspective of the aforementioned Korean pastor, God bears the responsibility for the future development of his church and an appropriate Christian lifestyle of each individual is more important than proactive action by churches, which would thereby endanger Christian cohesion. Korean churches of this type are resilient because of the strong commitment of the first-generation Koreans to their churches, shared migration experiences, the celebration of shared history and the need for preservation of the religious shelter. Nevertheless, they are also inflexible, as their service is primarily addressed to Korean migrants of the first-generation and they do not actively seek for new members. However, it is uncertain whether these Korean churches will survive in the long term, considering the age of the first-generation Koreans. The ‘transformation’ type: Post-traditional reorganization and glocal engagement There are a few Korean Presbyterian Churches and Korean Pentecostal Churches in West Germany, which are characterized by a heterogeneous membership –

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whether the diversity of origins, age, gender, size of the community (up to 300 people), a range of available resources, differentiated church structures or transnational activities (e.g., mission fields, guest preacher). Like the aforementioned Korean churches, they also face various challenges like loss of members, lack of own church buildings, limited financial resources, intergenerational tensions, differences between religious experts and laypersons related to a community-based organization, questions of life and faith, family values or cultural issues. Some Korean churches have been creating new ways to deal with these challenges in an anticipatory manner and trigger transformation processes. In the following, I would like to address two responses to internal and external uncertainties and related transformation processes by Korean churches. The first ability of resilient Korean churches is to anticipate the risks, diagnose the problem and initiate a responsive process of transformation. Korean churches with a mixed membership structure face intergenerational conflicts between the first- and second-generations, primarily because of differences in language, theological or doctrinal positions, lack of recognition and equal say and cultural differences. Since the first group of Korean migrants settled in West German, the establishment and growth of Korean churches have been central to the wellbeing of Korean migrants (phase of exploitation). After decades Korean pastors may cause various social tensions within their churches between the first- and second-generations. From the perspective of first-generation Koreans their churches function as social service agencies (health care, information about jobs, business networking, housing, education of children), as an important space for religious socializing and extended family (prayer meetings, Bible classes, worship services), as a compensatory space for those members who experienced downward mobility and status-anxiety in the process of immigrating and adapting to a new land (recognition and opportunities to take on leadership positions within the church, for example elders and deacons, committee engagement, directors of the choir) and as places where ethnic culture is practised and preserved (celebration of Korean holidays, lunch, exchange news from Korea, Korean language classes). The younger generation began to vocalize discontent over forms of worship styles and services exclusively oriented to first generations’ and Korean newcomers’ needs, differences in cultural paradigms of leadership, and a lack of voice and accountability. In addition, second-generation Korean-Germans struggle with Korean newcomers within the church, who were initially attracted to the churches for their various social services like language classes for their children, business connections and assistance with administrative procedures. However, the elders levelled the criticism that the church only functions as a ‘pass-through station’ for the newcomers and that they are no longer willing to invest time and resources when these people are only temporarily part of the community.

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In favour of averting schism or loss of the youth, a distinctly different approach emerged, and the Korean churches began to implement a variety of solutions (phase of reorganization): establishment of a separate worship service in German language, recruitment and funding of a youth pastor and the delegation of responsible positions to the youth. Some churches respond to intergenerational conflicts by developing new approaches to worship styles and praise. This was mainly possible for churches with second-generation pastors, who are influenced by new forms of worship styles and passionate prayer rituals. A young Korean woman mentioned that it was difficult to enforce a Germanspeaking worship service and prayer groups, but they had received support from the second-generation pastor. She enthusiastically mentioned his new worship service: ‘Two years ago, he came into our church with a completely new approach! God loves us! No matter what we do, no matter who we are. In his sermons, he works with the approach of grace.’14 First-generation members accepted the establishment of a worship service led by a second-generation pastor. However, many still struggle with a contemporary worship style accompanied by musicians, new media and pop culture elements and fervent and passionate prayers. One older woman stated that she accepted these new developments because she is aware that they must pass on their church to the next generation like a baton.15 This short example of Korean migrant churches capacity to respond to internal uncertainties with a diagnosis of the problem and a responsive process of organizational self-correction in which the Korean churches could draw on their resources and well-established structures to move forward after the appearance of social tensions. The second ability of resilient Korean churches is the realignment of religious practices. Korean culture is practised and preserved through various means, including the consumption of Korean food, Korean language classes for the youth, the celebration of Korean holidays and feasts, humanitarian aid to residents of China and North Korea and family support in the homeland. Some post-traditional Korean churches develop transnational cooperation and establish new charitable behaviours. They experienced three phases in terms of their charitable giving. During the first phase of church building, they concentrated their charitable behaviour on their own community (sending remittances to South Korea). In the second phase, they started giving to local community organizations (e.g. ethno-cultural centres, hospitals, neighbourhood activities) that affect their local social life in Germany. Some Korean churches started to expand the boundaries of their charitable behaviour. They collect donations for disaster relief and support the construction of churches, schools and hospitals in Africa, East Europe and South Asia. The self-image of these Korean churches has changed to the point that they no longer see themselves primarily as Korean migrant churches but rather as glocal engaged diaspora churches. They detach themselves from their ‘home’ country orientation while

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maintaining ethnic culture retention. This glocal engagement is accompanied by a change of orientation towards the country of arrival. Germany has changed to one of the mission fields, especially for Pentecostal Korean churches. A second-generation Korean woman (Ise) envisioned Germany as an ostensibly weak place, where Korean churches could spread the Christian message throughout cities such as Berlin, Munich or Hamburg. Considering the aims and conditions of the successful growth of the Korean church in Germany, she stated that being a Christian in secular Germany took a lot of courage, and that Germans are open to being evangelized.16 Kim and Kim (with reference to Lee 2011: 202–3) say in this context that ‘diaspora churches might also be self-consciously missionary within their context, at least in the sense that they saw themselves as a chosen people exercising a leavening and even salvific effect on their surroundings, particularly where these were dominated by another faith or ideology’ (Kim and Kim 2015: 304). Some Pentecostal Korean pastors addressed the worldwide persecution of Christians, the secular German society and the spread of Islam as examples that are dangerous for the future existence of Korean churches. In the light of these external threat scenarios and internal challenges, some Korean churches are considering how they can organize their spiritual work and mission strategies even more effectively. Apart from mission activities in Africa and Europe, it is important to reach new target groups through missions in Germany (e.g. international students and businesspeople, other Asian ethnic groups). Korean churches of the ‘transformation’ type show resilience as adaptability in a way that they respond to potential internal and external threats with transformability of religious practices and self-images. Korean churches no longer function primary as a shelter but instead they want to strengthen Christianity worldwide. One ability of a resilient organization is to anticipate the risk which can strike the Korean church in the future. They have redefined their self-conception to the effect that, on the one hand, they are adapting their religious self-concept to the needs of their heterogeneous membership (i.e. adaptation of the religious service) and, on the other hand, they are developing a greater self-confidence as diaspora churches in their ability to have a local and translocal religious impact (i.e. new mission fields).

CONCLUSION While the functional roles of Korean churches, and of other religious migrant organizations, as places of shelter, and the process of institutionalization and adaptation to the host society may be fairly well understood, little, however, is known about the ability to manage difficult circumstances and internal crises within the churches, and to increase social resilience to improve their ability to

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cope and transform through change. This chapter contributed an organizational perspective to resilience and examined how Korean churches respond to various internal and external challenges over time. The resilience of Korean churches in West Germany is the ability to anticipate, prepare for, respond to and adapt to incremental change and mainly internal challenges in order to survive or prosper. It has been shown that two different types of resilience strategies can be distinguished: cultural preservation through persistence on the one hand, and adaptation of religious practices, religious self-image and organizational structures through transformation on the other hand. While the first type wants to maintain the status quo and can be classified as conservative and slow in making adaptations to changes in the social environment, as described by Mullins, the second type is characterized by a greater willingness to adapt and to respond to current uncertainties through a strong commitment by church members, acquisition of new resources and transnational networks, and through a reorganization of their religious services and mission fields, which can also be described as social and religious capital. If we compare both types with each other, one comes to the conclusion that resilience is about not only stability but transformation. Especially, a Korean charismatic church has already made adjustments to shed its identity as a Korean migrant church and to transform into an international church: for example, it has changed its name into All Nation Church and wants to proselytize non-Koreans. This church may be able to ensure its existence in future by demonstrating resilience to the threat of loss in membership. However, the success and development of resilient Korean churches in the diaspora are measured not only in terms of winning new adherents, rather, these are reflected in their ability to meet the needs of an increasingly heterogeneous community.

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Chapter 6

Social change and ethnic identity in a Korean congregation MICHAEL WILKINSON

INTRODUCTION In the 1980s Jacob Joo came to Canada from Korea to study theology after converting from Buddhism to Christianity. Joo gained acceptance as a student at Eastern Pentecostal Bible College located in the rolling hills of Peterborough, Ontario, about a one-and-a-half-hour drive northeast of Toronto. Eastern Pentecostal Bible College was a denominational college of the Pentecostal Assemblies of Canada which was a product of early-twentiethcentury Pentecostal revivals occurring in various places around the world, most notably in Los Angeles but also in Wales, India, Korea and Canada (Wilkinson and Ambrose 2020). The Bible college movement grew among evangelical Protestants who reacted to modern and liberal influences in theology at Protestant seminaries. Joo was preparing to be a pastor and this Pentecostal college would serve him well for his future ministry among Korean immigrants in Toronto. By the early 1980s Eastern Pentecostal Bible College was the largest denominational college in Canada with about 500 students. The college retained its Pentecostal character shaped by the emotion of revival as well as the Methodist-Holiness quality of radical evangelicalism from the nineteenth

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century. Rules surrounding the interaction of men and women were evident at the college that saw the sexes separated every day during chapel with men sitting on one side and women on the other side. Dress codes were carefully monitored by the Dean of Men and the Dean of Women to ensure that men regularly wore ties with collared shirts and once a week mandatory suits and skirts and blazers for women. Hair was measured for its length among men and had to be cut so as to be above the back of the shirt collar. Jeans were not allowed to be worn during classes or on Sundays. Television was restricted. Alcohol, drugs, pre-marital sex and movies were not tolerated. Even though the college maintained a strict moral code shaped by notions of holiness, rules were broken and students were reprimanded with demerits and some were suspended. However, life was beginning to change at the college, with a three-year Pastoral Ministry diploma being now extended to a four-year bachelor degree of theology with accreditation by the Accrediting Association of Bible Colleges, the mixing of the sexes during chapel services and the wearing of jeans to class. Many students embraced these changes but some were suspected to believe that the college was on a slippery slope. Upon graduation, Joo become a pastor with the Pentecostal Assemblies of Canada, providing care for a newly formed Korean congregation in Toronto. In 1997 I was working on my doctoral studies and researching the impact of the migration of Pentecostals from Africa, Asia and Latin America on Christianity in Canada. Jacob Joo and his congregation were one of the case studies in my research. He was now the pastor of Pentecostal World Mission Church. The congregation had about seventy-five people who regularly met for worship in a United Church of Canada building in Toronto. Joo started the church primarily to reach out to Korean immigrants but was now facing the challenge of pastoral care for the youth and young adults. In response to the growing numbers of young people, Joo started an English Ministry congregation in 1996 with about twenty participants who were either second-generation Koreans (those born of Korean parents in Canada) or 1.5 generation Koreans (those who spent roughly half their life between Korea and Canada). Joo’s congregation was one of five new immigrant congregations that I was researching that included two Spanish-speaking congregations, a Sri Lankan congregation and an Eritrean congregation. For each of the congregations I studied, I used mixed methods including site visits, participant observation, face-to-face interviews, informal interviews, analysis of documents and a congregational survey. The focus of my interviews with Jacob Joo was on the transnational ties that he and his congregation maintained with Paul Yonggi-Cho’s Church in Korea, the largest church in the world at the time (Anderson 2004). The survey was designed to ask questions around four areas: congregational culture, theological beliefs and practices, ethnicity and public life and social issues.

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In 2007 I returned to the Korean congregation where Jacob Joo was still the pastor and conducted focus groups, face-to-face interviews, made observations at worship services and administered the survey. The focus of my questions in 2007 was on the religious and social life of the second-generation congregants and more particularly how they viewed their ethnic identity in Canada and the role of the church. Finally, in 2017 I visited the congregation for a third time, interviewed Jacob Joo, conducted focus groups and made observations. The questions during this third and final data collection revolved around religious diversity and multiculturalism in Canada. This chapter examines the findings from those three data collection points over time and offers some observations about transnational social ties, secondgeneration youth and religious diversity from the perspective of a Korean congregation. Research on religious diversity in Canada is shaped by some important work on these issues. Transnationalism represents an important theoretical discussion in migration studies and more broadly on globalization. ‘Religion and Globalization’ is a particularly important theme with key ideas that shape my assumptions about the relationship between religion, migration, culture and globalization (Robertson 1992; Beyer 2006; Levitt 2007; Wilkinson 2007). The relationship between religion and ethnic identity in Canada points to important questions about how migration and religion are practised in new contexts and the role of religion as it intersects with ethnicity (Bramadat and Seljak 2005, 2008). Research among second-generation youth is also insightful and offers explanations for how youth are negotiating life in Canada as they come to reflect on what it means to be members of an ethnic group, religious and Canadian (Beyer and Ramji 2013). Finally, the literature on religious diversity and a range of issues about multiculturalism, religious freedom and the practice of religion in Canada shapes the questions and themes explored with this Korean congregation and the observations made about how Korean Pentecostals are attempting to negotiate their place in a culturally diverse Canada (Beaman and Beyer 2008; Beaman 2017; Holtmann 2018). More specifically, the literature on religion and ethnicity tends to focus on one of two issues. The first is how immigrants and the associations they maintain like congregations reveal how religion interacts with the local culture and facilitates the maintenance of a particular religious and ethnic identity (e.g. Ebaugh and Chafetz 2000). Congregations are organizations that allow immigrants to maintain cultural practices, language and beliefs that contribute to a pluralistic society with many religions and cultures. On the other hand, some empirical studies of immigrant congregations show that congregations facilitate the movement of ethnic identity through religious practices towards those of the larger society while demonstrating a process of assimilation or accommodation (e.g. Warner and Wittner 1998). In this chapter I argue that

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immigrant congregations are religious organizations where the transformation of religious practices, beliefs and sentiments are shaped by globalization, allowing for the construction of new religious and ethnic identities that pluralization and assimilation alone cannot explain. My assumptions are shaped by cultural sociology and developments in the sociology of religion around identity and religious organizations (Edgell 2012). The context for understanding social processes of change is globalization and not solely the nation state (Beyer 2006; Wilkinson 2021). The relationship between migration and religion is characterized by a range of transformations including demographic changes in Canada with the growing numbers of migrants arriving from Africa, Asia and Latin America. However, the practice of Christianity itself is changing as a substantial number of immigrants are also Christian and more specifically Pentecostal which has the effect of making Christianity less European in its ethnic makeup. The deEuropeanization of Christianity is largely related to the shift worldwide from Christianity largely represented in Europe to the so-called Global South where the vast majority of Christians reside. It is also related to subcultural changes and specifically how Christianity in Canada is practised in new immigrant congregations that no longer look to Europe for its theological inspiration and congregational practices but increasingly to Africa, Asia and Latin America. Multiculturalism in Canada is one context for understanding how immigrant congregations negotiate identity but so too is the global context where transnational ties are maintained between Korean congregations throughout the world. The transformation of ethnic and religious identity, however, is not solely the outcome of interaction with a new Canadian context or the Korean homeland. Rather, Korean Pentecostal identity is continuously negotiated and constructed through multiple interactions with individuals, institutions and organizations such as multicultural Canada, the broader Christian world, Pentecostal denominations, mission activities in Europe, travel to Korea, leisure activities, educational institutions, Hindu and Muslim neighbours and numerous kinds of social interactions on a daily basis (Wilkinson 2007).

TRANSNATIONAL RELATIONS Officially, Joo’s congregation is a member of the Pentecostal Assemblies of Canada (PAOC), the largest and oldest Pentecostal denomination in Canada (Wilkinson and Ambrose 2020). However, the congregation is also networked with Yonggi-Cho’s Full Gospel Church in Seoul, Korea, and actively participates in a range of conferences, mission activities and prayer ministries. The congregation is also the recipient of new transfer members through migration from Korea that have contributed to the growth of the congregation. The dual

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affiliation of the congregation created problems for the PAOC initially as they attempted to navigate the new global reality of networks and the implications of the close ties between Canadian and Korean Pentecostals (Wilkinson 2006). This was not an issue for Joo or the members of the Pentecostal World Mission Church, however. The relationship with Korea provided Joo with an established network of pastors, congregations and a worldwide missionary strategy that he participated in on a regular basis. Each year Korean pastors and missionaries would travel home to Korea and share with one another their work, prayer requests, financial needs, and congregational strategies for missionary work. Joo felt very close to his Korean colleagues and the annual meeting offered him support and encouragement. The link with Yonggi-Cho’s church also offered him an important connection for new immigrants arriving in Toronto. As Joo explained to me, the name ‘Pentecostal’ was sometimes questioned among Koreans while ‘Full Gospel’ made sense contextually. The dual affiliation allowed Joo to maintain an important Canadian Pentecostal and a Korean Full Gospel affiliation. In 2003 the congregation outgrew the church facility and its relationship with the United Church congregation changed as they purchased a property elsewhere in the city. Along with the move they renamed themselves the Full Gospel Mission Church. The former 50,000 square foot newly purchased warehouse was transformed into a worship space with offices, classrooms and other rooms to share with other recent arrivals including a Russian-speaking congregation and a Guyanese congregation, both of which formed shortly after the move. Joo believes the relationship with these two congregations is an important one and reflects their mission and vision to be a global church that reaches out to all people and not just Korean immigrants. Their relationship with the Russian-speaking congregation mirrors another aspect of their ministry. The Korean congregation has long had an affiliation with a Korean missionary in Ukraine, and supporting a congregation in Canada was a sign of God’s work not only in Toronto but also throughout the world. Joo and members of his congregation were sending short-term missionaries from Toronto to Ukraine to partner in missionary work among Russianspeaking Ukrainians and helping to establish new congregations and to support one of Yonggi-Cho’s missionaries. Joo explained that the missionary believed God had called him to Ukraine to start 1,000 churches. Joo explained that they had already assisted in starting thirty-five new churches and a theological college. The Toronto congregation and the missionary partnered with thirdgeneration Russian-speaking Koreans to plant these churches. This mission endeavour reflects two important historical points. First, while research has focused on the flows of people into Europe and North America there are migration patterns in other regions of the world that are significant, one being the flow of people from Korea to Russia (Lee 2002, 2005). Different

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waves of Koreans have migrated north for economic reasons, settling in the far Eastern regions since the nineteenth century. Over time some of these Koreans migrated west and settled in different regions with a significant population in Ukraine. Second, the story reflects a religious shift with Korea moving from a missionary receiving country to one of the largest missionary-sending countries in the world (Moon 2003), which reflects the worldwide shift of Christianity from the Global North to the Global South. With accelerated globalization, the Russian-speaking ethnic Koreans have now come to network with a missionary from Korea and a pastor from Toronto. The mission is not aimed at new immigrants but Russian-speaking Ukrainians. Ethnic Koreans translate the work of the Korean missionary into Russian with the assistance of Koreans from Toronto. Mission work is vitally important to Joo and he continues to expand his mission activities into Asia and eventually Africa. Migration and mission work reflect two important themes in globalization and Pentecostal studies. One further theme explored here revolves around the relationship between politics and religion. Again, the Korean congregation illustrates this issue. When I visited the Full Gospel Mission Church in 2007 Joo was preaching about the anniversary of the end of the Korean War and the tensions between North and South Korea. During his sermon he showed a variety of slides from the war and offered both a political and a theological interpretation. Joo preached about how kingdoms that are divided will come to ruin while commenting on a parable by Jesus about how divided cities and households will fall. His sermon transitioned from the Bible to the divisions between South Korea and North Korea that led to the war and ongoing political tension between the two divided countries. Joo said Christians should pray to keep the two Koreas from destroying each other and maintain hope for unity and reconciliation. Joo asked rhetorically, if the churches do not show unity, how can the two Korea’s do so? What was of interest to me was that Korean unity was not simply an illustration of a theological idea linked to individual reconciliation with God or others. Rather, his notion of unity and reconciliation had social and political dimensions. Furthermore, the entire sermon focused on the anniversary of the end of the war, the problems of war and the division between North and South Korea. Joo entered into political and theological discussions with his congregation that appeared to be well received and celebrated. The various types of transnational relations and interactions with the PAOC, Korean Pentecostals through travel, mission activities in Europe, the engagement of political issues in Korea through sermons in a local congregation contribute to the development of a particular Korean Pentecostal identity that is shaped by not just the Canadian context but also more broadly global society.

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SECOND-GENERATION YOUTH By 2007 the Toronto-based congregation had well over 200 people attending the Korean-speaking service and about 100 people attending the English-speaking service. I was especially interested in questions about second-generation youth who primarily attended the English-speaking service. During my visit in 2007 I interviewed Pastor K, asking him a series of questions about how the congregation was responding to the growing numbers of second-generation Korean youth in the church. Pastor K was a young man in his twenties and was born in Canada to parents who immigrated from Korea in the mid-1970s. He graduated from a university and started a career in the high-tech industry while volunteering at the church with the youth group. Following a short-term mission trip to Ukraine and Kazakhstan in 2001, he sensed that God was calling him into ministry. Pastor K resigned from his job and began working at the church while attending seminary. During his tenure as a youth and young adult pastor, he experienced a number of challenges from the parents and the youth. The various issues revolved around language, education, parental expectations and differences between parents and their children over Korean and Canadian cultures. For example, Pastor K told me about the tensions between 1.5-generation youth and 2-generation youth over the use of English and Korean for youth activities. Most of the 1.5-generation youth were not as competent with English as the second generation and preferred to speak in Korean. The secondgeneration youth were not competent with Korean and preferred to speak English. Pastor K attempted to resolve the tension by creating two youth groups: English-speaking and Korean-speaking. Some parents of the 1.5-generation youth, however, wanted their children to be better English speakers and did not want a separate Korean-speaking group, while another set of parents thought speaking Korean was preferred since they were intending to return to Korean once their children’s education was completed. Pastor K said: One of the issues that we had to really confront was the Korean-speaking students and the second-generation Korean Canadians. Initially we had separate youth groups, one Korean-speaking, one English-speaking. The concern was that we’d have these Korean-speaking students living in Canada and that they should be immersed in a culture where they should be speaking English, learning English and not just coming to a place where the messages or the worship is done in Korean. So, the parents of some of these Korean speaking students wanted the church to merge the English-speaking and the Korean-speaking groups together, making it one group and then having the service in English. But there was another issue that was raised – why do we

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need to force the young people to speak in a language that maybe you know they aren’t comfortable with? The church is a place where they should be spiritually fed and so they should receive the word of God in a language that they feel comfortable with and that would be Korean. Leave the learning of English with the education system, with the high schools. And there was a conflict and, in the end, we decided to just merge the two youth groups together and make it one. As a result, a lot of the Korean-speaking students left the church. I guess they wanted to find another church that was predominantly Korean and where the service was in Korean. So, it’s still an issue that we haven’t really resolved – this whole language issue. A second concern revolved around what was perceived by parents as a distraction or temptation for their children over Canadian culture that was in tension with Korean Christian values. K: I guess the concern is the future, their future and a lot of the students right now just don’t know what it is. I think there are a lot of factors involved – distractions and temptations and lack of discipline and so, many of them are struggling with school and not really taking their future seriously and thinking about their career. That’s one concern that I have as a youth pastor. M: How do their parents feel about them not doing well in school? K: I think we have some parents who are very, very strict when it comes to education. You have some students who are very disciplined and basically life is all about school – 24/7 they’re at school or getting extra help. Pastor K also talks about the pressure he faces from parents who expect him to be a parent or a ‘father’ to their children. Along with running a weekly Friday youth meeting, retreats and other activities, he says parents expect him to offer spiritual, academic and future professional advice. Parents usually couch the expectation in a discussion about the inability to communicate because of the differences in English and Korean. Pastor K agrees that it is about language differences but also that there is a cultural expectation on Korean pastors to be more than a spiritual father. K: I’m not sure if this happens in other churches, like non-Asian churches, but there’s an expectation that parents place on the youth pastor to raise their kids, you know to be their father – not only spiritually but also being like their father, getting involved in their academic life and other personal social life. I think the line isn’t really clear and so I think because the parents have a hard time communicating with their children,

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they expect me as the youth pastor to communicate the importance of education and studying hard in order to be successful in the future. So, yeah, there’s an expectation placed on me to do that. M: How do you feel about that role? K: It’s cool. I think for me I like working in a first-generation Korean church. But I don’t really speak Korean. I don’t speak it fluently so I have a hard time communicating with the parents. So, there’s a language barrier anytime a parent comes to me and talks to me about their children. I have a hard time understanding so it’s really tough. I think they feel frustrated because they can’t really express how they feel and I can’t understand what they’re trying to tell me so there’s a language barrier. It can be frustrating and sometimes they don’t say anything. M: Do you think it’s an unfair expectation for you? K: I don’t know about unfair. I understand their situation. They immigrated here and they don’t speak English well and it’s hard for them to communicate with their own kids. I want to help but at the same time I can’t. I can’t do some of the things that they asked me to do. So, in that sense it’s unfair. But I think there needs to be a clear line that needs to be drawn and that needs to be communicated to the parents so they know this is my role and this is my expectation and you need to know that. That needs to be communicated but I don’t think it has been communicated. M: If you were to have a chance to communicate to the parents about this issue, what would you say needs to be resolved between the parents and the children? How do they sort that out? K: I think that’s one of the challenges that we face as Korean Canadians and it is the language barrier because the children, whether they came here at an early age or they were born here, it’s hard for the students to understand what their parents are trying to communicate to them and vice versa. So, to be honest with you I don’t really know how they can resolve it. It needs to be resolved in the family. I know that but with the youth ministry I’ve come to understand that you need to partner with the parents and the families and work together. It’s a challenge for us Korean Canadians – the language. I know with other churches who don’t have this challenge it’s a lot easier since they can communicate. But with us as being immigrants and not being able to speak our native language it’s tough. So, to be honest with you I don’t really know how that can be resolved unless they bring in an interpreter. I don’t know. Questions about language, ethnic identity and the role of religious organizations like congregations show how Korean Pentecostals are wrestling with issues around identity, youth and the relationship between those born in Canada and

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the new arrivals. The interactions between youth leaders, parents, newcomers and second-generation Korean Pentecostals show that the social process of identity construction is not a straightforward process of movement towards assimilation and English language usage in the congregation or the maintenance of Korean language and practices. Rather, what we observe is a complex process of negotiating new practices and views about language and the role of congregations demonstrating an uneven process of social change that is often characterized by conflict and tension.

MULTICULTURAL INTERACTION While second-generation issues were the focus of my interviews in 2007, by 2017 another set of questions were being discussed not only among academics but increasingly in the Canadian public sphere over immigration, security, terrorism, religious diversity and multiculturalism. For my interview with Jacob Joo in 2017, I asked him a series of questions about religious diversity and multiculturalism to try and understand his view on these issues. Joo expressed a common tension among evangelicals over inclusion and exclusion and was trying to come to understand how the exclusive claims he believed about Jesus being the only way for salvation could be reconciled in a society that valued multiculturalism and religious diversity, at least in theory. I think politically and socially, multiculturalism seems to be working in Canada. I think the main word in multiculturalism is tolerance. I guess you have to tolerate other peoples’ faith, values, and appreciate other people whatever they believe. You have to acknowledge and respect other peoples’ faith and values and practices and customs. I guess as long as you keep that you are ok – living with other religious beliefs, respect other peoples’ faith and stuff. . . . I guess that is what Canada is trying to instil. Intolerance is the bad word (laughs), it seems like in Canada. But I guess when it comes to a spiritual or evangelistic perspective, there is a subtle, maybe not really that subtle but explicit pressure not to evangelize. Evangelism is almost a crime because it’s almost like intolerance. I mean you cannot, you should not evangelize other peoples’ faith because that shows that you are narrow minded. It shows that you are right and the other the person is wrong. So, I think there is the climate in Canada that evangelism is a no-no. I mean evangelism through fellowship and friendship is ok but not classical evangelism that’s talked about in the Bible. If you’re witnessing, talking about the scriptures or preaching that is almost like you’re branded as narrow-minded Christians. I think, that is something we need to overcome somehow. How do you go along with the Canadian climate, this political climate of multiculturalism

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and tolerance and stuff? Do we become politically incorrect and just be aggressive evangelists and witnesses of Jesus Christ? Joo appreciates the value of multiculturalism as a sort of antidote to intolerance but he believes that for him to express his religious views he must evangelize – tell others about Jesus. And yet there is for him a level of tension about evangelism because to claim Jesus is the only way is to be viewed as intolerant. Following our discussion about tolerance and whether that means acceptance or just leaving one another alone and never interacting, we moved on to discuss what he thought about religious diversity and whether or not he had any interactions in the city with people of other faiths, particularly Muslims and Hindus. Joo’s response again illustrates the tension he feels between what he thinks are the exclusive claims of Christianity and whether or not he can sincerely interact with non-Christians without feeling some sense of compromise with his faith. I don’t want to be too narrow minded. I don’t want to be too stupid in saying, but we have to be wise. But at the same time, I cannot give up my faith that Jesus is the only way to salvation and other people, including Hindus, Muslims, must believe in Jesus Christ for salvation. So, I guess I don’t believe in Universalism. It seems like Christianity is caving into this pressure that Jesus is not the only one . . . a lot of liberal Christians these days. . . . But living in this society it’s a little different from America with Trumpism (laughs). They are very strong on Christian values. But at the same time, I guess, I don’t believe in attacking other religions. I respect other religions. I allow them to express their own faith. Even homosexuality. I mean if that is their view. I mean of course we have to evangelize. But if that is their lifestyle, what can you do? I mean we have to leave it as it is. I don’t want to attack them to the point that, you know, these days, what do you call it – Islamophobic, homophobic? We don’t want to be branded as Islamophobic or homophobic. We want to be kind and we want to be gentle. We want to respect them. But I don’t want to lose the focus that ultimately, they need to be saved. As a human being we have to be kind to everyone regardless of their religion. We have to be kind. We have to be gentle. We have to serve them. And we have to love them, forgive them. But our goal is to bring them to salvation. I think inclusion means we include everyone in our hearts, whether Hindus or Muslims because they are God’s creation and God loves them and Jesus died for all of them. So, Jesus included all of them in his heart. And there is inclusion in God’s heart. That Jesus is the only way is an exclusive claim. We cannot compromise as Pentecostals. I am not sure Pentecostals can ever change that tenant of faith, that Jesus is the only way. It is not only the denominations view tenant but it is also my personal tenant of faith.

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Interestingly, Joo feels that if there is any intolerance in Canada, it is expressed towards Christians and that religious freedom is often granted to non-Christian religions. However, as he talks about this initial claim, he shifts his comments to recognize the intolerance experienced among other religions. I think there is an anti-Christian spirit in a sense. They’re attacking more Christians. But as you know there is monotheism and polytheism and if you are polytheistic, they are not exclusive. Whatever God you believe that is fine. Hinduism, Buddhism, they are all ok. But we have a monotheistic religion – Judaism, Islam, and Christianity. They are exclusive. They make exclusive claims. Jews believe that you have to believe in Yahweh and you have to be Jewish to be saved. Muslims believe in Allah and Mohammed. We believe in Jesus Christ. And it seems like, society is not attacking Jewish people. They are not attacking Islam for their exclusiveness. But it seems like they are attacking Christian exclusive claims. So, I don’t know why there is such an anti-Christian spirit that opposes our Christian faith. But they would not attack Islam for their own faith or Jewish people. I never heard anyone making that strong attack on Jewish people that they are exclusive. Why Christians? So, I think we do have, as Christians, religious freedom to express our views but always there is a question. I sympathize with those Muslims living in Canada and the States because they feel threatened. Especially in the States right now. And you know, people attack them verbally on the streets because they are wearing hijabs and stuff. But, if you turn it upside down and you are living in those countries and if you are a Christian and are attacked on the street because you are Christian, you’d be scared, terrified right? It seems like people just throw these verbal attacks on the streets thinking that’s ok. No. I sympathize with them because they’re Muslim. Just because they are Muslims, they should not be attacked like that. There are good Muslims. There are bad Muslims. I’m not talking about their faith. I am talking about their personality, their character. There are good people. There are bad people. There are good Christians and there are bad Christians (laughs). In the same there are good Hindus and there are bad Hindus. Good Muslims and bad Muslims, I guess. But I don’t believe in attacking in any way other religions, Hindus or Muslims. Especially since this is a more Christian country. There are predominately more Christians than Hindus and Muslims and because they are minorities, they feel more threatened and they feel marginalized and we have to, we need to embrace them, help them to feel at home. I think that in the end, bringing the good name of Christ to them . . . not being anti-Muslim, anti-Hindu in the name of Christ. I think that is really bad way of evangelism.

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Joo clearly struggles with understanding what multiculturalism means in Canada and how to express his faith that he believes includes the practice of evangelism. He struggles with the claims of inclusion and exclusion and how that should be practiced. At the same time, he recognizes that there is a type of exclusion that threatens Muslims, Hindus and LGBTQ people. While he attempts to distance his Christianity from acts that threaten the freedom of Canadians, he struggles to reconcile his understanding of the Bible, evangelism and missionary work in a multicultural Canada. Here too we observe that the development of ethnic identity and the role of religion is a complex social process characterized by ongoing social interactions. The process is not straightforward towards any particular outcome but is negotiated in the context of Canadian multiculturalism and ongoing migration with new interactions between Christians, Muslims, Hindus and the political landscape of countries like the United States.

RESPONSES TO RELIGIOUS DIVERSITY Sociologists have attempted to make sense of migration, religion and social change offering a range of observations and explanations. Reginald Bibby (1993) suggested there were four responses to immigrants and the changing religious and cultural landscape in Canada. Each of the responses was framed from the perspective of a dominant European Christian society and how it viewed the arrival of people from Africa, Asia and Latin America. The first response he described as celebration and was represented by groups like the United Church of Canada that saw religious diversity as something to be welcomed. The second response was acceptance that viewed religious diversity as an indication that Canada had changed and the churches had to learn to live with the new social reality. Bibby described some progressive Christians and some evangelicals who fit this group. The third response he discussed focused on those Christian groups who used diversity as an opportunity for evangelism and church growth. Conservative evangelicals illustrated this view. Finally, he suggested there were Canadians who rejected immigration and religious diversity believing that a Christian country was gone with the arrival of new immigrants and increased religious diversity. Bibby does not offer any examples of the fourth group. It may be more accurate to think about Bibby’s categories as a methodological tool for categorizing a range of responses to immigrants and religious diversity on a continuum between embracing and rejecting social change. There is no large-scale study of Christian responses to religious diversity in Canada such as Robert Wuthnow’s study of American religious pluralism (2007). The analysis in this chapter moves in the direction of Wuthnow’s cultural analysis and raises similar kinds of questions about the role of congregations and the negotiation and construction of ethnic and religious identity.

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Peter Beyer (2006) argues that with globalization there is pluralization: meaning that religions around the world increasingly come into contact with one another. Canada is a meeting place of the world’s religions, especially, but not limited to, major urban centres like Montreal, Toronto and Vancouver. Pluralization focuses on the various ways that religions interact in a society with migration being an important context that brings religions closer together. As Canada becomes more religiously diverse, these interactions take place on a variety of levels including at a macro-level whereby religion as a social institution interacts with other social spheres like politics, health care, economics, education and the law. Each of these spheres of society has had to negotiate new relationships, policies and practices with the growing numbers of immigrants and religious diversity. Religious interactions are also observed at other levels including those between religions (e.g. Christianity and Islam), within religious traditions (e.g. Roman Catholics and Protestants) and among religious families (e.g., Korean Pentecostals and English Pentecostals). Beyer explains that each of these interactions highlights a series of relationships that are often characterized by claims of authority and authenticity as each religion attempts to find its place not only in Canadian society but also in relation to one another. Often these interactions can also be the sites for debates about orthodoxy (beliefs), orthopraxy (practices) and orthopathy (sentiments). Religious diversity and the interactions observed illustrate a powerful cultural process of boundary making and the role of culture for negotiating some sense of legitimacy. The Korean congregation highlights a particular space where the broader social questions about issues like migration and religious diversity are debated. Finally, Roland Robertson (1992, 2007) offers important insight for making sense of religious diversity and social change. Robertson’s work on globalization is shaped by a historical sensibility that observes globalizing tendencies across time and space. For example, Robertson discusses how globalization heightens issues around multiculturality and polyethnicity since the 1960s up until 2000. Following 9/11, Robertson focuses on what he calls the millennial phase of globalization that is characterized by increase fear, apocalypticism, questions about risk and security, construction of identities, an emphasis on the body and issues around religious inclusion and exclusion. This last point by Robertson is especially important not only for making sense of religious change in Canada more broadly but also for understanding how Pentecostals themselves are attempting to come to terms with the growing numbers of African, Asian and Latin American Pentecostals in their midst. What is notable is that with the growing diversity of Pentecostals in Canada, even organizations like the PAOC are not quite sure how to respond. Initially, the PAOC leaders believed that new immigrants were sources of church growth as Bibby notes. However, the case of the Korean Pentecostals shows that the issues are far more complex and

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are shaped by transnational ties, language, culture, second-generation youth and new Hindu and Muslim neighbours. Religious inclusion and exclusion are problematic not only on a variety of levels as indicated through a range of interactions between, for example, Korean Pentecostals and Muslims but also with other spheres of society, between Christian traditions, and among Pentecostals.

CONCLUSION This chapter has attempted to make some observations about social change over time in Canada and the intersection of that change within a local Korean congregation. The Korean congregation illustrates a number of issues and questions about conversion and the role of Christianity among non-Christians, including the story of how Jacob Joo came to embrace Christianity, attended a theological college in Canada and became a Pentecostal pastor. One important strategy for the Korean congregation was to maintain an especially dense religious tie not only with Korean Pentecostals throughout the world but especially with Yonggi-Cho’s church, where they are supported and networked (Wilkinson 2009). The transnational ties they maintain with Korean churches and missionaries throughout the world offer them opportunities to utilize important cultural contacts and social capital for the congregation as it receives new immigrants and sends short-term missionaries into the world. Maintaining a congregation in Canada, however, also has its challenges including responsibilities to the denomination. It also has its challenges as a religious subculture that maintains a clear mission, vision and programmes that focus on youth where the tensions between parents, Canadian culture and expectations of youth pastors intersect with the family and the congregation (Reimer and Wilkinson 2015). Finally, the congregation is also attempting to understand how they practice evangelism and missionary activities in a multicultural society that is inclusive of all religions (Beaman 2017).

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Chapter 7

Gender matters Second-generation Buddhists, Hindus and Muslims growing up in Canada RUBINA RAMJI

The majority of Canadians identify themselves as Christians, but Canada’s religious diversity has been on the increase, especially Islam, Hinduism, Sikhism, Chinese religion and Buddhism (Bramadat and Seljak 2008). Research in Canada has shown that recent immigrant children and youth are twice more likely to attend religious services in comparison to their Canadian-born complement (Biles and Ibrahim 2005). This chapter focuses on the universityage children of these first-generation migrants. Second-generation youth have no direct ethnic identity to build upon, and therefore are left to define their religion and its practices for themselves, unlike their parents (Frideres 2008). Integration is a multi-generational process and as will be shown here, secondgeneration religious youth demonstrate the difference that gender makes as they grow up in Canada and retain their ethnic and religious identity. In order to examine the interwoven influences of gender, religion and culture, this chapter focusses on six representative stories gathered during a multi-year research project on second-generation religious youth in Canada.1 Anzan and Tylanni are Buddhists, Vaanika and Balram are Hindus and Sabirah and Aasim are Muslims. There are many overlapping themes in these stories, such as the importance of family, friends, freedom and educational pursuits. There are ways that their experiences – and their religious expressions – differ: through food, clothing or leisure activities, or as expressed in values goals,

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or dreams. As you read their stories here and observe the role of religion and culture as it manifested itself in their daily lives, I draw your attention to the difference that gender makes to religion and migration.

GENDER MATTERS Anzan self-identified as a male Buddhist second-generation Vietnamese Canadian student, who still lives with his parents and younger sister, in a working-class multicultural neighbourhood where he grew up in Toronto. His friendships were with others from immigrant neighbourhood families. Anzan was vague about many aspects of his life, and his knowledge of Buddhism was rather vague as well. He self-identified as a Buddhist but professed what seemed to be a surface-level understanding of the religion, focusing on the practical merits of being Buddhist. When questioned, he was unable to clarify exactly what being Buddhist meant for him, but that it was connected to a ‘meditative, more of a relaxed philosophy, of thinking and investigation’. While Anzan used meditation to define Buddhism, he did not meditate himself. Yet, he felt that Buddhism made people see things more clearly and made him a better student. He did not consider himself to be ‘entirely religious’. His mother made daily offerings of incense to the family ancestors, but when asked the meaning behind this ritual, Anzan wasn’t entirely clear on the subject, but felt was a form of communication and a sign of respect to the family ancestors. Despite his cursory knowledge of Buddhism, Anzan appeared firm in his belief that the main strength of Buddhism today was its ‘ability to adapt through time’. The philosophy of Buddhism helped him relax, especially during exams, and helped him think more critically and analytically. By taking university courses on Buddhism, he believed it would help him to discover his personal identity, his life goals and his future. Reflecting on his life as a child of immigrants growing up in Canada, he described Canada as like a mosaic, characterized by its acceptance and openness to some religions. Anzan was comfortable with both the vagueness of his religious identity and was happy to be living in Canada, as it offered him and his friends, all second-generation immigrants, a place where they could grow and develop. Tylanni self-identified as a female Buddhist second-generation Hong Kong Canadian who had migrated to Canada at a young age and who had hopes of returning to Hong Kong someday. Her parents were Christians, but her grandparents had been Buddhist and so Tylanni’s discussion of Buddhism was infused with reflections on the subjects of ‘superstition’, spirituality and religious pluralism. Her grandmother, when she was alive, had taught her to offer incense to the ancestors on the first and fifteenth day of each month, wear a Buddhist amulet, eat a vegetarian diet and visit a Buddhist temple

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periodically. For Tylanni migration to Canada had changed her religiosity and here she returned to being a practising Christian, though she preferred notions of karma and reincarnation to Christian notions of heaven and hell, and she had incorporated Buddhist teachings of virtue and self-control into her life. If she had a question about Buddhism, she would ask her dad and then consult the internet. ‘Google is my best friend’, she confessed. Tylanni and her father discussed religion from time to time, especially Christianity and the Bible, but she said her mother did not really care about her religious beliefs. Her father seemed to want to ensure that she had not adopted a Christian world view. Although she found her father to be superstitious, she continued to wear a necklace from her grandmother that identified Buddhist symbols: ‘It was meant to fend off bad spirits.’ With a laugh in her voice, Tylanni said she wears it when she had nightmares. Tylanni’s discussions of religious self-identification were mediated by family relationships and gendered religious roles. As parents – especially Asian parents who had immigrated to Canada – Tylanni’s mother and father were rather liberal. Her father suggested that she find a partner, but her mother wanted her to finish university first. She and her friends could drink alcohol and her parents didn’t get upset. Yet, she considered her younger brother to be ‘too Canadian’ because he didn’t have time to learn Buddhist teachings in Hong Kong, so he argued with his parents constantly. Throughout Tylanni’s story, you can see various markers of the difference gender makes for self-identifying second-generation Buddhist migrants. Tylanni’s family played an important role in both how Buddhism was constructed and why it made a difference. Tylanni lived her Buddhism differently from Anzan, and gender seemed to make a significant difference. Vaanika self-identified as a second-generation Hindu female, living in Ottawa with her parents and younger brother. Although she was born in Canada, she could speak and write both Hindi and Punjabi – languages that her family spoke at home. Vaanika’s parents were both university educated and employed. She was a vegetarian, her decisions were made through Hindu morals and values; and she prayed and meditated every day: ‘I think a religion is a way of life, it always guides me on how to become a better person, and whenever I have to make a decision, it [is] something I can fall back on and not worry about it . . . sooner or later it will be a framework from which I will make all my decisions.’ Defining spirituality as the inner passion for God, Vaanika reflected on the fact that all her family members were practising Hindus. Occasionally, Vaanika and her family would go to temple and participate in the rituals there. Vaanika said that family religious devotion was obligatory when she was a child. Now she felt that religion brought ‘a lot of peace and guidance’. When she was lonely, it was to these religious practices that she turned. Her parents didn’t instil the need to pray or worship at the temple daily so she prayed on her own time, whenever and wherever she felt like it.

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While she was not able to define Hinduism clearly, she believed in karma and reincarnation. For guidance, she turned to her parents’ guru, with whom she kept in touch through email and letter-writing. Her brothers, cousins and extended family were also a source of support religiously, answering the day-to-day questions for which she sometimes needed answers. However, as she was quick to note, not all of her extended family were Ram devotees or even religious. Vaanika straddled two cultures. She had Hindu and ‘Canadian’ friends, watched Bollywood more than Hollywood movies and cooked both Indian and North American foods. What kept the disparate parts of her life joined was her religious identity, which was very important to her, and which permeated her understanding of family, of gender and of labour. Balram self-identified as a second-generation Hindu Canadian, arriving when he was nine years old. Both of Balram’s parents were well educated, and his two siblings were in university. His parents were practising Hindus, and their religious and cultural traditions were important to them. This explained, in part, Balram’s willingness to accompany his parents to the temple and eat only vegetarian food when he was living with or visiting them. The communal, or collective, part of being religious was something that Balram understood well. Even though he no longer considered himself a Hindu – except by the tradition of his family – he still enjoyed the serenity of a visit to the temple or the sights and sounds of its surroundings. Balram noted that in southern India where he grew up as a small child, religion and culture were tightly integrated – in the Canadian context, less so. Religion did not offer anything practical to Balram, yet he realized that ‘because I grew up in a Hindu household, I’m sure it’s influenced me quite a bit’. Family was important to Balram, and in this sense, his father’s declining health caused him to question notions of karma, and he felt conflicted by his faith. His parents would rather that he believed what they believed, but they understood why he had moved away from his faith. Balram insisted his friends be open-minded to other religious traditions and differences. Understanding religious differences, according to Balram, was critical, ‘especially now with Islam being in the limelight’. He didn’t want friends who were ‘fundamentalist’ in their religious beliefs. Although not religious, he appreciated Hinduism’s flexible nature. He followed the religious teachings of the importance of family, helping out in society and celebrating as a community. He found Hinduism to be open to interpretation: there was no one way to be a good Hindu. Respecting the religion of his parents, and respecting all faiths, was something that just seemed right to Balram. For Balram, like other Hindus interviewed, being part of a welcoming Canadian mosaic was important. As a Hindu male, his religious identity and practice were determined by gender. Like other Hindus, he appreciated the

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flexibility of Hinduism and while he deeply respected his parents and their religion, he had not adopted many of its tenets. Both the Muslim narratives chosen for this chapter are of youth who were very highly involved in their faith and practice. Distinctively, the material each provided on religiosity was much greater and as a result so are these narratives. Twenty-year-old Sabirah self-identified as a second-generation female Muslim from a middle-class family, who still lived at home. Her father was from Kenya, her mother from Pakistan: she had two older siblings. She thought about God constantly and saw Islam as a way of life: like a debt she owed God at all times. To her, religion brought people from different parts of the world together. It was the truth: ‘I have to put that before anything else . . . I put that first.’ She had a mixture of friends, both Muslim and non-Muslim, all female. She considered herself to be of a higher level of practice than other Muslims in her generation, including her friends. Sabirah became more interested in understanding her faith in her early teens and began reading and learning about Islam herself. She listened to online lectures and went to community events. Turning to the internet when she had questions, she would consult articles discussing the understanding of the Qur’an and Hadith, searching out past religious authorities. She did not consider today’s imams to be valid sources of authority. Describing the ideal characteristics of a Muslim, Sabirah included such concepts as being sincere, having a good character, good manners and being trustworthy. This was done out of fear of God. The most important practice to Sabirah was prayer, planning when and where she would pray throughout the day. Sabirah held to the global five-pillar model of Islam in her other practices: praying five times a day, giving to charity, fasting during Ramadan and wanting to perform hajj one day. She learned to pray regularly from her parents, in the morning, afternoon and evening and began fasting at age eight. By age thirteen, Sabirah began performing all five daily prayers by herself. She did not pray at the mosque, because it was not mandatory for women to attend. But she believed it was important for men to attend regularly – she even persuaded her father to attend lectures at the mosque. Sabirah would go to the mosque for social functions, such as Eid celebrations, Ramadan evening prayers, marriages and funerals. She did not see the mosque as a necessity for female youth, because ‘the girls, they can find fun things to do themselves . . . but it helps create a space for young men’. Sabirah began wearing the hijab at age thirteen, for religious reasons: ‘I think it’s obligatory, but because we live here you get so used to not wearing it. So, then it feels like a challenge, but otherwise it’s like, it should be something normal that like when you get older you start covering, you know, more.’ At the interview, Sabirah was wearing a black hijab, a long-sleeved coat and a long skirt, dressing in a highly modest way. She stated that it is mandatory

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for a woman to cover everything except her hands and her face. In Pakistan, Sabirah’s mother used to wear the hijab and cover her face but had stopped the practice in England because there were very few immigrants there and she felt unsafe. She began wearing the hijab again in Canada when her first daughter began wearing the veil. After 9/11, Sabirah’s father became worried and told his daughters and wife to stop wearing the hijab. Sabirah talked to her brother, who convinced their father that it was still safe to wear it in Ottawa. At times, Sabirah disagreed with her parents, but she was careful to respect them, something that she believed was integral to the teachings of Islam. She tended to differ in opinion from them regarding cultural issues (Pakistani culture), finding ostentatious weddings and listening to Indian songs deemed un-Islamic. When it came to religion, she did not have any disagreements with her parents. She might go to them when she had a question but did not expect answers from them. At that point, each of them would find their own answers through the sources of Islam. She believed that as long as both children and parents were religious, they would have fewer problems. For Sabirah, Islam affected every aspect of her life. She found that it was important to always read prayers during any spare moment she might have. Islam also affected the type of academic career she hoped to pursue, veering away from music or drama because it was not ‘encouraged’ in Islam. It affected which political party she would vote for. Her parents would arrange her marriage to a Muslim with a Pakistani background, but she could accept or reject it. She was not allowed to hang out in public places with her female friends, such as the mall or restaurants, because it might lead to inappropriate contact with men. She did not go ‘out’ with friends but might go over to their houses to spend time together and talk. Like many other highly involved female Muslim youths in our study, Sabirah believed that it was important to contribute to society and wanted to be a good role model for children. Aasim self-identified as a second-generation Muslim male, whose father was from India and his mother from an island off the coast of Africa. Religion gave people values and morals, and he prayed five times a day. He expounded the five basic principles of Islam and then identified some of the behaviours he tried to avoid, such as drinking alcohol, eating pork and ‘fraternizing with the opposite sex’. On Fridays, Aasim listened to lectures, read texts and talked and socialized with other men of similar faith at the mosque and on campus where it was convenient. The biggest challenge for Aasim as a Muslim was linked to the Islamic rules associated with the sexual segregation of society. Education was key to dispelling misunderstandings about the Islamic faith or Muslims in general. His involvement with the Muslim Studies Association fostered his religious development. As he grew stronger in his identity as a Muslim, Aasim began to question and challenge his parents. He realized that his parents, like many immigrant parents, brought a lot of ‘cultural baggage’ with

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them from their countries of origin: ‘I came to a point where I just rejected all of that, and I felt I started from a clean slate, where I threw everything [out] that I was told, threw much off to the side, and learned the basics all over again.’ Aasim and his parents discussed matters of faith, but they did not disagree to the point where it became a problem or a strain in their relationship. Yet he felt that his mother ‘still doesn’t feel the importance of the basic things in Islam that we believe women should do like wearing the hijab. . . . They’re just not values that we share’. He also disagreed with his parents about the primary importance of education and the extravagance of cultural celebrations like marriages, as they went against Islamic principles. Aasim wanted to live his life in a way that would ‘conform to Islamic principles’ so quit his job at a fitness club and was undertaking a different degree, in order to maintain Muslim ‘gender relations’. The pursuit of truth, as it related to his Muslim identity, was very important to Aasim. In fact, this pursuit in many ways differentiated a large portion of the young immigrant people associated with Islam in our study from those who were linked to Hinduism or Buddhism. It marked the boundaries around their lives – how the day was divided between secular and sacred activities – but also how men and women thought about – and experienced – their dreams and goals. Both Aasim and Sabirah wished their parents were as religiously committed as they both found themselves at this point in their lives.

THE DIFFERENCE THAT GENDER MAKES Behavioural norms, dress codes, social expectations, family duties, permissible roles and responsibilities within religious organizations are often worked through in gendered ways. The interrelation between gender, culture and religion is difficult, if not impossible, to disentangle. Thus, we cannot always accurately assess whether a gendered pattern is religious or cultural. Gender plays an important role in the transmission of religion, or, in other words, in religious socialization. Women play a key role in laying the groundwork for the religious practices of their children, being the keepers of home-based rituals and sometimes the initiators of more public forms of practice (Ramji 2008). Both mothers and grandmothers were influential in self-identifying female participants. Vaanika, a Hindu, and Sabirah, a Muslim, each imagined part of their roles as women to include passing on their religious tradition to their children. The general pattern in North America – and indeed in most parts of the world – is that women are more religiously involved than men are (Vincett, Sharma and Aune 2008: 5). This seemed to hold true in this study as well, so, for example, among our Buddhist participants there were no male imitative traditionalists, but found three females in this category. Although this is too

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small a number to make any generalizations, we would simply note that it follows the general pattern in North America.2 The patterns identified here, as the issues discussed earlier, are not without exceptions and nuance. For example, Cathy, a Korean Buddhist woman in this study, expressed that as a child she participated in a ritual with her uncle to welcome spirits of ancestors into the home – a ritual traditionally reserved for the eldest son. We heard stories of fathers and grandfathers providing the foundation on which their sons and grandsons based their religious knowledge and practices. While there were some fairly restrictive rules about dating and gender roles, our female participants were also encouraged by their families to seek an education and to have careers. Gendered goals For Buddhist males like Anzan, the concept of identifying with religion is in itself a goal. The identification incorporates the idea of following the philosophy of Buddhism without any particular ritual involved. It involves being moral but also includes being compassionate, calm and positive. It is one’s outlook that makes one Buddhist. The spiritual quest of male Buddhists tends to focus on building a religious identity, through thinking rather than actions. This thought process is further developed through learning – learning about one’s culture and language. Buddhist Females, on the other hand, like Tylanni, also strive for a spiritual understanding of faith. These youths search for meaning in Buddhism as well, but it incorporates the values of virtue and self-control with religious consequences: karma and reincarnation. Female Buddhists also seem to associate these Buddhist values with the relationships they have with their parents – following the Buddhist teachings means that familial bonds will remain strong. The main difference between Buddhist males and females is the notion of community: females seem to bond with others who carry the same Buddhist concepts of religious identity. Therefore, their socialization is more than a personal quest: it is a communal goal. When contrasting the story of Tylanni with Sabirah’s, we see clearly that the religious goal for Muslim females is to remember God in all things – although here it refers mainly to the highly involved. Thus, religion plays a large role in the socialization of Muslim women. The concept of a complete life that revolves around Islam is a strong message found among these female immigrant youths, among both the first and second generation. To follow this spiritual quest, female Muslims create delineated boundaries between religious goals versus cultural behaviour. Women should avoid friendships with men, dress modestly and marry only a Muslim. These goals place limits on their own socialization – Muslim women, like the young women interviewed, prefer to spend time with

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other Muslim women. They feel no pressure when they are with each other, since they have all chosen to express their spirituality through action. These actions, in turn, are offered as ideal models for younger Muslim girls. Free time is devoted to better understanding Islam and deciding for themselves what is required of a ‘pure’ Muslim, without the influence of culture (both the culture of their parents and Canadian culture). The goal for these women is to immerse themselves into Islam completely, while at the same time making sure that they are able to pass down these same goals to Muslim girls of the next generation. Yet this immersion does not take place at the mosque with the larger (male) Muslim community but is rather an individual identity, nurtured privately, and is expressed in the way they articulate their faith through daily actions. Muslim males like Aasim make a strong stand to maintain an Islamic identity within the secular culture that surrounds them (within Canada and the culture of their parents). From this perspective, knowing the truth of faith provides people with values and morals. And so the practices performed by Muslim men are based on the principles expounded by Islam: to avoid alcohol and pork and not to fraternize with the opposite sex. Interestingly, the concept of only same-sex socialization seems a much easier quest for women than for men. Yet men have a larger socialization structure – through the mosque and the Muslim students’ associations on campus. Like Aasim, many young Muslim men begin to associate with other young men of their faith once they reach the university campus with its greater availability of the religiously and culturally like-minded Muslims. Rather than physically act as role models, many Muslim men believe that it is through ‘religious’ education that the truth of Islam can be understood and properly followed. The very act of openly being Muslim is in itself the goal, because it develops one’s own sense of religious identity and it also acts as a way for others to learn the true teachings of Islam. The same responsibility is echoed by female Muslims, but it seems that women have an unproblematic time being openly Islamic in comparison to Muslim men. Hindu females like Vaanika see religion as a way of living – all decisions can be made through religious morals and values. Not only is it a way of thinking but a way of behaving. Quite a few are vegetarians and meditate daily. Like her, they wish to pass on these Hindu values and morals to their children. Many Hindu females acknowledge that their actions are influenced by the notions of karma and reincarnation – therefore, practice is as important as devotion. Although religion is a spiritual quest, it also offers social support. Therefore, the desire to maintain these religious goals includes marrying a fellow Hindu so that children will be raised with the same religious passion. Hindu males seem to understand the communal aspect of religion as well, as they often accompany parents to temples and eat vegetarian food to show respect to their parents. This is the collective expression of the spiritual quest, similar to what was mentioned by Balram. But what seems to be of more importance

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is the understanding of the concepts that are the foundation of the faith. Even though Hinduism expounds moral values, the idea of interpretive flexibility seems to play a more important role in religious identification – by attending festivities and respecting parents, one can be a good Hindu. Therefore, the action of respect – respect of other views and cultures and religions – is the goal of a Hindu male quest. Although it is a daily quest, it is less defined by ‘religious’ actions than it is for Hindu females. Hindu women seem concerned with passing along the actions and customs or rituals associated with Hinduism to the next generation, while Hindu males seem content with fulfilling the spiritual quest of their faith by the way they see and treat those around them. The spiritual quest of religion has many overlapping goals within all three religious traditions, but a clear pattern that has emerged is that the women have taken on the responsibility for maintaining spiritual goals through actions, which they hope to pass on to the next generation. Women wish to be role models in order to help the younger generation to follow the same spiritual quest. At the same time, the men all quest for the goal of being virtuous and moral, but these goals are often expressed more through thoughts and outlook rather than through specific actions. Muslim men appear to take the concept of being moral one step further – they must look and act in a way that expresses the truth of their faith. The way in which a person affiliates with a religious tradition can be considered unique in each instance. Yet at the same time, patterns emerge from the numerous analyses in which people choose to live their lives and construct their religious or nonreligious identities. Gender has a role to play in the way men and women are religious. Furthermore, the way women and men transmit their religious identity through practice varies in particular ways. Buddhist males tend to identify as being Buddhist, like Anzan, making it a part of their personal moral gauge, but do very little in terms of practice. It is more of a philosophy for the way one lives than a physical expression. The fact that mothers perform rituals does not seem to concern the male youths – they see it as more of a physical expression of the philosophy that they carry with them: to show respect, be positive and be calm. The way they see themselves as Buddhist is to ‘think’ Buddhist. Thus, religious identity is linked to understanding one’s culture. If one can understand where one comes from, one can be ‘religious’. Female Buddhists also express a desire to be linked to a Buddhist culture. Moral concepts such as virtue and self-control are definitely important – they help to guide one’s actions. But to be Buddhist also requires them to incorporate it somehow into their lives, as seen in Tylanni’s story. Faith is not just a thought process but the physical acknowledgement of performing Buddhist rituals, even if just on special occasions. These processes could include going to the temple or being vegetarian for a day. One further identity boundary is raised by female

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Buddhists: the desire to wear or carry a marker that represents Buddhism. Some wear necklaces to ward off bad spirits, and others carry cards of the image of Guan Yin in their wallets. In Tylanni’s case, she wears her necklace when she had nightmares. Practising Muslim youths tend to have stronger boundaries as to what is religious and what is not. Female youths think of God constantly, because their religious beliefs are heavily linked to the way in which they live their lives. Sabirah spoke of this directly. Rather than identifying as being Muslim by what one does weekly or at festivals, for female youth the concept of knowing and remembering God is there at all times and influences many daily decisions. To be Muslim is to ‘live’ Islam. Therefore, physical boundaries are just as important as moral ones. For instance, females do not mix with males, they do not marry people of different faiths and they do not go against parental wishes. Religious dictates override those of the cultures in which they are being raised, to the point where these females limit their interactions with nonMuslims as friends and all males in general. One might assume that these females are pressured by parents and other family members to maintain these boundaries, but many of them have come to find their own religious identities themselves, even going so far as to don the veil without parental coercion and in some instances against parental wishes (but always with respect). In fact, many of these young women take issue with the way their parents practise their faith – some mothers do not wear the veil, and if they do, they do not do it properly, according to their daughters. Some fathers fear for their daughters in the way they may be treated in public if they wear the veil. Yet the veil helps to maintain their religious identities, because it helps them to maintain their ‘modesty’ in Canadian culture. They do not exclude themselves from society, because the veil has created a natural barrier in the way they interact with men and non-Muslims. These practices are further transmitted by young females in that they wish to be role models to younger Muslims in their communities. They take on voluntary positions in camps and focus on professions that will allow them to work with the younger generation of Muslims growing up in Canada. In a sense, they are trying to counter the ‘Canadian culture’ in which they are surrounded, because this culture, through various sources such as the media, often criticizes ‘Islamic’ practices as oppressive (such as wearing the veil for women or wearing a beard for men). In essence, they are becoming the transmitters of religious identity and practice to the younger generation through their behaviour and through their words. Muslim males are also strongly driven to maintain a boundary between religion and Canadian culture. Many believe that they must maintain a physical barrier between themselves and females in society, even to the extent of leaving their chosen profession. But while Muslim males avoid fraternizing with the opposite

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sex, they do have a sense of religious community that does not seem to be as important to the women. Following the command to attend mosque on Fridays, males gather with other males, whereas females tend to pray at home or with their female friends in the domestic sphere. Yet at the same time, both genders also reiterate the fact that being Muslim is a constant remembrance. It is not only about praying five times a day or avoiding pork and alcohol, being Muslim is also about values and morals. For women, these values are expressed in the way they respect their parents and wish to instil these values in the younger generation. In contrast, the males share their values and morals through community – a male community. Of importance to note is that both Muslim males and females feel that, living in a secular culture that does not understand Islam, it becomes their responsibility to educate and represent Islam to others – for women it is to the younger generation, and for men it is to the general public. Both genders are willing to challenge parental wishes in order to practise Islam in a ‘purer’ way, without what they interpret as their parents’ cultural baggage and fears. Although it has been argued that one can be a Hindu without doing anything, the idea of what it means to be a Hindu to women incorporates the same elements that have been found in both Buddhism and Islam. The way in which one lives is a function of religiosity. Hindu females perform Hinduism through their decisions: they carry strong Hindu morals and values. These values, they believe, make them better people. From this perspective, to show one’s devotion to a god is through expression. This is often transmitted through practices in the home but also communally. These physical practices, such as meditation and prayer, are sources of peace and guidance – something they feel can be found through their parents’ way of practising Hinduism. Friends supply a strong religious support system as well. There is also an urgent desire to transmit these religious values to future generations – through their own children. The fact that culture is part of religious tradition is important in understanding how Hindu belief is maintained in host countries – Indian culture is an important element for maintaining religiosity. In comparison, Hindu males understand religiosity as communal activities in large part – eating vegetarian foods and going to the temple. But there is more of a distinction between culture and religion among Hindu males because religion is more of a physical action than a way of living and thinking. Hindu males seem to straddle the concept of living in two cultures in a clear-cut fashion – being Hindu is to perform certain acts, but it is not something that enters into cultural life. Morals that dictate behaviour are considered interpretative rather than definitive. But family continues to play a large role in the way both Hindu males and Hindu females live – respect for family is of utmost importance, as seen in the lives of Vaanika and Balram. Both genders in all three religious traditions have built their religious identities upon the firm foundation that respect for family and familial practices

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are of utmost importance. Each religious tradition is performed in different ways: some are transmitted through the concept of morality and virtue, while others are transmitted through physical rituals. Both men and women show generational differences in the way they understand the rituals they perform, but women seem to be the defining group to transmit these values and rituals to the next generation growing up in Canada. As seen from the earlier discussion, much of the gender differences and patterns reside, perhaps not unexpectedly, in the body.

THE EMBODIED NATURE OF RELIGION The notion of religion as embodied draws on a range of perspectives that intertwine to help us understand the relationship between body, space and religious practice. Here we read embodiment in a broad fashion, from ritual practices to clothing to geographic location. Scholars like Robert Orsi and Meredith McGuire have paid particular attention to the idea of lived religion. As McGuire points out, though, lived religion should not be understood as a purely subjective, individual concept (McGuire 2008: 12). Orsi emphasizes the public nature of ‘private’ religious practice, thus calling us to understand the fluidity of those boundaries and the importance of studying and understanding what people do (Orsi 2005). Both shift attention from belief to practice. Kim Knott further complicates the picture by drawing to our attention the geographies of religious practices (Knott 2005). Thus, we see the clothes one wears, the food one eats (or does not) and the places one practises one’s religion as all being within the rubric of ‘embodiment’. We may consider involvement in ritual, commitment to dietary rules and restrictions, or the creation of sacred spaces as related to the ways in which religion is practised and, for the purposes of this chapter, the ways in which gender intersects with that embodiment. Among those interviewed, the Buddhist men as least ‘embodied’ and more cerebral. Buddhist men were not engaged in rituals or practices in a consistent manner, if at all. Yet when examined more closely, we can see mention of ‘general rituals’ and descriptions of Buddhism as ‘meditative’, comments that lend support to the notion that there is in fact an embodied element to their lives that links to their (sometime) self-identification as Buddhists. For the seekers, the idea of returning to a homeland and living as a monk was mentioned, a project that would clearly contain a significant shift in embodied reality. But there were more subtle comments that point to an embodied Buddhist approach that was articulated as ‘relaxed’ or ‘open’. Buddhist women were similarly cerebral, although they were more likely to engage in rituals and practices, like Tylanni in our opening story. A number of

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the Buddhist youth expressed dissatisfaction with ritual and practice without a concomitant understanding of why they were engaging in a particular ritual or practice. For Tylanni, the concept of virtue was very important. It seemed that the Buddhism that was transmitted to them was not in fact cerebral enough, and for those inclined to identify as Buddhist there was a need to move past ‘mere’ ritual to a deeper understanding that many seemed to feel could only come through the intellect. For Tylanni and others, culture had not been left behind – it was living in their heads. While there was occasional mention of the wearing of pieces of jewellery by some of the Buddhist women, which was, for them, linked to religious or spiritual practice, there was nothing that would ‘mark’ their bodies as being linked to any particular religious practice to an outsider. This is, of course, in contrast to both Muslims and Hindus. For the more observant Muslim men and women, daily prayer, five times each day, constituted a core religious practice. This practice is embodied geographically by being performed in relation to the location of Mecca and by using the body as an instrument of ritual. However, where, exactly, prayer is performed, especially in relation to the mosque, can be different for men and for women. As one of our participants noted, ‘[b]ut, like the mosque is not really somewhere that . . . men go every Friday, to pray, but women don’t really have to, they could if they want, but going to the mosque is not a big deal for Muslims, for women especially’. A similar public/private divide between Hindu men and women was also found. For the women, ritual practice was much more likely to be situated in the home than in the temple, which was seen as largely irrelevant to their religious practice. Many of the Hindu males seemed to embody their faith through extended family networks as an expression of Indian culture. Muslim men and women also share modesty of dress as an outward symbol of their religious commitment, although there are great variations in the translation of this ideal. Nowhere is it more complex than the wearing of hijab by Muslim women, like Sabirah in our opening stories, a practice that has taken on disproportionate significance and garnered an inordinate amount of attention in the non-Muslim world. Although Muslim men may wear a beard (and our higher-on-the-scale male participants mentioned this as desirable), it does not distinguish them in the same way that Muslim women are distinguished through the ‘veil’. A variety of studies have affirmed the wide range of reasons that Muslim women cover their heads (Hoodfar 2006) and the disproportionate and alarmist attention this practice receives (Bakht 2008). The two ‘orthodox’ women interviewed both wore hijab and saw it in terms of religious observance. Not all of the ‘highly involved’ women wore the veil, but the majority saw it as an ideal worth reaching as a way of fully embodying the tenets of their faith. Of those who did, our findings bear repeating (Ramji 2013).

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Twelve of the highly involved women who did wear the hijab gave a variety of reasons for donning the veil. One woman felt that it was part of her identity, another for reasons of modesty. A few of them met with parental opposition to wearing the veil. Another woman stated that her mother believed that by wearing the veil, she was losing her rights as a woman and a Canadian. Another woman began wearing the veil because her aunt bought it for her, even though her mother felt it too restrictive. The 9/11 attacks also played an important role in her desire to identify as a Muslim in Canada. Our study confirms, yet again, that the issue of head covering is complex, is often expressive of women’s agency rather than their oppression and, in short, cannot be simplistically categorized or understood. Of note is the fact that the women who wear veil did not mention any fixed method of veiling, but they held the concept of veiling as a personification of the purity of Islam. It was their way of being ‘better Muslims’. Food plays an important role in each of the religious groups studied, whether in the form of dietary restrictions (e.g., fasting during Ramadan or consuming pork and alcohol), special meals during holidays and festivals or as part of ritual offerings. It is here that we see one of the more pronounced and sustained gendered divides that carries across the groups who participated in this research and indeed could be identified as something that women across many religious groups have in common: without a doubt, it is predominantly women who labour in the kitchens and men who enjoy the fruits of those labours. As with food, it is most often women who manage the physical home space related to religious practice. For Hindu women, this may mean the creation and maintenance of a home shrine and engaging in pujas. Among our participants, Hindu women were much more likely to maintain some sort of ritual practice than were the Hindu males. Many Muslim women noted that a significant role of Muslim women was to raise children and take care of the home, even if they had jobs. Although the Muslim women in this study were pursuing higher education, the majority still lived with their families and did not talk about living on their own – that would happen with marriage. In many instances for highly involved Muslim women, the home played the role of a sanctuary, because it helps to maintain the boundary of sexual segregation and also allows them to pursue their own investigations into their faith. For Muslim women, there is an interesting generational split, which was observed among some of our participants. Somewhat surprisingly, it was sometimes the younger second generation (our participants) who were more religiously observant or conservative than their mothers. This took the form of more regularly observing prayers or wearing hijab and more modest dress. For Irshad, for example, career took second place to the idea of having a Muslim husband and family, a prioritization that was in direct contravention of her parents’ wishes that she be a career woman. Thus, not only gender but

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generation (including social and cultural context) had an impact on the ways in which religion was practised by some of our participants. At the same time, there was a mention that their fathers were sometimes less practising. For instance, Sabirah found that her father used to be considered ‘the cool dad’, because he let his children listen to music and watch inappropriate movies. But as each of our participants began their own individual searches into their religion, they found ways of seeing how their first-generation parents differed from them in practice. The most important aspect among all our second-generation immigrant participants in the way they formed their religious identity (apart from what they learned from their family) was the personal investigation they undertook to better learn about their religious traditions, whether to become more practising or to leave certain aspects of the faith behind.

CONCLUSION What is the difference that gender makes for religious second-generation youth in Canada? While fluidity and flexibility are central features of both Buddhist and Hindu identities, for the two Muslim youth highlighted in this chapter, Islam presented a stricter way of translating the faith into everyday life, which permeated, at least ideally, every dimension of life, including gender. Anzan’s story reveals how challenging it will be for young men to pass along a specific and systemic religious heritage to the next generation if their own identity is rather porous and their commitment to it remains mostly cerebral. For Tylanni, Buddhism was tied to what she did, particularly in the context of family living. While morality and personal goodness interweave both their stories, it was Tylanni who explicated this more clearly as part of her spiritual quest. Her lived religion included systemic religion in a clearer fashion than did Anzan’s. The two Hindu youths highlighted here revealed the gendered intermingling of culture and religion as it is experienced within the generation of young people whose parents have chosen Canada as their new home. Vaanika was already thinking about how she would be engaged in translating her culture and her religion to her children. She balanced her own career and family aspirations with those of her parents. Although Balram, the young Hindu male highlighted, was in the process of moving away from his religious heritage, he will almost always be connected to it at some level through his parents and extended relatives here and in India. For Sabirah and Aasim, their beliefs and practices as Muslims sometimes presented challenges to their lives at university and at work. Boundary negotiation was thus a prominent feature of the lives of these Muslim youths. For Sabirah, this boundary maintenance and negotiation was predominantly a private issue, although she shared it with her girlfriends (both Muslim and non-

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Muslim). For Aasim, boundary maintenance involved both private struggles and sharing in community at mosque and through the Muslim men’s association to which he had belonged on campus. It was associated with many practices as well as rather stringent beliefs. Some of the practices can make it difficult for young men and women to negotiate the restrictions they have placed upon themselves in order to live an ‘authentic’ form of Islam. Negotiating the boundaries of their personal and religious lives was something that many Muslim youths in this study took very seriously, and although some found it difficult to maintain, they all felt that they were able to practice their level of faith freely in Canada. For women, it was often a private issue, although it would be shared among other young women of Islamic faith (and non-Muslim women who shared the same values and morals). For men, it was often a communal activity – something they did together. But both men and women in this study demonstrated the same level of fluidity and flexibility in deciding how to define ‘authentic Islam’ and how it was to be lived on a daily basis. Gender matters when it comes to the interconnection of religion and migration – that is the story that emerged from the interviews that were conducted with second-generation immigrant young men and women linked to Buddhist, Muslim and Hindu faith traditions. They each embodied a religious identity in very different ways. As we consider the impact of this, it is imperative to focus on the way men and women are religious, or how they live their religious lives. It is also critical to consider the transmission of religious identity and practice and the ways that this transmission itself is gendered.

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Chapter 8

Making space through public engagements Canadian Ismaili Muslims ALYSHEA CUMMINS

INTRODUCTION Many people do not realize that Muslim identities are diverse, dynamic, flexible and relative. Moreover, many people are unaware of the efforts made by Muslim groups and individuals to dispel stereotypes and ill-informed or discriminatory narratives about Muslims and Islam. This chapter highlights efforts to challenge harmful narratives about Muslims and Islam by Shi’a Imami Nizari Ismaili Muslims (henceforth, Ismailis), a recently arrived Muslim migrant community in Canada.1 While a small number of Ismailis came to Canada in the 1950s, a second and larger wave of Ismaili Muslims, including Rubina Ramji, came to Canada in 1972 as refugees. This larger group of South Asian Ismaili migrants had been expelled from Uganda and sought asylum in Canada. We often think of migrant landings as being softened by religious ties or home country connections. But for this group of early Ismaili South Asians being Muslim didn’t help them connect to established communities in Canada as so few Ismailis lived here. Ismaili migrants found themselves alone in Canada and are often estranged from other Muslims. In the following paragraphs, this chapter outlines the ways in which Ismailis have cultivated connections

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and belonging in Canada in the past and present, for themselves and also for Muslim Canadians in general. The Muslim diaspora in Canada is complex, multi-generational and full of shifts and tensions. It is a nexus for new positioning and expressions of Islam and being Muslim.2 This study is about a particular aspect of the migrant and (re)settlement experience, and explores the ways that Muslims harmonize being Muslim with being Canadian. It focuses on the ways that Ismailis have worked to ‘make space’ for a more nuanced understanding of what it means to be Muslim in a multicultural Canadian society. I use the expression ‘make space’ or ‘making space’ to refer to the efforts being made by Ismailis to be accepted as legitimate members of both the Muslim umma and Canadian society. The expression encompasses the desire to belong to these wider communities while simultaneously remaining true to their unique identity. Ismailis will point to commonalities while also pointing to their differences in an effort to show that they can belong and still be themselves. Ismaili Muslims are a minority group in Canada and they are also a minority within the Muslim community, otherwise known as the umma. As such while they have experienced anti-Muslim, Islamophobic discrimination or ‘othering’ generally in Canada by non-Muslims, they have additionally experienced intraumma othering, including intolerance and discrimination due to their distinct beliefs and practices.3 Muslims are diverse in their beliefs, practices, expressions and interpretations of the faith and this diversity has not always been accepted or tolerated by exclusivist Muslim traditions.4 This understanding is important as it helps us to understand why Ismailis are not replacing one homogenous narrative about Muslims with another, and instead are taking a more inclusive and representative response to anti-Muslim discourse in Canada as they know the harm of being othered, excluded and not represented. In Canada, where Muslims come from a multitude of backgrounds, histories, religious interpretations and experiences, it becomes important to understand that there is no one way to be Muslim. This ensures that exclusivist rhetoric about what it means to be one kind of Muslim is alleviated and space is made for Muslims and their inherent diversity in Canada.

CONSEQUENCES OF OTHERING DISCOURSES ON CANADIAN MUSLIMS Negative perceptions and stereotypes of Muslims in Canada became increasingly evident following the Iranian Revolution in the late 1970s, the Gulf War in the 1990s and post-9/11 in the early 2000s.5 These global contexts have fostered a climate of suspicion, scrutiny and heavy-handed othering of Muslims around the world. Further, this anti-Muslim climate continues to have an impact on the

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lived experiences of Muslims across Canada, irrespective of personal religious affiliation. Consequences of this othering include anti-Muslim prejudice and discrimination perpetuated by mass generalizations and misrepresentations. Other consequences include their exclusion from social, economic and political affairs or even exclusion from buying homes in better postal codes and neighbourhoods. These consequences can have harmful impacts on Muslim identity, self-perception and long-term migrant success. While we can find various instances of these consequences around the world, we will focus primarily on Canadian experiences. The Canadian Muslim experience has often been a negative one, exemplified by exclusionary legislation especially in the province of Quebec, where two bills were enacted, targeting public displays of religion and the wearing of face-veils.6 Several inflammatory anti-Muslim bills were passed during the term of Prime Minister Stephen Harper and between 2006 and 2015. Bill 62 directly targeted face-veiling Muslim women and excluded people who wore them from riding the bus, seeking medical care, going to work or the library and even parentteacher meetings.7 Aside from limiting Muslim and newcomer access to needed educational, economic and health-related services, this exclusionary legislation has had long-term social and psychological consequences.8 June 2019 saw the enactment of a subsequent piece of legislation called Bill 21, ‘which formally bans teachers, police officers, judges, and many other public servants from wearing religious articles’.9 Such legislation normalized anti-Muslim stereotypes at an institutionalized level. It helped circulate misunderstandings about Muslim beliefs and practices at a grassroots level, as well. It enforced a dominant biased perspective that non-white, non-Christian values were not tolerated, should not be protected and required control and policing in Canada. Discriminatory legislation seemed to validate hate crimes and Islamophobia in Canada. Hate crimes and anti-Muslim sentiments may involve vandalism, damage of property, hate mail, bullying, humiliation, assault or deadly violence. In 2015, reported hate crimes against Muslims increased by 61 per cent from the previous year (159 incidents versus 99).10 Similarly, in the United States, reported hate crimes against Muslims went up by 76 per cent in 2015, totalling 196 incidents.11 In the months leading up to and following the 2017 American elections, the president-elect Donald Trump regularly incited discriminatory rhetoric about Muslims.12 The tragic Quebec City Mosque shooting in 2017 seemed to coincide with Trump’s election campaign. Following the attack, media and several political figures spoke out against the growing wave of Islamophobia in Canada and the province of Quebec. A 2019 Statistics Canada report shows us that Islamophobia is not going away. It remains a problem and of particular concern to Muslim women and youth13 and has increased during the Covid-19 pandemic.14 In June 2021, a man drove his vehicle into a Pakistani-Muslim family of five in London, Ontario, intentionally killing four members of that

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family and leaving the surviving nine-year-old boy orphaned.15 Islamophobia and anti-Muslim rhetoric have a direct impact on Muslim identity, experience and the (re)settlement of Muslim communities into the fabric of Canadian society. Mainstream media, film16 and public dialogue play important roles in perpetuating negative stereotypes of Muslims and Islam,17 and these stereotypes have real-life consequences for Muslims living in Canada. Othering discourses foster an environment of hostility, exclusion and discriminatory practices. To many Muslims and their communities, it has become ever more important to have a voice, engage in these problematic discourses and provide nuanced perspectives to contest these harmful generalizations. Before discussing how the Ismaili Muslim community is responding to this anti-Muslim climate, I will briefly look at Muslim (re)settlement in Canada, and Ismaili (re)settlement in particular. This discussion is important as it helps us to understand not only the diversity of Muslims in Canada but also how this new multicultural context forced Ismaili migrants to organize and mobilize in novel ways.

CANADIAN MUSLIM SETTLEMENT Canadian Muslim communities were formed as a result of two major waves of migration: pre–Second World War immigration and post–Second World War.18 It is important to note that the early settlement context is described as highly xenophobic, as evidenced by Canadian history.19 Racialized immigrants were seen as foreign strangers within Canada,20 which would have affected their settlement experiences. Until the 1960s, Canada’s Muslim presence remained marginal, having a population of less than 5,800, and ultimately having little impact on Canadian migration patterns. In 1962, the government of Canada officially abolished race-based discriminatory immigration policies and in 1978 refugees were finally recognized under the new Immigration Act;21 this also led to the creation of a private sponsorship programme for refugees.22 These changes allowed for greater Muslim (re)settlement in Canada. According to census data, there were 33,430 Muslims by 1971 which almost tripled to 98,160 in 1981.23 By the 1970s, Muslims were coming from South Asia, Africa, Iran and the Middle East, mainly as a result of political turmoil in their homeland but also for higher education opportunities.24 Among these migrants were Shi’i Muslims,25 including Ismaili Muslims predominantly from East Africa, which we will return to later in this chapter. The 1971 Multiculturalism Policy and the passing of the Multiculturalism Act (1988) gave way for dialogue on what it meant to be Canadian. Canadian multiculturalism, the policy and the Act itself, despite roots in the EnglishFrench struggles, put forth the idea that difference is acceptable, and perhaps

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even beneficial.26 It has become a pivotally important part of the character of Canada, particularly for newcomers, and Muslims in particular,27 and the way Canada defines itself differently from other nations experiencing diversity.28 Noteworthy is that in other countries, multiculturalism is seen as a threat to Western liberal values and ‘a vehicle for perpetuating illiberal practices’.29 This fear ‘is linked to the size or proportion of Muslim immigrants’.30 In Canada, since the Muslim population is relatively small (around 3%), there has been little push back on multiculturalism.31 In tandem, it has become obvious to immigration policy makers that Canada requires immigration in order to sustain a viable future and offset low birth rates.32 As such, the immigration policies have continued to be less focused on European immigrants. Census data from 1981 to 2001 reveal the Muslim population nearly doubling every ten years (98,165; 253,260; and 579,640, respectively). In 2011, there were 1,053,945 Muslims living in Canada with 28 per cent of those Muslims born in Canada.33 As the Muslim population grows, so does the need for organization.34 Unfortunately, we are not able to observe the diversity of the greater Canadian Muslim community as census data do not reveal personal religious affiliations within Muslim populations (Sunni, Shi‘i, Ismaili, Ahmadi, Sufi or other). However, we know that Ismailis, in particular, started settling in Canada as early as the 1950s. Ismailis come from around the world and are comprised of different cultures, ethnicities, histories and experiences. The first Ismailis that arrived in Canada came from Pakistan in the 1950s and many came to study at Canadian universities.35 They were highly skilled in law, engineering, medicine and education.36 Ismaili families and students continued to arrive in the 1960s and primarily sought educational and vocational opportunities in the metropolis centres of Montreal, Toronto and Vancouver.37 This early Ismaili community was relatively small, and as such they would observe their religious festivals among themselves and with other members of the Muslim umma, regardless of traditional affiliation.38 Once the community grew, spaces were obtained for Ismailis to congregate together – this will be discussed shortly. The second wave of Ismaili migration was initiated in the early 1970s by Tanzanian South Asians who were migrating as a result of the nationalization movement that was occurring in parts of Africa. This important migration was overshadowed by the mass exile of South Asians from Uganda in 1972 – a narrative mentioned at the beginning of this handbook in the story of Rubina Ramji’s family and one that continues to dominate Canadian Ismaili settlement storytelling. Tanzanian Ismaili migration patterns and success in Canada paved the way for Ugandan Ismailis, who would be forced to flee their homes two years later. By setting up informal spaces for congregation in their homes or securing space rentals in Canada, Ismailis were able to build off one another’s social capital, discuss and navigate essential services and find jobs and housing.

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Further, these spaces offered a familiar cultural setting where Ismailis were able to speak their own languages, share food, stories and experiences. The Ugandan-Ismaili resettlement, commencing in 1972, signified the first major presence of Ismailis in Canada. The current Ismaili Imam, His Highness, the Aga Khan IV39 and the then Canadian prime minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau worked together to resettle Ugandan-Asians in Canada.40 So in this way religion did help this large wave of Ugandan South Asian refugees find asylum in Canada. Canada even made accommodations to their refugee policy so that Ugandan-Asians could meet Canadian immigration requirements.41 This is important as it illustrates the high social capital of the Ismaili community at that time, which has since significantly impacted their privileged relationship with the government of Canada – as we will see later in this chapter. Other African-Ismailis made their way to Canada to join the resettled Ugandan-Asian community through chain migration. The majority of migrants came from Kenya and Tanzania, which helped to form a dominant EastAfrican culture among the Canadian Ismaili jama‘at, community. Today, Canadian Ismailis come from various backgrounds, ethnicities and cultural traditions and congregate together, irrespective of their diversity, in jamatkhanas42 (congregation houses) – a space where Ismailis can pray and conduct other practices unique to their tariqah tradition. These congregation houses are where Ismailis perform important religious rites and observe religious festivals. In order to be able to serve the needs of the growing Ismaili jama‘at in Canada, Ismaili councils were formed in 1973.43 This organizational support equipped the community with the means necessary to carry out their faith tradition by securing official spaces for Ismaili congregations, while simultaneously attending to the settlement needs of the community and advocating on their behalf to various governmental bodies. This organization ensured that the migrant community would continue to receive temporal guidance and assistance from their Imam – guidance that encouraged them to settle permanently, integrate and educate themselves and their youth. Further, the establishment of Canadian councils also attracted Ismailis from elsewhere to settle in Canada, and so the Ismaili community in Canada continued to grow. Noteworthy is that the council regularly engaged with Canadian provincial and federal governmental institutions on behalf of the Ismaili community to support their various efforts – such as joint agreements for the resettlement of Afghan Ismailis,44 which will be discussed next, and the Shaping Pluralistic Dispositions in Education initiative, which will be discussed later. Since the 1970s, the Ismaili migrant community has steadily increased in size.45 The 1990s brought another wave of Ismaili refugees, this time from Afghanistan.46 This migration was supported by community sponsorship and permanently changed the face of Canadian Ismaili identity not only because of their ethnicity but also because of their own unique Ismaili traditions; some of which were incorporated into Canadian Ismaili practice.47

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This growth not only demanded high organization, which was provided by the Ismaili councils but also demanded the establishment of permanent places for community congregation – with attempts to recreate the jamatkhana space back home. Prior to purpose-built jamatkhanas, first-generation families would often meet in the basement of someone’s home for worship. However, for larger jama‘ats, school and office spaces were rented out so that the community could observe their unique tariqah – school or order. In tariqah traditions, disciples are guided by a spiritual master and are most common among spiritual traditions, like Sufi ones. Ismaili Muslims are part of an order under the spiritual authority of the Imamat.48 In 1983, in Burnaby, British Columbia, the first purpose-built jamatkhana was established. This newly designed space also serves as an official Ismaili centre – which acts as an ambassadorial hub and symbolically marks the permanent presence of Ismailis in Canada. Noteworthy is that the establishment of Ismaili centres is a modern phenomenon and a product of Ismailis in diaspora. The community now has around eighty jamatkhanas nationwide, including space rentals and purpose-built jamatkhanas. However, these are not the only markers of Ismaili presence in Canada – we will return to other examples later. The Ismaili community has quadrupled in size since the 1980s. According to Ismaili officials, there are now approximately 80,000 Ismailis living across Canada; however, this number does not include the recent resettlement of Syrian Ismaili refugees, to which there has been no present study. The main factor for the population growth has been through chain migration, although more and more Ismailis are being born in Canada and growing up as secondand third-generation Muslims.49 While there is no definitive statistic on how many Ismailis are born in Canada, Ismaili officials estimate the number to be close to 32 per cent,50 slightly higher than the average for Canadian Muslims as a whole. Today, the Ismaili Council for Canada serves the Ismaili jama’at through various boards and portfolios,51 which did not exist in the pre-migration context. These boards and portfolios were established by first- and second-generation Ismailis, which means that those immigrating to Canada would be introduced to a new way of being Ismaili. Noteworthy is that these boards and portfolios operate primarily on a volunteer basis, which speaks to a defining Ismaili value, that of selfless service, or seva. Seva is service conducted without the expectation of receiving anything in return and is considered a humble way to serve Allah and has become an important aspect of Ismaili Muslim identity. In fact, seva appears as a mandate in the Ismaili Constitution in order to preserve and foster this tradition. Seva ultimately enabled the mobilization of Ismailis to support the various institutional and organizational efforts being undertaken in Canada. This imported value was brought to Canada via migration and now plays an important role in the organization and mobilization of Ismaili Islam in Canada:

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many of the community’s efforts to nuance the image of Muslims in Canada are being carried out by Ismaili volunteers, they see this service as an integral part of their faith and identity.52 These boards and portfolios are instrumental in maintaining community bonds, nurturing settlement and integration and providing support for the jama’at at all life stages. An important key marker of successful integration of Canadian Ismailis is their high level of public and civic engagement, clearly illustrated by the fact that a significant number of Ismaili Muslim women and men occupy high political offices, such as the lieutenant governor of Alberta Salma Lakhani, Senator Mobina Jaffer and the first Muslim mayor of Calgary, Naheed Nenshi. Although the ethic of seva is decreasing among the younger generations, the act of volunteerism is still of importance to their identity, and so they are more likely to volunteer outside of the Ismaili institutions and serve other Canadian community organizations and causes.

INTERNALIZING THEIR ‘OTHERNESS’: THE NEGOTIATION AND PROJECTION OF CANADIAN ISMAILI MUSLIM IDENTITY In the context of Islamophobia and anti-Muslim narratives, alongside Ismailis being a minority Muslim tradition who have experienced intolerance and persecution, this section briefly presents how Ismailis negotiate and project their identity to both Canadian and Muslim audiences. This section is informed by a study that sought to understand how Ismailis in Canada are negotiating their Canadian and Muslim identity in the contexts of both Islamophobia and intra-umma ‘othering’.53 The findings are that Ismailis have internalized their Canadian and Muslim ‘otherness’, which has ultimately affected their identity as Ismailis in Canada. The study found that the Canadian context is having a profound effect on Ismaili identity. Second- and third-generation Ismailis born in Canada are not as religious as the first-generation, or those born outside of Canada. Overall, there is a decline in religion among younger generations in comparison to older generations. Efforts are being made by the Ismaili institutions to curb this trend, such as with the revamping and modernizing of their religious education system as well as other internal efforts aimed at strengthening Ismaili identity in the contexts of Muslim diversity and anti-Muslim sentiment;54 however, these efforts are fairly recent and may not have an impact for generations to come. When examining the implications of negative images of Muslims in the media, the vast majority of Ismailis in the study reported that these images had a negative impact on their identity. Ismailis revealed that the growing antiMuslim context has made them more hesitant than ever to openly identify with their faith in case it led to intolerance, prejudice or discrimination. Some even

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expressed how they have started to internalize these stereotypes, leading them to repress their religious identity. While Ismailis reported experiencing prejudice and discrimination by Canadians, they were more likely to discuss being othered by non-Ismaili Muslims. Some participants reported being excluded from Muslim Student Association events while attending university. Others reported being treated with hostility by some Sunni Muslims after learning that they were Ismaili. According to Ismaili tradition wearing a hijab is not required and some Ismaili women said they were criticized or denounced for that omission in their dress.55 Other Ismaili professionals indicated that their lives had been threatened and integrity challenged once others in their work environment learned that they were not only Muslim but were in fact Ismaili Muslim.56 Such experiences have lasting effects on identity and add to the collective trauma experienced by Ismailis.57 Despite these instances of prejudice and discrimination, Ismailis continue to engage with their coreligionists at personal and organizational levels with the hope that they will one day be accepted as legitimate Muslims. When presenting their identity to a Canadian audience, Ismailis often speak about their Imam, the Aga Khan and the various philanthropic works that he does through his institutions such as the Aga Khan Development Network. This is likely to show how the work that they do transnationally is inspired by the ethics of their faith. They also speak about how having contemporary authoritative guidance has helped them to modernize and adapt to their locales. They often dispel Muslim stereotypes, distance themselves from problematic narratives and emphasize how their values coincide with Canadian values, such as pluralism, diversity, gender equality, democracy, education and service to humanity. Further, another interesting finding is that Ismailis will often speak about the diversity that exists within Islam in order to nuance pre-conceived generalizations about Islam and Muslims. By doing so, they make space for their unique minority tradition, along with other traditions within the umma. As we will see, they also do this in their interactions with members of the Muslim umma.

TAKFIRISM AND ITS CONSEQUENCES Another important discussion to be considered when examining the impacts of othering narratives on Muslim identity and experience is that of takfirism, the labelling of another Muslim as an apostate. Muslims come to Canada from all around the world and so they are now face to face with the Muslim ‘other’. An unfortunate fact is that Muslims are persecuted by other Muslims because of differing beliefs, practices, cultural traditions and worldviews. The intolerance or persecution of Muslims by other Muslims is a practice known as takfir, which means to declare another Muslim a kafir, an apostate or unbeliever. Takfiri ideology, arguably, is the root cause of both inter- and intra-sectarian violence.58

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Intra-umma intolerance, discrimination and violence is not a modern phenomenon but has existed for centuries. Like the Ahmadiyya, Ismaili Muslims are another example of a community that have endured a history of persecution and have even had fatwas, legal rulings, issued for their extermination.59 In contemporary times Ismailis continue to be victims of intolerance, discrimination and violence around the world and in Pakistan60 and Syria more predominantly but not exclusively. For example, in May 2015 in Karachi, Pakistan, six gunmen opened fire on Ismaili bus passengers, killing forty-five of them. The gunmen were reported to be affiliated with the Pakistani Taliban splinter group Jundullah and ISIS.61 Unfortunately, Ismailis, and other Muslim minorities, are also being targeted by ISIS in Syria.62 These are only a couple examples of violence against the Ismaili community; other Ismaili communities (of different religious affiliations) face similar attacks and discrimination.63 Violent extremist groups consider Ismaili Muslims, and other minority Muslim traditions, kafir.64 Being labelled a kafir incites hatred, intolerance, social and public exclusion and violence. In the last two decades, there has been a call by authorities within the umma to do away with this polemic practice in an effort to unite and strengthen the umma; such as in the case with the Amman message (2004).65 While under the Amman message Ismailis were accepted as a legitimate interpretation of Islam, those who have signed the message are already falling back on their commitments.66 Further, while the message attempted to alleviate sectarianism within the umma, relations between Sunni and Shi‘i Muslims have actually declined.67 For example, Wahhabi clerics in Saudi Arabia have since signed a statement that characterizes Shi’a Muslims ‘as “an evil among the sects of the Islamic nation” and the “greatest enemy and deceivers of the Sunnis”, while accusing them of destabilising Muslim Countries’.68 While Ismailis are able to observe and practice their faith freely in Canada, this narrative of being a Muslim ‘other’ has been internalized and has impacted how they respond to Islamophobic and anti-Muslim narratives; they are more inclusive in their response by showcasing Muslim diversity, using themselves and other minority Muslim communities as examples to nuance monolithic depictions. As previously mentioned, due to their unique interpretation of the faith, Ismailis are not always accepted as legitimate members of the umma. Being face to face with Muslim diversity in Canada, along with pre-migration experiences with intra-umma othering, has led to the internalization of this othering, which has affected their identity. When presenting their identity to Muslim audiences, Ismailis are more likely to discuss the main factor that makes them different than other Muslim traditions, the Ismaili Imamat. They legitimate their faith by situating their tradition in the context of Shi‘ism and note the diversity that exists within the umma in an attempt to make space for themselves in the collective consciousness of Muslims. In addition, they note commonalities between themselves and other Muslims in an effort to make themselves more

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familiar while concealing beliefs and practices that may further marginalize them from other Muslims. These findings suggest that Ismailis are cognizant of how they may be perceived negatively by other Canadians and Muslims so they, therefore, attempt to make space for themselves in the hearts and minds of these two collectives. In both these scenarios, we observe that Ismailis have internalized their Canadian and Muslim ‘otherness’ and that attempts are made to alleviate the pressures of these othering discourses. Through personal engagements, Ismailis are making space to belong to both Canadian and Muslim collectives. We also see this taking place at more organized levels. This will be discussed next.

MAKING SPACE FOR CANADIAN MUSLIMS AND THEIR DIVERSITY: BROADENING THE DISCOURSE THROUGH PUBLIC ENGAGEMENT This section examines how Ismaili Muslims are making space for Canadian Muslim identit(ies) in the collective consciousness of Canadians, being careful to not generalize about Muslims and gloss over unique Muslim identities. As previously discussed, this Muslim collective has a high degree of organization in order to support their community and engage in the Canadian public sphere. We will now look at how the Ismaili Muslim community in Canada is broadening the dialogue about Muslims and Islam in Canada. The community is, by nature, highly structured due to the importance and centrality of the Imamat. Today, the forty-ninth hereditary Imam, His Highness the Aga Khan, carries out his responsibilities through the office of the Imamat and has established national, regional and local councils around the world for ‘the social governance, administration, guidance, supervision and coordination of the activities of the jamat and its institutions and organisations’.69 As mentioned, these councils are important as they reflect the highly organized nature of the Ismaili community transnationally, specifically in the past fifty years, which has helped them to prosper and engage in their locales. Further, over the last two decades the Aga Khan, alongside his institutions, has established various centres, offices, parks and gardens in various Canadian metropolises, which symbolically mark and make visible the permanent presence of Ismaili Muslims in Canada. Before discussing some of these high-profile establishments, it is important to note that in many of his speeches, the Aga Khan often retells the story of how Canada accepted Ugandan Ismailis in the 1970s.70 This storytelling can be seen as an effort to imprint this narrative into the collective consciousness of Canadians, making space for Canadian Ismailis, their history and experience among those of other Muslims. Further, this narrative is also intended to signify the beginning

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of the Aga Khan’s relationship with the government of Canada – a relationship that has enabled the establishment of various high-profile projects which we will now turn to.71 One high-profile example is the Global Centre for Pluralism, which was established by the Ismaili Imamat and the government of Canada in Ottawa, in 2006. For almost a decade the Global Centre for Pluralism offices were housed in the Delegation of Ismaili Imamat building (2008) until it moved to its permanent home at the old War Museum in 2017. The Delegation of the Ismaili Imamat serves as a de facto embassy for the Ismaili Imamat in Canada, and also hosts the Aga Khan Foundation Canada, which regularly puts on various programmes and outreach events relevant to their mandates. Another significant contribution to the Canadian public landscape is the Aga Khan Museum and Park (AKM) in Toronto (2014). This is the first museum in North America dedicated to the preservation, education and showcasing of Muslim history, art and culture – helping to nuance the image of Muslims and Islam in Canada for both Muslim and Canadian audiences.72 The Aga Khan Park connects AKM to the Ismaili Centre Toronto (2014), which also serves as a jamatkhana – Canada is the only country in the world with two Ismaili centres. Lastly, the University of Alberta’s Botanical Gardens in Edmonton is now home to the Aga Khan Garden (2018), an aesthetic space dedicated to advancing intercultural dialogue and educating about the inherent diversity of Muslim civilizations. While many of these projects have mandates to help nuance the image of Muslims in Canada through their various public engagement efforts, this section will only highlight a few of these efforts.73 The discussion that follows highlights how the Ismaili Muslim community is responding to this anti-Muslim context at personal, local and provincial levels.74 On a personal level, many Muslims, irrespective of intrareligious affiliation, have taken it upon themselves to become more literate about their faith and how context and experience have come to shape Muslim diversity. Although a consequence of an anti-Muslim climate and living in a multicultural context, this personal search has given them more confidence and pride in their Muslim identity, with some choosing to become informal and sometimes formal ambassadors of the Muslim faith, equipped to dispel stereotypes and harmful associations when the need arises. Leaders and members may do this on a oneon-one level, and some may do so as part of a community or organizational effort. For example, Muslim Student Associations at universities across Canada often hold events where non-Muslims are able to ask questions about Islam and Muslims – often during Islam Awareness week. In practice, meeting or knowing a Muslim who contradicts pre-existing conceptions of what a Muslim ought to be like can be a very impactful method for dispelling stereotypes. Interestingly, this method has been formalized by the Ismaili community in the creation and development of its first-ever Jamati Ambassador Program. Over the last decade, the Canadian Ismaili community has taken more formal efforts to make Ismailis more comfortable in articulating their faith tradition in

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the contexts of multiculturalism, anti-Muslim narratives and Muslim diversity. This begins with the standardization and professionalization of their internal religious education system, in which the curriculum was purposely designed to respond to the challenges and advances of the modern world,75 but extends to the creation of the Jamati Ambassador Program (JAP). JAP aims to train Ismaili ambassadors to become more confident in articulating their Ismaili Muslim identity and faith to various audiences.76 Select participants are vetted and then invited to enrol in JAP. Upon programme completion, ambassadors are often placed in various public and media engagement settings to help nuance the image of Muslims in Canada. While this programme is still in its infancy stages, currently operating in Alberta and British Columbia, this programme is expanding nationwide. In another example, efforts to broaden understandings about Muslim diversity are seen at local levels through the various public programming that take place via the centres and gardens mentioned previously.77 The Ismaili centres in Burnaby and Toronto are of particular importance. Aside from their architecture and design, which harmonizes their traditional Muslim identity within the modern Canadian context through the use of contemporary styles and materials along with apparent and hidden faith symbols, these centres aim to ‘dispel misperceptions of Islam, promote pluralism, and foster the exchange of culture and knowledge’.78 Further, since 2015, there has been more deliberate programming aimed to combat Islamophobia and nuance the image of Muslims by showcasing Muslim diversity. For example, one event that took place at the Ismaili Centre in Burnaby in 2016 aimed to nuance the monolithic image of Shi’i Muslims and humanize them through a display of their various cultural traditions: such as architecture, cinema, literature and theological practices. The takeaway message was that religion is embedded in complex cultural matrixes – that when examining religion, one must also examine the culture in which it flourished. This understanding can arguably be applied to all Muslims across Canada – that Muslim identity and experience are informed by the complex cultural matrixes in which that identity is nourished. While local events such as this one are commonplace at the Ismaili centres in Canada, another important example takes a more provincial impact. In 2016, the government of Ontario signed an agreement with the Ismaili Imamat to develop and implement a more inclusive curriculum into the publicschool systems that, among other things, aimed to nuance perceptions of Muslims and Islam in Ontario classrooms. The Shaping Pluralistic Dispositions in Education (SPDE) initiative was multifaceted. One facet was the development of Aga Khan Museum Curriculum-Linked Resources, which aimed to enhance student literacy about the diversity of Muslim art, culture and civilization by using the museum as an educational medium.79 The SPDE initiative is the first successful high-profile attempt to bring Muslim literacy into Ontario classrooms

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and speaks to the high organization and privilege of the Ismaili community in Canada. Organized efforts to shift and nuance the prevailing misrepresentations and homogenizing discourses about Muslims are prevalent in Canada, especially among Canadian Ismailis. They demonstrate their perceived importance of being involved in reclaiming the discourse that directly affects their lives as Muslims. In doing so, they are also recreating what it means to be both Muslim and Canadian. We see the shift in migrant Muslim communities in the ways they organize, actively work towards and internalize a more open and friendly rhetoric about Islam and being Muslim – especially in the younger generations, those who are least impacted by family ethnicity and culture. These communities not only invite the ‘other’ into their space(s) but also go out into their wider communities to provide a purposely nuanced Muslim presence. Through personal, private and public engagements, Canadian Ismailis are actively trying to alleviate hostile environments by dispelling the common rhetoric that they don’t belong, and that Islam is inherently incompatible with being Canadian. Through these various levels of engagement, the Canadian Ismaili Muslim community is actively making space for Muslim diversity and, at the same time, shifting what it means to be a Muslim in Canada.

CONCLUSION Prevailing misconceptions and anti-Muslim rhetoric have real consequences for Canadian Muslims in their everyday lives. As presented, we see that Canadian Ismaili Muslims are not passive players in the Canadian public landscape. They are organizing and participating in public discourses in order to dispel othering narratives and protect their states of belonging, livelihoods, safety and access to resources. As such, the burden to combat, nuance and broaden these narratives and public perceptions has been taken up by Canadian Muslims, their communities and their organizations as they have everything to lose if they sit by idly. One essential aspect of the Ismaili faith, seva, remains important to the concept of integration. This ethic of service has become a central element of faith and practice. Today, many Canadian Ismailis look for ways to serve the Imam and Allah; through various Ismaili institutions, community events and not-for-profit organizations. The chapter considered recent migrant Muslim experiences and how Muslims have been impacted by discriminatory and homogenizing antiMuslim narratives in Canada. Further, the chapter provided some insight into how Ismaili Muslims are actively working to alleviate problematic othering discourses through internal identity strengthening efforts and by (re)creating and mobilizing channels of dialogue and public engagement in the communities

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in which they reside. Muslim migrant communities and subsequent generations are faced with new contexts and challenges that inevitably impact Muslim identity (re)constructions and experience. These unique circumstances mobilize some Muslim collectives to organize and reform their communities, institutions and identity discourses, to construct uniquely Canadian ways of being Muslim. Migrant religious adaptations and responses are not without strife. This is evident in the various ways Muslims grapple with in-group and out-group ‘otherness’ and belonging in a multicultural Canadian society. While these new pluralistic contexts force Muslims into discussions about their religious ‘otherness’ and difference among non-Muslims, they also force Muslims to selfreflect on their differences in comparison to Muslims from other faith traditions and backgrounds in a way that would not have happened in a more homogenous society. Thus, in Canada, the multicultural context has enabled Muslims to rethink, observe and practice their faith in society alongside an equally diverse Muslim population. As a result, it has also presented new challenges and opportunities to respond to these challenges. These circumstances have forced Muslims to confront divergent and competing religious narratives, both from within the Muslim umma and those projected upon them by non-Muslims. This chapter explored how Ismaili Muslims are internalizing and negotiating their identity relative to two othering context(s): Canadian Islamophobia and intra-umma difference. As discussed, they are not only organizing and nuancing understandings about Islam and being Muslim for other Canadians but also simultaneously engaged in identity strengthening efforts to make Ismailis more resilient to these two othering contexts. Further, by nuancing the image of Muslims through the presentation of Muslim diversity, they are taking a more inclusive approach to respond to anti-Muslim narratives by not simply replacing one homogenous narrative with another. This inclusive approach appears to be a product of their unique experience of being a minority within the umma – where they have not always been accepted nor represented due to their unique expression of the faith. This chapter begins a discussion that requires further exploration about how some Muslims have shifted discourses about what it means to be Muslim in Canada and how they are making space for more naturalized expressions of Canadian Muslim identit(ies). Considering the intricacies of Muslim experience and the ways they have and are navigating being Muslim provides opportunities for meaningful understandings of the effects and outcomes of migration and its impact on society, identity and belonging in Canada. It is easy to see Muslims as a group far away, ‘not authentically Canadian’, and to ignore how discriminatory discourses impact real lived experiences. In doing this, one overlooks and fails to acknowledge the interesting and evolving fluidity in Muslim identit(ies) embedded in the realities of being Canadian. Canadian Muslim identity

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is diverse, dynamic, flexible and relative. The Ismaili Muslim community, alongside others, is creating space for Muslims to be accepted as legitimate Canadian communities and as fellow Canadians. Ismaili Muslims are actively working to carve out a space for themselves in Canadian society where they can be themselves, and not just another shade of a stereotypical Muslim.

Chapter 9

Political images and the politics of images Orientalism and moral frameworks in constructing narratives about Muslim and Arab populations in Brazil HELENA DE MORAIS MANFRINATO OTHMAN

INTRODUCTION The attacks on 11 September 20011 in the United States sent waves of antiIslamic reactions across the world. In Brazil, these waves were reflected in negative stereotypes that circulated in the media and had a negative and prolonged impact on migrant communities from Islamic nations, especially Arab countries. In 2015, on the other hand, the image of a child who drowned during his family’s attempt to flee Syria added a narrative of compassion about these refugees, which had a positive impact on these communities. In this chapter, I contrast these media images and negative stereotypes about migrants from 2001 with more positive humanitarian narratives about refugees from the conflict in Syria in 2015, which are historically rooted in the European orientalism of the nineteenth century. This involves positions taken by Sunni Muslim communities founded by Lebanese migrants in São Paulo and Palestinian refugees from the Syrian conflict who came to the same Brazilian city between 2014 and 2016 when they were faced with these images.

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Drawing on participant observation research which included years of interactions and conversations with my interlocutors in their workplaces, homes and religious organizations during 2011–14 and 2015–21, while also following public and institutional narratives, I explore the impact of humanitarian narratives on Muslim communities and how perceptions of migrants in Brazil changed from ‘terrorist Muslim foreigners’, ‘oppressors of women’ and ‘intolerant’ to vulnerable people deserving compassion. I argue that the limits on understanding these bodies are established by different types and varying degrees of violence, which modulate the religio-cultural moral and ethical reactions towards these bodies. These modulations determine whether relationships are established in terms of hospitality, compassion and gratitude or repulsion and fear. In both cases, indications of foreignness prevail, in an operation that agglomerates ‘Islam’ with ‘Arabs’, seen as a single, uniform and unvarying group. This perception reveals difficulty in aligning the belonging of these populations with the overall profile of Brazil as a nation. In the national collective imagination, although Brazil is a majority Christian nation the country is notable for its syncretism2 and religious, ethnic and cultural diversity (Ortiz 2006). This implies that beyond media narratives and influence, the Christian background creates challenges to the acceptance of non-Christian religions, particularly those considered ‘foreign’. In this sense, religion and migration are interconnected phenomena that influence each other through a collective imagination established by the media which modulates public perception. The first Muslims were forcibly taken to Brazil from western Africa, currently Senegal, Gambia, Guinea, Mali, Benin, Togo, Ghana and Nigeria, as part of the slave trade in the sixteenth century. Sunni, Shiite, Alawite and Druze3 migrants from Lebanon, Palestine and Syria arrived later, in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries (Pinto 2010). Today, most Muslims in Brazil are second- and thirdgeneration migrants from these countries, as well as from Bangladesh and Pakistan, refugees from the Syrian conflict and a growing number of Brazilian converts. Regardless of the exact number, there are dozens of mosques, Islamic organizations and commercial and cultural Arab associations throughout the nation and in São Paulo, where my research took place and which is the focus of this chapter. Prior to the September 11 attacks, Islamic organizations and mosques focused on providing a space for shared community and religious practice for Arab families (Pinto 2005, 2010). But in the subsequent years, these groups faced constant suspicion and needed to organize to protect their community and provide information about Islam. Many of these attacks (and, in turn, the responses) focused on women, since they were the most frequent targets for physical and verbal assaults by non-Muslims in their jobs, schools

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or on the street, and were identified as religious mainly because they wore hijabs. The approach established by the media coverage of September 11 did not recede with time; on the contrary, it established an interpretative framework that became hegemonic. In multiple reports, attackers referred to Muslim women as a foreign threat, telling them to ‘go back to their country’, even if they were Brazilians of Arab descent or Brazilian converts to Islam. Each major attack in the West reported by the global media triggered cascading effects (Appadurai 1996) on local Muslim communities, and violence escalated, putting Islamic organizations on alert. In recent years, a new framework began to circulate in international global news networks influenced by coverage of the Syrian civil war (2011–), specifically through reporting on refugees fleeing to European countries. One event was especially important: the death of a child named Aylan, who perished while trying to reach Europe with his family. The image of this drowned child washed up on the shore circulated widely on social media; in Brazil, it increased awareness about Syrian refugees and stirred compassion towards Arabs and Muslims. Donations of humanitarian aid increased, as did public and institutional support. It also led to reports that featured refugees on television programmes, as well as a soap opera portraying this situation, ‘Refugiados da Terra’ [‘Refugees of the Earth’]. Both the media events and reactions suggest polarized Islamic stereotypes via discourses and images in Brazil that mixed to become part of a collective imagination shaped by various European cultural influences.

THE CONSTRUCTION OF COLLECTIVE IMAGINATIONS ABOUT THE ARAB POPULATION IN BRAZIL The photo of Aylan and media coverage of September 11 are part of a broader narrative history about Islam and the Arab population in the Brazilian imagination. We can see similar images in literature, popular national soap operas, the press and in TV programming, especially in American films and series broadcast in Brazil. For some time, the Brazilian conception of Islam has been simultaneously shaped by influences from European orientalist thinking, as well as the country’s own local cultural and Christian references. Birgit Meyer (2015), in dialogue with Benedict Anderson’s (2009) ideas on the formation of ‘imagined communities’, expands the concept of the collective imagination beyond communal sharing of ideas about the nation to focus on sensorial and material dimensions. Meyer defines ‘aesthetic formations’ (Meyer, op. cit., p. 51) as processes that produce imagined communities

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through sensory perception of the world, highlighting the centrality of images, sounds, objectives, smells, texts and bodies. This approach helps us understand the formation of an intricate collective imagination involving ideas, images, sounds, food, music, language and other aspects that have been historically related to migrant populations of Arab origin, such as Lebanese, Syrians and Palestinians, and to Islam in Brazil. In the nineteenth century, European orientalist images (as theorized by Edward Said4) circulated among the Brazilian public, characterizing Arab populations as irrational, violent and indolent in contrast with civilized and rational Europeans. The romantic literature of that time described these people through their cultural, linguistic, religious and national identity, marked by exoticism. Brazilian intellectual elites not only were trying to emulate European scholars but were also formulating Brazil’s national identity while establishing contact with the first migrants in the country. ‘Intellectual orientalism’ was used to situate new immigrants racially and ethnically on the level of national differences. During the late nineteenth century, these people were categorized as Syrian-Lebanese, or more colloquially ‘Turks’, due to the Turkish-Ottoman Empire passports they carried. They were involved in street commerce and itinerant trade, and portrayed as strange, greedy profiteers (Truzzi 1997). Racially, they were ambiguously different enough to evoke discrimination, and were not seen as white (European), Black (African) or yellow (Chinese and Japanese) (Pinto 2016: 4). Enormous efforts were made to create positive images about Lebanese descendants in Brazil, for example by describing how this group introduced innovative commercial practices in Brazil, attained financial success through hard work and contributed to the national economy. Such ‘immigration myths’, as Pinto (2016) calls them, circulated in several Latin American countries that received migration flows during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. This narrative helped reverse (or at least contest) the numerous negative stereotypes about these populations,5 and was organized by intellectuals of Lebanese origin who shaped a homogenous discourse on the economic success and adversities overcome by this migrant population, as well as their contributions to Brazilian prosperity. American Christian Evangelical missionary churches arrived in Brazil at the beginning of the twentieth century; the Evangelical movement gained strength from the 1950s with its message that Christ would return to Earth and usher in the creation of a ‘kingdom of God’ controlled by Jerusalem and the ‘people of Israel’ (Reinke 2018). This movement became powerfully entrenched in Brazil with the emergence of a neo-Pentecostal Evangelical alliance in the Brazilian Congress in the 2000s that contributed to the collective imagination of Islam in Brazil. In the late 1990s, media coverage of the Gulf War drove public opinion

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and attracted Brazilians interested in religion, and also led to the first generation of Brazilian converts to Islam. The Brazilian media response to the September 11 attacks reflected this history of the religio-cultural gaze.

SEPTEMBER 11, A NARRATIVE EVENT Thanks to simultaneous broadcasting and digital media, the entire world watched together as the Twin Towers went up in flames. Pentagon briefings and statements by then president Bush and Osama Bin Laden were broadcast simultaneously on news channels around the world (Rial 2003). In Brazil, most of the international coverage came from Western news agencies that helped shape public perception about these events, adding political and cultural subtexts that Butler (2015) calls the ‘framing’ of news. Several authors in the area of communication studies have examined newspaper headlines from this period; Moreira (2004) evaluated fifty-eight newspapers from the day after the attacks and the discourse strategies they utilized. This author analysed September 11 as a media event, as the coverage and repercussions became ever-present in global television networks and the print media, and especially with the growing popularization of the internet and emergence of blogs, which at that time were establishing themselves as a media category. Moreira found that descriptions of the attacks emphasized ‘terrorists’ and American ‘victims’. Most channels projected the effects (for the United States as well as the entire world) of a potential declaration of war. Moreira also investigated Brazilian print media (Moreira 2009) with a greater focus on the time immediately after the attacks: from 12 September to 31 December 2001 (during the invasion of Afghanistan) and 1 March to 30 June 2003 (before and after the invasion of Iraq in March 2003). This author found that the popular magazines Veja, Isto É and Época propagated the hegemonic discourse of the American government, supporting retaliation against the ‘Islamic enemy’ representing ‘evil’ and portraying the United States as the epitome of ‘good’. Through categorical statements (for example, that fundamentalists want to dominate the world in the name of Allah) and generalizations about Islam and Muslims, these negative narratives created the impression that all Muslims were directly responsible for the attacks.6 Violent reactions against Islam consequently escalated, and unceasing media coverage focused on events that portrayed Muslims as foreign terrorists. This new visibility spurred Islamic organizations to developed initiatives combating Islamophobia and spreading Islam. These groups developed and distributed brochures, documentaries and educational materials for schools on mediarelated topics such as women in Islam, Islam and peace and Islam and human rights. Islamic religious leaders also appeared in television interviews and

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at ecumenical events encouraging dialogue between religions (particularly Christianity), in order to broaden the public presence of their religion and circulate an image of peace, coexistence and respect for religious rights. At the same time, many Brazilians began to seek more information about this belief system, and many converted to Islam. During the period following September 11, an unprecedented number of people converted to Islam, particularly Brazilian women. While coverage of Islam in the media (particularly after September 11) led to a wave of Islamophobic reactions in Brazil, it also captured the attention of many Brazilians who were not familiar with the religion and eventually converted. Even though this coverage led to tensions and suffering in the community, it broadened the reach of Islamic organizations and their public impact, organizational structure and political partnerships. Despite the diversity of images and narratives, the foreign element is frequent, and modulates orientalist narratives or Islamophobic actions, emphasizing the viewpoint of non-belonging and strangeness in relation to the image of the Brazilian nation. Indeed, Muslim groups introduced a disruptive non-Christian matrix into Brazilian pluralism. The Brazilian public read in the media about Muslim migrant women who were oppressed, and others who were loosely linked to terrorism. Media coverage of both September 11 and the influx of refugees from the Syrian conflict help us understand how Muslim newcomers become both religious subjects and full-fledged citizens in Brazil.

THE LEILA KHALED OCCUPATION We now turn to how public perceptions were shaped through religio-cultural images and narratives of compassion. Here I draw on my ethnographic research in São Paulo’s Leila Khaled Occupation, a place where refugees were housed in the city. This occupation7 was created through a partnership between a proPalestinian movement and a Brazilian housing organization, and was home to low-income Brazilian families and Palestinian refugee families from Syria. My participation observation research in this area took place via direct experience with the political routine of the occupation, conversations with residents, visiting the homes of Palestinians and attending political meetings and group activities of the social movements. The Palestinians involved in this housing occupation came from the Sbeinah, Danoun and Yarmouk refugee camps on the outskirts of Damascus, Syria; many also spent some time in neighbouring Lebanon on short-term visas. Palestinians in Lebanon, Syria, Jordan and most Arab countries have no citizenship rights, and in these three countries most of them live in urban camps managed by UNRWA, the UN agency created to support Palestinian refugees displaced after

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the 1948 Palestine war and subsequent conflicts. Most of the refugees who lived in this camp arrived in Brazil between 2014 and 2016, fleeing the Syrian civil war after conditions became dangerous in camps there, with persistent bombings and threats of attack by paramilitary groups.8 By 2018, Brazil had received 3,326 refugees from the Syrian conflict, according to the Ministry of Justice and Public Safety. This number included several hundred Palestinians, particularly after tourist visa rules were relaxed for humanitarian reasons after the Brazilian National Committee on Refugees (CONARE) recognized human rights violations in that country. This hastened the process of emitting visas and analysing requests for asylum, which in turn stimulated the arrival of hundreds of refugees the following year in large cities such as São Paulo, Rio de Janeiro, Curitiba, Belo Horizonte and Florianópolis, where there are established Arab communities. One of the main destinations, São Paulo, has historically been a major destination for Arab migrants (Muslim as well as Christian) and received the most refugees from the conflict in Syria, along with other nationalities. This was the main criteria for most of the refugees as they decided where to live, along with their networks that formed within the country. The leader of the pro-Palestinian movement Mop@t, a Brazilian of Palestinian descent, contacted these recent arrivals from Palestine and offered them a chance to live in an urban occupation (a twenty-story building which had been invaded and inhabited by a partnering housing movement). Most of the families were living in precarious conditions and unable to pay rent, and moved in. Within a few weeks, there were 120 refugees living on four floors of the building.

THE JORNADAS DE YARMOUK AND THE VISIBILITY OF THE SYRIAN CONFLICT: THE EMERGENCE OF SELECTIVE SOLIDARITY While spending time with my interlocutors and participating in their routines in the occupation housing, I observed the emergence of a strong sense of solidarity and compassion for the refugees through donations, various types of aid, assistance and job opportunities. This seemed to have been motivated by the media as well as social networks, which began to present the Syrian civil war in terms of a humanitarian tragedy. The intersection of religion and migration in the tragic narratives about the refugees from this conflict seems to have added new elements that contributed to a more positive public opinion about the Middle East, the people who live there and Islam. After the refugee families arrived, the occupation leaders organized an event to launch the Leila Khaled Occupation, collect donations for the families in need and discuss the

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Palestinian refugee situation and the Syrian civil war. The event was called Jornadas de Yarmouk, and took place in October 2015. It was a huge success, with a large, diverse group attending: representatives of the independent media, scholars working on Middle Eastern issues, NGOs supporting immigrants and refugees, students, Lebanese, Syrians, Palestinians already established in the country and Brazilians. Those present expressed enthusiastic willingness to learn more about the Palestinian issue and understand who the Syrian refugees were, but especially help however they could. Along with donations of food, clothes, funds, furniture and appliances, the organizers offered help enrolling the children in schools in the region, as well as medical and psychological care and Portuguese classes. When I spoke with the participants, I perceived that most were familiar with the story of the Syrian child who had drowned several days before as his family fled to Europe. To these people, the image of the lifeless baby on a Turkish beach had transformed population displacement from the war in Syria into a humanitarian crisis, changing public opinion about Muslim migrants in Brazil. The event highlighted the suffering caused by the war, and the refugee drama marked relations between the Palestinians in the Leila Khaled Occupation and the media, as well as between public authorities and NGOs supporting migrants and refugees. This intense visibility and the aid offered to the refugee families in turn posed new political demands as well as new challenges for the Brazilian activists and residents of the occupation. Urban occupation movements generally do not receive this level of attention from the media, government or general public. The strong solidarity in this specific case generated various reactions. On the one hand, the migrants felt gratitude, security, and the awareness of being assisted as a refugee (an experience common to practically all Palestinians outside Palestine from birth, through support from government and international agencies). But at the same time, they were uncomfortable with how the refugees were portrayed by organizations, journalists, and volunteers, as subjects with precarious lives marked by the suffering of war. Most journalistic depictions of the refugees relied heavily on the traumas of war for families, the intercultural challenges of moving to a new country and the difficulties of living in Brazil. The new arrivals were asked about life in the camps, the dismemberment of their families and the difficulties of leaving their country. The questions were asked in such a way that evoked an emotional and dramatic response; not only were the same questions repeated over and over, but they focused on the horrors experienced before these migrants moved to Brazil. This new discourse was centred on the notion of a precarious existence limited by war and poverty, expressed in a tone that mixed compassion and complacency. Some refugees responded ironically. One Palestinian was interviewed in his home, which was also an industrial kitchen with two large ovens, a long counter

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with a sink, and a shelf for supplies. At one point, the journalist asked: ‘Before you were a painter, and now you’re a confectioner. What do you think of that?’ The interviewee turned his candy press towards the journalist and replied, ‘This is my canvas, these are my paints [biting the candy], and this candy is my art.’ The response baffled the journalist. After repeated interviews focused on their suffering, the migrants realized they were being exploited by painful references and excessive exposure, and expressed their dissatisfaction. The focus on the refugees’ vulnerability was also seen in the aid they were offered. The framework was established to various degrees in asymmetrical terms, between those who had a dignified life and those who did not, and retribution was expected in the form of gratitude that recognized this asymmetry. I heard many volunteers express irritation at the lack of gratitude among some refugees, or satisfaction when some were grateful, since the volunteers felt they were helping those in need. The Brazilian imagination framed the Palestinian issue (prior to the Syrian civil war) in terms of the Israeli occupation and the decades of martyrdom experienced by this group. ‘Everyone treats us as if we need help all the time’, said Omar, a 29-year-old Palestinian from Sbeinah. Although the journalists and some volunteers made the Palestinians uncomfortable, humanitarian activities presented a chance for some people moved by the suffering of war to ‘do good’. In June 2016, I spoke with a physician who participated in joint efforts to benefit the refugees. She had never worked with refugees or participated in humanitarian efforts before, but after seeing news reports on the tragedy in Syria she had decided to volunteer. Some people wanted to hear the refugees’ stories, learn about their lives and make them visible in a way that had not happened in Brazil since the beginning of the war, but others felt a need to help and to welcome these people who sought shelter in São Paulo while finding means to act. This humanitarian and journalistic attention focused only on refugee families led to reactions citing the neglect and abandonment of Brazilian families who also lived in the urban occupation. Ethically motivated activities seemed to selectively focus on precarious lives (Butler 2015) and were limited by a series of conditions, especially those related to class, race and nationality. Brazilian families, the poor and non-white people did not receive the same compassion. Although many refugees are not considered white according to national standards, most were codified as such and were the subject of more solidarity than the Brazilian families living in the occupation. The racial component is even more striking if we look at migrants from other countries. As I interacted with activists supporting the refugee cause in São Paulo, I met many refugees from Congo, Haiti, Senegal and Angola, as well as Peruvian, Colombian and Bolivian immigrants. There was palpable discomfort around the intense visibility and aid directed towards refugees from the Syrian conflict (Palestinians, Syrians, Kurds,

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Lebanese) and other Arab migrants (such as Egyptians and Moroccans), to the detriment of immigrants from other regions. There were complaints that this latter group was invisible or viewed negatively, which was expressed as neglect, repulsion or even racial and xenophobic violence, including murders of people from Haiti and Congo. The cases that did appear in humanitarian/media circles were frequently criticized by those who remained ostracized. Universal aid and political visibility for the neediest apparently reached their limits when they were offered to refugees and were denied to Brazilians. The images of the refugees drew the attention of many Brazilians towards this cause. Many offered help and solidarity to the refugees at the Leila Khaled Occupation. These images also captured the media’s attention, which significantly boosted the circulation of narratives about the suffering of the refugees; they created a fixed identity for this group, while attracting more humanitarian aid. But this desire to establish a relationship with Palestinian families was met with some resistance, as the refugees did not feel they were being treated with dignity. Palestinians and Brazilians alike were frustrated because they understood themselves to be residents of the same occupation, with equal needs and the same willingness to participate in political mobilization. Outside interventions threatened bonds between the families and the movement by selecting who was more deserving of dignity and consideration. The power of joint efforts was threatened by a political operation that consumed the energy of both the movement and the families within it, as they constantly responded to requests to be seen and helped.

CONCLUSION The presence of the Arab-Muslim and Muslim populations in Brazil seems to be inescapably linked to transnational political processes, from flows of migrants caused by wars and colonial occupations to geopolitical events covered by the media. On some occasions, it is also connected to the human tragedies of war, or the religious practices considered incompatible with local culture and politics. All of these cases involve emotional and moral reactions and corresponding ethical and political responses that can range from hospitality and solidarity to repulsion. These issues concern constructing a public citizenship in relation to ethnic and religious minorities. This simultaneously involves ethical recognition of the other and a desired representation of the common good, as well as notions of affiliation and political and cultural belonging. Public citizenship within the nation state can only exist and lead to conflicts in a shared and collectively imagined political body of citizens. In a globalized and electronically

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mediated world, imagined communities are influenced by forces that exceed the boundaries of the local and in turn affect the possibilities for the ethical recognition of others: even more so if this other is at the centre of geopolitical conflicts and global media agendas. In such cases, the construction of public citizenship includes spheres of influence and elements from outside the nation state. The controversies unleashed by these processes operate within a binary and antinomic orientalist discourse. Media narratives about Islam are still pervaded by characterizations of Arabs and Muslims as violent, barbaric, oppressive and terrorists, and of Islamic and Arab women as docile, oppressed and silent, representing a threat to Western societies. These statements circulate on the internet and television networks without authorship or a designated recipient, based on repetition and variation; these beliefs are frequently crystallized and generic, bound by fear and mistrust. But these narratives are much older and construct a collective imagination in which Arab and Muslim populations appear exotic, foreign and outside the formation of Brazil as a nation. In response to September 11, Islamic organizations in Brazil mobilized to fight stereotypes and provide information, creating a public face for their religion in the country. This led many Brazilians to seek more information from mosques, and many converted and formed a new generation of Muslims. It is notable that an event like the September 11 attacks generated such fear of ‘dangerous foreigners’ while also attracting so many Brazilians to the religion which was blamed. In this sense, the link between Islam and migratory flows from countries in the Arab world was not linear but complex; despite the growth of the Islamic community in Brazil, events outside the country most often had a negative effect on local Muslim communities. At the same time, images of refugees from the Syrian conflict published by the media and on social networks provided a new framework for these populations. The presence of these refugees led to new imagery and moral categories related to Muslim populations, engendering reactions of solidarity and cultural receptivity. In the urban occupation, humanitarian compassion channelled resources to families, but led to discomfort (among the Palestinian as well as the Brazilian occupiers) about how they were seen. In both cases, the prevalent representations were understood to be distortions and stereotypes of these foreign populations and were constantly questioned by them. These events portrayed by the media generated complex local effects that revealed aspects of the very matrix of Brazilian pluralism and its intimate connection to these frameworks that circulate in global media about Islam and Arab peoples, demarcating characteristics of the relationship between Islam, migration and belonging to the Brazilian nation.

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Chapter 10

Faith-based schools in Canadian immigrantorigin communities From identity retention to social inclusion MARIIA ALEKSEEVSKAIA AND PHILIPPE COUTON

INTRODUCTION The continuous growth of international migration and internal mobility has contributed to the rise of the number and variety of faith-based schools1 worldwide (Reiss et al. 2014) and in Canada. Faith-based education is often seen as a crucial tool to ‘sustain cultural heritage in the face of assimilationist trends’ for a range of global immigrant and settled communities (Reiss et al. 2014: 11). The establishment of religious institutions, including schools, is a common way to pass on immigrants’ heritage to their children and, therefore, ensure some degree of cultural reproduction (Warner and Wittner 1998: 16). According to recent statistics, over one-fifth (21.9 per cent) of Canada’s total population is foreign-born (Statistics Canada 2017). While the majority of Canada’s newcomers choose their destination for economic opportunities, 11.6 per cent come to Canada as refugees, according to the 2016 census (Statistics Canada 2017). Faith-based schools have become a subject of public concern in Canada’s pluralistic society, where, for centuries, newcomers have continuously created educational institutions that reflect their culture and faith.

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In Canada, religion and education were historically closely intertwined, and various heated debates arose, including about the government funding of faith-based educational activities and the ability of religious schools to educate their students as responsible and tolerant citizens despite the absence of ethnic, religious and cultural diversity in the classroom. Religion, in general, is an important aspect of how immigrants, and especially school-age newcomers, integrate, with recent international comparisons finding mixed evidence of how various religious traditions and practices affect social, political and cultural insertion into receiving societies (Kogan et al. 2020). By integration, we mean immigrants’ social and political participation, the feeling of belonging to Canada, and their economic independence. Some sociologists and educators are concerned that religious schools promoting one particular theological position might create an insular, ethnoreligious ‘bubble’ effect and undermine the teaching of the common set of democratic values (Gutmann 1999). Others think that religious schooling might first help immigrants address the challenges they face in the new country and accommodate religious communities’ needs that cannot be met in a secular environment. Second, the public recognition of religious minorities’ rights and positive religious pluralism create equal citizenship (Ryder 2008) opportunities for those immigrants who cannot separate their religious convictions from their political views in private or public life. Hence, the governing question of this chapter correlates with the concern of scholars, policymakers and the public about faith-based schools’ impact on their graduates’ integration into a diverse and pluralist Canadian society. This inquiry is especially topical if they are the first-generation immigrants who often have a higher level of religiosity than later generations (Maliepaard et al. 2010). Recent studies show that Christian, Jewish and Muslim schools dominate the landscape of independent religious schools in Canada. In 2013/14, ‘almost a third of all independent schools were Christian non-Catholic (30.1 per cent), 8.4 per cent were Catholic, 4.9 per cent Islamic, and 4.5 per cent Jewish’ (Allison et al. 2016: iii). Of the students enrolled, ‘45.2 per cent attended Christian non-Catholic schools, 31.6 per cent independent Catholic schools, 10.8 per cent Jewish schools, 9.1 per cent Islamic schools, and 3.3 per cent attended schools defined by other religions’ (iii). Given their numerical importance, we present an overview of empirical studies of these four types of religious schools. This study and chapter draw on documentary evidence from the provinces of Ontario, Quebec, Alberta and British Columbia with the largest foreign-born populations and religiously affiliated schools, mainly located in their large cities (Statistics Canada 2011; Allison et al. 2016: 42). It also draws on qualitative ethnographic research and sixty-four interviews with current and former members of the Dutch-Canadian Reformed communities (Alekseevskaia 2021).

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This chapter provides three levels of analysis of ethno-religious schooling in Canada. We first review the discussion concerning the very existence of faithbased education in a pluralistic society. Second, we discuss the role of religious schools in immigrant identity retention and transformation. We present brief case studies of three educational systems: the schools established by Catholic and by Jewish immigrants at the beginning of the twentieth century and those founded in the 1950s and onward by Dutch Reformed immigrants. These cases were chosen because they present distinctive and long-lasting ethno-religious schooling traditions and open a discussion about immigrants’ adaptation and socialization (Couton 1999; Tremblay and Milot 2014; Taylor 1994). Third, we explore the tools used by recently established Muslim schools to foster engaged citizenship. Thus, this chapter explores how various Christian, Jewish and Muslim schools approach specific issues, including student critical thinking, parental rights, ethno-religious identity retention and sexual pluralism. Religious schooling in the public sphere A wide range of public and private faith-based schools operate across Canada, where educational policy is under provincial jurisdiction. Religious schools can be business or non-profit organizations, and their financial support from the government varies depending on the province. Today, five provinces out of ten (British Columbia, Alberta, Manitoba, Saskatchewan and Quebec) partially fund private schools. The funding ranges ‘between 35 per cent and 80 per cent of public school per-student operating allocations’ (McLeod and Hasan 2017: 22). While the wording ‘private schools’ usually describes institutions serving the wealthy, the term ‘independent schools’ is often used while referring to faith-based schools that, in most cases, are non-profit organizations that enrol children from ethno-religious families of various socio-economic backgrounds. Many newcomers choose public over private schools for obvious financial reasons and also sometimes because they believe that public schools offer a smoother path for integration. However, as other religious institutions, religious schools are important for some immigrants (Connor 2012; Hirschman 2004; Sweet 1996; Warner 2007); and they might choose a destination in Canada, where religious services are provided (Esses et al. 2010: 66). Even though the sense of religious belonging decreases with more recent generations in Canada, this process works at a ‘lower magnitude among the immigrant population’ (Caron-Malenfant et al. 2018: 2582); a similar pattern is observed in many European countries and the United States. In other words, immigrants are more likely than the Canadian-born population to ‘carry with them a faith-based lifestyle’ (Angus Reid Institute 2018: 10). Furthermore, while the number of religiously non-affiliated individuals (known as ‘Nones’) has reached 23.9 per cent in 2011, and 19.5 per cent of recent immigrants self-identify as ‘Nones’ (Statistics Canada 2013), other groups stay stable (such as Dutch Reformed)

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or have grown substantially; ‘33.0 per cent of immigrants who arrived between 2001 and 2011’ self-identified as Muslim, Hindu, Sikh or Buddhist in comparison to 2.9 per cent of immigrants who came before 1971 (Statistics Canada 2013). Hence, it is important to foresee the potential and likely growth of the longstanding and recently emerged religious schools. It is the religious identities of the 1.5 and second generations of immigrants, who are ‘outpacing the rate of new immigrant arrivals’ (Beyer 2008: 29) and will impact ‘the institutional fate of those religions in Canada’ (30), including their educational dimension. In Canada, independent schools have existed since the nineteenth century and for a long time were limited to Catholic and Protestant day schools. Religiously diverse education became increasingly popular in Canada after the Second World War as more migrants arrived. While there continues to be a high demand for religious education in Canada, there are rising philosophical, sociological and political concerns that faith-based schools are not able to ensure that their students acquire skills and values to fulfil social roles in a multicultural and pluralistic society (Atkins 2001; Gutmann 1999). These concerns often focus on schools operated not only by Muslim communities but also by ‘old strangers’, the older immigrant groups that ‘never were entirely accepted’ (Beyer 2012: 26). Private education is still relatively expensive, and its often prohibitive cost (especially for an immigrant or refugee family) is usually closely connected with the debate about the ‘public’ and ‘private’ interests of schools. Some scholars state that religious schools fulfil the same goals as public schools: they teach students to be honest and kind and to contribute to the public good (Bryk and al. 1993; Thiessen 2001). Although it is unachievable to provide parents of all religious and spiritual worldviews with ‘a right to a place for their child in a publicly-funded faith school’ (Watson 2013: 153), a group of scholars and advocates argue that education taxes should be used to fund either public or private religious schooling depending on the interests of the taxpayer. Otherwise, freedom of choice ‘becomes an exclusive right of those who are able economically to take advantage of such freedom’ (Bergen 1987: 230). Others argue that religious schools are excluding institutions that promote ‘private purposes, values and goals’ (Jim Rivait, cited in Thiessen 2001: 99). This perspective is the common rationale for preferentially funding public schools (Alberta Department of Education: Committee on Tolerance and Understanding 1984; Commission on Private Schools in Ontario 1985). Despite the strong voice of the advocates of public education monopoly, the push for greater diversity and choice in terms of schooling and curriculum, including faith-based, has become an international trend. The adoption of government policies supporting religious schooling is seen as ‘a means of resolving societal conflicts rooted in cultural differences’ (Glenn 2018: 473).

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Researcher in international education systems Charles Glenn (2018) succinctly distinguishes two main patterns for developing faith-based schools in most Western democracies, including Canada. First, an immigrant or a minority group ‘with its own distinctive religious and cultural traditions’ has established its own schools to ‘preserve elements of those traditions against the pressure of the surrounding majority culture’ (464). The Jewish, Islamic and Dutch Reformed schools discussed later fit in this pattern. Second, some religious schools were set up as a response to the secularization of the public schools that lost their formerly explicitly Christian character. The continued enrolment in both anglophone and francophone Catholic schools across Canada serves as an example of both Canadian-born and immigrant parents’ interest in choosing a school opposing ‘the degradation of public schooling but also that of the wider culture, as perceived by many families’ (464) that select those schools. Furthermore, the non-recognition of religious schools would marginalize ethno-religious migrant communities and their rights to religious freedom. As Charles Taylor (1994) pointed out, difference-blindness is not possible: the socalled neutrality, or non-intervention, would marginalize the disempowered and amplify inequality. However, how much institutional variety of ethno-cultural minorities should be supported and accommodated by the government is an open question. It is therefore not surprising that the debates about independent immigrant-origin ethno-religious schools are still so lively. The Covid-19 pandemic has had a considerable impact on the discourse around parents’ rights and their roles in children’s education. During this healthcare crisis, schools have often been unable to provide in-class instructions, and so parents have been required to take a more active role in their children’s education and sometimes even homeschool them. The common argument used against religious schools as the ones where parents have strong decision-making power and there is limited government intervention is being reconstructed.

IDENTITY RETENTION AND TRANSFORMATION One of the main reasons for objecting to faith-based schools that intend to preserve religious identity is the fear of their excessive insularity. Some educators believe that even though some children from traditional families might be torn ‘between the attitudes at home and [public] school’, it is ‘a necessary and shortterm evil’ (MacMullen 2007: 136) because these children are exposed to the topics which would not be discussed at home or in a religious school. Hence, these scholars argue that it is the nonreligious schools that would ensure the graduates’ capacity for critical and rational thinking skills. The topic of limited sex education in religious schools is a frequent argument to question these schools’ appropriateness. Most Canadian faith-based schools do not oppose sex education, but, as in the case of Muslim leaders and parents, they ‘are very

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concerned both about current methods of sex education and the values which lie behind them’ (Halstead 1997: 317). While public-school advocates claim that keeping religion out of schools ensures the neutrality of these institutions, religious groups argue that secular schools establish ‘a new value system’ (Glendon 2009: 39). Therefore, to preserve their cultural values, ethno-religious communities, many of recent immigrant descent, establish and maintain faith-based schools. Although ‘religiously based schooling has usually been thought of as anchored in conventional thinking’ (Glenn, 473) and limited in fostering critical reasoning, the empirical evidence shows that they do develop students’ feeling of belonging to Canada and prepare them for living in a diverse and pluralist society. Religious schools are also valued for a high level of cultural congruence in teachers’ understanding of students’ cultural background. When teaching is based on students’ lived experiences, they ‘have higher interest appeal and are learned more easily’ (Gay 2002: 106). Additionally, culturally congruent education may help avoid a life between two cultures, leading to dissonance and ‘split personality syndrome’ (Zine 2008: 4). The following section will examine how faith-based schools affect their students’ identity retention and transformation and whether they succeed in helping immigrant children integrate, based on available empirical evidence. The evolving role of Catholic schools for immigrant communities Perhaps one of the most interesting dimensions of Catholic schooling in Canada is its role in the adaptation of various groups of immigrants, including the ‘famine Irish’ newcomers who moved in large numbers in the late 1840s. Having composed over a quarter of Toronto’s population, Irish Catholics faced intense rejection from the Protestant majority (Nicolson 1984: 288) and, hence, established a separate educational system. These schools focused on instilling a sense of Irish identity and ethno-religious solidarity (Nicolson 1984) and operated on those principles for decades, and successfully promoted Irish identity for thousands of children. State-funded Catholic education persists to this day in Ontario as a direct successor of the Irish experiment but has lost all but the thinnest veneer of Irishness (and much substantive Catholicism). Millions of descendants of those who attended these ethno-religious schools have now fully blended into the Canadian population. In Ontario, anglophone and francophone Catholic schools are funded by the government (as historical relics). They attract current immigrant children of different faiths due to their good academic reputation, stricter discipline and a more traditional ethical foundation. From the Catholic schools’ point of view, an increasing student enrolment provides them with higher funding in total and survival in the long term. As an example, in 2017, the number of

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non-Catholic students in English Catholic boards in Ontario ‘reached almost 11,000, an 18-per-cent increase in the past four years’ (Alphonso 2018: par. 4). Although enrolment of non-Catholic students was to be possible only in high schools since the late 1980s, many elementary schools have recently loosened their strict policies requiring to have at least one baptized in Catholicism parent to consider the child eligible for enrolment. This has opened doors to more immigrant religious families. While some nominal Catholic parents try to exempt their children from religious classes to save their time for other subjects, non-Catholic but religious parents, including many from Muslim and Eastern Orthodox traditions, value the faith-focused aspect of Catholic schools. They see Catholic schools as a place to ‘learn “core values”’ and ‘balance education and spirituality’ (Brown 2014: par. 33-34). At least in the provinces where government financial support is present, Catholic schools are likely to continue growing in popularity among immigrant religious groups. High academic standards, teachers’ qualifications, infrastructure, geographical location and affordability are the obvious reasons for their advantage over some other religious schools. The abundant evidence on the Catholic schools that have served immigrant communities over the past two centuries reveals a not entirely unexpected pattern: ethno-religious schools play an influential role in ethno-cultural retention, but that role is generally short-lived. The general trend is creeping secularization, partially explained by the Catholic schools’ frequent reliance on government financial support (Thiessen 2001), dictating adjustments in the curricular and hiring procedures. To respect diversity or the government’s requirements, some Catholic schools have approved the changes not adopted by other religious schools. They include allowing GSAs (Gay-Straight Alliances) and opening Islamic prayer rooms. This explains why many independent schools, including Dutch Reformed schools, oppose state funding: they seek to preserve their freedom from government intervention (Barman 1995). Another trend identified within and outside Catholic schooling is a growing interest in enrolment from immigrant families practising another religious tradition than the one the school has been based on. As discussed earlier, this happens for financial and academic reasons or because of an absence of faithbased schools for each distinct religious group. The Jewish experience Given the high level of education and integration into mainstream society that Jews have achieved, century-old Jewish schools have not acted as a wedge between the Jewish communities and the rest of the country. An important aspect of the Jewish educational experience is its great diversity and continued evolution. It has never been a monolithic institution promoting a single,

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separate ethno-religious identity; it has rather followed most of the important changes Canada has experienced during the same period (rising pluralism, the increased political assertiveness of Francophones, etc.). Montreal’s Jewish community is the oldest and, until recently, the largest in Canada. Its twenty-three private elementary and secondary schools ‘represent the full spectrum of Jewish identity – from Liberal and Zionist schools to ultraOrthodox haredi schools’ (Read 2015: 54). Enrolment in Montreal’s Jewish day schools has steadily increased in the last decades. Among the factors explaining this are partial government funding of private schools in Quebec, assistance to families to cover the fees by Jewish communities, growing financial stability of the well-established Jewish immigrant community and a high diversity of Jewish schools (Read 2015: 94). A comparative analysis of religious schools in Quebec concludes that they serve as a bridge between the culture of home and parents and Quebec society (Tremblay 2014: 260). Jewish schools, claims Tremblay, do not intend to create a religious or external community (236). Their main aim is to preserve the status of the Jewish community as both a minority and a part of the wider society (236). Some parents see religious schools as a means for cultural and moral socialization because they may transmit religious codes and cultural heritage (270) and create a sense of community. Public schools, in contrast, have drawbacks in their multicultural curriculum that reduces Jewish culture ‘to holidays, songs, folktales’ (Saposnik and Osterhaus 1996: 191–2). Public schools focus on religious differences between Jewish and non-Jewish students and ignore internal diversity and ‘ethnic and national identity and cultural traditions’ (196) of secular Jews. Whether and how a religious school provides students with critical thinking skills depends on the approaches to curriculum and teaching methods utilized. To give an example of how different Jewish schools approach complex social topics, Tremblay and Milot (2014) divide Jewish non-Hasidic schools in Quebec into two groups: modern Orthodox and traditionalist. The traditionalist schools are usually chosen by those parents who want to familiarize their children with Jewish culture (143). These schools do not adapt most courses specifically for a Jewish student population (145). The modern Orthodox schools, in contrast, provide students with a profound religious education and sometimes create ‘a Jewish “cocoon”’ (143). Modern Orthodox and traditionalist schools approach the exposure of students to the diverse outside world differently. Modern Orthodox schools promote the idea of living in a Jewish neighbourhood and building friendships in the community (147), while traditionalist schools encourage their students to communicate with the outside community, including by learning about the Franco-Quebec heritage. Despite the differences, both types of schools intend ‘to form citizens who are able to participate in Quebec society’ (150), although they have a different level of protection of students’ religious identity. Modern Orthodox schools see

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Judaism as ‘a lever for deepening’ the feeling of being a citizen because ‘it’s in the Bible . . . you respect the laws of the country in which you live’ (150) while traditionalist schools refer to Jewish values as universal and humanistic (150). Original text is in French. Translation provided by author. In sum, after building a wide array of institutions and deploying various curricular and teaching approaches, Jewish schools continue promoting active citizenship, pluralism and social connectedness. Dutch Calvinist, or Canadian Reformed, schools The Dutch Reformed2 and Jewish schools have a common feature. They have been set up by communities characterized by a high level of institutional completeness – the degree to which ‘the ethnic community could perform all the services required by its members’ (Breton 1964: 194), including providing school education. Compared to other Dutch post–Second World War immigrants, Reformed Christians have built and sustained many of their own institutions in Canada, including independent Christian schools. One example of a school system established by Dutch Calvinist immigrants was the one3 set up by members of the Federation of Canadian and American Reformed Churches (CanRC) in British Columbia, Alberta, Manitoba and Ontario since the 1950s–60s. It currently has twenty-seven schools with over 5,000 student population (LCRSS 2019: 3). In many congregations, ‘an estimated 90 to 95 per cent of Canadian Reformed parents send their children’ to these schools (Oosterhoff 2006: 112). Today, CanRC has around 19,500 members mainly across Canada and also the USA (Yearbook Anno Domini 2020 Canadian and American Reformed Churches), and forms ‘a distinct entity within the Canadian mosaic’ (Oosterhoff, 109), including due to its long-lasting mono-denominational schools. The Ontario Canadian Reformed schools have evolved significantly throughout the five decades of their existence. Interviews conducted with teachers and graduates revealed a shift in approaching interfaith dialogue, sex education, gender identity in the school curricula and extracurricular activities (Alekseevskaia 2021). While the tendency to shelter children is still present, especially in rural areas, principals and teachers aim to introduce efficient student-focused teaching strategies and develop standardized curriculum across schools. In the not-so-distant past, many Canadian Reformed Christians could conduct their entire life inside the community by graduating from a Canadian Reformed high school and running a business or working for a business (especially agriculture-related) within the community. Nowadays, many young people pursue post-secondary education, work in the broader community and are therefore exposed to different perspectives. Although some community members are reluctant to provide children with a detailed explanation of certain topics,

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for example, in regard to sex education, the interviews generally demonstrate a growing understanding of the importance of a relevant and inclusive curriculum. An inclusion of conversations about non-cisgender identities and pornography seems to be a transformative step for the community, which two decades ago aimed to shelter their children and censored movies and books. However, standardization of the curricula provokes resistance and debates. The differences across schools, depending on their location (the most simplified division would be urban–rural), are still significant. One of Alekseevskaia’s respondents (2021) raised a fair question: ‘Should this standardized curriculum feed or challenge the existing biases?’ (197) Canadian Reformed students’ awareness of various socio-political issues has also become more nuanced. However, there is a lack of open discussion with people who have drastically different worldviews. This might result in students being less prepared to understand what they stand for and why. Nevertheless, the Canadian Reformed community is shifting from inward- to more outward-looking, and the current generation of students has a growing interest in expressing and promoting their political views, volunteering outside of the Canadian Reformed community and seeing the value in learning from non-Canadian Reformed Christians and engaging in the public sphere. Because these schools have strict hiring and enrolment policies in terms of the religious affiliation of teachers and students, they allowed the Dutch Reformed post–Second World War community to preserve its religious and, as a result, ethnic identity. At the same time, the findings indicate that the Canadian Reformed school system has not become a barrier for immigrants’ successful social, economic and political integration. Not unlike the Jewish educational experience, these schools helped preserve aspects of Dutch ethno-cultural identity and continue to promote a range of theological perspectives. Still, they have also evolved to a great degree and have adapted to external social and cultural conditions. Muslim schools Islamic schools and their students face issues, biases and concerns similar to those experienced by Jewish and Dutch Reformed schools described in the previous sections. Like many other immigrant groups, Muslim newcomers have grown in numbers and national and ethnic backgrounds mainly since the mid1960s following the adoption of the non-discriminatory aspects of immigration policy; they have founded Islamic schools in large and smaller communities since the 1980s. While their children’s religious education has been a paramount concern, many Muslim parents have favoured public schools over private Muslim institutions for various reasons. Some have preferred public schools for financial reasons; others have considered them as a tool for smoother social and

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economic integration or even assimilation of their children. Still, many parents have had concerns regarding the best ways of providing their children with the opportunities to ‘learn about Islam’ and ‘appreciate their faith’ (Haddad et al. 2009: 12). Even though the number of scholarly studies about Islamic schools in Canada is limited, they identify a comparable list of the schools’ assets: they provide a safe space to express and enhance religious and cultural identities; students are protected from ‘stereotyping and taunting’ Eurocentric learning that ‘may in some way be prejudiced against Islam’ (Haddad et al., 6). For example, in Jasmin Zine’s study (2008), both parents and students interviewed claimed that ‘public schools were failing to accommodate religious practices and holidays’ (102) and reflected ‘the dominance of Eurocentric holidays and celebrations that conflicted with their Islamic sensibilities’, including Halloween and Valentine’ Day (104). Furthermore, students might experience less differentiation based on race or culture in a faith-based school. Some of the students interviewed by Zine (2007) said that their transition from a public to an Islamic school ‘allowed them to feel a greater sense of belonging’ (76). For instance, a sixteenyear-old student of Pakistani descent could finally ‘bring leftover food from the night before’ ‘without the judgment and negative reactions from other students’ (76–77). As highlighted in previous sections about Dutch Reformed and Jewish schools, Islamic schools also provide students with a strong sense of identity and sense of community that is often difficult to find in other settings. Several empirical studies concur that the Islamic school environment empowers female students. For example, because modest clothing is normalized, Muslim female students’ participation in sports is relatively high (Kelly 1997: 121). Female students also seem to gain a better opportunity to develop leadership skills and make their voices heard. Zine’s statement (2018) that in Islamic schools, young women ‘lead spiritually-centred lives . . . in ways that you can’t in a secular education system’ coincides with other studies arguing that gender-segregated classes or schools can benefit female students (Bouchard and St-Amant 2003; Fize 2003). In any female-centred educational spaces, female students can ‘develop a stronger voice, a stronger sense of being able to speak in class and put their views forward’ (Zine 2018). One of the main shortcomings of Islamic schools in Canada, underscored by both affiliated and non-affiliated scholars, is the teachers’ qualifications and teaching strategies. Like other religious schools, Islamic schools are valued by the community, parents and students for their teachers who are important role models. However, as Zine (2018) points out, ‘some teachers, even though they are teaching subjects like math or science, would take it upon themselves to offer their Islamic teachings to the students – which were often really problematic. These ideas reflected specific cultural attitudes and beliefs that were not part of the formal Islamic studies curriculum’. Moreover, Islamic schools’ quality of

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education is not always even because not all teachers are certified. Regulations for private school teachers’ qualifications, for example, in Ontario, are flexible; this leads to the situation that if no certified teachers are available, those who received education abroad or completed a university degree in Canada but have not gained an Ontario Teacher’s Certificate (OTC) will be hired. As a result, some teachers use a teacher-centred approach (Zine 2008: 288), while in Canada trained teachers promote active learning principles. Another limitation of some Islamic schools and some other religious schools is a lack of financial (and therefore human) resources to provide adequate and diverse facilities for students’ training. Some Islamic, along with some Dutch Reformed and Jewish schools, avoid critical self-reflection and discussion of ‘controversial issues that are related to internal community dynamics’, including ‘gendered roles, or culturallyinformed racial stereotypes’ (Memon 2010: 117). Ali and Bagley (2015) reinforce other researchers’ recommendations about Canadian Muslim schools (Ghosh 2004; Memon 2011). They suggest exposing students more to the cultures, traditions and beliefs of other communities, along with popular holidays (such as Halloween), to ensure that students can ‘interact positively with the wider non-Muslim Canadian society’ (18). One of the most prominent and topical policies and educators’ discussions of Islamic schools has been developed in Quebec, where the social and political context has defined the controversies and concerns. Québécois identification has historically been challenging to adopt for immigrants and non-francophones (Telford 1998: 35). Referring to the Final Report of the Bouchard-Taylor Commission on Reasonable Accommodation (2008), Jamil confirms the existence of ‘public anxiety and the majority perception that Muslims present a challenge to the secularism and gender equality so closely associated with Quebec’s national identity’ (2014: 148). Fear of the possibility of religion returning to the public space has provoked Quebecers to ‘retreat into the heritage value of Catholicism or a radical vision of secularism that confines religion to the private sphere’ (Bouchard and Taylor 2008: 186). Muslim schools in Quebec show that identity retention can be compatible with respect for others. Relying on Islamic tradition, they intend to prepare the first- and second-generation immigrant students for their acculturation and decode the society they live in (Tremblay 2014: 260). Although the inner tension between memberships in the country of origin and the host society has intensified since anti-Muslim and anti-immigrant sentiments increased during the last two decades, Muslim schools play a decisive role in mitigating the crisis of identity affecting Muslim students in Quebec (Tremblay, 260). A recent study also confirms that modern Islamic schooling can be ‘effective in creating balanced identities and in avoiding extremes’ (Tiflati 2016: 181) because they ‘provide a controlled environment in which religious ideology is filtered and adapted to youth reality and context’ (196).

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To sum up, continuous latent discrimination and persistent stereotypes against Muslim immigrants, as well as a lack of inclusive curriculum in public schools, serve as strong reasons for some Muslim parents to favour Islamic schools. These schools, along with other independent schools, have the legal right to address the curriculum from their perspectives. Despite some concerns, they have been doing so without affecting academic outcomes and social participation. The bridging between Muslim communities and mainstream society appears to be adequate even if there is space for further improvement.

CONCLUSION Our evidence shows that ethno-religious schooling is almost never static, and neither are ethno-religious immigrant groups. These communities and their educational institutions evolve and adjust the curriculum and the topics addressed in class to the current socio-political context. As our overview showed, faith-based schools allow ethno-religious communities to retain their religious identity, particularly after initial settlement. However, the case studies of Catholic, Jewish and Dutch Calvinist experiences indicate that the ability of religious schools to preserve a strong sense of cultural and religious identity among their students is relatively modest over the long term. While Islamic schools emerged relatively recently, comparing them to more established religious schooling traditions can contribute to relativizing some fears and stereotypes that affect them. Although some Jewish and Dutch Reformed schools created a ‘bubble’ to shelter their students, most contemporary schools value some diversity in their student populations and their exposure to different points of view. Our overall conclusion is that most schools representing different parts of the religious spectrum endeavour to form thoughtful and responsible citizens. The 2017 poll showed that the number of parents who choose independent schools, including faith-based ones, increases (Angus Reid Institute 2018). Furthermore, the stable number of Jewish school-age children, their Muslim counterparts’ and evangelical Christian communities’ rapid growth indicate that religious schooling is here to stay and even grow. These schools are likely to hold an increasingly important place in the Canadian and international context and to further expand the institutional pluralism that already marks education across the country. What is evident, in other words, is that immigrants have profoundly affected how education is delivered and will continue to do so. The question of independent school funding and the impact on graduates’ involvement in the larger society will probably attract more attention from researchers and policymakers, within a framework of increasingly recognized minority rights. The potential conflict between minorities’ cultural or religious values and the liberal vision of equal dignity raised by Charles Taylor (1994) is likely to

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continue being present given the long-lasting religious convictions voiced in the public square. Moreover, a variety of recent Canadian court cases explicitly show a lack of consistency and coherency in the legal responses when religious freedom clashes with other human rights. The strong civic engagement of the religious groups we studied after the second/third-immigrant generation allows us to envision that other, more recent immigrant groups might join the public square in the near future to defend their religious freedom rights too. The case studies of Jewish, Dutch-Canadian Reformed and Islamic schools show that maintaining religious minorities’ right to have their own institutions, such as schools, has a number of positive outcomes. It allows these groups to develop and maintain a feeling of belonging to Canada and a sense of recognition. It motivates them to use legal ways of civic participation and helps avoid marginalization and segregation that could negatively affect children. This is particularly true for communities whose exposure to the world would become more limited and less structured because of the inevitable constraints of the existing public-school curriculum that cannot cover multiple religions and cultures. Lastly, studies about religious schools are still dominated by case studies of individual schools, limiting the opportunity to generalize the achievements and challenges of faith-based immigrant educational experiences. There is a need for more qualitative data on how religious school graduates adjust to the broader social environment after graduation and how well they are equipped for the challenges that they face. More generally, a better, empirically grounded comparative understanding of educational pluralism is necessary for diversifying societies affected by still-growing international mobility. Furthermore, whether limited access to faith-based schools is a recurrent barrier to attraction and retention of newcomers in Canadian smaller centres is an important question for further research. The latter will inform Canadian immigration policies aiming to demetropolize current immigration and bring newcomers to smaller communities that urgently need immigrant contribution to their socio-economic and demographic development.

Chapter 11

Research on migration and religion in the Latin American context A systematic approach FRANK USARSKI

PRELIMINARY REMARKS Migration, here understood as a movement that causes an individual to dislocate his or her centre of life for a considerable period (Treibel 2008: 295), is a constituent of human history, and due to the increase of migration processes under the conditions of globalization, the topic ranks high on the agendas of different academic areas. One of the disciplines engaged in research of related issues is the study of religion, whose long-term interest in the matter has recently been reinforced by the currently growing relevance of migration and the fact that until today the dislocation of people is often deeply intertwined with religious affairs. As a result, scholars of religion, already sensitized for the intimate relationship of migration and religion from a historical standpoint, are now confronted with a wide spectrum of related contemporary events that demand the same thorough description and interpretation as, for example, the invasion of Arian-nomads into the realm of the Indus-culture and its role for Hinduism or the changes within Islam stimulated by the hijra of Mohamed and his followers to Medina.

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According to the two interrelated academic activities within the study of religion represented by the historical and the systematic approaches laid out by Joachim Wach (1924), any research of a single religious manifestation (historical dimension) demands additional reflections in terms of the systematic study of religion. The investigation of different cases of pilgrimage, for example, not only expands our knowledge of related practices and their spiritual justifications, in particular religious traditions (plural). It also contributes to the accumulation of information and the deduction of universal principles and common denominators of pilgrimage (singular) as a constitutive element of religion (singular). The complementarity of these two interrelated intellectual operations, that is (a) the study of elements encountered within different religions and (b) the identification of typical transversal characteristics that allows the structuring and homogenization of the empirical material (Langhein 1989: 129), applies to any issue considered relevant from the discipline’s perspective, including migration. Michael Pye’s theory of the transplantation of religion (1969) gives us an idea of how a systematization regarding the topic ‘religion and migration’ should advance. Pye reflects on the challenges that a religious branch encounters when it becomes active in a foreign country. His focus lies on the impact of the transplantation-process on the religious repertoire from the moment of arrival of the dislocated religion in its new host society. Pye’s theory calls attention to key elements of a systematization of the religion-migration dynamic, but it needs elaborations that go beyond the reflection on religious institutions, their spiritual repositories and rhetoric of proselytization. The following paragraphs aim to contribute to a more comprehensive and detailed interpretative framework that fulfils the demands of the systematic approach within the study of religion in regard to the relation of religion and migration. This framework is created with reference to three categories: (a) the empirical-based data that tells about the chronology of the migration process, (b) the general analytical viewpoint of the relationship of religion and migration and (c) the level of analysis of religion in the context of a migration process. Examples taken from Latin American studies on migration history (Moya 2018) and more recent emigration of Latin Americans to other parts of the world shed additional light on this discussion.

THE SYSTEMATIZATION OF RESEARCH ON RELIGION AND MIGRATION ACCORDING TO THE CHRONOLOGY OF THE MIGRATION PROCESS We can understand the migration process in terms of subsequent phases. The duration of each phase is flexible and depends on several factors. For analytical purposes and in the sense of ideal types one can divide the process into three key moments: the periods ‘before’, ‘during’ and ‘after’ migration.

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The first phase represents the situation prior to the dislocation from a place of origin or home country to a place of destiny or host country. It covers the causes and conditions responsible for setting the migratory process in motion. An often neglected but important factor has to do with the types of transportation and technology that motivated and also facilitated economic migration. In the late nineteenth century a railway was built near Mexican’s northern border. This railway (built by migrant labour) provided the network that made it possible for people to travel to and settle in American immigrant colonies, including Mormon ones. Railway networks also enabled the creation of missionary hubs along the way, as well as different Protestant churches, and the establishment of Protestant charitable institutions such as schools, hospitals or orphanages (Hernández and Ibarra 2017). While migration was made possible by transportation and technology, we usually think about migration in terms of the economic or political forces that push or pull a migrant away from his or her homeland and attract him or her to countries that are promising in terms of a demanding labour market, public security and receptivity towards foreigners. These forces are often intertwined and may mutually reinforce one another. Japanese migration to Latin America from the end of the nineteenth century onwards, for example, was prompted by developments in Japan during the Meiji-era (1868–1912) when a long-lasting period of encapsulation under the Tokugawa government (1603–1867) ended and the new government took measures to overcome the country’s isolation and stimulate interaction and trade with other regions such as the United States and Europe. Against this background and compelled by a socio-demographic pressure on certain sectors of Japan’s population (Yoshida 1909), the Japanese government established trade agreements with Latin American countries such as Peru (1873) and Brazil (1895) after the abolition of slavery in those regions and when there was a demand for migrant labour. These contracts created the conditions for the first waves of Japanese immigration to the region. The Japanese government soon took organizational and financial measures to coordinate and promote the emigration of target groups (Tigner 1981). The Japanese government regarded the work as temporary and assumed that the migrant workers would eventually return to Japan. This assumption had a significant impact on the religious lives of the immigrants in the host countries. Most of the immigrants came from rural areas where Amida-Buddhism characterized by devotional family practices and ancestor worship was strong (Maeyama 1973: 244). Besides technical, political and economic factors, socio-psychological factors also motivate migration. One prerequisite is the so-called ‘internal religiosity’ that coincides with a sense of independence from social bonds that may be dysfunctional for an individual’s desire to leave his or her familiar surroundings. Simply put, people with strong connections to a local religious

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institution do not seek out migration opportunities. Research on students enrolled in a higher education programme in the state of Guanajuato, Mexico, shows the potential effect of this self-sufficient attitude. The results suggest that, despite self-assessment as ‘religious’ and a common desire to move to the United States for professional reasons, individuals engaged in the community life of local churches are less willing to migrate than classmates committed to spiritual values and habits without feeling the need to build collective religious compromises. In the first case, characterized as ‘external religiosity’, the observed data underlines the importance of human relations as a means of integration into a homogeneous social network. The normative structure of a cohesive group generates the feeling of security and the anticipation of loss of something existentially important in the case of migration. The ‘internal religiosity’ consists of the sensation of a connection with the divine independent of any group and place. Hence, it is a constitutive factor of migration because this type of religiosity is ‘transportable’ and its displacement does not imply affective ‘costs’ or, even, a feeling of guilt for abandoning a circle based on principles such as trust and solidarity (Hoffman, Marsiglia and Ayers 2015). The journey from the country of origin to a new host country represents the second phase. The trajectory can be composed of stopovers while en route to a destination. Relevant studies refer to the constituents and occurrences during the trajectory in a geographical sense. One example for related projects is the research on economically motivated illegal migration of members of a Mayan community in western Guatemala to Houston, Texas. In our context, the question about the role that Pentecostal churches played during the journey from the place of origin to the place of destiny is of particular interest. From the very beginning, even before the final decision of the migrant to leave their homes, pastors of local evangelical churches assumed the role of counsellors both for the future migrant and for their families. In this way, pastors and religious functionaries mediated not only a vertical connection between a community of worshippers and God but also a horizontal connection between the home and host community of the migrant. The advice given by the pastors not only referred to logistical problems prior to the departure, for example, regarding the choice of a proper paid guide who leads a migrant to their destinies. The instruction also projected potential obstacles and uncertainties during the illegal journey across two national borders. After the departure of the community members the families maintained a close relationship with the pastor. The pastor in turn kept the relatives informed about the travellers’ current whereabouts. If the migrant had been arrested or as in need for legal and spiritual support, the pastor contacted the host community in Houston for help. The pastor was often the first to receive information about the successful journey and share the news (Hagan and Ebaugh 2003).

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The final third phase begins when the migrant arrives in the host society. Often temporary migrant work becomes permanent and so a place that was initially considered only transitory (in the sense of characterizing the second phase) turns out to be the final destination of a migrant as it was the case of the 132 Japanese who first left for Hawaii but eventually settled in Guatemala in 1893 (Kunimoto 1993: 104). The impact of immigration on religious life is complex and multifaceted. It depends on a series of factors both on the sides of the migrants and the receiving society. Religiosity also plays a role in migration and as we have discussed migrants with weaker ties to religious institutions in their home countries are more likely to migrate. It makes a difference if someone migrates as an individual or enters the host society together with other family members or even as a part of a large group. Compared to individual and sporadic migration initiatives, the continuation of a religious routine abroad is more likely when a considerable number of migrants enters the country of destiny within a short period and then organize themselves in groups. In this sense, the approximately 800 Japanese who immigrated to Peru from 1899 onwards were far better off than the 34 Japanese that arrived in Mexico in 1897 (Kunimoto 1993: 104). Aside from the relative numerical strength of a group of migrants, aspects such as the geographical density of the migrant’s settlement and the group’s gender-proportion are decisive for the maintenance of religious capital in the host country. A negative example is that of early Japanese migration to Bolivia, where until 1923 approximately 600 individuals had arrived and established themselves in different places of the country. This dispersion was dysfunctional for the establishment of ‘ethnic’ institutions and responsible for the absence of traditional Japanese Buddhist temples in Bolivia. Since only 8 per cent of the pioneers were women, there was a high rate of extra-ethnic marriages which contributed to rapid dissemination of the immigrants into the Bolivian society (Tigner 1981: 466–7). Although Japanese immigrants who came to Brazil during the two first decades of the twentieth century benefitted from their geographical and social cohesion, Japanese forms of religiosity and Buddhist temples did not develop. As such religious practice took place in front of home altars and shrines. In the absence of temples and priests, groups of relatives gathered from time to time with their neighbours to perform religious ceremonies and festivals in an improvised manner. Religiosity changed following the end of the Second World War and the bombing of Nagasaki and Hiroshima when temporary Japanese migrants came to see themselves as permanent residents and citizens of Brazil and not Japan. This mentality-shift had an uneven impact on Japanese migrant religiosity. On the one hand, the 1950s saw a wave of the founding of Japanese Buddhist institutions. Simultaneously, the socialization of the younger members of the immigrant families deemphasized the Japanese cultural heritage in favour

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of acculturation to the patterns of the Brazilian host society. The statistics of the national census in the last decades show a steadily decreasing number of Brazilians of Japanese descent who also self-identify as Buddhist. Clearly, second and later generations of Japanese Brazilians are not connecting with the religion of their Japanese ancestors (Usarski 2008). When considering the third and final phase of migration, one must pay careful attention to the national circumstances encountered by immigrants in the host or destination country. In Latin America, Catholicism has historically been the dominant religion. While Pentecostalism is becoming more popular in the region, mandatory Catholic religious education is still common in public schools. When considering the nexus of religion and migration one must also keep in mind the influence of religious education and mainstream religiosity on migrant lives and cultures. Does religious education help to combat xenophobia, as it was the case when the Catholic Church in Argentina launched a campaign in the late 1970s to protect Chilean immigrants who the Argentinian government used as scapegoats in the context of the dispute between the two countries over the delimitation of the Beagle Channel at the end of the 1970s (Azcoitia and Barelli 2020)? Do they contribute to the reception of migrants in terms of accommodation and care as in the case of the ‘Casa do Migrante’ run by the Catholic ‘Missão Paz’ in Brazil, whose pastoral activities include the organization of religious festivities typical for the different refugee-communities (Parise 2016)? Often, we assume that migration goes well and that migrants settle and integrate. But this chapter’s interpretative framework also considers a return migration as part of the third phase. One example is the migration of mostly younger Brazilians with Japanese ethnic background to the land of their ancestors. These so-called dekasegi (lit.: ‘working away from home’) are representatives of a recent generation of families of Asian origin (Lesser 2003). They were socialized according to Latin American cultural standards and consider themselves Brazilian citizens. Most of them do not speak Japanese and are no longer committed to a Japanese religious tradition. Rather, they were brought up as Roman Catholics, have converted to a Pentecostal church or another mainstream-segment of Brazil’s religious spectrum. The move to Japan for economic reasons did not change their ‘typically’ Brazilian religious preferences. On the contrary, far from home, they often rediscover their Christian religiosity as an important aspect of their identity and a reason to become a member of a local faith-community that serves as a cultural enclave in the ‘foreign’ Japanese settings. Many Christian religious institutions, in particular Pentecostal denominations (Shoji 2014), and also typical Brazilian phenomena such as Spiritism and Umbanda in Japan are results of the influx of dekasegi to Japan and their need of maintaining or recovering religious beliefs,

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habits and rituals as constituents of their Latin American identity (Araraki 2013: 255).

THE SYSTEMATIZATION OF RESEARCH ON RELIGION AND MIGRATION ACCORDING TO THE ANALYTICAL PREDOMINANCE OF RELIGION OR MIGRATION Besides the chronological dimension discussed in the previous paragraph, one can discriminate research projects on the dynamics of religion and migration according to the way religion is analytically treated. In other words: Is religion considered a dependent or independent variable? If religion is defined as a dependent variable, the researcher is interested in the impact of the migration process on the religious field. If the researcher treats religion as an independent variable, the question is how religious factors stimulate, promote, intensify or shape a migration process. Relocation because of enslavement, escape from natural calamities and fleeing a war are examples of migration motivated by nonreligious reasons. Nevertheless, these causes are relevant for the study of religions as far as they have a subsequent impact on the migrants’ beliefs, spiritual practices and religious institutions. While slavery is a type of forced migration for economic reasons it generally has religious consequences. Most of the approximately 11 million African slaves who were brought to the Americas were sold to Latin American and the Caribbean (Araújo 2016). In these host countries the ethnically mixed Africa population was expected to abandon its spiritual beliefs and to embrace the religion of their Latin American holders. However, what seemed to be a conversion to Catholicism from the outside was often not more than a simulation that did not affect the inner roots of the slaves’ African religious heritage. Rather, they identified their deities with Catholic Saints and continued to venerate their traditional, now re-signified, pantheon. By and by, this symbolic superposition contributed to the emergence of different Latin African religions such as Brazilian Candomblé or Cuban Santeria. Another example of a nonreligious-motivated migration process with possible consequences for the religious life of the migrants in the land of destiny is a voluntary departure of the home country for the sake of upward mobility abroad. The hope for a better life in the material sense is one of the major reasons for Latin Americans to move to the United States. This economically driven migration process may cause important ‘side-effects’ in the religious sphere of the migrants’ life in the host society. For example, the influx of migrants from countries such as Mexico, Bolivia or Puerto Rico has been an important factor for significant changes within US-American Catholicism, not only in a demographic sense but also in terms of ‘imported’ patrons and saints,

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festivities and devotional practices that root in the immigrant’s family heritage (Matovina 2012). If practitioners of a religion leave their home country to escape from collective persecutions of their faith, religion plays the role of an independent variable. In this case, migration is a consequence of the desire for religious freedom. One example is the systematic suppression of Buddhism after the Chinese occupation of Tibet. The subsequent exodus of large parts of the Buddhist clergy, not only to the neighbouring Himalayan regions but also to other parts of the world, has made the Vajrayana schools accessible to a global audience. The existence of over 350 local Tibetan Buddhist centres in Latin America is a long-term consequence of these events (Usarski 2019). The second example of migration driven by religious motives is the sojourn of representatives of a religious community in a foreign land for the sake or of spiritual assistance of migrants or mission among the population of the host country. Early activities of Japanese Buddhist priests in Latin America fall into this category. In 1903, Kakunen Matsumoto and Senryu Kinoshita from the Jodo-School, and Taian Ueno, from the Soto-Zen-school in Peru, established themselves in Peru to assist Japanese immigrant families who had entered the country by then (Ota 2003). While the Jodo-priest returned to Japan in 1910, Taian Ueno had already established the Taihezan Jionji-Temple (originally Nanzenji-Temple) in the outskirts of Lima in 1907 as the first Zen institution in Latin America. One year later the Buddhist Reverend Tomojiro Ibaragi from the Nichiren-branch, Honmon Butsuryushu, was among the first 781 Japanese immigrants who arrived in Brazil in June 1908. His spiritual work among the immigrants culminated in the establishment of the Taisseji temple in the city of Lins (State of São Paulo) inaugurated in 1936 (Usarski 2013).

THE SYSTEMATIZATION OF RESEARCH ACCORDING TO THE RANGE OF THE MIGRATION-RELIGION RELATION In addition to the chronological dimension of migration and the focus on religion as a dependent or independent analytical variable, one has to bear in mind that religion can be observed on different ‘levels’. The first is the individual, or micro level, in the sense of personal beliefs and practices that may be involved in the process or relocation. The second is religious institutions in the sense of social actors (meso-level) and their role in the dynamics of migration. It is also possible to approach the relation of religion and migration from the viewpoint of a religious tradition in the sense of a philosophical, cultural and social heritage (macro-level).

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The individual level is the focus point of Martinez (2017), who studied the role of personal beliefs and their capacity to cope with health problems suffered by often poor Hondurans, Guatemalans and Salvadorians who had moved to Mexico and sometimes from there to the United States. In their countries of origin, many of the Latin American migrants had no social-security coverage and no access to official health facilities. They were therefore already susceptible to alternative curative approaches prior to migration. This attitude did not change, and faith-based healings offered by Charismatic Catholic and Pentecostal denominations continued to serve the needs of the migrants on their way to Mexico when suffering from stomach illnesses or mycosis that forced them to interrupt their journey. Another research that sheds a light on the micro-level is a study of the role of Evangelical Christianism for Brazilian football players in professional soccerdivisions in countries such as Spain, Germany, the Netherlands, France, Japan, Canada and Morocco (Rial 2012). The players showed different degrees of religious commitment to local churches and some of them even became active as spokespersons of their denominations. In any case, the Pentecostal worldview and the corresponding this-worldly asceticism help the players to come to terms with the daily challenges of professional soccer and sustain the cultivation of virtues instrumental for enduring success such as obedience, discipline and selfcontrol. Attention given to the meso-level of religion in relation to migration sensitizes for modifications of religious routines and repertoires of ‘immigrant’-churches according to the conditions experienced by their frequenters in the host society. One contribution to our knowledge about these dynamics is the study of Sheringham (2011) about the religious life of Brazilian migrants in London and the responses of their local evangelical churches to the special needs of their members. From the immigrants’ point of view, these local denominations not only satisfy religious needs in a stricter sense but fulfil important social functions for their members. Therefore, the immigrants consider these institutions often more important than those they have frequented in Brazil. The expectation of the immigrants for assistance beyond the spiritual realm in a stricter sense put pressure on the churches which had to adapt their routines and doctrines to the daily experiences and problems of their members in a foreign country. As a result, the churches transplanted from Brazil to London stressed moral aspects of their teachings, knowing that clear ethical messages would help the migrants to overcome the feeling of disorientation within the diversified host society. A second example of the impact of migration on religion at the meso-level has to do with modifications within Japanese immigrant Buddhism in Brazil. It relates to the Honpa Hongwanji Temple in the city of Brasilia. In the 1980s, the institution took unconventional measures to overcome their ethnical

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exclusivity and to guarantee the further existence of an institution in the face of a severe decrease of members because of demographic reasons. Authorized by the Japanese headquarters as a suitable strategy to attract a public beyond the ethnic enclave, the temple expanded its weekly routine by including meditation-sessions, foreign to devotional Pure Land Buddhism (Matsue 1998). It is relevant here that a religious institution historically rooted in the Japanese immigrant milieu included an innovative element into its repertoire as a means of adaptation to trends of the host society. As for the relation of religion and migration from the viewpoint of a religious tradition as a carrier of particular spiritual heritages (macro-level), the cases of Umbanda in Japan and the Church of World Messianity in Brazil come to mind. Brazilian Umbanda, known for the lack of standardization in terms of norms and beliefs was introduced to Japan by Brazilian dekasegi from the late 1990s onwards. The transplantation caused considerable changes within Umbanda due to its capacity to integrate elements of distinct cultural origins. In this case cosmological and theological elements were borrowed from the Japanese context. Among other modifications, the syncretizing procedure enriched Umbanda’s traditional pantheon composed of spirits identified as socially underprivileged personalities of the multi-ethnical Brazilian past. In Japan, the spirits of deceased members of the Japanese elite such as doctors, Buddhist monks and samurais were included (Arakaki 2013: 255). Similar to Umbanda in response to its transplantation to Japan, Sekai Kyūsei Kyō (the Church of World Messianity) introduced to Brazil by Japanese immigrants in the mid-1950s has adapted its teaching and rituals to the condition of its new host culture. Already in 1971, the executive board of the Brazilian branch had decided to change the language of the ceremonies from Japanese to Portuguese. Only one of the central prayers called AmatsuNorito was maintained in the original form. Due to the increasing openness of the Church for an audience beyond the Japanese ethnic enclave, however, it became necessary to reduce the sensation of cultural alienation caused by the Japanese recitation. As a result, the Christian prayer ‘Our Father’ was added to the Amatsu-Norito. Since then both prayers are part of the daily and monthly liturgies. Similarly, the outfit of the church’s clergy was adjusted. While Sekai Kyūsei Kyō-ministers responsible for the rituals wear white ropes and black hats in Japan the Brazilian counterparts are dressed in a conventional black suit and wear a stole with the church’s symbol. Other concessions to the Brazilian host culture were made with respect to the funeral rites which are crucial both for Japanese religiosity in general and for Sekai Kyūsei Kyō in particular. In Japan, the rituals in homage of the anniversary of the deceased are performed at the first, eleventh or twenty-first day of the corresponding month. In Brazil, the ceremonies are held on the morning of a Sunday, in accordance with the weekly routine of a traditional Catholic country. The

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offerings to the ancestors were also adapted. Items typical for Japan, including fish and seaweed, have been substituted by the two basic ingredients for the national Brazilian dish: that is, rice and beans, alongside cereals and beverages common in Brazil (Anjos 2012).

SYNTHESIS The previous paragraphs discussed a framework that can integrate the different analytical perspectives towards the relationship between religion and migration. The intention was to identify the leading questions of the related studies and to create a structure that helps us to organize the results of single research projects and transform them into a logically ordered form of collective knowledge (Marconi and Lakatos 2003: 80). Figure 11.1 allows a holistic view of the three constituents of the framework​. The horizontal dimension of the graph shows the chronological dynamic of the migration process. Three subsequent stages are highlighted: (a) before departure from the home country, (b) during the journey to the destiny and (c) after the arrival at the destination. The desire to leave one’s home country (label ‘motives’ on the top left side of the diagram) not always leads to the

FIGURE 11.1:  Research on religion and migration – analytical framework. Created by Frank Usarski.

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preparation for the journey. The individual follows his or her intention if the benefit of migration seems to be greater than the costs. While a deep friendship with members of a local religious community can be a reason to stay, suffering from religious persecution of a repressive government can be a sufficient reason to leave. Such scenarios fall under the category of ‘prerequisites’ displayed at the outer left margin of the diagram. The relevance of religion for migration during the journey (second stage) depends on the circumstances experienced by the migrant on his course to the destination. It is easier to overcome obstacles when the individual is convinced that God always has an eye on him or her, that there is somebody at home who prays for his or her wellbeing or when he or she knows that on the way there are sister-communities of his or her congregation at home that are ready to help. As for migrants’ arrival in the host country, researchers examining the relationship between religion and migration may find the following questions relevant: Is the immigrant a practitioner of a religion? Is his or her daily life marked by religious beliefs and routines? Does the religious practice depend on the support of a religious community? Is his or her religion concerned with the preservation of practices shaped in a specific culture? If so, what are the strategies of maintaining the religious heritage in the new host society, and how are eventual adaptations to the new environment – in the sense of religious innovations – received by the religious authorities in the country of origin? Is he or she willing to create bonds with people outside of the ethnic community or group of migrants of the same national origin? Is there a dominant religion in the receiving country? If yes, what is the position of this dominant tradition towards migration? Do religious actors engage in the reception of migrants? The label ‘consequences’ displayed at the outer right margin of the diagram calls attention to the possibility that the dynamic once set in motion in the land of origin does not come to an end even if migrants or their religious community have settled in the host country. One example for this kind of further development has to do with the Brazilian branch of the Church of World Messianity that, after its introduction to Brazil by Japanese immigrants and his success among the general Brazilian public, became the stronghold in the West. In 1991, Brazilian reverendos and ministros started a mission project in Angola and assumed the role of protagonists for the establishment of the church in the African country (Anjos 2018). Besides the horizontal segmentation, the diagram shows a vertical division in two parts according to the focus on religion or as a dependent variable (the part above the horizontal arrow) or as an independent variable (below the horizontal arrow). In both cases, the empirical focus can rest on (a) individual migrants (micro), (b) religious institutions as social actors (meso) and c) beliefs

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and practices associated with a particular religious tradition (macro). In the literature on religion and migration, these analytical perspectives appear in different combinations. Because of formal restrictions of this chapter, there is only room for two examples of possible combinations. The study of Logan (2014) is an example of approaches to religion as an independent variable and its impact on the micro-level. Logan was interested in how Tibetan citizens of the Parkdale neighbourhood in Toronto cope with their diaspora as a long-term consequence of the escape from their homeland after its occupation by the Chinese and the systematic destruction of Tibetan culture, including Vajrayana-Buddhism. Logan argues that the maintenance of Buddhism helped the Tibetan immigrants to deal with the challenges of displacement to a country whose cultural patterns differ significantly from immigrants’ traditional worldviews and religious habits. The arrangement of a special corner reserved for Buddhist practices in the apartment, traditional ceremonies in front of an altar, the display of prayer flags and the veneration of the Dalai Lama’s image were instrumental for the immigrants’ identification with their new homes. The second example is a study of Hoskins (2015) that deals with religion on the macro-level in the sense of a dependent variable. The author was interested in the changes of Spiritism practised by a group of Vietnamese of rural origin that had migrated to certain Asian metropolises for economic reasons. After migration, the group members maintained their traditional ‘animistic’ orientations and continued to venerate their ‘domestic pantheon’. However, the supernatural beings were no longer only linked to the rural life of origin and a particular place of worship close to the home-village. Rather, the Vietnamese immigrants created alternative spaces in their urban surroundings and interpreted them as ‘mirrors’ of the autochthon religious localities. In addition, they transformed or even invented several rituals to assure spiritual support in response to challenges typical for a life in a metropolis.

CONCLUDING REMARKS As the last two examples indicate, the application of an integrative framework as a means of systematization of studies of the ‘migration-religion’ dynamic is not restricted to the Latin American context. Rather, it is meant as a ‘universal’ model. Researchers studying the relationship between religion and migration in other parts of the world must decide to what extent the framework fulfils this expectation.

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Chapter 12

Religion and im/migration in the global city PETRA KUPPINGER

In the summer of 2007 members of the Hussein Mosque community walked in a parade in celebration of the urban quarter where the mosque has been located in Stuttgart, Germany, since the 1980s. About twenty pious Muslims marched between groups and floats that represented local schools, sports clubs, choirs, voluntary firefighters and churches, becoming visible for and as local residents. The Hussein Mosque is a well-established small mosque community of mostly Turkish German and Turkish Muslims and their families, many of whom have been in Germany since the 1960s. The mosque provides programmes and activities for its members, is actively involved in interfaith activities and participates in shared events with other local groups and constituencies. The participation in the summer parade in 2007 added one more layer of visibility to the mosque’s local existence, and very importantly, it showcased the mosque as one ordinary urban constituency among other similar ones in the neighbourhood. This chapter explores the role of immigrant religions and faith-based groups in recent transformations of urban spiritual geographies, and urban religions and cultures in Europe and North America. Taking evidence from the work of anthropologists, sociologists, geographers and scholars of religion who analyse urban religions and religious cultures, and my own ethnographic research among Muslims in Stuttgart, I illustrate the relevant but frequently overlooked role of immigrant religions in global cities. I explore exemplary moments, spaces

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and experiences of immigrant religions, religious communities and religious practices in cities and show how dynamic religious transformations unfold in immigrant faith communities and contribute to larger spiritual and cultural changes. Diverse immigrant religious communities (e.g. Muslims in Germany or France, Pentecostal African congregations in the United Kingdom, Hindus in the United States or Buddhists in Canada) have remade urban spiritual landscapes and created and strengthened the global religious networks of their religious traditions and countries of origin. Immigrant faith-based communities often remain invisible or are conveniently ignored for many years after their arrival by dominant societies, municipalities and politicians in their urban destinations. In their initial years, most immigrant religious groups or communities do not own or inhabit large houses of worship, but use storefronts, invisible old factories or out-of-the-way warehouses to worship and congregate. Lacking funds and unsure whether they will stay or where they will settle, early immigrants’ lived religions unfold in such small or unlikely spaces where the pious meet, develop their communities and seed and cultivate their local roots. Regardless of their relative invisibility, many immigrant faith communities soon become lively elements in local spiritual geographies and connect to vibrant landscapes of globalized faith-based organizations across cities and nations. Their spiritual engagements challenge the (imagined) secular nature of contemporary global cities and illustrate the active characteristics of transnational faith communities. Especially since the turn of the millennium, many immigrant communities, like the Hussein Mosque, have taken steps to become visible and recognized urban stakeholders, and very crucially to become active local actors and engaged constituencies in the civic spheres of European and North American cities. Drawing on debates about the role of religion and immigration in global cities, I will in the following highlight moments, spaces and steps in processes of localization, claims to visibility and participation of immigrant religious communities, point to the continued importance of diverse religions and spiritualities, and emphasize the significant creative and culture-producing roles of immigrant religions in cities of the Global North. Finally, I ask: When do immigrant religious communities cease to be immigrant communities and become religious minorities?

GLOBALIZED SPIRITUALITIES After religion was largely ignored or even considered irrelevant in the study of modern cities in the post–Second World War years, starting in the 1960s the arrival of millions of im/migrants to cities across the globe who insisted on the continued practice of their religions sparked renewed interest in the role and position of religion in the city. At the same time, new spiritual traditions such as new age movements/practices emerged in the Global North (Sutcliffe

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and Bowman 2000; Bowman 2014). In the process, new religious venues, spiritual practices, diverse new/immigrant faith traditions, new age spiritualism and emerging revivalist and charismatic religious movements remade religious urban landscapes in the late twentieth century. Individual spiritualities, religious communities, faith-based practices and faith-inspired activities continued to play central roles in the lives of diverse urbanites. Some established faith communities encountered rural or foreign arrivals of their own tradition. Other immigrant faith groups started to congregate in workers’ dormitories, private homes, storefronts or warehouses. Much of this emerging spiritual geography remained invisible to the mainstream society whose members took little interest in the spiritual practices and welfare of their new Muslim, Hindu, Sikh, Buddhist or other neighbours. For the immigrants, in contrast, these emerging lively places of worship and social gathering often played central roles in their lives. They started to expend much time, effort and money purchasing and renovating unappealing buildings (Vergara 2014; Spero 2014). Starting in the final years of the twentieth century, a growing number of scholars highlighted the continued importance of religion in global cities (Werbner 2002; Kong 1993, 2001; Warner and Wittner 1998; Metcalf 1996). They emphasized themes of place-making and community building (Tweed 1997; Orsi 1985) and showed that even small faith communities were relevant places where new arrivals met, created local networks (Tsuji, Ho and Stepick 2009), learned new social skills and became civically engaged in their cities (Levitt 2008; Shah 2017; DeHanas 2016). Observers note that many immigrant places of worship are vibrant spaces that help localize immigrants and represent important links to their places of origin (Ebaugh and Chafetz 2000; Tweed 1997; Hansing 2009). They not only insist that religion is alive and well in cities but highlight that immigrant and established faith communities are vibrant elements that make and remake spiritual geographies and urban spaces and cultures at large (Orsi 1999; Numrich 2000; Elisha 2011; Bielo 2011; Garbin 2014). Since the beginning of the twenty-first century, scholars of urban religions and faith-based or faith-inspired cultures analyse the rapid transformations of diverse globalized urban spiritual expressions and geographies, the localization of new faith communities, and the transformation of established congregations and practices (Guest 2003; Leonard et al. 2005; Foley and Hoge 2007; Becci et al. 2013). They challenge notions of the ‘secular city’, reevaluate the role of religion in globalizing cities and societies (Beaumont and Baker 2011; Cloke and Beaumont 2013) and ask questions about urban pieties, religious communities, spiritual practices, individual religiosities, faith-based or faith-inspired activities and complex changing urban spiritual geographies (McRoberts 2005; Gerlach 2006; Kuppinger 2018). They explore faith-based urban cultural spheres and expressions, like modest Islamic fashion or halal food and restaurant cultures (Tarlo 2010; Fischer 2009).

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Faith-based urban dynamics and transformations encompass entire metropolitan regions, as immigrant communities settle and move across inner-city and suburban spaces. One cannot understand twenty-first-century spiritual transformations by examining only parts of these dynamic landscapes. Especially in North American contexts, many immigrant faith communities first congregated in more central urban spaces, but in recent years moved to the suburbs as many of their members moved there and were prosperous enough to underwrite large and representative suburban houses of worship (Dwyer et al. 2016). The experiences of diverse immigrant faith communities vary across time and space and even for different groups of the same religion. For example, processes of localization of Turkish Muslims who arrived in Germany in the 1960s and 1970s differ from those of Afghan Muslim refugees who came in the 1990s. Ghanaian Pentecostals who arrived in Germany at the same time as Afghan refugees experienced yet other dynamics of localization. Processes of localization of immigrant faith communities, which include relatively ‘new’ religions such as Islam in western Europe or Buddhism in North America, different branches or practices of ‘local’ religions like Filipino Catholics in Italy, or Pentecostal and charismatic African Christian communities in the United Kingdom (Saint-Blancat and Cancelierri 2014; Garbin 2012; Fesenmyer 2019) vary, reflecting complex interactions between class, ethnicity, race, religion and specific urban, national and global contexts and dynamics. No two immigration experiences are the same and there can be no one-size-fits-all explanatory model for the arrival, localization and reception of immigrant faith communities. As religion and spirituality (re-)entered the urban analytical stage, they are analysed as integral and creative elements that shape urban cultures, everyday lives and spaces (McLoughlin 2005; Eade 2011; Lanz 2014; Kuppinger 2014a, 2020a). Scholars identify religion as a dynamic cultural field and insist that religion is not only in, but very crucially of the globalized city (Cloke et al. 2016; Chiodelli 2015; Garbin and Strhan 2017; Becker et al. 2014; Kuppinger 2015a). Observers insist that this religious ‘turn’ is not a new phenomenon but represents the renewed and more self-conscious acts of religiously inspired actors and faith-based institutions that have always existed in urban contexts and gained new prominence in recent decades. Several questions are central in debates about, in particular, immigrant religions in global cities: How do immigrant faith communities acquire, create, negotiate and maintain appropriate spaces? How do they create locally rooted and transnationally connected congregations? How do they negotiate their role, position and participation in neighbourhoods and cities? How do they articulate spatialities that serve their communal needs and allow for participation in neighbourhood and urban cultural and public spheres? How does communal life of faith-based groups transform in changing urban social and cultural landscapes?

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SPATIALITIES AND CONTROVERSIAL HOUSES OF WORSHIP Upon arrival in their destination cities, many immigrants who seek to continue their religious practices are initially content with finding any type of functional premises to congregate and worship with their compatriots. They might meet in basement rooms in workers’ accommodations, rent apartments, workshops, factories or storefronts largely regardless of the location and quality of the premises. For example, early Turkish Muslim migrant workers in German cities in the 1960s and 1970s often rented nondescript and affordable spaces. Some were located in backyards (second-row housing or workshops) which resulted in the popular term ‘Hinterhofmoschee’ (backyard mosque) for such communal spaces (Mandel 1996; Ceylan 2006; Kuppinger 2010). These small prayer rooms were located away from main streets and boulevards and invisible to those who did not live there or bothered to ask about such emerging spaces of worship. These simple prayer rooms accommodated migrant workers’ basic communal and spiritual needs but did little to visibly establish them in the urban spatial, social and cultural landscape (Schiffauer 2000). As many workers’ temporary stay turned permanent and they brought or started families, growing congregations outgrew these premises and started to search for larger and more appropriate spaces. Acquiring spaces of worship or communal spaces is the first and most fundamental step for faith communities to localize, develop robust roots and become ordinary and recognized local stakeholders. Only those with a physical home can start to build networks, invite others to their spaces and become hubs on urban religious maps (Azzara 2019). Renting or buying appropriate spaces, however, has for many immigrant faith communities been a challenge, a source of considerable popular opposition, and much frustration. Once an immigrant faith-community takes steps towards their own space (renting or buying), they frequently encounter considerable suspicion, resentment or outright hatred from mainstream society (Cesari 2005b; Manço and Kanmaz 2005; Gale 2008). There are many well-documented stories of mosque communities in Europe who fought for years to be able to buy, renovate or build their own premises (Astor 2012; Kuppinger 2015a; Jonker 2005). It is almost predictable that as soon as a Muslim community voices interest in establishing a permanent mosque or community centre, neighbours and municipalities voice an equally predictable list of concerns about this project, including issues about parking (a German favourite), noise, the role of women in Islam and suspicion about radical political intentions of the group (Cesari 2005a; Lauterbach and Lottermoser 2009). Building a purpose-built house of worship, using ‘foreign’ architectural elements and features remains one of the most challenging tasks for many Muslim communities (Schmitt 2003; Tamimi Arab 2013; Hüttermann 2006). Mosque

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communities not only face considerable public and municipal opposition when they want to build a mosque, even smaller construction projects like the addition of a minaret to an existing (non-purpose built) facility can produce prolonged conflicts and struggles (Kuppinger 2014b). Opposition to mosques is not so much a legal question, but an issue of popular fears, stereotypes and resentment. In Western democracies that guarantee religious freedom, zoning and similar laws are at times used to challenge or even undermine this freedom. Muslim communities are not the only immigrant faith communities that face opposition in their quest for adequate and purpose-built houses of worship (Peach and Gale 2003; Truitt 2019: 24). Shah et al. (2012) chronicle the controversies a Jain community faced in the process of building a temple in suburban London. Planning, negotiations of features of the temple, regulations about details and other changes along the way hindered and slowed down the construction of this temple. The temple was not allowed to have any ‘microphones, amplifiers or public address systems or external lighting’ (Shah et al. 2012: 86). Such regulations have similarly been ‘imposed on other non-Christian places of worship in the UK’ (Shah et al. 2012: 86). The Jain community had to constantly ‘negotiate local sentiments and objections’ throughout the planning and construction process (Shah et al. 2012). Among other issues, residents objected to the possible number of visitors on Jain holidays, the construction of a parking lot, they complained about possible noise and traffic chaos and noted that religious activities of the Jains were ‘alien to the locality and “belong” elsewhere’ in the city (Shah et al. 2012: 87). The temple was officially opened in 2005, more than two decades after the community had bought the real estate. Not all efforts of immigrant communities to build houses of worship, however, are met with opposition. Dwyer et al. (2016) report about the ‘Highway to Heaven’ in suburban Vancouver, where urban planning policies had designated an ‘Assembly District’, along a stretch of a suburban highway. The resulting three-kilometre long ‘Highway to Heaven’ has since the 1980s come to accommodate two older/established church communities and more than twenty immigrant faith communities and faith-based schools, including ‘two mosques, eight churches (six Chinese language churches), three Buddhist temples, two Hindu temples, [and] a Sikh gurdwara’ (Dwyer et al. 2016: 668). These houses of worship and faith-based institutions illustrate the robust localization of the respective communities and demonstrate the suburbanization of pious immigrants, their (local) children, grandchildren and communities. Some of the more recent additions on the Highway to Heaven are large structures that use elaborate and visible elements of their architectural traditions. Dwyer et al. explain that ‘the Thrangu Tibetan Monastery which opened in July 2010 is the most ambitious recent addition to the religious landscape’ (Dwyer et al. 2016: 680) and the community had received special permission ‘for a roof-line cupola, giving a maximum height of 23m and 11m above the limit’ (Dwyer et al.

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2016: 681), because such a cupola is an important element ‘of the vernacular architectural vocabulary of Tibetan temples’ (Dwyer et al. 2016). The Highway to Heaven is located on the edge of suburban Richmond/Vancoucer and the elaborate houses of worship have only themselves as direct neighbours (by legal requirement they all have large vegetable gardens in the backyards). Lowell Livezey (2000) describes the dense urban neighbourhood of Rogers Park/West Rogers Park in Chicago where, in the space of only a few densely populated city blocks, there are several synagogues, a Catholic church that held Mass in English, French and Spanish, a Hispanic Pentecostal community, a South Asian Muslim community, a Hindu temple and a Methodist church that caters to a multi-ethnic group of worshippers including white, African American and Caribbean believers. This complex spiritual geography reflects the quarters’ rapid transformation from an all-white neighbourhood in the 1960s to a hyper-diverse quarter where about a third of the population are foreign born (including Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe, Arabs, Latinx individuals; Livezey 2000: 133, 137). Livezey notes that these faith communities mediate both spiritual and cultural aspects of their visitors and members (2000: 139). He explains that the congregations are actively engaging many of their ethnoreligious members, but do not interact much with each other. They do not have exchanges with or programmes about their neighbouring faith groups. These houses of worship are uncontroversial, but Livezey notes that the communities constitute enclaves, ‘defined by the concentration and cultural self-identification of similar people’, and emphasizes that they are not characterized ‘by the exclusion or subordination of others’ (2000: 160).

THE STRUGGLE FOR VISIBILITY In 1999 a mosque community in Stuttgart bought a defunct factory for several million D-Mark (Kuppinger 2015a: 34). Even though the community had consulted with the city before this purchase, neighbours and the quarter’s local council were up in arms within weeks of the transaction. A long legal and administrative battle ensued and three years later the community sold the factory to the city. Soon afterwards, in a less publicized transaction, the municipality, which understood that they had faulted the community in this long and painful conflict, offered the congregation another old factory (Kuppinger 2015a). The mosque community was ‘defeated’ in this conflict, but in the course of the three-year controversy, they gained considerable visibility, recognition and new supporters and friends. Without doubt, the mosque community paid a high price in this controversy, but they emerged as a visible community that sought roots and permanence in the city. One of the mosque community’s main representatives in this struggle emerged after the controversy as one of the city’s

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central go-to Muslim representatives who up to the present is frequently invited and consulted on many issues to do with Islam, religion and interfaith topics at large. He earned much recognition and respect with the municipality and beyond for his professional and skilled negotiations. The community, its representatives and their dedicated work for this mosque project (finally) demonstrated to the municipality and mainstream society that Muslims had ‘arrived’ in Stuttgart, wished to grow roots, be visible and become active participants and cultural creators. By offering an alternative site, the city acknowledged the community’s permanence and rights as a local faith-community. The community’s quest and plans for their future in the city became the topic of widespread popular and political debates. In neighbourhood discussion events, on the pages of local newspapers and meetings of neighbourhood and city councils, many participants acknowledged that the city had for too long (four decades) ignored its Muslim citizens and their right to adequate meeting spaces. This much publicized and discussed mosque controversy at the turn of the millennium established Stuttgart’s mosque communities on the urban political, cultural and spiritual map. The community in question has since then beautifully renovated their new premises and held many public events (e.g. a neighbourhood theatre production, lectures, interfaith meetings and Ramadan fast-breaking events) in this locality. The struggle for visibility and participation can unfold in different ways and is not always tied to physical spaces. Chantal Saint-Blancat and Adriano Cancellieri (2014) describe how mostly female Filipino immigrants to Padua, Italy, stage an annual Santacruzan procession to continue an important Filipino Catholic ritual and illustrate their presence in the city. While these immigrants are Catholics in a Catholic city, their faith practices and especially the procession differ from local ones. After initial tension and disregard, the local Catholic church and clergy came to support this new faith practice of an elaborate, female-dominated procession through the streets of Padua which is now held annually. Saint-Blancat and Cancellieri illustrate how the procession brings an immigrant community, that is rather isolated as domestic workers during the week, together for long preparations. Pious participants negotiate their place and role in the local Catholic church, and the procession makes this hidden immigrant constituency very visible at least once a year when they march in colourful costumes through Padua’s streets. The authors argue that visibility, access to public streets and spaces are paramount features of the Filipino immigrants’ quest for recognition and participation in Padua. Saint-Blancat and Cancellieri illustrate how access to public streets and spaces was the first hurdle the Filipinos had to negotiate. They founded and registered a cultural association and under its umbrella and with the help of the local Catholic church which ‘warmly welcomes the revitalization of church attendance due to the presence of the migrant devotees’ (Saint-Blancat and Cancellieri 2014: 652), the immigrants gained access to public spaces for their annual procession. The

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mutually beneficial relations between the local Catholic church and the Filipino pious accommodated the latter’s entry into the public sphere and increased visibility. The authors note that not all immigrant groups experience ‘the same tolerance and recognition’ (Saint-Blancat and Cancellieri 2014: 653) as the Catholic Church ‘maintains a powerful monopoly on the national and local religious landscape’ (Saint-Blancat and Cancellieri 2014). With this support Filipinos in Padua gained access to public space, increased their visibility and staked out a (symbolic) space for themselves in the city’s spiritual landscape. For a few hours participants in the procession ‘transcend their daily life of subordinated workers in an experience of self-reconstruction as exemplary Christians’ (Saint-Blancat and Cancellieri 2014). They are ‘performing’ their urban presence and piety to their fellow citizens to see and recognize. SaintBlancat and Cancellieri conclude that accessibility, the temporary appropriation of urban spaces and the resulting visibility are paramount for immigrant faith communities to claim urban belonging and participation (for a similar procession in Taipei, see Wu 2010). This is vital for invisible communities like the domestic workers in Padua, and faith communities that are part of shared larger faith traditions yet have their own unique spiritual practices and celebrations. David Garbin (2012) introduces the brass-band of a Kimbanguist Congolese church in London. On 1 January 2012, the band proudly marched and played in the London New Year’s Day Parade (Garbin 2012: 425). The band routinely plays at communal events like weddings and funerals and has participated in public events like ‘the Black History Month in Woolwich and Islington, the Hackney Carnival’ (Garbin 2012: 432). Garbin stresses that regardless of the occasion, the musicians ‘march for God’ attempting to ‘spread God’s vibe’ (Garbin 2012: 435). Like the Santacruzan participants mentioned earlier, the Kimbanguist band temporarily claims public spaces and sacralizes them with their faith-based performance. The musicians become visible and audible as a religious community that is otherwise marginalized (see David 2012). Marching in a well-known parade in central London, the band also ‘challenges negative stereotypes associated with Congo and Congolese people, but also Black youth (masculinities) and Black culture in the context of inner-city London’ (Garbin 2012: 443). In the parade they showcase their arrival as a faith and ethnic community in the centre of the city to diverse urbanites, and to their own community in London, the Congo and beyond as the event was broadcast among others by the BBC and CNN.

BECOMING AND BEING LOCAL There are many ways to localize, and for immigrant faith communities to become part of urban spiritual and cultural geographies. Kenneth Guest (2003) introduces the vibrant spiritual landscape of New York’s Chinatowns where

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new Christian and Buddhist places of worship emerged in the final years of the twentieth century and each community localized following its own trajectory. Since the 1980s thousands of immigrants from Fuzhou and the Fujian region in southeastern China have migrated to New York City and many settled in Chinatown (Guest 2003: 3). By 2002 immigrants had established fourteen new religious congregations there (in addition to older Chinese and other faith communities), including ‘Protestant and Catholic churches as well as Buddhist, Daoist and Chinese popular-religion temples’ (Guest 2003: 4). Guest examines some of these communities and how they localized and helped immigrants with their entry to the city, accommodated spiritual and other ties back to their hometowns and villages, created meaning for them in New York and wove believers into the city’s spiritual and cultural map. Guest introduces the He Xian Jun Buddhist Temple, a nondescript ‘storefront-turned-village-temple’ (2003: 127), established by Master Lu in the 1980s shortly after he arrived in the United States. Master Lu mediates with ‘He Xian Jun, a prominent Daoist deity’, and organizes feasts honouring Chinese Buddhist bodhisattvas, illustrating the ‘integration of Buddhism, Daoism, and Chinese popular religious beliefs at the local level’ (Guest 2003: 128). The temple constitutes an important meeting space for immigrants ‘as they seek to make sense of their new and often hostile environment and negotiate their difficult existence in New York’ (Guest 2003: 131). The temple offers much practical help, including ‘an informal revolving loan fund’ (Guest 2003). The Temple of Heavenly Thanksgiving is also located in a former storefront but is much larger and has visibly been embellished with large pagoda-style ornaments on the exterior on Canal Street (Guest 2003: 135). The first Heavenly Thanksgiving Temple was founded in Dongqi Village in China in 1987 and integrated Confucian, Buddhist and Daoist faith elements (Guest 2003: 136). A few years later immigrants from Dongqi established a branch community in New York which later financed the construction of a third temple back in Dongqi. These three temples are closely linked and help members in ‘the actual arrangements involved in the migration process’ (Guest 2003: 136), including a dormitory for new arrivals and those on the way to other cities. The temple mediates the spiritual needs of long-term residents and new immigrants, provides ‘off-the-books employment for undocumented workers’ and gives restaurant owners access to cheap labour (Guest 2003: 137). The Temple of the Heavenly Thanksgiving is one hub in a tight network of spiritual, social, cultural and economic exchange between New York and Dongqi. The Transfiguration Church was founded in 1827 in Lower Manhattan (Guest 2003: 139) and has since then accommodated waves of Catholic immigrants from Irish to Italian, to Cantonese and now the Fujianese. The first Chinese Catholics arrived in the congregation in 1909 (Guest 2003: 140). For decades the community included Italian and Chinese members who

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‘have maintained largely separate identities, separate masses, and separate programming’ (Guest 2003: 141). In the early years the church on and off had white clergy who spoke Chinese as they had worked as missionaries in China before arriving in New York. In 1976 the first Chinese clergy, Father Cheung, was appointed to the church. Starting in the 1990s the Fujianese congregation at Transformation started to grow. Many new members came from clandestine Chinese Catholic communities holding on to stricter pre-Vatican II doctrines and practices, causing a rift or distance to earlier Cantonese immigrants. While the Transformation Church has remained the ‘same’ Catholic community in its long existence, it has been marked and changed by waves of immigrants. It has at the same time accommodated believers of different nationalities and ethnicities, new immigrants and established urbanites. Not content with some of the more ‘open’ teaching and preaching at the Transformation Church, a group of faithful eventually left the congregation and ‘moved several blocks away to St. Joseph’s Church’ (Guest 2003: 144) with the backing of the New York Catholic hierarchy including the Cardinal. St. Joseph’s was founded in 1904 to cater to Italian immigrants. The congregation remains mostly Italian but is now located in a predominantly Chinese neighbourhood. A Chinese priest from the underground church settled in the community to work with the Fujianese faithful. As members of underground Catholic communities in China, these believers continue to be fearful of the Chinese government and agents of Religious Affairs Bureau even in their new homes (Guest 2003: 145). These examples from New York’s Chinatown illustrate only a few possible ways for immigrant faith communities to settle and localize. There are independent congregations, like Master Lu’s temple, congregations that are embedded in small networks of transnational communities like the Temple of Heavenly Thanksgiving, or groups of faithful, like the Fujianese Catholics who joined an existing Catholic church. Guess describes how groups of faithful might break away from existing communities to join yet another community or form a new one more to their liking. Possibilities and trajectories are circumstantial and endless.

CIVIC PARTICIPATION Robust localization and visibility are crucial steps in the consolidation of immigrant faith communities in global cities. Immigrants do not remain new and content with an occasionally visible yet overall marginalized existence. Many immigrant faith communities do not only want to be visible for annual parades or other special occasions but seek to create more active and permanently involved roles in their cities. Studies point to the fact that ‘the more people attend church the more likely they are to engage in civic activities, both inside

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and outside the church’ (Stepick et al. 2009b: 3). While these studies are largely based on church participation in established US churches, evidence suggests that this holds similarly true for participation in immigrant faith communities (Levitt 2008; DeHanas 2016). A start for individual and communal civic engagements is often interfaith activities where groups meet across faith and denominational lines to get to know each other and learn about their faith traditions. For some immigrants, such events are their first encounters with the urban public sphere. For established community members they are moments to intensify links, relationships and networks. In 2010, the Hussein Mosque community and the Protestant community in their neighbourhood organized an ambitious one-year interfaith and intercultural series entitled ‘To Approach One Another’ (Aufeinander Zugehen) that featured thirty-three different events (Kuppinger 2020b). This religious and cultural dialogue marathon included a variety of events like lectures, music performances, informal discussions, shared meals or book presentations. They involved clergy, scholars, politicians, musicians, journalists and lay people/ ordinary members of faith communities. Topics ranged from specific faith practices, to politics, popular culture or immigration. The programme was a success and about 1,200 people participated in the series. The programme was later mentioned in the context of the German Islam Conference and received the Integration Prize of the regional Protestant Church (Kuppinger 2020b). The organizers did not rest on this success but turned the series into a permanent programme and continue to organize events once or twice a year. Only recently, in October 2020, I received an invitation from the president of the Hussein Mosque for a lecture by a board member of the Stuttgart Jewish community about the destruction of Stuttgart Jewish community in the Holocaust and its rebuilding in the post–Second World War era. In addition to this ongoing series, the Hussein Mosque hosts occasional fast-breaking events during Ramadan, participates in city-wide events like ‘open nights’ where stores and public spaces remain open deep into the night, and the annual Day of the Open Mosque on the German national holiday on 3 October. The Hussein Mosque has turned into a regular partner of their local council like other churches and civic organizations. Civic participation can take many forms. Allison Truitt (2019) discusses the Van Minh Pagoda, a Vietnamese Buddhist association in metropolitan New Orleans. Being a minority religion within an immigrant/minority community, the congregation positions itself not only as a faith community but also as a diasporic Vietnamese community. Like other immigrant communities, a group of lay Buddhists had rented an apartment in the 1980s to meet and worship. Some years later they had saved enough money to buy a piece of land for a pagoda. Truitt chronicles the details of the localization and civic participation of this Vietnamese Buddhist community in ‘a Catholic city where Vietnamese

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Catholics are the majority’ (Truitt 2019: 18). Truitt emphasizes that building a place of worship for this congregation was not only a religious project but an ethnic/Vietnamese one. She explains that ‘the politics of making sacred space involve not only building a temple for Buddha but also to the diasporic nation of Vietnam’ (Truitt 2019: 21). Local Pagoda or Buddhist centres are aware of their minority status and limited audience and often appeal to non-Buddhist Vietnamese constituencies and others for their events and publicity efforts. In the process, practices and spatialities adapt to such circumstances. Spaces and their uses accommodate the changing needs of the community and the presence of members of other faith traditions and nonreligious visitors. To become a more viable and recognized community, the congregation often emphasizes its diasporic Vietnamese identity over the religious one. Truitt notes that ‘the bodhisattva, once foregrounded as an object of contemplation and revery, was now a backdrop to the outdoor stage that would feature well-known and upand-coming Vietnamese singers from around the United States’ (Truitt 2019: 26). Here, Buddhist place-making and civic participation are characterized by ethnic and nationalist elements along with spiritual ones, occasionally putting the latter in a second-row seat, as ‘Buddhist associations recruit well-known singers to perform on special holidays and for fund-raising events’ (Truitt 2019: 27). By creating a spatiality that easily accommodates cultural events, this faith community established itself as religious, cultural and civic venue and community. European Muslims and their communities are frequently accused of living in isolation from mainstream society and withdrawing into their own group. A close look at Muslim communities quickly does away with such perceptions. Muslim associations, while obviously catering to Muslim constituencies, frequently also serve as spaces for exchange and experimental fields where recent immigrants learn important civic skills and engage coreligionists of different nationalities and ethnicities. The Muslim Women’s Sports Club in Stuttgart is a legally registered sports association that rents small (and invisible) swimming pools to allow its pious members to learn to swim and to swim away from the eyes of men and the public (Kuppinger 2015b). The club also offers other exercise classes for its member. While the club is largely invisible to the public because of its members’ quest to exercise away from the public gaze, this does not mean that the club is civically isolated. Because it is a legally registered association and its partnership with institutions (e.g. schools for special needs students), the club’s board and some members are in constant contact with officials and administrators. Each small sports group needs a person responsible for keys and contacts at the respective institution. Thus, members beyond the board routinely take over leadership functions and learn organizational skills. The club’s president explained in an interview that taking over such responsibilities constitutes a first important step into the urban public sphere

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for some members (Kuppinger 2015b). She added that many women take the skills and confidence they acquired in the club to other contexts, especially their children’s schools, where many become much more involved after they join the club. Thus, a ‘hidden’ club can be a jumping board into broader and more visible civic engagement. This women’s sports club is not the only faith-based civic association that pious Muslims have founded in Stuttgart (and beyond). There are independent Qur’an study associations, young women’s debate clubs or interfaith associations that are registered civic associations and meet in municipal community centres and engage in various urban social and cultural contexts.

WHEN IS AN IMMIGRANT RELIGION NO LONGER AN IMMIGRANT RELIGION? Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists or minority Catholic groups in Germany, France, Italy, Holland, the United Kingdom or United States have been established as individual citizens and spiritual communities for decades. Discussions of immigration, immigrant communities and immigrant religions are paramount for an understanding of their situation and to guarantee their rights and successful localization in their places of destination. Such debates, especially if prolonged over decades, however, also harbour the risk of the (unnecessary) drawing and maintenance of boundaries and lines of exclusion. Long-term immigration debates can solidify notions that immigrants are new and will forever remain new, that they do not yet belong, and hence have and continue to have a different status. Debates about immigration are necessary, useful and helpful when one analyses initial periods of localization of immigrants and their communities, their struggles for visibility and equal rights and participation. However, if such discussions carry on for too long, immigrants become locked into the category of outsiders, as those who have neither fully arrived nor have equal rights. The question poses itself for the context of France, Germany or the UK: When does Islam cease to be an immigrant religion and when does it become an ordinary minority religion? The fact that many new immigrants are Muslims does not perpetuate the state of Islam in these countries to one of a ‘permanent’ immigrant religion. The same, of course, holds true for Hinduism, Buddhism and other faith traditions that have for decades made homes for themselves in European and North American cities. At the official celebration of the twentieth anniversary of the German reunification on 3 October 2010, the then German President Christian Wulff recognized in his address to the nation the work and achievements of many constituencies who helped make the reunification work (Kuppinger 2015a: 149). He then noted that Germany had long become an immigrant nation and

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emphasized that all those who lived and participated in Germany were part of the people, this story and its success. Wulff added that ‘Islam in the meanwhile has become part of Germany’ (quoted in Kuppinger 2015a: 150). This brief remark produced a media storm in the days and weeks after his speech and was quoted and debated many times over in the years since. Is Islam really part of Germany? Is it a legitimate part of Germany? Is it an equal part of Germany? Is Islam the same and has the same rights as Christianity? Does this remark outline future possibilities, or does it reflect the existing reality? Regardless of Wulff ’s intentions, this statement, and his note that he is everybody’s (including immigrants’) president, underlines ongoing and necessary debates about the position of Islam (and other immigrant religions) in Germany. When does a religion (or immigrant culture) become local? Turkish and other Muslims have lived in Germany in large numbers since 1961 (first workers’ treaty with Turkey). Muslims now live in the fourth or fifth generation in Germany and can hardly be called immigrants. They neither need to localize nor integrate. They are an integral part of society. Germany is their home. They are German Muslims and thus Islam is a German religion. While many new arrivals (e.g. recent refugees from Syria or Afghanistan) are also Muslims, this does not make Islam anymore of an immigrant religion than Catholicism with the arrival of Italian or Spanish Catholics in Germany in the 1950s. While it seems logical or obvious that a fifth-generation descendant of an immigrant is by no means an immigrant him/herself, the notion that their religion is no longer an immigrant religion is still not widely accepted as Muslims, Sikhs, Hindus or Jains continue to struggle for acceptance and very importantly also for visible presence and equal participation in European and North American cities. After many pious immigrants and their communities have robustly localized, grown solid local roots, created adequate, visible and inviting spatialities and struggled for visibility and civic participation in the last few decades, their next challenge is to become recognized as ordinary pious urbanites and congregations of minority faith traditions.

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Chapter 13

Immigration, religion and civic engagement ZUBEYIR NISANCI

INTRODUCTION Immigrants have had an increasing impact on American society and culture, particularly in the wake of the abolishment of quotas for non-Northern European nations by the Immigration Act of 1965. Religious networks and institutions have played central roles in the accommodation and mobilization of immigrants who have been transforming the social fabric of the United States. As such, social scientists have been exploring and investigating immigrants’ lives to understand how religious institutions have evolved as they have tried to accommodate newcomers (Foley and Hoge 2007; Kivisto 2014; Yang 1999; Yang and Ebaugh 2001). A growing body of literature has investigated the civic- and socialparticipation patterns of immigrant worshippers and immigrant congregations (i.e. Foley and Hoge 2007; Foner and Alba 2008; Kniss and Numrich 2007; Mora 2013). The overwhelming majority of social science research focusses exclusively on immigrant congregations (Cadge 2004; Min 2010; Palmer 2006; Williams 1988; Yang 1999) despite the fact that not all US immigrants attend immigrant congregations. Immigrants in non-immigrant congregations – and issues related to their civic and social participation, both within and beyond their religious communities – have largely been ignored. Consequently, existing literature on immigrant congregations in the United States has hitherto failed

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to provide a comprehensive study of immigrants in both immigrant and nonimmigrant congregations. Despite non-immigrants and immigrants mixing in predominantly immigrant or non-immigrant congregations, existing literature has hypothetically isolated immigrants and non-immigrants and has studied their civic-participation patterns separately. Existing literature has yet to explore whether nonimmigrant worshippers’ civic engagement inside and outside of their religious communities is affected by their being members of immigrant congregations rather than non-immigrant congregations. Therefore, the interaction of individual- and congregational-level immigration statuses, and whether this affects civic-participation patterns of those who attend religious congregations, has yet to be explored. Leadership also plays a role in determining individual and group interactions and accommodations (Foner and Alba 2008). Because leadership roles are prestigious, individuals and social groups compete over these positions. Contestation between male and female members over leadership positions in congregational settings is just one example of such competition. An investigation into the existence and nature of competition or discrepancies concerning leadership roles – vis-à-vis other forms of civic engagement – that might arise because of the mixing of immigrants and non-immigrants in congregations is therefore justified to fill this gap in the literature. This chapter and study use data sourced from the 2008/2009 U.S. Congregational Life Survey (USCLS) to understand individual- and congregational-level immigration status. The first step in this investigation will be to construct a schema to determine immigration statuses of individuals (immigrant vs. non-immigrant) among US congregations by focusing on two questions in the survey. The subsequent step will be to determine the immigration statuses of congregations (immigrant congregations vs. nonimmigrant congregations). Congregations that have 20 per cent or more of their members as immigrants will be identified as immigrant congregations. The third step will be to construct a framework by which individuals can be categorized into four groups; this categorization simultaneously investigates immigrant statuses at both individual and congregational levels. The four groups in this step include (1) immigrants in immigrant congregations, (2) immigrants in non-immigrant congregations, (3) non-immigrants in immigrant congregations and (4) non-immigrants in non-immigrant congregations. The final analysis of this chapter will then compare these four groups to understand three types of civic and social participation: (1) church-related civic participation (i.e. bonding social capital), (2) participation in leadership roles in the church and (3) civic participation outside of church (i.e. bridging social capital). This study also compares worshippers in three major denominational families: Mainline Protestants, Conservative Protestants and Catholics.

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RELIGION, IMMIGRATION AND CIVIC ENGAGEMENT There is a lack of consensus over the definition of civic engagement (Gibson 2000). As Adler and Goggin outlines it, there are three broad types of approaches to civic engagement in the literature. These are (1) civic engagement as community service, (2) civic engagement as collective action, (3) civic engagement as political involvement and (4) civic engagement as social change. This study takes civic engagement as community service, ‘which emphasize participation in voluntary service to one’s local community either by an individual acting independently or as a participant in a group’ (Adler and Goggin 2005). These voluntary services might include helping a neighbour, contributing to a charity, membership or leadership in a religious organization, occasional or episodic volunteering and sustained intensive service (Adler and Goggin 2005). Civic engagement through community service is widely considered to be a channel for, and as an indicator of, immigrant integration. Social scientists have maintained that religious institutions play a critical role in fostering the civic engagement of immigrants and, therefore, their integration. Primarily the networks and resources offered by religious institutions help immigrants in their encounters with the traumas of immigration, including discrimination. In addition, these institutions provide familiar structures and practices as well as a more comfortable environment for broader social engagement (Portes and Rumbaut 2006). Hirschman (2004) contends that church attendance is the first step for many immigrants. By becoming a member of a church congregation, immigrants participate in the religious and community life of American society. Mora (2013) pointed out that while immigrants may face barriers in other areas of their social life, congregations provide a comfort zone where immigrants can be civically active. Others have noted that it is not merely the hospitable environments of congregations that foster immigrant civic engagement; the resources, opportunities and organizational structure of the immigrant congregations also help immigrants develop the necessary skills and experience for civic involvement. For example, Foley and Hoge (2007) state that, compared to average American churches, immigrant religious institutions are more active and supportive in terms of providing social services. More importantly, these immigrant houses of worship provide opportunities by which their members can develop civic engagement skills, such as organizing events, building social and political partnerships and public speaking. All of these skills may be used for civic engagement beyond the religious context. Civic engagement has a collective nature (Sampson et al. 2005) and having access to networks that inform, introduce and encourage participation in such collective activities is crucial, especially for disadvantaged and minority

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groups. In addition to providing comfort zones and training grounds for civic participation, congregations also offer their members more diverse social networks. Consequently, mixing with non-immigrants in congregational contexts can potentially offer immigrants the opportunity to meet other civically active group members, and ones who can prospectively encourage and invite others to participate (Ebert and Okamoto 2013). Dougherty and Huyser (2008) note it is more difficult for diverse congregations to unite and provide a strong sense of belonging among their members. Therefore, racial and ethnic diversity also has the potential of hindering civic and social participation both inside and outside congregations. As has been highlighted in social capital debates, some forms of civic engagement are inward looking, and they nurture exclusive connections and bonds towards a specific social group (i.e. bonding social capital). Other forms of civic engagement might bridge differences and promote connectedness with the rest of society (i.e. bridging social capital) (Putnam 2000). Despite the broad consensus that religious participation fosters civic and social participation among social scientists (Ammerman 1997; Becker and Dhingra 2001; Greely 1997), some have observed that certain religious groups and institutions encourage engagement beyond their community and congregation, while others tend to confine their members’ involvement within community boundaries (Foley and Hoge 2007; Stepick et al. 2009a). Stronger connections to and involvement in ethnic and national communities, regardless of whether these communities or religious or not, might limit civic participation of immigrants elsewhere (Uslaner and Conley 2003). In her study of young immigrants, Tong (2010) found that living in areas where there is a concentration of foreign-born population limits individuals’ capacity to volunteering beyond and outside of their ethnic communities. Involvement in religious organizations especially including congregations and places of worship may have a similar negative effect on inclusion in society at large. Therefore, studying the roles of immigration simultaneously at both individual and congregational levels may potentially help us answer important questions about the dynamics of bonding and bridging social capital in congregations. How do (1) being an immigrant or non-immigrant individual and (2) attending an immigrant or non-immigrant congregation affect worshippers’ civic participation inside and outside of their congregations? These questions are still unexplored in the broader literature. Studying immigrants’ civic engagement exclusively among immigrant congregations fails to consider civic and collective actions that transpire in established social settings according to complex and interactive dynamics (Sampson et al. 2005). Similarly, the internal and external dynamics of congregations containing a larger proportion of immigrants might substantially affect their members’ civic-engagement patterns. Such an effect might not be

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limited only to immigrant members of the congregations. Non-immigrants who regularly share common platforms with immigrants are more susceptible to such an effect. It is possible that mixing with non-immigrants might affect the nature of the civic participation of non-immigrants inside and outside of their congregations. Consequently, a fuller understanding of religion, immigration and civic engagement within the study population will require a comparative analysis of the interaction of individual- and congregational-level immigration statuses. The effect of the non-immigrants’ mixing with immigrants in terms of the former’s civic engagement is not fully understood. This gap in the literature is reflected in the lack of studies exploring the religious and social lives of nonimmigrants in immigrant congregations, compared with their presence in nonimmigrant congregations.

COMPETING OR COMPLEMENTING? IMMIGRATION AND LEADERSHIP ROLES The impact of social diversity on cooperation and competition, both between and within social groups, has been investigated by sociologists and social psychologists for some time. Similarly, those within the sociological field who study social organizations such as workplaces have been exploring individual and organizational level determinants of ‘cooperative’ and ‘competitive’ behavioural patterns (Ostrow et al. 1997). It was primarily Chicago School sociologists – and in particular Robert Ezra Park – who pioneered the extensive exploration of the nature of competition between social groups over resources and opportunities (Park 1926). From a ‘human ecology’ perspective, Park analysed the positions and social mobility of certain social groups (e.g. race, occupation, class) over others within prestigious urban areas, such as city centres. Such an approach was heavily influenced by the ecological studies of naturalists who explored the interactions, coordination and competition of biological organisms in natural areas. The nature of interactions according to such a formulation is determined at the ‘social order’ level, which transcends both the individual members and individual social groups (Park 1936). The assimilation of ‘the newcomer’ – which includes immigrants – is among the key elements for the coordination of the social order and its protection against disorder. Park upholds that the participation of the ‘newcomer’ social group within a social order generates a sense of social distance, therefore compounding a sense of social-group consciousness (i.e. class consciousness, race consciousness). Established social groups maintain a certain level of coordination and hold intimate relationships with newcomers; nevertheless they wish to ‘keep them in their place’ and thereby preserve the status quo. Comparatively, newcomers or less privileged groups aspire to

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attain more stable and prominent positions in incrementally successive stages of dominance (Park 1924, 1936). Blumer (1958), another prominent Chicago School scholar, contends that dominant social groups consider themselves entitled to certain privileges and thus position themselves according to other social groups in society. These dominant groups perceive subordinate (alien) groups as a threat when the latter aspire to share or assume these privileges and supplant the incumbent group. Similar to these Chicago School scholars, realistic conflict theory suggests that social groups might enter into conflicts due to perceived competition over scarce resources and opportunities. The theory proposes that perceived value and a shortage of these resources and opportunities determines the level of completion and conflict (Jackson 1993; Sherif 1966). According to the Chicago School and realistic conflict theory, descriptions of competition over ‘positions’ or ‘scarce resources’, including those that exist between newcomers and established social groups, are mostly based on geographically bounded ‘natural areas’ or on coordination between different social groups. Such descriptions have therefore neglected within-group social diversity dynamics and consequently have overlooked (1) the role of symbolic boundaries, and (2) the dynamics of micro- (individual) and meso- (institutional) levels competition and cooperation in everyday life. These perspectives have received similar criticism from various theoretical and methodological standpoints, but the issue of competition between social groups – such as the competition between non-immigrants and immigrants – continues to attract scholarly attention. For example, in their comparative study of the United States and Canada, Esses et al. (2002) explored the relationship between anti-immigrant attitudes and the perceived sense of competition. The authors contend that the non-immigrants’ perception of the threat posed by immigrants might be twofold, including both a material and symbolic nature. Non-immigrants might perceive immigrants as posing a social threat due to consequential social costs; immigrants’ prospective success within society might then threaten dominant positions held by non-immigrants. Dougherty (2003) observes that congregations in the United States are places of social distance and segregation; such congregations coalesce by incorporating individuals of similar backgrounds. For example, many congregations in the United States are predominantly attended by Whites or Blacks. Multiracial and multi-ethnic congregations do exist in the United States, especially in diverse neighbourhoods. Emerson and Kim (2003) reported that 7.4 per cent of US congregations are multiracial (i.e. that 80% of the congregation shares a racial background). Social scientists have been discussing how increasing visibility of racial and ethnic diversity in places of worship influences congregational life. These studies primarily focus on understanding how organizational character and cultural practices of

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congregations are affected by the diversity of their members (Ammerman 1996; Dougherty and Huyser 2008). Consequently, the individual-level impacts of congregational diversity, both in and outside congregations, have yet to be explored. Additionally, these studies do not take immigration into consideration in their measurement of diversity. They mostly measure diversity by looking at the racial composition and economic class composition of congregations. However, they do not take into consideration that immigrants and non-immigrants are also mixing in congregational settings and that some congregations are, proportionally speaking, hosting more immigrant than others. In that sense, some congregations are diverse than others. Therefore, we do not know if and how the mixing of immigrants and non-immigrants in congregations relate to the worshippers’ civic-participation patterns in their congregations and beyond. Related literature generally implies that worshippers with diverse backgrounds establish connections with one another in their respective congregations. Conversely, however, there remains the possibility that social diversity might cause a competing rather than complimenting effect concerning shared resources and opportunities. Worshippers with diverse backgrounds are prone to vie for prestigious opportunities such as leadership roles in congregational contexts. Indeed research in the field confirms that congregations are places of conflict (Becker 1999; Herman 1984), competition between individuals and social groups. The extent to which immigrant and non-immigrant congregations foster complimenting or competition among immigrant and non-immigrant churchgoers has yet to be determined.

DATA AND METHODS Data The study and this chapter draw on data from the United States Congregational Life Survey (USCLS), which was carried out in 2008 and 2009 and based on a random sampling of congregations in the United States. The 2008/2009 USCLS data includes socio-economic profiles (age, race, income, education, place of birth etc.) and religious and civic participation information of 64,674 worshippers in 256 Christian congregations from all fifty US states. Only worshippers who were fifteen years old or older were asked to complete the survey questionnaire. The study focuses exclusively on adults who were at least eighteen years of age when the data were collected. Visitors to the congregation and individuals who said it was their first time attending a congregation when they filled out the study survey were excluded from the study analysis. After these exclusions, the sample size of this study was reduced to 56,071 respondents.

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Dependent variables This study comparatively analysed three dependent variables: (1) churchrelated civic participation (i.e. bonding social capital), (2) participation in leadership roles in the church and (3) civic participation outside of the church (i.e. bridging social capital). As part of this study, an index of church-related civic participation (bonding social capital) was constructed by looking at worshippers’ involvement in (1) church school or Sunday school; (2) prayer, discussion or Bible study groups; and (3) fellowships, clubs and social groups. Consequently the study index ranges from 0 to 3, with 0 indicating no involvement in any of the three types of church-related group activities, and 3 indicating participation in all of them. It is important to note that within this study church-related volunteer participation is stringently limited to church-related activities measuring bonding social capital among worshippers. Consequently, it excludes participation in church-related activities that might not be stringently related to their congregations and participation in leadership roles in the church – as these are measured separately. Therefore, this measure does not capture all forms of involvement in the church. A church-related leadership index was obtained by determining whether respondents served as (1) a member of the governing board; (2) a member of a leadership group (Parish Pastoral Council or Finance Council, parish fundraising); (3) a leader or assistant in worship; (4) an officer or leader of men’s, women’s, youth or other group; and (5) a religious education teacher. Hence, the leadership index ranged between 0 and 5. This chapter conceptualizes bridging social capital as involvement in civic engagement outside the church. Hence, the bridging social capital measure only includes activities that are specifically outside of, and disconnected from, the respondents’ congregation. There are three types of such activities investigated in the USCLS. These are (1) involvement in social service or charity groups; (2) advocacy, justice or lobbying groups not connected to the congregation; and (3) contacting an elected official about a public issue in the past twelve months. As such, the bridging social capital measure ranged from 0 to 3. Independent variables: Immigrant worshippers and immigrant congregations I identified the immigration statuses of respondents using two questions included in the USCLS 2008/2009 survey questionnaire; these questions concerned (1) respondents’ place of birth and (2) their parents’ place of birth. The first of these questions was worded: ‘Where were you born?’ Answers to this question were listed as: ‘In the United States’, ‘In another English-speaking country’ and ‘In a non-English-speaking country’. A further question in the survey concerned the place of birth of respondents’ parents, and respondents were asked to choose from the following options: ‘Both born in the United Sates’,

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‘Only father born in the United States’, ‘Only mother born in the United States’ and ‘Both born in another country’. This study focuses on first- and secondgeneration immigrants and so respondents were identified as such according to whether they or both of their parents had been born in another country. Once worshippers’ immigration statuses had been determined according to these two questions, immigrant congregations were identified according to the 20 per cent criteria used by Kniss and Numrich (2007). If more than 20 per cent of a congregation were immigrants, the congregation was categorized as an immigrant congregation; otherwise, congregations were identified as being a non-immigrant congregation. Existing literature that has studied the composition of social groups (Kanter 1977), including those who studied congregations (Emerson and Kim 2003), consider 20 per cent as signifying ‘the point of critical mass’: that is, the point at which the presence of a social group becomes visible within an organizational context. Control variables This study controls for two types of individual-level variables, namely, sociodemographic characteristics and religious participation patterns. Sociodemographic characteristics include gender, age, race, marital status, education, employment status and household income. In the regression analyses, men comprise the reference group, to which women were compared. Individuals who were married at the time the study was conducted were compared to all other categories of marital status. The survey I used in this chapter (USCLS) asked the respondents to identify their race from six options. These are (1) White, (2) Black, (3) Hispanic, (4) Indian, (5) Asian and (6) some other race. Because they are the three largest groups in the United States, Whites, Blacks and Hispanics were separately compared to the combination of all of the other respondents including Indians (individuals who are originally from India), Asians and people from other racial and ethnic origins. Age, education (ranging from 1: ‘No formal schooling’, to 8: ‘Masters or other graduate degree’) and household income (ranging from 1: ‘Less than $10,000’, to 8: ‘$150,000 or more’) were included in the analyses as continuous variables. Frequency of church attendance (ranging from 1: ‘Hardly ever’, to 6: ‘more than once a week’) and the lengths of time attending the same congregation (ranging from 1: ‘Less than once a year’, to 6: ‘more than twenty years’) were also included in the analyses as continuous variables. The natural logarithm (ln) of the size of each congregation was calculated before being included as a control variable. As stated earlier, worshippers in three major denominational families are compared in this study: Mainline Protestants, Conservative Protestants and Catholics. Conservative Protestants are used as the reference group in the study’s final analysis.

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FINDINGS Table 13.1 reports descriptive statistics for the independent variables. According to this table, 14.2 per cent of worshippers in US congregations are immigrants and 85.5 per cent are non-immigrants. Figure 13.1 compares the proportion of immigrant and non-immigrant worshippers in immigrant and non-immigrant congregations. This figure indicates that 62.5 per cent of TABLE 13.1:  Descriptive Statistics for Independent Variables Per cent Mean Immigration status Immigrant

Gender

Race*

Marital status

Employment

Min.

Max.

Std. Dev.

14.2

Non-immigrant

85.8

Male

38.9

Female

61.1

White

80.5

Black

5.2

Hispanic

9.1

Married

68.7

Not married

31.3

Employed

46.3

Not employed

53.7

Education

 

5.7

1

8

1.7

Income

 

4.15

1

8

1.9

Age

 

54.9

18

100

17

Frequency of attendance

 

4.8

1

6

0.8

Length of attendance

 

4.2

1

6

1.6

Denomination

Catholic

51.1

Mainline Protestant

32.2

Conservative Protestant

16.7

Congregational     471 15 10,000 887 size *: Questions regarding race in USCLS were ‘mark all that apply’ questions. That is why percentages do not add up to 100.

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100% 90%

In Non-Immigrant Congregaon, 86.6% In Immigrant Congregaon, 62.5%

80% 70%

In Non-Immigrant Congregaon, 37.5%

60% 50% 40% 30% 20%

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In Immigrant Congregaon, 13.4%

10% 0%

Non-Immigrant Worshiper

Immigrant Worshiper

FIGURE 13.1:  Immigrants and non-immigrants in US congregations. Figure by Zubeyir Nisanci.

immigrant worshippers attend immigrant congregations while the remainder (37.5%) attend non-immigrant congregations. Accordingly, it can be surmised that a considerably large proportion of immigrants do not attend immigrant congregations; therefore, studies focusing on explicitly immigrant congregations may not provide an accurate picture concerning the characteristics of immigrant worshippers in the United States, nor give an accurate representation of the various dynamics of what these individuals do in their respective congregations. As for the non-immigrants, the vast majority (86.6%) attended non-immigrant congregations; the remaining 13.4 per cent of the non-immigrants attend immigrant congregations. Levels of involvement in church-related volunteer participation (i.e. bonding social capital) are presented in Figure 13.2, which shows that 32.5 per cent participated in only one type of church-related civic activity. Those who participated in two or three types of church-related activities comprised 10.7 per cent and 4.7 per cent of the sample, respectively. More than half (52%) of respondents did not engage in any of the three types of church-related involvement. Unsurprisingly, worshippers are, on average, less active in the area of leadership roles in their congregations. According to Figure 13.3, around three-quarters of churchgoers (73%) are not engaged in any of the five types of leadership roles. Slightly over a quarter (27%) of churchgoers held at least one type of leadership role, while closer to one-fifth (19.4%) reported that they are engaged in only one type of leadership activities.

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60%

52.0%

50% 40%

32.5%

30% 20%

10.7%

10%

4.7%

0%

0

1

2

3

FIGURE 13.2:  Church-related civic participation (bonding social capital). Figure by Zubeyir Nisanci. 80%

73.0%

70% 60% 50% 40% 30%

19.4%

20%

5.2%

10% 0%

0

1

2

1.7%

0.5%

0.2%

3

4

5

FIGURE 13.3:  Leadership roles in the church. Figure by Zubeyir Nisanci. 70% 60%

57.5%

50% 40%

31.8%

30% 20% 9.1%

10% 0%

1.6% 0

1

2

3

FIGURE 13.4:  Civic participation outside church (bridging social capital). Figure by Zubeyir Nisanci.

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Figure 13.4 presents the distribution of bridging social capital (civic engagement outside of church); according to Figure 13.4, 57 per cent of respondents reported no involvement. The other 43 per cent reported being active in at least one of the three types of bridging civic engagement measured in this study. Almost one-third (32%) of the worshippers are engaged in only one of the three types of extra-church civic activities. A smaller proportion (11%) reported involvement in more than one of these activities. Table 13.2 reports the results of the three-ordered logistic regression models predicting levels of involvement in (1) church-related civic participation, (2) leadership roles in the congregation and (3) extra-church civic engagement. The interaction of individual- and congregational-level immigration statuses was analysed and other variables in the model were controlled. It shows that immigrant worshippers are equally active in church-related civic participation in both immigrant- and non-immigrant-congregation settings. This indicates that congregations act as comfort zones for immigrants regarding civic and social engagement, regardless of whether those immigrants are members of immigrant congregations. This is only for civic participation inside the church, however, and the nature of the congregational settings is important for immigrants concerning their assumption of leadership roles and civic engagement beyond the church. Immigrants are more likely to assume leadership roles when they attend immigrant congregations than when they attend non-immigrant congregations; when attending the latter they become much less active in the area of leadership (−.179). This is because non-immigrants dominate leadership positions in both immigrant (.262) and non-immigrant (.196) congregational settings. Regardless, immigrants have greater leadership opportunities in immigrant churches. Mixing with non-immigrants helps immigrants the most in the area of civic engagement outside the church. A significant and substantial increase in immigrant worshippers’ extra-church civic engagement levels can be seen when they attend non-immigrant congregations (.297) rather than attending immigrant congregations; essentially immigrants experience a significant increase in their bridging social capital when they attend nonimmigrant congregations. According to Table 13.2, being a member of an immigrant or nonimmigrant congregation also affects the civic engagement and congregational leadership patterns of the non-immigrants. Immigrants have more bonding social capital (.493) in immigrant congregations than they have in nonimmigrant congregations (.406). A similar pattern holds true for in-church leadership roles. Non-immigrants take up more leadership positions when they are in immigrant congregations (.262) in comparison to being in nonimmigrant congregations (.196). However, such an increase in church-related participation and leadership is accompanied by a decrease in extra-church civic activities. Attending immigrant congregations decreases non-immigrants’ extra-

TABLE 13.2:  Ordered Logistic Regression Models Predicting Church-Related Volunteerism, Leadership Roles in the Congregation and Civic Participation Outside of Church Church-related civic participation (bonding social capital)  

 

Estimate

Female

.373

Male

0a

Age

−.009

Race: Black Race: other (non-Black)

.167

.487

Not married

Employed

−.218

Not employed

0

Household income

.020

0a .001

.007

* * *

.001

*

.067

.350

* * *

.081

.293

* * *

.066

**

.056

* * *

.052

* * *

.023

0

0

a

* * *

.058

.542

a

* * *

.071

0a * * *

.053

.326

* * *

.065

0 * * *

.023

.232

0 * * *

.027

0 .006

.176

.022

.012

0 * * *

.008

.258

* * *

.007

.026

−.152

* * *

.022

* * *

.006

0 .006

.036

−.189 a

0

a

* * *

.241 a

a

* * *

.184 0a

a

a

.035

−.006

* * *

0

.138

.023

S.E.

−.014

a

Education

* * *

  Estimate

.001

0

.138

.160

S.E

Civic participation outside of church (bridging social capital)

* * *

a

Married

Estimate

0a

0a .350

 

.020

0

Race: White Race: other (non-White

* * *

a

Race: Hispanic Race: other (non-Hispanic)

S.E

Leadership roles in the church

a

* * *

.007

.088

Immigration status Non-immigrant in a nonimmigrant congregation

.406

* * *

.053

.196

**

.066

.590

* * *

.051

Non-immigrant in an immigrant congregation

.493

* * *

.056

.262

* * *

.070

.415

* * *

.055

Immigrant in a nonimmigrant congregation

.068

.063

−.179

*

.080

.297

* * *

.061

Immigrant in an immigrant congregation

0a

Frequency of church attendance

1.118

* * *

.017

1.099

* * *

.021

.112

* * *

.012

Length of time attending

.196

* * *

.007

.302

* * *

.008

.046

* * *

.006

Congregational size (Ln)

−.233

* * *

.012

−.432

* * *

.014

−.106

* * *

.012

−1.246

* * *

.031

−.412

* * *

.037

.183

* * *

.031

−.228

* * *

.030

.330

* * *

.035

.278

* * *

.031

 

 

 

0

 

 

 

0

Catholic Mainline Protestant

0a

0a

Conservative Protestant

 

0

Threshold

0

6.536

* * *

.148

0

7.148

* * *

.178

0

3.369

* * *

.129

1

8.545

* * *

.150

1

8.894

* * *

.180

1

5.293

* * *

.131

2

9.999

* * *

.152

2

10.204

* * *

.182

2

7.317

* * *

.135

3

11.516

* * *

.188

          4 12.920 Coefficients are significant at * p < .05, ** p < .01 and *** p < .001.

* * *

.209

a

a

 

a

 

 

 

 

 

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church civic engagement (.415), which is higher if they attend non-immigrant congregations (.590). Therefore, non-immigrants have more bridging social capital when they mix more with fellow non-immigrants compared to when they congregate with immigrants. Concerning the control variables, Table 13.2 shows that women are more active than men inside the church but not outside. They outperform men in both church-related volunteerism (.373) and leadership roles (.160). Churchgoing men and women are not different in terms of their levels of extra-church civic engagement. Married individuals’ levels of involvement in church-related activities and leadership roles are higher than those who are not currently married. However, the odds of civic engagement beyond the church are higher among those who are not married. A similar pattern also exists concerning younger individuals, who are also more active inside than outside their congregations. Higher levels of education and income are both positive predictors of involvement, both inside and outside of the congregations. Being employed increases levels of participation in church-related volunteer activities and leadership roles but it does not have any significant effect on extra-church civic engagement patterns. Whites, Blacks and Hispanics outperform other racial groups (i.e. Asian, Indian and other races) across all three areas. When they are compared to the Conservative Protestants and the Mainline Protestants, individuals in Catholic congregations are the least active group in the areas of church-related civic participation and leadership roles. Individuals attending Conservative Protestant congregations are the most active group concerning church-related activities. They are, nevertheless, civically less active than the Catholics or Mainline Protestants outside the church. Mainline Protestants are the most active groups in the areas of leadership roles in congregations and in civic participation beyond their congregations. Attending congregations that have an increasing number of members hinders all of the three types of engagement as identified and investigated in this study. When individuals attend their congregations more often they become more civically active, not only in their congregations but also outside them. Attending the same congregation over longer periods of time (in years) produces the same affect.

DISCUSSIONS AND CONCLUSIONS Among the conclusions that can be drawn from this study, one of the most important is that immigration statuses of both individuals and congregations – and their interactions – are important to understanding the dynamics of churchgoers’ levels of civic participation inside and outside of the church and their levels of involvement in church-related leadership roles. This indicates that immigration experience is not only a personal- and individual-level

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phenomenon. Contextual and institutional dynamics, particularly concerning the presence of a critical number of immigrants, affect both immigrant- and non-immigrant individuals’ civic engagement patterns, as well as the nature of the connection of these individuals with their respective communities and with the society at large. Being a member of a non-immigrant congregation, instead of being a member of an immigrant congregation, produces an outward effect for immigrants. Immigrants have greater bridging social capital among non-immigrant congregations as they establish stronger civic connections – connections that stretch beyond their congregations if they are mixing more with the non-immigrants in congregational settings. Such differences are potentially attributable to the external networks they are able to access by interacting with non-immigrant individuals, as well as to the experience they gain by being socialized within a non-immigrant context. Furthermore, it is possible that immigrants’ sense of belonging to their host society is strengthened by socializing with non-immigrants, prospectively increasing their motivation and willingness towards engagement in society. According to the study findings, attending an immigrant and not a nonimmigrant congregation yields no more bonding social capital for immigrants. Both immigrant and non-immigrant congregational settings offer equal bonding opportunities. A different picture emerges when one considers the levels of involvement in leadership roles within congregations. Immigrants assume a greater number of leadership roles in immigrant congregations. This may be due to the fact that they face lower levels of competition for leadership roles in their own immigrant congregations. The data used in this study do not allow for exclusive comparisons of church-related civic participation and the assumption of congregational leadership roles. It is likely that leadership roles were reported and categorized as church-related participation. Alternatively, it may be that some forms of leadership roles involved other forms of congregational participation and thereby indicate higher levels of churchrelated civic engagement. Additionally, it is arguable that, due to their nature, involvement in leadership roles might indicate higher levels of participation in church-related activities compared to participation in non-leadership roles. Therefore, one could maintain that attending an immigrant congregation has a bonding effect for the immigrants concerning church-related civic participation when leadership roles and church-related volunteer participation are considered simultaneously. A further significant finding of this study is that non-immigrants in the host society are also affected by the immigration experience, especially if they interact – or share places and spaces (e.g. congregations) – with immigrants. Departing from this observation we can conclude that, just like race is not only a factor that affects the lives of the dominated racial groups; immigration is not an issue

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only for the immigrants. As such, immigration status is a mutually constructed – and in some capacity a dialectic – process affecting both immigrants and nonimmigrants. Overall, non-immigrants, relative to immigrants, have higher levels of involvement in (1) church-related volunteer activities, (2) in-church leadership roles and (3) civic engagement outside of church. Mixing with immigrants (i.e. attending immigrant congregations) produces an inward effect for nonimmigrants; it increases their levels of involvement in church-related volunteer activities and in-church leadership roles while hindering their civic engagement outside of church. This finding can be interpreted in two ways. First, nonimmigrants might have greater competitiveness compared to immigrants in the areas of volunteering and civic participation. Because they, compared to immigrants, have higher levels of access to civically utilizable cultural material. That is why they become more active in these areas when they attend immigrant congregations. Potentially this may be because they feel greater moral motivation to engage in congregations that are composed of a greater proportion of immigrants. This motivation may produce a bonding effect among these individuals towards their respective congregations. Subsequently, such a bonding motivation might be limiting their involvement outside of the churches. These findings indicate that the relationship between religious participation and civic engagement is more complex than is suggested by current literature. In determining the dynamics of worshippers’ civic participation, not only individual-level and/or congregational-level factors to be considered, but so too should inter-group dynamics. These observations also emphasize the importance of investigating the difference – the match or mismatch – between the socio-demographic profiles of worshippers and their congregations, and how these interact with worshippers’ civic engagement patterns. The impact of this type of match or mismatch might not be limited only to the interaction between the ethnic background of individuals (i.e. immigration status) and the ethnic composition of their respective congregations. How the match or mismatch between individuals’ racial backgrounds and the predominant racial groups in their congregations affects their church-related or extra-church civic-participation patterns – as well as other areas of their personal, social, religious and political lives – must be investigated. Such an investigation will lead to a better understanding; for instance, whether the civic engagement levels of an African American worshipper change depending on if she attends a predominantly African American church. The Chicago School and the realistic conflict theory contend that competition would arise between ‘newcomers’ and established social groups over scarce and prestigious resources, even though these populations might complement each other in other areas. The findings of this study seem to reveal a similar trend.

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Non-immigrants and immigrants compete for leadership roles. When nonimmigrants and immigrants are together, non-immigrants dominate leadership positions. However, immigrants have better opportunities for such prestigious forms of involvement in contexts predominated by other immigrants. For other forms of in-church engagement, they do not experience such competition. On the other hand, we do not know if the competition that we observe at the aggregate level is related to distinctive group identities of the non-immigrants and immigrants. It might be argued, for example, that non-immigrants dominate these prestigious roles not necessarily because they are competing over them with a group consciousness, but that because, compared to immigrants, they possess the necessary civic skills and social capital to qualify for such roles while remaining within their respective comfort zones. Another reason might be that non-immigrants may be better established within their religious communities and hence are more active in leadership positions. This research also controlled for the unique impact of frequency of attendance and period of attendance regarding individuals’ congregational attendance. Even when non-immigrants and immigrants attend their congregations with equal frequency and period of time, they still display unequal levels of presence in leadership areas. Consequently, immigration status can be considered to be a unique and influential determinant of inter-group differences – and apparently competition – in the area of leadership roles in congregations. The study’s data analysis method is limited by certain shortcomings in terms of exploring the group dynamics of these differences. Qualitative studies are needed in this area to explore the dynamics of leadership mechanisms in congregations with a focus on issues relating to immigration. Yet, this study could contribute in several ways to prospective scientific studies of immigration, religion and civic participation. First, this chapter has devised a structure which allows us to test the interaction effects of individual-level and congregationallevel immigration statuses on churchgoers’ civic participation inside and outside the church. Such a structure can be utilized not only to study immigrants in immigrant and non-immigrant congregations but also for exploring nonimmigrants in both immigrant and non-immigrant congregations. Furthermore, this study explores how three dimensions of civic participation (church-related volunteerism, leadership roles in the church, extra-church civic engagement) of churchgoers are affected by the interaction of individual- and congregationallevel immigration statuses. The findings of this study suggest that the interaction of both individualand congregational-level immigration statuses should also be considered when conducting research studies and investigations into religion, religious institutions and immigration. Consequently, I suggest including ‘immigration status’ variables, both at the individual- and congregational-level in future sociological studies on worshippers and their congregations. I make this

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recommendation even when issues relating to immigration are not the focus of the investigation. This is especially important when the contextual information about congregations is used in social science studies across different research projects – and when looking at the composition of congregations in terms of the proportion of immigrants they host – might provide extra explanatory power. Given that around 14 per cent of worshippers in Christian congregations are immigrants, and almost 37 per cent of immigrant worshippers are not in immigrant congregations, exploring or controlling for the effect of information on the immigration status of worshippers might yield significantly different results, particularly in quantitative studies.

Chapter 14

Migrant movements Filipino Catholic culture and religious heat in Canada* ALISON MARSHALL

When people leave the Philippines, they don’t often lose their faith or convert to other religions. Most first-generation Filipino migrants, as this chapter shows, remain Catholic and religious long after they have immigrated. Timothy Smith has argued in his study of religion and ethnicity in America that migration changes religiosity, resulting in the redefinition, intensification and revitalization of faith and practice (1978: 1161). Filipino migrant religion mostly includes a mix of Christian and folk practices, though first- and second-generation Filipinos continue to self-identify as Catholic in the diaspora.1 People perform their religiosity at cathedrals and churches, in front of home and business altars, shrines and in festivals, during monument building and visiting. All of this religious activity requires the ability of a person to move freely and interact with others in migrant worlds. During the Covid-19 pandemic as religious gatherings were banned in the province of Manitoba and in other parts of Canada, anti-Asian hate and religious persecution seemed to rise (Covid-19 2021). In a unique period of Covid-19 pandemic lockdown, the chapter revisits the findings of a previously published four-year *Parts of this chapter include material previously published in Alison R. Marshall, Bayanihan and Belonging: Filipinos and Religion in Canada (Toronto: UofT Press 2018). I am grateful to Rubina Ramji, who read and provided feedback on an earlier draft. Research participants in this study referred to themselves as ‘Filipinos’ and not as gendered Filipinas and Filipinos. The chapter therefore adopts this naming convention.

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ethno-historical study of migrants from the Philippines and reimagines the significance of Filipino migrant religiosity.2 It draws on Tweed’s dynamic and relational approach to thinking about the link between migrant religiosity and racism, and especially the religious migrant interactions that may deepen faith and lessen discrimination. It does seem that ‘crossing and dwelling’, to use Tweed’s famous phrase, are integral facets of the doing of religion in migrant worlds that not only increase faith but also helps religious migrants settle and feel a sense of belonging (2006: 112). While Filipinos have been migrating to Canada for more than 140 years, the tradition of migration is longstanding in the Philippines. Migration has always been a part of maritime life among the diverse chain of Islands in the Western Pacific Ocean. In the past, it was common for Filipinos to have to move their easily transportable straw nipa huts to drier land during the monsoon season. Internal migration helped foster what is referred to as a ‘bayanihan spirit’, a spirit that moves people to work collectively in order to help each other cross inhabitable terrains and dwell in new ones. Regardless of whether people moved within or beyond this chain of islands, a bayanihan spirit was used to help them cultivate relational ties in new worlds. They used this spirit to build horizontal connections with family and friends, and also vertical ones with deities and religiosity. While Tweed’s idea of crossing and dwelling provides a useful starting point for understanding these two horizontal and vertical dimensions of Filipino migrant religiosity, Asian religious ideas and cultures get us closer to understanding what might be seen as the third dimension of migrant religiosity. To understand how migrants develop in-depth religious relationships within an Asian context, I look to the work of Adam Chau, a Chinese anthropologist made famous by his work on the transformative potential of intense social heat (red-hot sociality or honghuo). While the idea of intense social heat is a Chinese not Filipino concept, both the Philippines and China have family-based cultures that emphasize the importance of social relations. Although many Filipinos come from mixed-race backgrounds and share Chinese ancestry, in the Philippines, Chinese are generally seen as distinct from Filipinos, belonging to an ethnic group known as ‘Chinoy’ or ‘mestizos’. Chinese traded with the Philippines as early as the Song Dynasty (960–1127) and had started to migrate by the mid-sixteenth century. By 1850, a growing number of Chinese migrants had intermarried, become mestizos and risen ‘to a position of economic and social prominence’ (Wickberg 2000: 25). Chau adds that this social heat can be used to understand relationality and spirituality in China and beyond it in Melanesia (2005: 165). In these Asian contexts, social heat may function in the same way as the bayanihan spirit, as a kind of glue cementing horizontal bonds, and creating longstanding ties between people who help each other. This kind of socio-religious heat also creates spiritually vertical bonds between many individuals and saints, as seen in the current study of Filipino migrants.

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While horizontal bonds are made through the moving of spirit and nipa huts, vertical ones are made through the moving of spirit between the divine and person (Marshall 2003: 93). As people revere, pray and make offerings to favoured saints, deities and ancestors, they maintain and enliven spiritual connections. As I explain, the unrestricted flow of Filipino individual and collective religiosity helps stitch together the fabric of belonging in migrant worlds. This flow might happen at church or festivals, while revering saints there or before a home altar or shrine that has an image the migrant brought over to Canada from the Philippines. The flow might happen at quasi-religious voluntary associations where newcomers build positive rapport (with their new homeland and with others) and become rooted in multiple dimensions of a migrant world. The lack of flow and stasis does the reverse. If human beings aren’t able to freely interact or move with others, they cannot build firm social bonds. A bayanihan spirit facilitates a religious migrant’s third dimension and the depth of their preferred religious and/or spiritual connection to a host community. Following Pierre Bourdieu, this chapter seeks to understand how a bayanihan spirit helps a migrant, cross, dwell and also dynamically inhabit spaces beyond the Philippines (1977: 85). The conclusions made in this chapter outline common patterns of immigrant religious life in the present study; though not all patterns are applicable to all immigrant religious groups. Exclusionary legislation enacted by governments has historically led to the stagnation of migrant religious activity and belonging. It has created the impression that governments endorsed race-based discrimination of certain groups at the grassroots level, including Filipinos. From 1923 to 1956, Canada enforced Order-in-Council PC 1923-183, which banned Filipinos from Canada. In these periods, migrants have found themselves unwelcome or unable to gather and participate in the religious institutions of their choice or have felt too threatened to perform their chosen religious practices in public (Marshall 2009). During exclusionary eras, Filipino and other non-European migrants have not felt free to move within the different realms of the dominant society. Ease of movement and interactions are vitally important if newcomers are to be welcomed and included and not excluded. Sometimes, exclusionary attitudes and racism have persisted and resurfaced in other kinds of legislation, including Canada’s current Temporary Foreign Workers Program (Kachulis and PerezLeclerc 2020). During research in Canada and the Philippines, I heard about unwelcoming environments for migrants who had come to Canada through this programme, especially in Neepawa, Manitoba. Neepawa was a popular destination for many Filipino religious migrants who worked in the local meat processing plant. Many Filipino migrants hired under this programme expressed that they were treated by government and employers as temporary and disposable labour. They felt trapped in Neepawa without meaningful interactions or a robust sense of religious belonging (Marshall 2018: chapter 9).

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Returning to this study of Filipino migrants in Canada during the Covid-19 pandemic and lockdown legislation on religious gatherings led me to reflect on the significance of unrestricted religious and other kinds of movement for new migrants. We often talk about migrants crossing borders and then settling in a new nation. But this settling and stasis, for many first-generation migrants at least, can lead to exclusion, especially when we consider the Temporary Foreign Workers Program, which tends to trap and isolate migrants in one place. Building relationships, spiritual connections and religious heat helps migrants cultivate connections in the diaspora (Marshall 2014). Migrant religious interactions and bridge building according to my study helped to create and maintain the horizontal bayanihan spirit, move the spirit during interactions with the divine and saints and develop faith and in-depth ties to Canadian society. Research participants with fewer connections in Canada, longer and less flexible work schedules, or who lived in far-flung parts of the province, apart from a larger community of Filipinos, tended to have less physical and societal mobility because they lacked transportation. This led to less robust religious lives, and less freedom to practice their religion. Those with fewer chances to do their religion tended to experience more racism because they were more isolated. They didn’t have a chance to socialize with other Filipinos at church or build faith-based relationships with non-Filipinos in their community. Sometimes enshrined images of patron saints and other deities had to be hidden from view in bedrooms and pockets because people feared dominant society would not understand. These patterns as mentioned had been especially clear in the qualitative interviews and participant observation research I conducted with Filipino migrants who came to Neepawa, Manitoba. Returning to the study during the Covid-19 pandemic and seeing the rekindled racism towards Asian migrants and Filipinos, I also saw how government-enacted pandemic lockdowns had dampened migrant religious heat and belonging. Racism is never static. As I have shown in past studies of Asian migration, a migrant’s freedom to practice their religion (the absence of stasis) is directly linked to a reduction in the experience of racism (Marshall 2011). In the following paragraphs I outline the history of Filipino migration to the United States and Canada and the predominant idea that religion and Catholicism for many Filipinos is a kind of culture. With a focus on Filipino migrant religiosity in Manitoba, I explore the ways that this has usually, but not always, manifested itself as an intense Catholic culture that has in turn facilitated ties to broader society, deities and in-depth belonging. In the absence of exclusionary legislation many migrants have been able to freely move the spirit and build religious heat. In these eras, migrant religiosity has been redefined, and revitalized in Canada through church and home-based practice pilgrimages, and processions, especially through the veneration and memorializing of Santo Niño and Dr José Rizal.

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HISTORY OF FILIPINO MIGRATION TO CANADA Before I delve into the specifics of Filipino migrant religiosity, it is important to examine the historical context of migration to Canada. The Filipino diaspora is scattered across the globe, with the largest concentration in the United States where an estimated 4.2 million resided as of 2019 (Budiman 2021). Additionally, there are sizeable populations of Filipinos in Europe, the Middle East, Asia, Oceania and of course Canada, where the 2016 census estimates more than 850,000 Filipinos call home. Filipino migration in Canada is tied to the story of migration to the United States. Filipinos began to migrate to the American south in the early 1700s (Takaki 1990). American legislation and racist beliefs about Asian migrants would later influence and shape early Canadian immigration policies. Filipinos came to the United States as Spanish colonial subjects in the 1880s, and after 1898 as American ones. They worked as cheap labourers. Asians – Chinese, Japanese, Filipinos and even Syrians and Lebanese – and others were needed to fill labour shortages mostly in agricultural settings but also in canneries throughout the Pacific Northwest. Aside from these rural locales, they also worked in urban areas as servants and gardeners, in factories, and as busboys, cooks and dishwashers in restaurants in Chinatown and beyond it (Takaki 1983: 120). Filipinos, being among the last groups of Asians to migrate to the United States and Canada, competed with other Asians, Indigenous peoples and non-European migrants for the work that members of dominant society didn’t want to do (Melendy 1974a,b: 521–9). Only 5,603 Filipinos resided in the United States by 1920. But other Asian low-waged workers became scarce four years later due to racist immigration citizenship laws (e.g. The Immigration Act (Johnson-Reed Act) set immigration quotas and limited the number of people who could enter the country. It additionally excluded those from the Asiatic Barred Zone–Japanese and Chinese). By 1930, there were some 45,208 Filipinos living and working in the United States. One might think that Filipinos being largely Christian and Catholic had an easier time fitting into North American Christian-dominant society. But until very recently in North American migration history, race has usually trumped religion. Migrant Filipinos lived in a chiefly bachelor society. Male migrants sent remittances home and dominant Catholic and traditional values dictated girls remain in domestic spheres (Mabalon 2013: 151; Cordova 1989: 42–9). Thus fewer than 10 per cent of the Filipino migrants were women in the Continental United States prior to 1930. Most of Filipino males were bachelors under the age of thirty (Takaki 1990: 58). They continued to be dwarfed by Chinese migrants, who numbered some 102,000 at the same time (Pan 2006: 262). Large American settlements of Filipinos were established on the west coast, and in New York (Bulosan 2000; Melendy 1967a,b: 4; Baldoz 2011). Filipino

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migrants were also found in small pockets throughout every state. The 1930s represented a turning point, however, when broader society members were without work. During the Great Depression, European migrants sought work on farms and other low-skilled agricultural jobs, jobs that had mostly been filled by Asians. Cheap Asian labour was no longer needed thereby creating the impetus for legislation that would curb Filipino migration to the United States. In 1934, the Tydings-McDuffie Act was enacted, making the Philippines a commonwealth nation, and yet it denied Filipinos US citizenship. Filipinos were born in the Philippines which was an American territory, but they were not American citizens and thus could be denied entry. Those Filipinos who remained in the United States found themselves without work or access to citizenship and thus returned home, or continued their migratory crossing to Canada. Canada has always been a popular springboard for migrants whose ultimate destination was the United States. For this reason, Filipinos often entered Canada through coastal British Columbia in a pattern of ‘trampoline migration’ to the US West Coast beginning in the 1880s (Fitzgerald and Cook-Martin 2014: 146). According to Canadian immigration guidelines before the 1920s, Filipinos were not grouped with other ethnicities belonging to the ‘yellow’ races, such as Mongolians, Japanese or Chinese, but nor were they ‘white’ (Keevak 2011). Things changed in 1923, when Canada banned immigrants of any Asiatic race, including Chinese and Filipinos Order-in-Council PC 1923-183. The order in council would only be repealed in 1956 and this is why we see a change in migratory patterns from the Philippines to Canada: numerous Filipinos (many of them female Filipino nurses) began to migrate and settle in Canada after that time. Filipino migration to Canada has been also shaped by legislation in the Philippines. In 1973, President Ferdinand Marcos in the Philippines encouraged Filipinos to seek work outside the country and send earnings home to stimulate the national economy (Burton 1989). This legislation continued a trend by the Philippine government to broker deals for Filipino medical professionals to gain entry to Canada. Research participants in this study came to Manitoba in the early 1960s as teachers, nurses, doctors and health-care aides, cleaners, clerks, garment workers, domestic help, meat plant workers and also as priests and pastors. A few came as spouses or retirees. Twenty of the fifty-three research participants in this study were born in Manila or Metropolitan Manila (Bautista 2012: 18). In the 1960s, Canada as a receiving country had much to gain from the economic migration of Filipino nurses, doctors and teachers who came under special arrangements that made it easier for people in those professions to migrate to Canada. Women became the predominant Filipino migrants to Manitoba, replacing the earlier pattern of male bachelors from the early part of the twentieth century. As newcomers became established, they paved the way

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for others in their network back home to follow them to Canada – a common global migratory pattern known as chain migration. Many family members – spouses, children, parents and siblings – came to join the original Filipino Manitobans throughout the ensuing years. Canada’s new Immigration Act, 1967, enabled Filipinos to come to Canada under a system that awarded points based on economics, education and skills, not on race or ethnicity (Kelley and Trebilcock 1998). Canadian permanent immigration guidelines were no longer shaped by race-based guidelines and ethnic selection, but new temporary foreign worker programmes beginning in 1973 became popular ways for Canadian companies to recruit low-skilled, lowwaged seasonal farm and live-in care workers from select and often non-white racialized backgrounds (Sharma 2006). Thirty-nine of this ethnographic study’s fifty-three research participants migrated to Manitoba after 1973. In Manitoba there was little change in Filipino religious self-identification after migration (Table 14.1). Based on the 2016 census, more than 83,000 Filipinos now live in Manitoba, the majority being in Winnipeg, the capital of Manitoba and home to Canada’s oldest and largest per-capita Filipino Canadian community. Manitoba’s towns and cities beyond Winnipeg also have sizeable and growing Filipino communities. In Winnipeg, Tagalog is the second most-common language, following English (Mackrael 2012). Winnipeg has its own Manilatown, multiple Filipino grocery stores and chains, restaurants, churches, community and seniors groups and centres, annual festivals, as well as monuments dedicated to Dr José Rizal (1861–96) (see Figures 14.1 and 14.2). Statues of Santo Niño are common in Filipino homes and especially in kitchens where they are positioned on the top of cabinets overlooking the family as they eat. Here he wears a red cape. Outside of homes in Manitoba in shops, restaurants, cemetery shrines, mausoleums and festivals, Santo Niño de la Suerte (suerte meaning ‘luck’ in Spanish) wears a green cape and is known as a benevolent pilgrim or traveller bringing good fortune and blessings to all. It is not uncommon for shops to display both the traveller image of Santo Niño and the one wearing a red cape (​Figures 14.3 and 14.4).

DOING RELIGION IN MANITOBA Occasionally, Filipinos would change religious denominations when they migrated, converting from Anglicanism to Catholicism, or from Catholicism to Protestantism.3 The majority of Filipinos or more than 86 per cent of research participants remained Catholic after they migrated. Many of them continued to participate in Filipino voluntary association events and community festivals. Filipino religiosity and the dominance of Catholic cultures in Manitoba

TABLE 14.1:  Research Participant Data for Province/City of Origin in the Philippines/Canada, Religion and First Occupation Protestant/Attends Protestant Church

Spiritual but not religious

First role/ occupation in Canada

Migration year

Female

Abra

2001

1

Baguio City

1976

1

Batangas

1976

Bohol Bontoc Bulacan

2005

1

Cebu

1995

1

Davao

2008

1

Dapitan

1972

1

1

Engineer

Iligan

2012

1

1

Religious

Ilocos Norte

1972

1

1

Student

Iloilo City

2005

1

Domestic

Laguna

2001 2003

2

Postal worker Child

Leyte

1965 1969

2

Nurse Teacher

Prov. City

Male

Catholic

Atheist

1

Agnostic

Domestic

1

Garment

1

1

Engineer

1998

1

1

Religious

1966

1

1

Nurse

1

Entrepreneur 1 1

1 2 2

Bride Nurse

Metro Manila

1962

1

1967 1967

11

Doctor

1

Nurse

1

1968

Spouse 1

Doctor

1968

1

Garment

1968

1

Student

1973

1

1

Child

1976

1

1

Child

1980

1

1982

1

1982

1

1982

1

Insurance 1

Media

1

Garment

1

Child

1988

1

1

Media

1994

1

Child

1994

1

Fast food

2002

1

2003

1

2006

1

1

Aide

1

1

Political aide

2006 2009

Clerk 1

Healthcare

1 Spouse Nurse (Continued)

TABLE 14.1: (Continued)

Prov. City Misamis Oriental

Nueva Vizcaya

Migration year

Female

1972

3

Male

Catholic

Protestant/Attends Protestant Church

Atheist

Spiritual but not religious

Agnostic

3

First role/ occupation in Canada Student

2008

Religious

2010

Clerk

1969

1

1

Clerk

1997 Nueva Ecija

1

Pampanga

2005

Pangasinan

1970

1 1

2009 Quezon

Santiago

Sorsogon

1988

1 1

Meat plant

1

Garment

1 1

Retiree

1

Religious

1

2013

1

2004

3

Spouse Health-care aide

4

Janitor

2008

Meat plant

2009

Meat plant

1975

2

2

Domestic

1976 Winnipeg

NA

Garment 1

1

2

26

27

39

Nurse Religious

TOTAL

11

1

1

1

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FIGURE 14.1:  Chicago’s Dr José Rizal commemorative statue, near Wrigley Field, and site of first Knights of Rizal chapter. Photo credit: Alison Marshall.

enabled the redefinition, revitalization and intensification of migrant religiosity in Canada, with certain caveats. Foreign workers, here in Canada to do temporary work in meat plants or as nannies, seemed to experience more socioreligious exclusion and less three-dimensional belonging. Their socio-economic and liminal status as temporary workers in Canada played a large part in determining the degree of belonging. But as I argue here, religiosity played a significant role as well. Home altars and shrines become especially important to temporary foreign workers whose work schedules, living arrangements or lack of transportation excluded them from moving the spirit at festivals and

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FIGURE 14.2:  Image of Dr José Rizal at 2015 Winnipeg Street Festival. Photo credit: Phil Hossack.

other religious events. They transported their religion in tangible ways bringing rosary beads, enshrined images of saints, along with candles and prayer cards and booklets which they used to set up temporary shrines along their migration journey (Table 14.2). In Canada and Manitoba, migration has redefined Filipino religious lives. Here, religion is not as prominent as it is in the Philippines. There are fewer churches, temples and mosques on city streets here. Fewer people regularly attend a house of worship. Religious imagery does not decorate public transit (e.g. jeepneys), streets and government buildings as it does throughout the Philippines. In Canada, Filipinos are not usually able to continue daily church attendance. Many Catholics and Protestants attend church once a week, but for some work sometimes takes priority even on Sundays. They go to church when they can. They participate in fewer devotional groups in Canada (unless they are retired), and don’t preach on the bus. In Manitoba, people can easily find local hilots, Filipinos with an inborn ability to heal through touch, variously referred to by research participants as massage therapists or Filipino shamans. While hilots were familiar to and sought-after healers for first-generation migrants in Canada, they were less known by second-generation ones. Antinganting, a Tagalog term describing the use of talismans and religious objects, were kept in many first-generation migrant pockets or worn around the neck to

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FIGURE 14.3:  Santo Niño de la Suerte (suerte meaning ‘luck’ in Spanish) Filipino in Toronto, Ontario. Photo credit: Kerry Fast.

bring good fortune. First-generation migrants also spoke of visions of angels in the chapels they had built in their front door closets. Some spoke frankly about their visions of Jesus on Winnipeg streets. Feng-shui mirrors, Chinese good luck amulets and Buddhas (common among Chinese Filipinos), and religious objects hanging from rear-view mirrors were familiar sights in Manitoba and related spiritual beliefs and practices (San Buenaventura 2001: 155). In some ways, Filipino religion has been revitalized in Canada. Religion still continues to fill more than the edges of first-generation migrant weeks, on Sunday mornings or Saturday evenings. Catholic homes, yards, cars and businesses continue to be decorated with religious imagery. Protestant homes don’t have this kind of outwardly religious adornments, but they continue to be filled with inspirational biblical messages and bibles. People continue to seek out the services of hilots, who practice here in Manitoba, and they continue to carry anting-anting (religious amulets) in pockets and purses: practices that they would easily be able to do in their homelands. These less public expressions of the Catholic culture are part of the undercurrent of Filipino religiosity that helps with the flow of belonging. Filipino migrants host home-based celebrations of the Pabasa ng Pasyon (reading of the Passion) during Holy Week. This uniquely Philippine Catholic

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FIGURE 14.4:  Aklan Ati-atihan Manitoba Float, Santo Niño display at 2015 Winnipeg Street Festival. Photo credit: Phil Hossack.

TABLE 14.2:  Change of Religion after Migration Changed from Changed Changed Catholic from from to spiritual Remained Remained Catholic to Protestant but not Gender No Catholic Protestant Protestant to Catholic religious Female

26

22

1

Male

27

24

1

1

1 1

0

Changed from Catholic to agnostic

Changed from Catholic to atheist

1 1

ritual requires the uninterrupted collective chanting or singing of the Pasyon. In Canada, the Pabasa is held on Good Friday. In Winnipeg, Manitoba’s Dandan family have hosted the festival every year since they first arrived. Extended family and other Catholic newcomers are invited to the event. Gloria’s parish priest in the Philippines had told her that of all the traditions, this one should never be stopped. The guests bring food and everyone listens and sings along, and eats while they move the spirit throughout the day. During the Pabasa, statues, for example of Our Lady of Fatima and others, are placed in a makeshift home altar that includes a large cross. Fresh flowers are placed on a table draped

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with white sheets. The family also displays a painting of Christ that Gloria’s husband made. With the curtains closed, the altar is in front of the window and everyone faces it. At the conclusion of the Pabasa, the statues are moved to the backyard, where they are placed in a grotto and remain for the summer. The doing of religion during the Pabasa festivities has helped this Filipino family find three-dimensional belonging in Canada. Beyond the home-based doing of religion in Canada, select Catholic and Protestant churches have emerged to meet the needs of the growing Filipino community. St Edward’s is the principal site of worship for Catholics in Manitoba. Throughout the research, Filipinos repeatedly remarked that this was the place they returned to listen to a familiar Mass and music, see familiar religious images and be surrounded by Filipinos. Father Sarce, a Filipino, was St Edward’s priest today. He was one of many Filipinos who had served that parish since the 1970s. Even though St Edward’s congregation was large and Mass was attended by more than 500 people, Manitoba’s Filipino population still enjoyed a close relationship with Father Sarce: closer than they had experienced in the Philippines with their parish priest. Such close connections with a church priest were not possible in the Philippines but it has always been possible at Manitoba’s St Edward’s church. St Edward’s reminded many Filipinos of home. It was a grand urban church with Italian architectural flourishes and a fifteenminute walk from Winnipeg’s Health Sciences Centre, where many of the city’s Filipino nurses and doctors worked. St Edward’s became the church of choice for Filipinos when they first arrived in Winnipeg and had emerging networks and still needed to strengthen their connections with broader society. In 2005 – three decades after the first Filipino priest had come to Winnipeg – there were twelve Catholic priests who ministered to some 25,500 Filipinos (Fay 2005: 31). Since 2005 the number of Filipinos in Manitoba has more than tripled and the number of Filipino religious functionaries had definitely grown to serve Filipinos needs. Migrant nuns and other religious workers would come to Canada on a temporary basis, and Catholic priests upon retirement often returned to the Philippines, where medical benefits were offered by the diocese that had sent them. The establishment of these churches, led by Filipino priests and nuns, not only revitalized faith and practice among the migrant Filipinos living in Winnipeg, it also redefined how people related to the priests and used the church networks to better navigate life in Canada. As of 2016, St Edward’s employed fourteen staff, the largest number in the Archdiocese of Winnipeg, which at the time oversaw some ninety parishes in and beyond Winnipeg. St Edward’s offers weekly Mass in Tagalog on Saturdays, as well as four English Masses on Sunday. St Edward’s Catholic Women’s League has sixty-seven members, forty-seven of whom are Filipinos. The Knights of Columbus has 109 members, 96 of whom are Filipinos. St Edward’s has many devotional groups including Our Lady of Peñafrancia Group, Legion of

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Mary and Junior Legion of Mary and Couples for Christ. Almost all Catholic Filipinos I interviewed had initially attended St Edward’s, an urban church. Overtime most Filipinos moved away from this and other urban churches to suburban ones. While Winnipeg, Manitoba, was the focus of research in this study, these same migratory patterns could be found in other cities throughout Canada. Visits to churches and cathedrals in other Canadian cities with significant Filipino populations, including Toronto, Vancouver, Calgary, Regina and Saskatoon and also in Brandon, Portage la Prairie and Steinbach, Manitoba, led me to find similar patterns among immigrant Filipinos. In each case, I came to notice that churches had also been redefined by their Filipino congregations. At the request of Filipino congregants, many churches had decorated walls with the enshrined image of Santo Niño, the single most revered saint in Filipino religiosity. According to popular lore, the original statue of Santo Niño was brought to the Philippines by Portuguese explorer Ferdinand Magellan in 1521, who claimed the islands on behalf of Spain. Magellan, it is said, presented the carved wooden figure to the wife of the Rajah of Cebu when she and the Rajah were baptized as Catholics (Bautista 2010). While Santo Niño is meant to be a manifestation of Jesus as a child, in Filipino Catholic thought and culture he very much resembles pre-Hispanic spirits, as well as patron saints introduced by the Spanish (Alcedo 2007). Research participants in interviews and during fieldwork spoke about Santo Niño’s extraordinary powers to heal and also to punish. Santo Niño in his many forms, from imperial holy son to poor wandering boy with a magic bag of coins, strongly represented the moving of spirit within and beyond the Philippines. Statues of him had been brought from the Philippines to Canada where they now decorated churches, home altars and chapels in closets near the front door, and local Filipino restaurants and shops (Marshall 2016). Santo Niño enabled Filipinos to remember, relate and cross through complex temporal and multi-dimensional spatial terrains inside and outside the Philippines. Fred Cordova observes that related Christian beliefs and practices that cemented early Filipino American communities (1983). Thomas Tweed’s analysis of the Cuban American devotion to Our Lady of Charity in Miami, Florida, is helpful in fleshing out the significance of Santo Niño devotion among Filipino Manitobans. As Cubans migrated to Miami, devotion to Our Lady of Charity deepened. In exile in Miami and displaced from Cuban homeland communities and cultures, Our Lady of Charity became a powerful symbol of diasporic nationalism (1997: 12). In Canada, Santo Niño is similarly dislocated. His flexible appearance and mutable history enable Santo Niño and migrants alongside him to move easily across oceans and continents and find spiritual rootedness and belonging in Canada.

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In Manitoba and in the Philippines, Santo Niño and other divine figures were also recognized throughout the year at various summertime religious and civil festivals (aka fiestas) that brought people together. In Cebu City, Sinulog, the annual festival for Santo Niño is held in January. It marks the Holy Child’s arrival in the Philippines hundreds of years ago with parades, processions, prayers, dancing, singing and eating. Each year on 25 January, Winnipeg Filipinos also honour Santo Niño in an Ati-Atihan winter celebration. But this happens indoors as Winnipeg’s winter is notoriously very cold. Pilgrimages were important Filipino activities and reflect the importance of migrant flows in maintaining in-group and out-group interactions. They linked homes and families, creating shared sanctified practices and saintly preferences. Pilgrimages and exciting festivals kept religion alive and flowing throughout the Philippines and into and among the diaspora, as if announcing that Filipinos and their religion are in Manitoba to stay and that they belonged in both urban centres and also the suburbs. Migrants from the Philippines have revitalized Catholic (and a few Protestant Christian) churches in Canada, filling pews and offering baskets, volunteering in church choirs and altering church décor with their own enshrined deities such as Santo Niño and transforming festivals and church events with social heat and Filipino saints, dances and cultures. Pre–First World War European immigrants put their own stamp on Catholicism in Manitoba. The names spoken at weekly baptisms and in prayers for the suffering and repose for the dead were almost always European. Italians, English and Irish Manitobans were accustomed to sitting where they wanted, either in pews at the front or at the very back, and to seeing familiar children at catechism classes and in processions. Catholic Women’s Leagues and the Knights of Columbia offered social opportunities for a community’s European men and women. But over time, many second-generation immigrants in Winnipeg, and also in Manitoba’s hinterland, stopped attending Mass or moved away. Churches struggled to find volunteers and choir members, and to pay taxes and church staff salaries. In the 1960s, the Catholic Church continued to be the largest church in Canada, with the most congregants. Through Vatican Council II, the church modernized its teachings, new policies, approaches and changes to Mass that were intended to acknowledge human rights, religious diversity and freedom and civic responsibility (Ratzinger 1966). In the ensuing decades, weekly church attendance fell sharply among both Protestant and Catholics in Canada (Epp Buckingham 2014: 19). As Filipinos arrived in greater numbers during the 1970s, 1980s, 1990s and 2000s churches with dwindling populations were suddenly filled with a new and diverse ethnic group. Some congregants who had spent lifetimes sitting in the same spot in the same pew, or dominating Catholic Women’s League

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meetings, now found themselves dislocated. They came earlier and earlier to Mass just to stake out their place. Others revelled in the renewed church spirit. They relished the sounds of a full choir, and the hustle and bustle as people left their seats and walked with anticipation to receive the Eucharist. They enjoyed seeing the swelling membership of the Catholic Women’s League and Knights of Columbus and the addition of Filipino groups such as Couples for Christ. Filipino dances and songs performed at fundraising events along with Filipino food helped boost donations to churches in need of new roofs or other renovations. Longstanding non-Filipino congregation members didn’t mind that the pew they had sat in for decades was now sometimes occupied by Filipino newcomers. They also didn’t mind that some new immigrants were able to contribute only a small amount to the offering tray each week (Fay 2009: 138). They enjoyed the conviviality of a full church and the chance to see their religious institution growing again. At the end of one service I attended at St Edwards, the processional led Father Sarce out of the church. He was so popular that he was quickly sidetracked by the hustle and bustle of dozens of congregants eager to speak with him. Meanwhile, Filipinos, young and old, quickly walked over and stopped at the wooden Jesus on the cross affixed to the wall at the back of the church, touching parts of Jesus and then themselves. The Catholic culture generated at St Edwards church services seemed to be an especially intense religious kind of heat (Chau 2008). Religious interactions at church and elsewhere helped move the spirit beyond religious settings and into more secular ones, helping create favourable impressions of society’s newcomers. The Knights of Rizal may be considered another aspect of Filipino Catholic culture that stimulates social heat and dynamic intercultural engagement. To members of the Knights of Rizal, Dr José Rizal, a highly educated medical doctor and Filipino national hero, had become a secular saint and hero. Rizal famously visited the United States in 1888, travelling from San Francisco to New York City. The first Rizal Day was celebrated a year after Rizal had been executed in the Philippines, with simple rituals in Hong Kong (Roland 1969: 12; The Filipino Students Magazine, December 1906; Guyotte and Posados 1992: 52). Since then, Rizal Day has continued to be celebrated by thousands of Filipinos throughout the diaspora (Gonzalez 2009, Nadal 2015: 10; Nery 2011: 38; Guyotte and Posadas 1992: 48). Being well connected has enabled members of the Knights of Rizal to successfully lobby, mobilize government support and fundraise to transform streets and parks and memorialize Dr José Rizal including those at Winnipeg’s Waterford Green Common, Glen Eden Cemetery and Chapel Lawn Memorial Gardens, each consisting of a plaque with his picture on it and his birthplace, birthdate and the date of his martyrdom. Significantly, these streets and parks highlight the suburban not urban places where Filipinos have continued to

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FIGURE 14.5:  Dr José Rizal Park opening, 21 June 2014, Winnipeg, with Knights and Ladies of Rizal. Photo credit: A. Marshall.

move and find belonging (Dwyer, Gilbert and Shah 2013). Rizal may be the secular saint of this group, but it may be that future migrants choose to signal their belonging with suburban busts, parks and streets named after Andres Bonifacio (Figure 14.5). The migrant crossings and dwellings that have enabled Filipinos to create social heat and move the spirit, do religion, jobs, travel, send remittances home and belong came to a halt with the Covid-19 pandemic. It might be said that few migrant groups have felt the impact of the pandemic more than Filipino migrants. Filipinos (and especially temporary foreign workers) have been among the most vulnerable migrant groups who have become sick with Covid.4 They have never been more in demand as health-care workers or discriminated against. They have been praised for their caring bedside manners but they alongside other Asians have been blamed for spreading the virus. In the last 150 years, Asian migrants have often been seen as the source of contagion during outbreaks of smallpox, scarlet fever, diphtheria or meningitis in Canada (RG 17, series I-1, 731, 84229, 3 August 1892. LAC). In 1929, a Filipino in California was blamed for causing a meningitis outbreak (LeMay 2006: 136). So why should the Covid-19 virus be any different? For a migrant group where religion is a culture, the Covid-19 era has brought with it many challenges, including legislation preventing religious groups from moving the spirit, and gathering and also limiting religious freedoms. Covid-19

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restrictions on religious gatherings have made it nearly impossible to redefine and revitalize their religion at church, in the streets or build religious heat with others.5 And while racism is never static, it would seem that neither is religion, unless there is a health-care crisis. In Covid-19 lockdown, exclusionary attitudes are on the rise while migrant religiosity, conviviality and three-dimensional belonging have cooled. None of this can be good for the health of our society.

Chapter 15

Religion, migration and the Chinese in diaspora TAN CHEE-BENG

Migration has been an essential part of human history. Studies on regional and trans-global migration have analysed the factors which influence migration, the roles of natural disasters and war, economic and political factors, as well as migrants’ adaptation, connection with homeland and issues of belonging (cf. Hoerder 2012; Wang 1997). There are fewer comprehensive studies on religion and migration, although some scholars have analysed the role of the church in helping migrants to adjust to Christian-dominant societies. This chapter discusses religion and migration with regard to Chinese migrants and their descendants. Religion provides hope to people and helps them to cope with uncertainty. Migrants, no doubt, pray to their God or deities for safe journeys and ease in settling down to a new livelihood in the new lands. Religion links migrants to their history and their sense of belonging, or to borrow the words of Emile Durkheim, it allows people to ‘become conscious of themselves and their history’ (Durkheim 1958: 160). The significance of religion to migration is best expressed by Thomas A. Tweed in his definition of religion: ‘Religions are confluences of organic-cultural flows that intensify joy and confront suffering by drawing on human and supernatural forces to make homes and cross boundaries’ (Tweed 2006: 54). Religion is thus part and parcel of the migration process and making home in alien lands. This chapter shows that religion also provides communal functions, helping Chinese migrants to organize and establish communities in new lands.

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RELIGIONS IN CHINA The People’s Republic of China (PRC) classifies its population into fifty-six minzu or ethnic categories, of which the Han people make up 92 per cent (https://en​. wikipedia​ . org​ / wiki​ / Sixth​ _ National​ _ Population​ _ Census​ _ of​ _ the​ _People​%27s​_Republic​_of​_China). The other fifty-five minzu are officially minorities, and they include Muslim groups totalling 23 million people (https:// www​.statista​.com​/statistics​/619931​/china​-number​-of​-muslims​-by​-ethnicity/). Of the Muslim groups, the Hui and Uyghur (also spelled Uighur) are the largest groups, the former are Chinese-speaking and are found all over China while the latter are Turkic speakers who are found mostly in Xinjiang. This demographic information can be a guideline to the understanding of the population groups in nineteenth-century imperial China, when large-scale migration began, although the migrants then saw themselves as people belonging to particular regions rather than the state of China, which is a modern concept. The early migrants were overwhelmingly Han Chinese, who identified with their respective speech groups. Majority of the migrants to Southeast Asia were from the southern provinces of Fujian, Guangdong and Guangxi. Most of those from Fujian were mainly Minnanren (known as Hokkien in Southeast Asia), along with people from Fuzhou, Xinghua and others. Those from Guangdong included Cantonese, Hakka, Teochew (of the Chaozhou and Shantou regions) and Hainanese (from Hainan Island, which is a separate province today), while those from Guangxi formed the Guangxi speech group (known as Kwongsai in Malaysia). In southwest China, Yunnanese Han traders had been crossing land borders to go to Myanmar and Thailand for a long time, giving rise to the Yunnanese Chinese (Yunnanren) there. The majority of Chinese migrants observed various forms of indigenous Chinese beliefs, so complex that they need some explanation. Throughout Chinese history, the Chinese had been influenced by the three major traditions of Confucianism, Buddhism and Taoism, collectively called sanjiao, or ‘three teachings’. Confucianism is the great tradition of which Chinese of all classes are proud. There is no need to discuss here whether it is a religion or philosophy, but there is no doubt that it had been used as an authority to rule the imperial states and patriarchal families until the fall of the Qing Dynasty in 1911. Confucius was honoured as the ultimate authority by Confucian literati, while Confucianism was promoted as an official ‘religion’ with a focus on the teachings of loyalty and filial piety by the imperial states. The early migrants comprised merchants and a large number of peasants, and Confucianism was already diffused into their cultural life in the form of the core value of filial piety and the worship of ancestors as an expression of it. In the diaspora, Confucius is worshipped as one of the many deities, specifically in charge of blessing educational achievements. In the early twentieth century, a few

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Kongjiao Hui or Confucian Religion Societies were established in China and in the diaspora to promote Confucianism as an institutional Chinese religion. This did not gather popularity in China, and in the diaspora (especially in Southeast Asia) they remain merely as venues where Confucius is worshipped and his birthday celebrated. In Indonesia, however, the promotion of Confucianism and political developments since then had led to the establishment of a truly Confucian religion called Agama Konghucu (Confucian Religion). It has become an institutionally organized religion with gatherings following the style of Christianity and Islam. Confucius is reinterpreted as a prophet, Tian or ‘Heaven’ is God and the Confucian Four Books (Sishu) are its scripture (cf. Suryadinata 2015). After the introduction of Buddhism in China around the first century CE, Mahayana Buddhism prevailed, and this form of Buddhism spread from China to Korea, Japan and Vietnam. Monks and nuns were mainly responsible for the early establishment of Chinese Mahayana temples in the diaspora, such as in Malaysia and Singapore. The Buddhist revival movement led by Rev. Tai Xu (1890–1947) in China also had a significant influence on Chinese Buddhism outside mainland China. For example, his promotion of renjian fojiao or ‘humanistic Buddhism’ had inspired such prominent Buddhist masters as Rev. Yin Shun and Rev. Cheng Yan in Taiwan as well as Rev. Zhu Mo in Malaysia, thus influencing the development of Buddhism in the diaspora. Rev. Cheng Yan founded the global Buddhist organization Tzu Chi, which along with Foguangshan founded by Rev. Hsin Yun of Taiwan have branches in Chinese communities all over the world (Huang 2009; Chandler 2004). While the Chinese in the diaspora are affiliated with a wide range of religions, Chinese Buddhism, like Chinese popular religion, is closely associated with Chinese culture and identity. The Chinese in significant Chinese settlements in the diaspora provide the bases for the establishment of Chinese Mahayana Buddhist temples. In more recent decades, temples of Tibetan Buddhism have cropped up worldwide, and many of them have Chinese among their followers. The Taoist component in sanjiao includes both the transcendental teachings of Laozi and Zhuangzi and the indigenous institutional Chinese religion called daojiao or Taoist Religion (usually written in English as Taoism without any distinction between Taoism, the philosophy, and Taoism, the religion), which was founded on reinterpretation of the teachings of Laozi and Zhuangzi and incorporation of folk beliefs as well as honouring Laozi as the founder of daojiao, and his divine title is Taishang Laojun or ‘The Supreme Venerable Lord’. Once the major indigenous religion of China, Taoist Religion in modern China is visible only in Taoist temples and academic Taoist societies, as well as the rites performed by Taoist priests. The Taoist rites performed mainly for funerals and temple festivals nowadays exist largely as part of the complex Chinese popular religion. There are people, some scholars and laymen, who

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regard the Chinese popular religion as Taoist, and in fact, the Taoist scholar Kristofer Schipper regards ‘Taoism’ as the ‘highest expression’ of Chinese popular religion (Schipper 1996: 3). In Malaysia, since the 1980s, Taoist associations have emerged to promote Taoist Religion and to organize Chinese temples under this label (Tan 2018: 111–23). The major beliefs and practices of Chinese masses are generally referred to as Chinese popular religion, which involves the worship of ancestors and a wide range of deities, many of which are Taoist in origin. Thus by the nineteenth century when Chinese mass migration began, the religion that the migrants brought along was the Chinese popular religion. The Han Chinese of each region in China eventually reterritorialized their respective deities and religious traditions overseas, giving rise to the diversity and multitude of Chinese deities and beliefs in the diaspora, such as in Southeast Asia. In addition, a number of ‘syncretic’ religious organizations, sort of revitalization movements, were formed in China, especially in the twentieth century before 1949, in response to natural disasters and political crises. These religious groups, such as Hongwanzihui (Universal Red Swastika Society), Zhen Kong Jiao (Religion of the True Void) and Yiguan Dao (The Way of Pervading Unity), selected teachings (mainly Confucian and Buddhist) and rites (mainly Taoist) from sanjiao to establish their distinct forms of Chinese religion. Due to the suppression of these ‘syncretic sects’ in PRC, these religious organizations have thrived mainly outside the mainland, especially in Hong Kong, Taiwan and Southeast Asia. For example, Dejiao (Moral Uplifting Society) can be found in Southeast Asia (especially Malaysia, Singapore and Thailand), Hong Kong, Taiwan and in smaller numbers elsewhere in the world. Originally founded in the Chao-Shan region of Guangdong (Teochew homeland), Dejiao devotees worship Confucius, Buddha, Laozi, Jesus and Prophet Mohammad as the five founders of religions, thus the sect claims to comprise wujiao or ‘five religions’. It is actually a Chinese religious organization with the addition of Jesus Christ and Prophet Mohammad as shizun or ‘honourable teachers’, who are incorporated as part of the Chinese pantheon. Dejiao along with shantang (charitable halls) or benevolent societies, which honour the Song Dynasty monk Song Dafeng as patron deity, were introduced by Teochew business people to Southeast Asia, and to this day they are identified closely with the Teochew people although devotees may include Chinese of different speech groups.

CHINESE POPULAR RELIGION AND MIGRATION Religion had always played an important role in early Chinese migration. That women did not follow the men to migrate in the early period was not just due to inconvenience and governmental control but also because of the need of

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them to stay back to take care of their husband’s parents (filial piety) and to perform religious duties (such as ancestor worship) on behalf of their husbands. Would-be migrants would pray to their deities and ancestors for blessing for such an unpredictable and dangerous venture. Some of them would bring along a statue of their patron deity, while junks carrying passengers and goods might have an altar on board, especially that of Tianhou, the goddess of the sea. Tianhou, also called Mazu, was a divine title for a woman who was deified after her death at a young age in the tenth century in Putian, eastern Fujian. The belief in her spread along the coasts of China. After she was elevated as an official sea deity in the Yuan dynasty, the worship of her became even more important (Tan 2013). As an officially sanctioned sea deity, praying to her for blessing was important for both official expeditions and private maritime voyages. Zheng He’s famous expeditions in the fifteenth century, for example, involved seeking the blessing of Tianhou. In Quanzhou, Fujian, there is an epigraphic record which inscribes about praying to Tianhou for blessing before one of his expeditions. Merchants from Fujian and Guangdong were among the earliest Chinese to visit Southeast Asia, the region of early Chinese maritime activities. Their junks would carry an altar for blessing (cf. Stavorinus 1789/1969: 288), notably that of Tianhou. Some of the Chinese migrants of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries carried their individual altars, too. These formed the earliest focus of individual or communal worship in places where the migrants had settled. For example, my research in Tirok in the state of Terengganu in Malaysia found that the statue of Guangze Zunwang, the patron deity of the communal temple there, was originally brought from China by a Koh (Xu in Mandarin) family (Tan 2002: 101). Given the significance of Tianhou as an official sea goddess, it is not surprising that a number of early Chinese temples in the diaspora are Tianhou temples, such as Guangfu Gong in Penang (established in 1799) and Tianfu Gong in Singapore (founded in 1838). The most widely worshipped deities in China then and now are Guanyin (goddess of mercy) and Guandi (also called Guan Gong, popularly known in English as the god of war although nowadays he is mainly worshipped as a god of wealth). It is thus not surprising that Chinese migrants had also reterritorialized them in their places of settlement outside mainland China. This is most evident in Southeast Asia and Taiwan. Indeed everywhere in the world where there are Chinese settlements, temples which honour these two deities feature prominently. For example, the earliest Chinese temple in Mauritius is a Guandi temple called Kwantee Pagoda, which was established in 1842 (Tan 2016: 6). In the association buildings of Sociedad Religiosa Yan Ho and Sociedad Religiosa Beneficial Ku Com Chau in the Chinatown (Bario China) of Panama, there are altars of Guandi (personal observation, August 2014). In Cheng Hoon Teng, Melaka, the earliest temple in Malaysia built in the seventeenth century, the main deity is Guanyin, while Guandi and Tianhou are co-honoured.

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Indeed, the worship of certain deities preceded or coincided with the establishment of the earliest Chinese associations in the diaspora. In other words, a simple building housing an altar of a patron deity honoured by a particular Chinese speech group preceded the founding of an association, or the founding of an association coincided with the installation of an altar. This is so with the temples of Tianhou and the founding of Hainanese associations in Malaysia (Tan 2018). In addition, Dabogong or Earth God is closely associated with the Hokkien and Teochew speech groups in Malaysia and Singapore, and many of their communal temples in different cities are Dabogong temples. The increase in the number of migrants gave rise to a diversity of temples which reflected the deities and speech groups from different regions of China. Religion not only provided psychological support to the early migrants, it also provided the basis for establishing communal organizations. This is especially so with a communal temple, which is regarded as belonging to the whole speech group or all Chinese speech groups in a locality. To this day, Chinese temple fairs in Southeast Asia exhibit communal identity, as well as express hope for peace and prosperity. In places where Chinese migrants settled in smaller numbers and were marginalized, they were under greater pressure to adjust to the socio-cultural and religious expectations of the majority. This was so with the early Chinese migrants to the Americas. As Alison Marshall has shown, the early Chinese migrants to North America very soon became targets of Christian missionaries, and many became nominal Christians as a way of adapting to the dominant Christian society, combining Chinese and Christian beliefs. In Manitoba, where Alison Marshall did her research, the early Chinese migrants kept their altars of Guanyin and Guandi, and quietly observed Qingming, Chongyang and some rites of ancestor worship (Marshall 2011: 148–68). Unlike the Chinese in Southeast Asia, they avoided public display of their Chinese beliefs for fear of being seen as superstitious in the dominant Christian society. In Trinidad, the Hakka continue to observe paishan or praying at graveyard, even though some of them have become nominal Christians. Instead of the usual Chinese custom of visiting the graves during Qingming, which falls around 5 April, the Chinese in Trinidad visit the graves on 1 November, which is the Catholic All Souls’ Day. At the graves they do not offer food sacrifices, only lighted joss sticks (author’s interviews in Trinidad in May 2012). After the Chinese became more established and the society at large more tolerant of other faiths, as is the situation in modern-day United States, the Chinese communities openly display their traditions, especially during the Chinese New Year celebration (cf. Yeh 2008). In fact, many Chinese Americans must have kept some of their religious rites since the early days of migration. Most of them trace their origin to the Cantonese-speaking regions in Guangdong, and they still observe Cantonese funeral rites and symbolism. For example, the

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post-funeral seven-course ‘longevity meal’ (sauh tsaan) is observed (Crowder 2005: 219), as do the people in Hong Kong, where this author first learned of this rite. In Christian-dominant societies, early Chinese migrants had no problem becoming nominal Christians if this helped them to live there. Even in the Philippines under Spanish colonialism, where the Chinese were more numerous than in Peru or other South American countries, many Chinese also claimed to be Catholics so as to enjoy favourable tax benefits and in response to the Spanish Catholicizing policy (Wickberg 1965/2000: 20). The Catholic belief in saints allowed interesting cultural encounters between the Chinese and Catholic faiths. In Cuba, Guandi (also called Guan Gong) is known as San Fancón (i.e. Saint Guan Gong), while Guanyin is associated with Virgin Mary, and the Chinese in Cuba honour both Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre and Guan Gong (Benton 2012). In the Philippines, the statues of Guanyin and Virgin Mary often share the same Chinese altar, and Tianhou is recognized as Virgin Mary (Dy and See 2015). In Malaysia, the Chinese have recreated their local spirit guardians by incorporating Malay spirit guardians with the worship of Chinese earth god, as expressed in their worship of Nadugong. Many also worship Muslim saints as Nadugong (cf. Tan 2018).

CHRISTIANITY AND CHINESE MIGRATION Various writers have written about Chinese encounters with Christianity in their countries of settlement, as we have noted, and there are Chinese migrants who have converted to Christianity (cf. Li and Li 2015). At the same time the church plays the role of assisting migrants in their adaptation into the new society (cf. Guest 2003). By the nineteenth century there were Christian missions in different parts of China and so there were also migrants who were already Christians in China before they migrated. A well-known case is the role of Wong Nai Siong (Huang Naishang), who arranged for 1,118 migrants from Fuzhou in East Fujian to migrate to Sarawak (in East Malaysia today) in three batches in 1901 and 1902 (Tan 2020: 10). Most of them were Methodists, and to this day the church has been playing an important role in their communal activities and cultural identity. This is so also with Fuzhou migrants in Setiawan, Perak, Malaysia. There were also Hakka Christians who migrated to Hong Kong, Malaysia (especially in Sabah) and elsewhere. For example, Basel Missionary Society had carried out missionary work among the Hakka in Guangdong in the nineteenth century, and towards the end of the century, Christian Hakka migrants had migrated to Hong Kong, British Guiana and Sabah (in today’s East Malaysia) (Wong 1998: 19). Teochew migrants who were Baptists also contributed to the development of Christianity among the Chinese in Malaysia, especially in the northern part of West Malaysia. The

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establishment of PRC in 1949 had led to the exodus of Christian preachers and lay Christians to Southeast Asia (Hwang 1992). Remigration of Chinese together with Chinese Christian missionaries, such as from Malaysia to Australia, has contributed to the establishment of Chinese churches in different parts of the world.

CHINESE MUSLIMS AND MIGRATION Early migration of Muslims from China involved mostly caravan traders from Yunnan to Myanmar and Thailand (giving rise to the settlements of ‘Panthay’ people in the former and the ‘Haw’ or ‘Ho’ in the later) and Muslim groups from Xinjiang to Central Asia. In the 1940s political unrest led to some Uyghurs migrating to the Middle East, and with the establishment of the PRC in 1949, more Muslims left mainland China for Hong Kong, Taiwan, Southeast Asia as well as Central Asia and the Middle East (cf. Ma 2004). The Chinese have had a long history of contact with maritime Southeast Asia. Some of the early Chinese settlers were Muslims (cf. Graaf and Pigeaud 1984), and Ma Huan, in his Yingya Shenglan (Description of the Coasts of the Ocean) of the fifteenth century, had reported about the presence of Chinese from Guangdong and Fujian in Majapahit (in today’s Java) and ‘many of them follow the Muslim religion’ (Mills 1970: 93). However, we have very little concrete information of the Hui in early maritime Southeast Asia. In Malaysia, there is a record of the establishment of a Hui community in Terengganu in the early twentieth century from six Hui migrants from Guangzhou, who for convenience, had identified themselves as Yunnanese to the local Malays (Tan 1991). A significant wave of migration from Northwest China in the later part of the nineteenth century gave rise to the unique Chinese Muslim population called Dungan (Donggan in Chinese transcription). Failed rebellions against the Manchu regime between 1862 and 1870 caused many Hui people from Shaanxi and Gansu to flee to Kyrgyzstan. Today the Dungan people are distributed in Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan and Russia. They are Russian-speakers while older ones can still speak the Chinese dialect of Shaanxi and Gansu (cf. Lin Tao 2012; Sadovskaya 2018; Chen 2018). After the opening up of China in 1978, the migration of Muslims from China, especially the Hui and the Uyghur, has become noticeable (cf. Ding 2015; Ma Hailong 2018). In Malaysia, for example, Hui students from China studying at the International Islamic University of Malaysia and other Islamic colleges have led to some of them staying back or returning to do business. Most of them are engaged in restaurant business, and they contribute to the introduction of northwest Chinese cuisine. In 2016, there were around 1,000 Hui people in Malaysia (Ngeow and Ma 2016).

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MIGRATION AND RELIGIOUS TRANSNATIONAL NETWORKS The establishment of temples, based on the derivation of xianghuo, or ‘incense fire’, from an original temple in China, provided the ritual means for the establishment of ritual connection between the region in China and the Chinese in the diaspora. After the Cold War and the opening up of China in 1978, the transnational religious contacts have become easier and more common. This is especially obvious in Southeast Asia and in Taiwan, where there are many Chinese temples. The leaders of a temple or a surname association there regularly organize pilgrimage (jingxiang) trips to the original temple (zumiao) or the lineage temple (temple of a lineage honouring a deified ancestor) in a particular region in China. Likewise committee members of a temple in China may also organize trips to visit similar temples in Southeast Asia. For instance, Fengshan Si (Phoenix Mountain Temple) in Nan’an, Southern Fujian, which honours Guangze Zunwang (The Reverent Lord of Great Compassion), has many similar temples in Malaysia and Singapore which are also named Fengshan Si. There are transnational pilgrimages between many of these temples and the original temple in Nan’an (Tan 2015). Similarly, major Tianhou temples in Taiwan and in the Chinese diaspora regularly organize pilgrimage trips to the Tianhou Temple in Meizhou in Eastern Fujian (Tan 2013). In a more globalized world since the 1980s, many temples in China and in the Chinese diaspora have also established transnational networks through the formation of world federations or the organizing of transnational celebration of a particular deity. An example is the Dabogong Festival organized on a rotational basis among such temples in Malaysia and Singapore. In 1996 the Taoist Mission in Singapore launched Daojiao Jie or Taoist Religion Festival on the fifteenth day of the 2nd Moon to honour Laozi and this has become an international event with Taoist organizations in different countries taking turns to organize it. The opening up of China has seen new waves of migration from different parts of China to all over the world. Unlike the migration in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the new migrants are mostly professionals and business people although there are also many workers and farmers seeking a better livelihood overseas. Internet technology and smart phones and modern transport services have eased contact between the migrants and their relatives in their Chinese homeland. A popular temple in the Chinese homeland may have transnational devotees, that is, its ritual space transcends the local and national boundaries to include migrants in distant countries. Julie Y. Chu’s study of the Fouzhounese in China and in New York City provides interesting insight into the transnational contact between the villagers at home and their migrant relatives. Temples, like the Monkey King Temple, play important roles

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in blessing the risky ‘illegal’ migration and in the connection between them. ‘Gods after all, knew no physical boundaries’, writes Chu (2010: 215), and through the ‘doing of superstitions’ worshippers otherwise ‘stuck’ in Longyan could make claims to the extension of their social world into a transnational sphere. . . . Moreover, through ritual celebrations of overseas successes, they could translate their commitments to a seemingly incredible project of emigration against all odds into a credible project of efficacious, if cosmically contingent and often deferred, ends. This transnational connection through a Chinese temple is also well illustrated in Irene Masdeu Torruella’s study of Qingtian migrants in Spain and their relatives and friends in Qingtian, Zhejiang. The migrants are able to do long-distance divination at Qingzhen Chansi in Qingtian County via phone calls and video conferences (Torruella 2015). This is an important temple in Qingtian for the locals and the migrants: that is, its ritual space is both local and transnational. Christian churches have provided social support to old and new migrants and facilitated integration into their respective national society (Guess 2003; Lausent-Herrera 2015). Many of them also serve as foci of connection between migrants and their relatives at home in China. Chinese missionaries play important roles in developing and reinforcing Chinese churches in the diaspora. There are transnational connections between Chinese churches, and many of these churches identify with the Chinese of different national or regional origins, such as Taiwan or mainland China or Malaysia. Taiwanese missionaries, for instance, play important roles in the establishment of overseas Chinese Protestant churches in Japan and there are transnational connections between Chinese churches worldwide (Mori 2015).

CONCLUSION Religion matters a lot in migration. For Chinese migrants who observe the Chinese popular religion, deities and local temples are of utmost importance in the connection between them and the relatives left behind. While some welleducated professional migrants may not pray to any deity for safe journeys, their loved ones left behind do pray for them. Ordinary workers, small business people and those who seek help via snakeheads (human smugglers), no doubt, do seek the blessings of deities in their process of migration, as Julie Chu has shown in her description of Fuzhounese migrants. Deities and communal temples also played an important role in the establishment of the early Chinese communities in Southeast Asia. To this day

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communal temples have remained the ritual foci of Chinese communities, and temple buildings, which are mostly built in traditional Chinese architecturalstyle project Chinese identity. Certain deities and temples were, and many of them still are, associated with certain Chinese speech groups, although today they may be visited by devotees of diverse speech groups. Even in countries where Chinese migrants were once confined to Chinatowns, we can also find one or more Chinese temples there, whether in New York City, or Yokohama, Japan. New migrants have also brought about the establishment of new temples. The presence of Wong Tai Sin temples in San Francisco and New York City, for example, is, no doubt, related to the increase in migration from Hong Kong since the 1980s. The deity is popularly worshipped in Hong Kong. Chinese migrants carried with them their knowledge of Chinese religious traditions to their places of settlement outside China. Religion was part of their re-establishment of life overseas. Where possible they not only reterritorialize their religious traditions but also re-interpret them in relation to relevant local traditions or incorporate some non-Chinese beliefs into the Chinese system, giving rise to fascinating localization of Chinese beliefs and practices, as we have seen. Where necessary, Chinese migrants adjusted to the local society by actual and nominal conversion to local non-Chinese beliefs, such as becoming Christians. In the West and many places elsewhere, Chinese migrants are targets of missionary activities, and the churches offer migrants various kinds of medical, educational and welfare services and aids to help them integrate into the larger societies. Chinese migrants from mainland China, Hong Kong, Macau and Taiwan as well as re-migrants from other countries establish Chinese churches too, while Chinese missionaries also play a part in doing mission work among the Chinese in the diaspora. Muslim migrants from China are still small in number, but likewise religion plays an important part in their migration, including their choice of destinations (such as preferring Muslim majority countries) and the pattern of settlement thereafter. Malaysia as a moderate Muslim country, for instance, is attractive to the Hui migrants from China, as they can capitalize on their Chinese literacy as well as knowledge of Chinese history and culture to relate to the local Chinese, while the common faith in Islam makes them acceptable to the Malays, who are the majority people. The International Islamic University of Malaysia plays an important role in attracting Muslim students from China and elsewhere, giving rise to the present small Hui population in Malaysia. The Hui migrants attend the local mosques, but they form their own association to promote interaction and cooperation among themselves. In the case of the Dungan people in Central Asia, they have their own mosques in their settlements. Islam gives the Muslim migrants their distinct identity and guides their adjustment to the local societies. Cultural and ethnic differences distinguish different Muslim groups from China in the diaspora, such as the Hui and the Uyghur.

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Overall, religions, whether Chinese popular religion, Buddhism, Christianity or Islam, accompany migrants to cross territorial boundaries and assist them to make homes in the new lands. They are instrumental in local living as well as crossing boundaries and making connection. They link people to their cultural past as well as provide hope for a better and peaceful new life, which migrants, and indeed all people, no doubt, desire.

Chapter 16

Transnational religious networks and the revival of Buddhism in post-Mao China BRIAN J. NICHOLS

This chapter examines the history of migrant outreach by Buddhist clergy in Minnan-speaking immigrant communities in Singapore, Malaysia, and the Philippines that have aided the revival of Buddhism in mainland China.1 Focusing on migrant networks and the flow of capital through Buddhist institutions, it demonstrates the novel ways in which migration has created the conditions for the revitalization of religion in myriad ways at different historical junctures. The projects funded by this network over the course of the twentieth century reveal shifting priorities related to socio-political changes which will be revealed later. Overseas Chinese and monks from Minnan have worked collaboratively to build and maintain religious institutions, a dynamic relationship supported by the Buddhist idea of merit (gongde) and the Chinese ideas of face (mian) and networking (guanxi). Merit, face and guanxi have facilitated migration through the creation of bonds, belonging and motivations that have worked together to change and support religious institutions and traditions in both Southeast Asia and China.

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Generosity (dāna), as the first of the six or ten perfections (pāramitās) in Buddhism, is regularly promoted by monastics as a means for laypersons, in particular, to earn merit. The merit accrued from donating to the Buddhist community and supporting its work is considered limitless. The appeals made in the literature sent to overseas communities were framed within Mahayana Buddhist doctrines of compassion (cibei); the name of the Buddhist charity established in Quanzhou in the 1920s through overseas funding was literally the ‘Compassion for Children School’. Ye Qingyan, 葉青眼, layperson and principal of the school and orphanage, wrote a preface to the first report book of the charity prepared for the trustees. In the preface he encouraged donations by appealing to the Buddhist virtue of compassion. He encouraged donors to ‘abandon the selfish mind of Hinayana and a raise the Mahayana wish to benefit others’ and ease the suffering of abandoned and orphaned children (Ye 1929). While merit is a prominent feature of monastic-lay relations, socio-cultural capital can be understood as a constant concern of Chinese expressed most succinctly as a concern with face. Networks also help us understand enduring patterns of religio-cultural belonging as migrants who have left China and resettled elsewhere use financial offerings to maintain and advance traditions related to their sense of identity and to participate in a moral economy. These traditions and moral economy include the return of ashes of overseas Chinese to their roots in Southern Fujian as expressed by the popular saying, ‘falling leaves return to the roots’ (luoye guigen, 落叶归根). While earlier studies have focused on business networks and native place or clan associations (McKeown 2001), this chapter joins Ashiwa (2000), Ashiwa and Wank (2005) and Jack Chia (2020) in focusing on the role of religious networks, and in particular transnational migrant Buddhist networks. None of these studies have investigated how monks encouraged overseas Chinese to donate. My research expands upon these earlier studies of Buddhist networks as well as Kuah-Pearce’s study of Singapore-Fujian lineage associations (2011) by concentrating on forms of religious lineage and association first identified by Holmes Welch in his pioneering study of institutional Chinese Buddhism (Welch 1967). This research explores the nexus of religion and migration and adds support to the argument that religion is a source of cultural-economic identity formation (Kuah-Pearce 2011) long after migrants have left home nations and settled elsewhere. Since the 1800s financial capital has continued to flow from immigrant communities in Southeast Asia to support the establishment of religious institutions, including Buddhist temples, monasteries, charities and schools. The stability of these financial networks has been enhanced by the Buddhist symbols, beliefs and messaging, which have inspired immigrant donors seeking meaning and connections to home cultures and traditions. Minnan (Hokkein) culture and related culture from Guangdong (Cantonese

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and Teochew) in Singapore, Malaysia and the Philippines (Dy 2012) has played a critical role in the revival of Buddhism in early post-Mao China. Historically the Minnan dialect has been the most common dialect spoken among overseas Chinese in Southeast Asia. It is the dialect of the people of Southern Fujian and is a common dialect in Taiwan. The Minnan people represent rich cultural and religious traditions as well as skill in trade and business. Monks built relationships with their linguistic and cultural kin in these overseas communities in order to support religious institutions back home and build new ones abroad. The networks of overseas Minnan people in Southeast Asia that had funded aspects of the Republican Period (1912–49) revival of Buddhism in China continued to fund the post-Mao restoration of Buddhism in Southern Fujian. Transnational networks and funding were needed because traditional sources of monastic income had been lost due to political upheaval and campaigns targeting religion throughout the Republican and Maoist periods. Fujian monks desperate to revitalize and rebuild their communities took to the sea and opened new sources of patronage by connecting with communities of pious overseas Chinese Buddhists from Fujian. During the earliest stages of religious recovery in post-Mao China (1976 to 1999) the revival of these transnational networks was a crucial factor (e.g. Dean 1993, 1998; Ashiwa 2000; Ashiwa and Wank 2005; Kuah-Pearce 2011; Eng and Lin 2002). Between 1912 and 1949 a transnational Buddhist network emerged to support the funding of monasteries and innovative charitable and educational activities. Although this network and its activities were interrupted during the war with Japan (1937–45) and came to a standstill during the Cultural Revolution (1966 to 1976), it did not die out and was revived soon after the death of Mao in 1976. The continuity between the Republican Period and post-Mao networks offers an opportunity to examine how this transnational network of Minnan immigrants has responded to dramatic shifts from the early twentieth century to the early twenty-first century. By exploring the history of this resilient network we see that it has existed for multiple generations, survived political upheaval, and has continued to modernize and support monastic Buddhism in China and related charities and education both in mainland China and the Chinese diaspora in Southeast Asia (Nanyang, 南洋). Who were the monks who built China’s earliest bi-directional migrant networks linking Southeast Asia with Southern Fujian (Minnan)? The first monk to take to the sea and establish a new temple in Southeast Asia was Miaolian (1824–1907), the abbot of a large and important Buddhist monastery in Fujian named Fuzhou Yongquan Monastery. Miaolian travelled to Penang in Malaysia in 1885 to raise funds to renovate one of the halls of his home monastery. His reputation grew among the migrant community in Penang and on a subsequent trip in 1887 he was asked to take over the local temple; not finding the small temple an adequate example of Mahayana Buddhism for the

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community he set out to build a grand, new Buddhist temple. Completed in 1904 and named Temple of Paradise/Bliss (Jilesi), the new temple had a full array of enshrined figures including Sakyamuni Buddha, Guanyin, Guangong, arhats and guardians; it was then the largest and most impressive Chinese temple in Malaysia and a centre where overseas Chinese could make petitions and offerings to favoured deities (Yu 1997: 17–23).2 Ten years later we find two monks doing the same thing in Singapore: Zhuandao (1872–1943) and Zhuanwu (fl. 1920–40), both natives of Southern Fujian (Minnan) (Yu 1997: 25). Zhuandao had spent seven years at Ningbo’s Tiantong Monastery, where he studied under master Tongzhi with Yuanying (1878–1953) and Huiquan (1874–1942), two important figures in modern Chinese Buddhism who also becomes part of the Minnan Buddhist network (ibid).3 In 1913, Zhuandao was asked to help Xiamen’s Nanputuo Monastery in China raise funds for the building of the Sangha Academy. This led him and Zhuanwu to Singapore, where Zhuandao secured land upon which he established Putuo Temple, where he resided as abbot. Eight years later (1921) he built a second temple in Singapore named Pujue, which Hongchuan (1907– 90), his colleague from Minnan, developed into the largest Chinese monastery in Southeast Asia (Yu 1997: 27; Nanputuo sizhi haiwai jiaoliu 2009). Both establishments provided sites for formal Buddhist practice in Singapore, including the chanting of Buddhist sutras and rituals to aid the departed in halls containing the spirit tablets of ancestors of devotees. Aside from fundraising and building Buddhist institutions in Singapore, Zhuandao also promoted Buddhist teaching, for example, by inviting his colleague Yuanying to teach in Singapore. Yuanying was one of the leading monks of the day. He was well known not only for organizing and leading the Chinese Buddhist Association but also for his active response to modernist threats to Buddhism through making temples more socially responsible by establishing schools, orphanages and charities linked with temples. When Yuanying and Zhuandao met in Singapore they vowed to restore Quanzhou Kaiyuan Monastery in China, the largest and most central monastery in the urban centre of Minnan, and establish a school and orphanage there. The establishment of social charities exhibits compassion in line with Buddhist values, but also skilfully provided legitimacy for monasteries as places providing services for the public good in line with Sun Zhongshan’s (1866–1925) Three Principles of the People, which were then being promoted as critical components for building a new China. The orphanage and school located on the grounds of Quanzhou Kaiyuan Monastery opened three years later in 1925. The effort to make Buddhism more socially relevant during the 1920s was made possible through the financial support of migrant Chinese communities in Southeast Asia. At the same time those immigrant communities were able to gain access to dharma masters who had trained in the best monasteries in China

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and participate in a moral economy that provided them with cultural capital to enhance their social standing within their communities and bring orthodox traditions to overseas communities. In 1928, Zhuandao returned to Singapore with layperson Li Juncheng, where they established the Buddhist Layperson’s Society and the Chinese Buddhist Association of Singapore, which Zhuandao led for two terms. Zhuandao later moved to the island of Penang in Malaysia, where he established the Mysterious Fragrance Grove Dizang Temple.4 Zhuandao, Yuanying and their colleagues created local and overseas boards of trustees to motivate and galvanize support from Southern Fujianese in Singapore, Malaysia and Burma (Ye 1929: 2). While Zhuandao was developing fundraising associations in Shanghai and Ningbo (mujuan weiyuanhui, 募捐委員會), he was also naming and cultivating relations with honorary trustees (mingyu dongshi, 名譽董事) throughout the network. The appeal to support orphaned children out of compassion appears to have been helpful in securing donations. Guidelines were drawn up to honour donors according to the amounts donated suggesting a corresponding amount of merit. The ‘report book’ for the ‘Orphanage and School’ (ca.1929) detailed a scheme of rewards based on one’s donation from ¥10,000 to ¥1 with several grades specified. A sample of the recognition offered is provided as follows.5 Those who donated ¥10,000 or more were to receive:

1. A long-life tablet placed in the central shrine of Kaiyuan’s gongde tang (hall of merit).



2. The amount donated will be memorialized by being inscribed on a copper plate.



3. An enlarged full-length photo will be placed in the li tang (ceremonial hall).



4. A full-length photo and bio will be published in every report book (baogaoshu).

Those who donated ¥1,000 or more were to receive:

1. A choice between having a long-life tablet placed on the right side of the gongde tang or an enlarged photo from the waist up placed in the ceremonial hall.



2. One’s photo will be published in the report book for that year.

Apart from the installation of a long-life tablet in the hall of merit, the other rewards are all methods of receiving public recognition for one’s donation. Those who donate ¥1 or more were to have their names published in the newspaper. Others were recognized by having their names, photos and bios published in reports produced by the charity and those donating ¥10,000 or more were to have their names and amounts inscribed on copper plates. Thus, in addition

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to whatever merit one might earn from their generosity, one’s donation brings honour to one’s family and enhances one’s social capital. Donors are able to acquire public recognition of their munificence, which serves as a form of social distinction, or socio-cultural capital.6 Temples were built in other parts of Singapore by the monk Ruideng and his disciple Guangqia (1900–94).7 In 1924, Longshan Temple8 became another important node in the Buddhist network and many important Chinese monks passed through and held posts at this temple.9 These monks and others established temples and monasteries in Singapore and Malaysia, where overseas Chinese migrants could practice their religion and feel a sense of connection to home traditions. But as this chapter shows, these overseas temples, monasteries and congregations became important overseas financial networks that would eventually be called upon to rebuild Buddhism in China during the Republican and Communist eras. War with Japan beginning in 1937 was an important impetus for additional Minnan Buddhist overseas networking in Singapore (Chia 2020: 13–14). The war temporarily disrupted the activities of Kaiyuan’s orphanage and monastery (Wu Zexu 1979: 4–5). Zhuandao and Yuanying established relationships with male lay Buddhist Fujian expatriates in Singapore and Malaysia and encouraged them to dig deep in their pockets and support the activities of the Kaiyuan orphanage and school back in China. Overseas dollars from Singapore and Malaysia also went to fund the planting of a rubber tree plantation that could generate income to help with the operating costs of the orphanage, school and houses in the Quanzhou area (ibid. 4). After the conclusion of war with Japan, we see developments in the Buddhist network that linked China with the Philippines. Civilian travel to Southeast Asia resumed and in 1948 headmaster of the school and orphanage Gong Nianping travelled to the Philippines, where he formally established additional fundraising contacts that continue to be important today.10 These connections were preceded and facilitated by the Minnan community in Manila that had established Xinyuan Temple (Seng Guan) with the help of the Minnan monk Xingyuan (1889–1962) in 1936 (Yu 1997: 168; Ashiwa and Wank 2005: 227).11 Xingyuan spent the last three decades of his life between the Philippines, Singapore and Minnan supporting Buddhist initiatives and helping establish traditional forms of monastic Buddhism in immigrant communities inclined to syncretic forms of practice (Ruo 2020). He is recognized as the founder of Buddhism in the Philippines because he was an ordained monk who could transmit the traditions of monastic Buddhism such as sutra chanting and death rituals (Dy 2012). A unique feature of Buddhism in the Philippines is the syncretic identification of Guanyin, the bodhisattva of compassion, with the Catholic Virgin Mary; ethnographic research has found local people at Buddhist temples interpreted Guanyin as the ‘Chinese Virgin Mary’ (Dy and See 2015: 126–7).

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Venerable Xingyuan served as Xinyuan’s abbot from 1936 to 1948 and then focused his efforts on establishing Huazang Temple (Hwa Chong) in Malabon, north of Manila, to serve the needs of the community there (Dy 2012). At this time he invited Ruijin (1905–2005), of Jinjiang county of Fujian, who had studied at the Minnan Buddhist Academy, to succeed him as abbot of Xinyuan Temple. Huazang Temple was completed in 1953, and Miaojue (1918–90), another Minnan monk, was asked to help manage this new temple. Miaojue travelled from Fujian to the Philippines in 1957 and became the temple’s general manager. Expansions under Miaojue in the 1960s and 1970s made Huazang Temple the largest in the Philippines (Nanputuo sizhi). By the 1950s Miaojue and other monks from Fujian had a firmly established presence overseeing well-appointed Buddhist temple complexes often associated with charitable institutions in the major port towns of Singapore, Malaysia and the Philippines. These temples followed Minnan traditions of enshrining Guanyin, Shakyamuni, Amitabha, the Medicine Buddha with a special hall for Dizang Bodhisattva to oversee the spirit tablets of the departed family members of the community. Guanyin and Dizang bodhisattvas form a pair in Chinese Buddhism, Guanyin overseeing the long-life tablets of the living and Dizang overlooking spirit tablets of the departed. Amitabha is important as the central object of devotion in the Pure Land tradition, which enjoys widespread popularity in Minnan and Chinese Buddhism more broadly. Death rituals have remained important throughout the Minnan temple network. Traditions of making both simple and elaborate paper offerings to honour the dead were established among overseas Chinese communities in Southeast Asia and would later serve as resources for reviving such traditions in post-Mao China.

THE NETWORK UNDER AND AFTER MAO As China became less hospitable to religion under Mao more monks from Southern Fujian emigrated to Southeast Asia and Taiwan. Among these monks were two monks from Quanzhou Kaiyuan named Guangjing 廣淨 and Guangyi 廣義, who first fled to Hong Kong and then to Singapore; these monks would be among the first to return to China to help restore Buddhist traditions after Mao.12 During the Cultural Revolution (1966–76) when all religious sites were formally closed, a small coterie of ten ‘laicized’ monks, one nun and a lay Buddhist secretly continued to follow a monastic lifestyle at China’s Quanzhou Kaiyuan Temple.13 The Buddhist community at that time was sustained by funds donated by lay Buddhists in Singapore intended to serve as ‘ten thousand years of food to support the way’(wannian daoliang, 万年道粮).14 After Mao died in 1976, monks and lay Buddhists from Southern Fujian turned to the network of Southeast Asian monks and overseas Chinese that had been developing for almost a century to support the restoration of Buddhism

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in contemporary China. Once Deng Xiaoping eased travel restrictions monks were able to able to travel from Fujian to Southeast Asia and make their case for financial assistance to rebuild the temples that had been destroyed during the Cultural Revolution. Guang’an (1924–96) was among the first of those monks who followed his dharma brothers and the trail of money to Southeast Asia. A closer look at his post-Mao career will serve as an example of the activities of several other monastics at this time and their role in re-establishing the transnational Buddhist network. In 1979, Guang’an formed an association to help revive Nan’an Xuefeng temple, where he and many other monks had first become novices. He organized this effort with the help of Zhao Puchu, president of the Buddhist Association of China, and monks stationed in the Philippines and Singapore including Ruijin, Guangchun, Guangfan, Hongchuan, Guangqia, Guangyi, Guangjing, Miaodeng and Qinghui. Hongchuan, Guangchun and Qinghui were all associated with Singapore’s Putuo Temple; Guangjing and Guangqia were disciples of Zhuanfeng, former abbot of Xiamen Nanputuo and Quanzhou Kaiyuan.15 These monks, having escaped persecution during the Maoist period through immigration, were thereby able to maintain their identities and traditions as Buddhist monks, which they were able to bring back to China to help restore ritual and devotional traditions after the death of Mao. These monks also joined forces to restore the buildings and grounds of Quanzhou Kaiyuan Monastery in 1989, work which was officially completed in 1993. Restoration work had begun from 1983 to 1984 with the re-gilding (tiejin) of Kaiyuan’s major statues using 2.5 kg of gold at a cost of ¥160,000, ¥32,000 of which reportedly came from Singapore.16 In the early 1980s Guang’an travelled to the Philippines, where he collected more than ¥5,000 to be used towards Quanzhou Kaiyuan’s recovery expenses. In 1986, Guanqia and Guangjing invited Guang’an to Singapore and he became general manager of Longshan Temple. By 1987 he had established sufficient connections among the overseas community that he was able to begin to send sums of money back to Southern Fujian to help establish the Quanzhou Women’s Buddhist Academy and support the Minnan Buddhist Academy and the Buddhist Academy of China in Beijing, seminaries where he had studied in his youth before being labelled a rightist (youpai) in the 1950s. In 1989 he began to undertake the building of a temple named Xuefeng in Xiamen in honour of both his teacher Zhuanfeng and his home temple, Xuefeng. In 1993 he returned from Singapore to Quanzhou Kaiyuan, which had been fully restored. Singapore’s Putuo Temple funded work on the main hall, ordination hall, Hongyi museum and sutra hall, while Singapore’s Longshan Temple helped fund the restoration of the Main Gate.17 I was informed that Singapore’s Pujue Temple (founded by Zhuandao) also contributed towards the restoration with a donation of 5,500,000 RMB.18 This work, made possible by the Minnan

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transnational network, was completed in time for a visit by President Jiang Zemin on 24 June 1994. Throughout the 1990s temples and monasteries throughout Fujian, Zhejiang, Jiangsu and other parts of China were restored, many aided by the generosity of donors in Southeast Asia and Taiwan. The pace of recovery, however, was arguably faster throughout Fujian and Guangdong, which were aided in the earliest stages of recovery by their links to overseas Chinese communities and the Minnan network. According to my research, the most energetic rebuilders of temples in Southern Fujian have been the monks Hongchuan and Guangjing. Hongchuan oversaw the restoration of Xiamen Nanputuo, Zhangzhou Nanshan, Quanzhou Chengtian and many other important temples. Guanjing was the former general manager of Quanzhou Kaiyuan, who, having become a respected monk in Singapore, returned to Quanzhou with funds from Singapore to restore Kaiyuan and dozens of other temples. He is credited with helping to rebuild forty-eight to forty-nine temples, the largest project being Nan’an Xuefeng. The system of merit incentives, networks and skilful use of the Chinese doctrine of face that saw overseas Chinese migrants fund the restoration of more than 500 temples was largely curtailed in the late 1990s. Monks at large monasteries like Quanzhou Kaiyuan and Nanputuo simply had no compelling reason to go abroad in search of funds with so much wealth being generated within their community. And as the older generations of overseas monks who had held important roles in the network nodes have died, the network of relationships and kinship ties have weakened, though they have not broken. Overseas Chinese living in Malaysia, Singapore and the Philippines still return to visit temples in Minnan to attend ceremonies, sponsor rituals or, simply, offer incense to Buddhas and bodhisattvas (Kuah-Pearce 2011). They also return home to inter of the ashes of overseas Chinese at special temple-based mausoleums; as they say in Chinese, ‘falling leaves return to the roots’.19 The Minnan Transnational Buddhist Network has been instrumental in funding two periods of Buddhist revival in China over the course of the twentieth century: one after 1912 and the other after 1976. The dynamic exchange between Buddhist temples in Southeast China and immigrant communities in Southeast Asia has served to both preserve traditions and articulate modernist innovations. Both Yoshiko and Wank (2005) and Jack Chia (2020) have studied these networks as Buddhist networks, focusing on Xiamen and Nanputuo, and each has highlighted different aspects. Yoshiko and Wank (2005, 2006) emphasize the global nature of Buddhist networks stemming from Fujian, Guangdong and other parts of China and branching out to Southeast Asia and North America, though their research is mostly concerned with the post-Mao revival of religion at Xiamen Nanputuo Temple. Chia (2020) also focuses on Nanputuo as a central nexus in the transnational network of Chinese Buddhists

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and how it contributed to the spread of modern reforms among Buddhists in Southeast Asia. The transfer of money across the network has been a constant feature of its purpose. In return for financial support, aside from the obvious feelings of goodwill and Buddhist merit (gongde), or connections to Chinese kith and kin relations, overseas Chinese received access to monastic leaders who were considered authentic carriers of the Buddhist teaching who helped organize and establish important institutions and charities within their communities serving practical, educational and devotional needs. Monks also served to bring heterodox groups like the vegetarian halls (zhai tang) into line with orthodox Buddhist traditions, eventually converting them, for better or worse, into Buddhist temples (Ruo 2020). Overseas migrants within temple networks funded the restoration and rebuilding of monasteries, the founding of new temples, the establishment and maintenance of charitable institutions (such as schools, orphanages and refugee camps during the Sino-Japanese War), disaster relief and, lastly, assistance to the war of resistance against Japan (Chia 2020).20 The best way to understand how monks and their charities were able to elicit financing for their projects from the overseas network is the logic of the Buddhist concept of merit within the Chinese cultural context which includes an abiding concern with face (mian). The creation and survival of the network can also be understood through various overlapping forms of personal relations (guanxi) established among and between the monks and their congregants, which created strong kin-like bonds able to survive for generations. Chinese immigrants in Southeast Asia did not divide along lines of class, but rather according to linguistic group or pang; and since the Southern Fujianese dialect Hokkien has always been the most common dialect among speakers of Chinese in Singapore it has been the linguistic group with the most economic and political power (Yong and Carreira 2013: 10; 129–32). Monks from counties in Southern Fujian were able to establish strong and trusting ties with Buddhist and Buddhist-leaning Chinese throughout Southeast Asia who shared the same culturo-linguistic heritage. The locations with the largest populations of overseas Chinese became the locations with the strongest presence of Southern Fujianese monks, namely, the major ports in Singapore, Malaysia and the Philippines. These monks spoke the same Minnan or Hokkien dialect as the immigrants and helped them connect with their ancestral homeland and maintain a Chinese identity (Dy 2012). Intimately related to dialect is regionalism; the monks most instrumental in the development of the network described here were from the same province of Fujian and most of them from the same region of the province as well, namely Nan’an and Jinjiang counties of Southern Fujian. Buddhist forms of kinship such as having the same tonsure master and residing in the same monastery have played an important role in building this network and establishing connective tissues that have held it together for over a century.

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Many monastic leaders in this network were dharma brothers sharing the same generational name, the most prominent name of the early-twentieth-century network was Zhuan 轉 shared by Zhuandao, Zhuanwu, Zhuanfeng. As Welch (1967) pointed out there are various informal means of building associations between monks (tonsure master, monastery, region/dialect, generational name), and the monks involved in this network have multiple affiliations that fostered deeper ties of kinship that facilitated the kind of cooperation and loyalty required to undertake ambitious projects like establishing charities and the post-Mao rebuilding. Interestingly, these networks grew in vital ways during two episodes of socio-political disruption or chaos. The two periods for mass immigration of monks to Southeast Asia occurred during periods of unrest; first during the Sino-Japanese War, secondly during the Cultural Revolution (Ee 1961). A factor coinciding with social and political unrest is widespread economic decline. It has been a loss of income to support monastic life and charitable projects that have been the key impetus for the development of the networks examined in this chapter. It has also been the case that as Fujian became increasingly prosperous under policies of reform and opening, older monks began to pass away along with the desperate need for funding from overseas sources. Now the nature of exchange is largely individuals or families who visit their ancestral villages, shrines and temples and offer support, if needed, to rural areas (Kuah-Pearce 2011; Tan 2015). The two periods of Buddhist revival in the early and late twentieth century witnessed the activation of the Southern Fujian transnational Buddhist network to fund the establishment of charitable and educational ventures and the rebuilding and restoration of Buddhist monasteries. Communities in China received financial support to pursue modern initiatives and preserve traditions, while overseas communities received access to respected representatives of the tradition who brought energy to build temples and associations in immigrant communities which advanced modern understandings of the tradition (Chia 2020) and served to introduce more orthodox forms of practice into immigrant communities. These networks built around clergy with overlapping forms of religious, regional and dialect kinship span more than 100 years from the end of the nineteenth century to the early twenty-first. The institutions established or managed by these monks in immigrant communities throughout Southeast Asia remain living nodes of the network. The network and exchanges along it have been at their most vital when monastic and lay leaders evoke moral visions that inspire others to participate. Migration led to more economic opportunity and this in turn led to the ability to fund institutional forms of religion and charity as outlined in this chapter. A key change in Chinese Buddhism affected by migration was the creation of new modern bureaucratic structures in the form of boards of trustees to oversee fundraising for a Buddhist charity as detailed

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earlier. These new forms, in turn, helped to advance the development of modern charities. Another change emerging from within migrant communities was syncretic traditions such as identifying Guanyin with the Virgin Mary in the Philippines.21 Migration has been a key to the survival and vitality of Chinese Buddhism in the twentieth century. Traditions of elaborate paper offerings to offer the dead, for example, had been preserved within overseas Chinese communities and were able to recover quickly in post-Mao Southern Fujian through the restoration of the Minnan Buddhist network. This transnational network demonstrates a longstanding system that facilitates not only religious revival and but also migrant belonging based on shared forms of fictive kinship and moral vision.

Chapter 17

Islam, internal migration and queer travels in Indonesia DIEGO GARCÍA RODRÍGUEZ

INTRODUCTION This chapter is based on ethnographic fieldwork with Muslim waria (transfeminine individuals) migrants in Yogyakarta, Indonesia, conducted in 2018 and 2019 for a period of around ten months. Focusing specifically on the case of Wendy,1 the chapter explores how internal migration comes to function as both a facilitator and an impediment for the reconciliation of religious, gendered and sexualized selves. I explore the ontological impact of migration on Muslim waria who find spaces of expression moving to ‘the city’ from their small towns. Additionally, I analyse the significance of mudik, ‘going back home’, for religious celebrations or rituals when they perform heteronormative embodied practices based on leaving behind the waria self through modifications of physical appearance, ways of speaking and religious rituals. This chapter suggests that queer migration not only allows the emergence of new ways of experiencing religion, gender and sexuality but can also shape religious and queer agential subjects. The queerness of gender transition evolves endlessly, back and forth with every visit to the locations where these actors originate from. Considering how Muslim waria migrants modify their

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material selves in function of the position they occupy (be it the migrant or the returnee), this chapter critiques the dominant ‘Western’ conflation of agency and resistance following Mahmood’s work when she writes that norms are not only consolidated/subverted but ‘performed, inhabited, and experienced in a variety of ways’ (2005: 22). Following this approach, Muslim waria migrants are perceived as possessors of modalities of agency emerging from within structures of subordination through strategically ‘dequeering’ themselves during mudik. The contribution of this chapter is both empirical and theoretical. Empirically, it provides a critical account of the lived realities of Muslim waria migrants in Indonesia, which have never been examined in literature. Theoretically, I engage with queer theory and theories of agency inspired by the work of Mahmood (2005), Abu-Lughod (1990) and Puar (2007) to challenge the dominant ‘Western’ assumption that all queer Muslims are oppressed subjects in need of saving. This is done through the exploration of queer migrant modalities of agency emerging from within structures of both submission and resistance. In conclusion, this chapter will advance a critical queer lens on the study of migration and religion by revealing the interconnections between migrant, religious and queer powers. The waria migrant and religious practices are fraught with hetero and queer normative models that constitute the waria as subjects who both undo and redo migration, religion and gender.

SITUATING THE CHAPTER: QUEER MIGRATION AND MUDIK Despite explorations of class, gender and race issues in migration studies, the significant role of intersectional queer religious forces has often been disregarded. While the field of queer migration has advanced significantly since the 1990s (Manalansan 2006; Mai and King 2009) focusing mostly on ‘Western’ countries such as Australia, the United States, Canada and the United Kingdom (Peumans 2014), little research has been done on queer religious migration in the Global South. When exploring the experiences of queer migrants in the Global South literature has often perpetuated their construction as subjects devoid of agency. As Luibhéid explains (2008: 173), the study of queer migration has explored the emergence of ‘multiple, hybrid sexual cultures, identities, identifications, practices, and politics’. Queer migration has been defined in several ways by different authors. For example, Mirhady states that ‘queer migration is the movement of individuals within countries or across borders who do not fit into the dominant category of heterosexual migrants’ (2011: 55). Yue describes queer migration as being characterized ‘by leaving a heteronormative childhood

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and a homophobic family home’ (2008: 253), a simplistic approach that equates the ‘queer’ character of the migration process with a pre-existing negative experience of homophobic discrimination. For Waitt, queer migration is ‘often neatly conceptualised through a symbolic rural/urban binary and conflated with rural-to-urban displacement’ (2014). However, as this chapter will show, the experiences of Wendy, and of other waria I met during my fieldwork, illustrate that rural-to-rural displacement is a common experience for many queer people in Indonesia. Whatever queer migration might refer to, what is clear, as GormanMurray states, is that independently of how the concept is defined, sexual and gender identities will remain undefined in practice ‘since self‐discovery and personal identity‐formation is ongoing and fluid, never complete and fixed’ (Gorman‐Murray 2007: 106). A question that should be raised is how explorations of queer migration have been linked to discussions on religious migration. The answer is clear: little has been done to reflect on the assemblages between queer and religious migration and attempts to conceptualize queer religious migration are inexistent. While some scholars have explored the experiences of queer migrants of Muslim backgrounds, the focus has been on sexuality and gender to question the mainstreaming of certain sexual minority identities (Peumans 2018). Despite increasing academic interest in the field of religion and queerness (Scherer 2017; Hunt and Yip 2016; Taylor and Snowdon 2014; Schippert 2005), research has tended to stress the conflictual relationship between being queer and Muslim, which has often been explored in terms of their ‘ungrammaticality’ with each other (Boellstorff 2005: 575a). For reasons extending from homonormative (Stryker 2008; Puar 2007; Duggan 2003; Warner 1999) secular missions to the repudiation of religion in queer scholarship, the queer religious agential subject has been underestimated in scholarly debates. Against the portrayal of Islam as inimical to the queer subject, in this chapter I challenge such representations by considering the everyday religion of queer Muslims I met in Indonesia. Processes of queer Muslim subjectivity formation are not fixed but instead evolve throughout one’s life. This is demonstrated by the experiences of my research participants, who approached and negotiated their gender, sexuality and religion in fluid and diverse ways across different times. This might not only be the case of Indonesian queer Muslims but also of other religious queers in other locations, too. After the brief introduction to the study of queer migration, I want to focus now on the concept of mudik to clarify what it means. In Indonesia, mudik refers to the process of returning home from (usually) the city where migrants have moved to. Its most common usage refers to the mass mobilization of people returning from urban centres in Java to other islands across the Indonesian archipelago during the Eid season. Local Indonesian scholars have explained that the term ‘mudik’ finds its origins in the Javanese language expression mulih dhisik translated as ‘go home first’ (Iriany et al. 2019: 132). Mudik is not only about returning home

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for religious celebrations but also a process through which migrants bring goods, presents and cash to their family members to materially illustrate and prove their success in their migration journey. For sexual minorities, who may experience difficulties in being accepted by their family members and neighbours in their hometowns, mudik arises as an opportunity to gain acceptance by using the power that their improved financial status has brought to them.

BEGINNINGS As noted before, throughout this chapter I will be focusing on the life of Wendy. She is a self-defined HIV+ Muslim waria, a compound of the words ‘wanita’ (woman) and ‘pria’ (man) roughly translated as transgender woman. At the time of meeting her, she was fifty-two years old and had spent around thirty years in Yogyakarta after moving from a small town in the mountains of West Java. She works as a sex worker and street singer (pengamen), a common activity among unemployed waria who make a living as buskers. We first met through a charity activist working on LGBTIQ+ rights, who introduced me to her to conduct an interview in the small kampung (village) where she lived in the Yogyakarta area. At the end of the interview, she invited me to join her on a trip to her village, where she was planning to join her family to hold a ritual for her mother, who had passed away months ago. After discussing it with my activist friend, we both decided to accompany her for a couple of weeks later on a trip that would take around fifteen hours, involving taking multiple buses and minivans, to stay at her family home for two days. When we first met, Wendy explained that she had lived for a long period of her childhood and teenage years at a pondok pesantren (Islamic boarding school). While living and studying at this institution, she started to realize that she did not identify with the boys with whom she shared a room, and noticed that she was different. As she explained to me, ‘back then I was not sexually interested in the boys, but I was attracted to them, and I felt like I was like a woman’. When I asked how she identified today, she explained that she was a waria, which she described as ‘having the jiwa (soul) of a woman but being born in the body of a man’. While she did not feel comfortable growing up within the pondok pesantren setting, she recounted how she felt supported by the ustad (Islamic teacher) when she was mocked by other students because of her feminine manners. It was then that she started to reflect on the importance to perform different versions of her subjectivity depending on the places and spaces she occupied engaging in processes of subjectivity migration. This took her to repress her desire to express herself physically as a woman, as she explained to me, until she left her region years later. It was also around that time that Wendy’s family noticed that she was different to her siblings when she returned home from the boarding school.

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As she explained to me, ‘my parents realised I was a waria, and called a dukun (Islamic ritual practitioner believed to have supernatural powers) to come and see me’. This visit involved a number of prayers and rituals intended to bring Wendy ‘back to normal’. However, she continued expressing herself in the same way, and her parents invited two other dukun to find a solution. As Wendy described, ‘the third dukun came and told my parents that I couldn’t be treated; he told them that it wasn’t only me who was like that, but that there were still many like me, he told them that I would eventually leave the house and go out of my hometown to find my identity’. The dukun’s words resonate with the common rural-urban binary existing within queer migration discussions and emerged as a solution for Wendy to be what she wanted to be. While her family started to come to terms with her gender identity, Wendy engaged in an increasing number of religious activities that seemed to act as a tool to find strength and guidance in her everyday life. Her five daily prayers, which she saw before as a burdensome obligation when she was living at the Islamic boarding school, became then a choice to surrender and express submission to Allah. Discourses mobilized through what Bacchetta (2002) calls ‘transnational queerdom’ (including ‘Western’ queer scholarship, and LGBTIQ+ liberationist NGOs) have produced ‘homosecular’ frameworks establishing universal ways of being queer through the rejection of faith. The experiences of Wendy and many other waria Muslims I met in Indonesia reveal that religion, gender and sexuality can not only coexist but also lead to agentic processes based on strict submission to religious norms. This stricter religious behaviour took place while Wendy’s family continued to learn more about her waria subjectivity, and she started to dress in clothes that are traditionally linked with a female gender expression such as skirts and dresses. As she explained, ‘In the end, from the age of 15 I gradually started wearing women’s clothes, even though I already felt like that many years before.’ Drawing upon Mahmood’s work, Wendy’s example points to the existence of multiple modalities of agency beyond dominant subversive types (e.g. agency = resistance), which can be instead based on one’s strict adherence to religious duties such as prayers and fasting. Therefore, common portrayals of queers as ‘victims of their own religion’ do not match the experiences of my interlocutors, who often described their ‘freedom’ as consequential to their surrender and obedience to Allah and religious obligations. Prayers were understood by individuals like Wendy as sources of calmness, gratitude and guidance in daily life, pointing to the emergence of feelings of ‘freedom’ through one’s complete capitulation to religious norms. This challenges an imaginary of liberation common in liberal political theory by which individuals are only ‘free’ on the condition of acting autonomously (Mahmood 2005: 148). Complementing the significance of ritual prayers, fasting (puasa) emerged as a source of both internal and communal agentic power. The act of fasting is linked to one’s surrender to Allah, leading to the capacity to develop one’s emotional control, train oneself in Islamic virtues

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(such as patience, social justice and human dignity) and cultivate empathy and solidarity, which is in line with the experiences of non-queer Muslim subjects too. Wendy’s first thoughts about leaving her hometown started to emerge following variations in her gender expression. Migration emerged as a potential solution to the lack of acceptance that she experienced from neighbours and community members. Reflecting on what can be conceptualized as a personal process of hijrah, she was ready to start her migratory journey, both physically (leaving behind her small village to move to the city of Yogyakarta) and mentally (moving between subjectivities and subject positions) to finally, as she described it, ‘be able to be myself without being judged’. The term ‘hijrah’ has been defined as the ‘forced migration of Prophet Muhammad from Mecca to Medina in 622 as a result of persecutions’ (Ergin and De Wit 2019). Escaping attacks from individuals who denied his prophethood, the Prophet Muhammad saw himself migrating to Medina, where he was warmly welcomed together with his followers, known as the muhajirs. The hijrah, which represents the start of the Muslim era, shares a symbolic parallelism with Wendy’s migratory experience. For her, that was the start of a new ‘era’, a time when she started to feel comfortable presenting herself as a public waria, and embracing her religion more openly. Her migration was not only encouraged by the search for freedom resulting from her transgressive gender identity, but it was also a religious process of migration that both her individual piety and her new friendship group in Yogyakarta allowed to take place. It was, ultimately, a queer religious migratory process. Similar to the journey that the Prophet Muhammad and his followers began hundreds of years ago, Wendy’s displacement can be approached as a sacred journey, a process throughout she was always watched and protected by Allah. Exploring religious migration, Anderson (2016) has identified three distinct reasons for the process to begin. First, he speaks about missionary reasons. With this, he is reflecting on the power of religious doctrine to mobilize people to turn religious values into social actions. Secondly, he explains that an additional cause of religious migration is ‘the search for a context conducive to religious practice’ (2016: 391). Lastly, the third context identified has to do with processes of migration emerging because of religious membership competition. An example would be a group of individuals moving to a place where ‘there are fewer ideological neighbours’ from a location where the congregation is losing members. In relation to these definitions, Wendy’s journey may be placed within the second conceptualization, considering her search for a context where she could feel free to continue practising her religion. A key moment in Wendy’s journey of queer religious migration relates to her introduction to a pesantren waria, an Islamic boarding school for transgender women that is located in the city of Yogyakarta. After meeting some of its members, Wendy decided to join as a santri (student in a pesantren). For some

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of the migrant Muslim waria I met, it is not comfortable to pray at the mosque in front of people who could notice them as waria, and this had led them to search for alternative spaces where they can pray communally with other waria. In this milieu, the emergence of the pesantren waria has served as a source of community belonging and comfort. Ela, a waria from Central Java born in 1967 who is Wendy’s friend, explained, At the pesantren I have a space where I can learn more about religion, where I can get to know more about God in a comfortable space. I can pray together with my friends and discuss religious topics with the ustad (Islamic teacher) and the teaching team who can accept (menerima) me the way I and my waria friends are. In light of the different approximations to religious migration, and my brief exploration of queer migration in the previous section, a question that emerges is that of how to define ‘queer religious migration’. Existing literature has not yet explored the concept despite the significance that it has for many queer religious individuals across the globe. Taking the case of Wendy, and that of other interlocutors I met during my fieldwork in Indonesia, I understand queer religious migration as a fluid concept, which can be approached as the movement of religious individuals who self-identify within the gender and sexual minority spectrum, employing normative mainstreamed terms (e.g. transgender, gay, lesbian) or otherwise (e.g. waria, hijra, kathoey), from one location to another (which may or may not be more accepting of one’s non-normative gender and sexuality), searching for places and spaces where they can find better professional opportunities and where they can continue practising their religion, faith and spirituality without obstacles for the continuous engagement of the queer with the religious subjectivity. It is a complex phenomenon, which is never fully defined, never completed, never fulfilled, always fluid and rarely fixed, since the queer experience never reaches an end point, and the spiritual journey is shaped queerly too, as a fluid connection between the human soul and the blurred divine force.

RETURNING HOME Sitting on the sofa inside her house in Yogyakarta, Lily and I have a chat with the sound of the river in the background: D: What does mudik mean for you? L: For me, mudik means returning home to meet my family. Every time I go home, I’m happy at the beginning. I’m happy to celebrate the end of

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Ramadan and meet my relatives, but the problem arises when they see my physical change, changes in my body, my face, or anything else, right? This is from relatives, from neighbours, or old friends. They will ask why I have changed. It’s hard work to answer that. Lily is a 42-year-old Muslim waria from Sumatra, who lives in Yogyakarta. Her experience is no different from that of Wendy. Both face similar questions when returning home, as a result of their queer religious migratory experience that brought both to the city of Yogyakarta. Additionally, the consequence that the opinions of their keluarga besar (extended family) might have on their parents and siblings is often a source of concern for queer Muslims. Considering that one’s Muslimness is passed down through the family unlike one’s gay or waria subject position (Boellstorff 2005: 67), the importance given to religion in the familial sphere is not surprising. For most queer Muslims in Indonesia, the family made by one’s parents and siblings (but especially mother and father) is central to their personal world: most of the decisions taken pass through reflecting on what their consequences would be for their parents. During my fieldwork, I heard on several occasions how ‘coming out’ or taking a wrong decision could worsen the health situation of a sick father or a mother recovering from surgery. Protecting one’s parents and responding to their tanggung jawab was perceived as an obligation for most of my interlocutors. The concept of tanggung jawab represents children’s responsibilities towards their parents, a notion that evolves throughout one’s life: one’s tanggung jawab is not the same before and after getting married or having a child. The concept can be translated as ‘responsible’ when written as tanggung jawab, as well as ‘account for something’ or ‘be responsible for something’ when written as mempertanggungjawabkannya. In its second form, ‘accounting for something’ is related to providing explanations or reasons for one’s actions, processes which my interlocutors often undertook with their family members: why they had not married yet, why they looked in a certain way or why they had not yet prayed on a specific day. To my knowledge, existing literature on gender and sexuality in Indonesia has not devoted much attention to this concept that I often heard during interviews and everyday interactions with queer Muslims. The only reference I have found has been in Boellstorff ’s work when he explains that the performance of a ‘tomboi style’ is, for tombois, often based on being responsible (which he translates as tanggung jawab) towards their femme partners (Boellstorff 2005: 164). This concept finds resonance with Islamic ethics as a moral value of responsibility. Some of my interlocutors referred to tanggung jawab in relation to the sanctions of Islam and felt encouraged to be responsible for their parents through fear of God. For some, tanggung jawab was perceived as a source of stress, especially in the case of those who had been rejected by their family members for being queer and had reconciled with them later in life. The

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migratory experience reinforces this sense of responsibility. Leaving the family home adds an extra layer of pressure to prove the success that new migratory life brings to the migrant, proving such fortune by bringing cash, food and expensive presents (e.g. home appliances) to the family when visiting them temporarily. In what follows, I introduce the reader to a brief trip I took with Wendy to visit her family in her hometown. It’s around 6.00 pm and my Indonesian friend and I are waiting for Wendy at Giwangan Bus Station in South Yogyakarta. When she arrives, I can see that she is wearing skinny jeans, a zipped jacket and a gender-neutral wig. Her gender expression is different from the last time I saw her, when she had a more feminine look. However, she continues speaking using the same tone, more highpitched than a normative ‘masculine’ voice, and her facial features maintain the appearance that she started to build by using silicone injections in her nose, chin and cheekbones beginning her process of facial feminization years ago. After paying the cost of the ticket, we find ourselves finally sitting on a bus heading towards Wendy’s village. A group of young men wearing peci and reading the Qur’an were staring at us, and I wonder whether this is because of Wendy’s facial features, or because of the surprise of witnessing a foreigner speaking Bahasa Indonesia with a waria and a young girl. At some point, we all fall asleep and after around seven hours we arrived in the capital city of the region where Wendy comes from. It is around 2.30 in the morning and we must wait for two extra hours to take a second bus all the way to her small town. It is 6.30 am when we finally arrive and wait for Wendy’s niece to come and pick us up. She takes us to the house where Wendy’s sister lives with her son and daughter. The house has a living room where there is a TV with big new speakers, two small bedrooms, a kitchen, a well from which they get the water and a separate basic bathroom in a different building that they share with the neighbour. They have a room that we can use to sleep on the floor, where we fall asleep as soon as we arrived since we have not been able to rest all night due to the bumpy roads. When we wake up, I can see that Wendy has taken off her wig and is sitting in the living room wearing a dress. As soon as we see her, the first thing she says is that she is feeling stressed in the desa (village). She smokes one cigarette after another, which is much more than she does in Yogyakarta, because, as she says, she cannot stop thinking about the judgement of the local people, and her problems with the family because of inheritance issues. She is also desperate to find alcohol to drink because she says drinking helps her relax. This is an issue that I was not expecting, since she mentioned that she would never drink alcohol due to religious issues when I interviewed her prior to the trip. We leave the house and walk around the local market, where people look at her with confusion and surprise. After buying some fruits and vegetables from the market, we visit a local café where we have juice. Wendy looks nervous and avoids talking to us but instead focuses on checking her phone and sends messages to people.

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When we go back to her sister’s home later on the day, she drinks a full gallon of the alcoholic liquor she has bought after mixing it with water. My friend, who has joined me on the trip, and I ask her how she is feeling. As she states: I am stressed because it is difficult for me to come home. As you have seen, people look at me, they observe me as if I were something weird. Also, I have nothing to do here, I have no friends whom I can hang out with. I cannot even relax around my family, there is so much pressure from them. They ask me to pay for everything they need, they ask for money, for food, I feel like I have to provide them with everything they need so they can accept me. Wendy’s family does not know that she makes money doing sex work and begging as a street singer on the streets of Yogyakarta. They believe that she has a successful job and feel entitled to ask for anything they need. Prior to this trip, Wendy had paid for her niece’s wedding, bought a motorbike for his nephew and sent increasing amounts of money to relatives. Some of this money was not hers, since she had to borrow from friends and was now in debt. This process is not detached from her experience of migration: it is part of the tanggung jawab, the concept I explored before, that leaving the family home creates for the migrant. This is also not unique to the lives of queer individuals, but it is also common for heterosexual and cisgender Indonesians to follow similar paths in supporting the family and bringing back whatever they are asked for when they visit their families. Between Yogyakarta and her hometown, Wendy says that she feels much better in Yogyakarta because she has more freedom to be herself. She can pray freely and engage in religious rituals at a safe space, the pesantren waria I introduced before, while at home she modifies her physical appearance to show herself as a ‘good Muslim’ person aiming to reduce as much as possible her feminine traits while highlighting her pious behaviour. While hanging out at her sister’s house, her phone keeps ringing intermittently, four to five times in a row, in which constitutes a permanent reminder of her migratory experience. The faces of the men she sleeps with in Yogyakarta come on the screen of her phone, which she shows us with a sad half-smile. Her sister’s place, and the town where she spent her childhood and teenage years, is not home anymore: D: What is home for you, Wendy? W: For me, home is a place where I can sleep and relax. It is where I feel good. Home isn’t here anymore. It is complicated to discuss the concept of ‘home’ in Bahasa Indonesia, where an emotional dimension might be lost in the definition since the most similar

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term existing in the local language is that of rumah (house). However, Wendy’s answer seems to be aligned to that concept. When I discuss home as a safe haven, and ask again, she replies that ‘home is in Yogyakarta, because in Basyarian2 [her kampung] I can socialise and chat with the other waria. Basyarian is a place where we are accepted, which is not always the case in other locations in Yogyakarta’. She continues, ‘being here does not bring me any special feelings, I feel asing (foreign) here, but I still feel that I can be part of the group to socialise with my sister and our neighbour because I am also a Muslim, and a woman, so we can pray together’. For Wendy, and for other waria I met in Indonesia, religion acted as a social glue to overcome potential differences emerging from their nonnormative gender identity. A mutual identification as Muslim subjects acted as a technology of unification that momentarily erased the symbolic displacement that the migratory and gender status had placed on Wendy. Additionally, the queer religious migratory experience that took Wendy to Yogyakarta, where she met a group of waria with whom she started to pray and engage in religious discussions years ago, was now, returning to her hometown, impacted by the difficulties of practising her faith openly because of the fear of being judged as a potential sinner due to her transness. Engaging in religious rituals had been a catalyst for integration upon arrival in Yogyakarta years ago, and a similar process was taking place now. From experiencing rejection while growing up from those who equated being a waria with sinfulness, the opposite situation was now occurring: religious engagement was now part of the pre- and postmigration experience arising as a fluid spiritual and social engagement that fluctuates across times and spaces. The day after we arrived in Wendy’s hometown, at around 4.00 pm, Wendy’s family holds an Islamic ritual to commemorate that a hundred days have passed since her mother passed away. Javanese Muslims usually hold a remembrance ceremony on this day. There are around fifteen people at her sister’s house, where the mother died, most of them women with only three men attending, who are the ustad and Wendy’s two nephews. Wendy is now wearing long skinny jeans, a blue polo from an HIV/AIDS organization and a black head wrap. She is sitting by herself in the middle of the room, in front of her sister. Her nephews and the ustad also sit in the room and they all hold a little book with prayers in Arabic and Indonesian that they read out loud. The ceremony lasts around twenty minutes. When it finishes, Wendy, her sister, her two nephews and her niece walk together to the cemetery which is located around ten to fifteen minutes away from the house in the middle of the forest, where her mum and her son-in-law are buried. Her sister takes some flower petals from a plastic bag that she spreads on top of the graveyard, together with some sacred water that has previously been blessed by the ustad. After the ritual is done, we have dinner in the house and go to sleep. As Wendy tells me, engaging

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in this religious ritual brings her closer to her family and neighbours, even if this means ‘migrating’ from her waria subjectivity to embrace a normative gender expression. Before visiting her hometown, I interviewed Wendy and she noted how her family had permanently asked her for money. Being a migrant was for her relatives a sign of success, even if they had not shown interest in understanding what her real profession was. For waria migrants, the opportunity to support their family members was part of a complex scheme in which success, responsibility and acceptance intersect. As Wendy described, being accepted as a waria Muslim came in exchange for the support that she provided to relatives in the form of money and other resources. This support was simultaneously perceived as evidence of a process of prestasi, an Indonesian term which can be translated as ‘good deeds’, ‘success’, ‘achievements’ and ‘accomplishments’ emerging from the contributions of Indonesian citizens to society. Prestasi is often employed in relation to educational success but can also be used to describe professional achievements. It is ‘a keyword in the everyday discourse of young people, and of schools’ referring to both ‘achieve and to perform, and to gain some form of public recognition’ for that success (Prabawa-Sear 2018: 285). While the definitions I received from my interlocutors were ‘achievement’ or ‘success’, Boellstorff (2005: 35) has also translated it as ‘good deeds’. The notion of prestasi is often a source of pressure for sexual minorities, and migrants in general, who see themselves in situations where the expected support from family members do not often meet the actual resources they can share with them. Since arriving in Wendy’s house, I witnessed how her family members asked continuously for cash. For example, her youngest niece asked her for 5,000 rupiah to buy an ice cream, and I also saw her giving money to her sister in several occasions. When we wake up in the morning, after the ritual described earlier, Wendy’s sister, Salah, is sitting outside the house looking at the sky. I take this as an opportunity to understand how their relationship works, and what the figure of the queer migrant means for her. Salah tells me that she accepts her sister, but that this was not the case before she migrated: When Wendy was younger, we tried very hard to ‘heal’ her. My mum and I took her to several dukun until one of them said that even if we had a lot of money, we would not be able to change her. This dukun said that God created Wendy as a waria, that it is part of her kodrat (a term that refers to someone’s intrinsic self). People used to call her banci (sissy), and sometimes my mum would start crying because she was very affected by that. To understand Salah’s comprehension of her sister’s wariahood better, I ask her to define a waria. As she replies, ‘a waria is three quarters of a woman and one quarter of a man’. After this, she explains that she sees Wendy as a sister, and

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that they are very close. To explain this relationship, she states, ‘we are always in touch on the phone, and I am happy when Wendy comes, she bought us a motorbike, I feel so overwhelmed by happiness when she visits. . . . She sends me money every month, she helps me a lot, she also paid for my husband’s funeral expenses’. For her, affection and material support intersect in complex and sometimes contradictory ways. These transactions take place while Wendy struggles to make a living in Yogyakarta as an HIV+ sex worker and street singer in order to satisfy her family’s demands. When asked about the significance of Islam in their relationships and her sister’s visits for religious celebrations such as Idulfitri, her sister answers with clear enthusiasm. As she explains, most of her visits take place to celebrate the end of Ramadan, when they cook and eat together, but sometimes Wendy also visits in other occasions. As she explains: Wendy usually comes for Idulfitri, and we celebrate together, but other times she has come before Ramadan finished, and we would fast and pray together. For her, religion is very important because it makes her happy, and I think that it is a religious blessing that she can eat and sell things to survive, which makes her feel very grateful to God. Focusing on the reaction of the people in the village to Wendy’s visits, her sister says that ‘no one here ever speaks about the fact that she is a waria; this is her takdir (destiny, fate or predestination), this was given to her by God. We have to accept that, even if sometimes I still feel pity for her’. Salah’s understanding of her sister’s subjectivity was in line with Wendy’s statements, when she told me that ‘being a waria is takdir’. Challenging the increasing radicalism of postNew Order Islamic discourses, some of the waria Muslims I met illustrate the potential of queer piety for the building of agentic capacity at the intersection between migration, gender, sexuality and religion. For the most part, these waria identified the origin of their wariahood in their jiwa waria (waria soul or spirit). Considering this, one can suggest the emergence of agentic systems emerge from the waria’s ‘spirit’ or ‘soul’ leading to the possibility of thinking through spiritual agency as an immaterial power and capacity for action that shapes the material self.

CONCLUSION In this chapter I have reflected on queer religious migration focusing specifically on Wendy’s journey. Wendy, a 52-year-old self-defined HIV+ Muslim waria, serves as an example of the lives of many of the dozens of Indonesian Muslim waria that I met during my time in Java. As she has done, many others left their cities and islands of origin to start a new life far from their relatives engaging

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in complex and fluid processes of migration. These processes not only are limited to the physicality of their movement (leaving a town to move to another location) but also relate to a migration taking place between subjectivities (e.g. Muslim, waria) when moving to a new place and, also, when returning home to visit those family members who remain living in the location of origin. Although through this chapter I have not intended to offer a final and absolute definition to the concept of queer religious migration, how it takes place and where to find it, I have tried to provide the reader with tools to reflect on the intersections between religious and queer migration beyond traditional representations of these fields as mutually incompatible. While in the past I have aimed to reconcile faith and queerness by putting the focus on queer religious geographies (Rodriguez 2020) and the agentic power of waria Muslims (Rodriguez 2019), the focus of this chapter has been on the pre- and post-migration journeys of waria Muslims in Indonesia. This has allowed me to approach queer religious migration as a fluid process involving the movement of queer religious migrants who seek out both professional (to make a living) and spiritual (to cultivate their piety) opportunities presenting Wendy’s journey as an incomplete trajectory, never fully formed, where her external gender expression and internal spirituality and gender subjectivity constantly migrate between several notions of the self.

Chapter 18

Come from away but here to stay Religion and migration in contemporary discourse PAUL BRAMADAT

INTRODUCTION Although migration is a constant force in human life, in the last decade it has arguably become one of the main fixations of many pundits, politicians and activists within the liberal democratic orbit. The Syrian conflict produced massive numbers of forced migrants now spread throughout the world. The tumult in Syria and elsewhere in the region created what was routinely called a ‘refugee crisis’ in Europe, a framing that aggravated nativist movements in many parts of Europe and beyond. Meanwhile, civil society actors around the world scrambled to care for those who survived refugee camps and horrendous trips across the Mediterranean. Consider, also, the so-called migrant caravans from Latin America that the then president Trump used to foment panic among his supporters, and that remain a dilemma for President Biden. The former US president warned ominously that these migrants were not only dangerous and diseased, but they hid among their numbers murderous Islamic militants looking for a back-door into the United States. As well, one should note the devastating impact on students and extended families from Trump’s ‘travel ban’ imposed on predominately Muslim societies. Finally, consider the impact on various forms of migration created by the departure of the United Kingdom

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from the European Union. All of these dark events were either over or relatively muted by the time the world was rocked by a global pandemic early in 2020. Covid-19 radically altered the way all of us – not only ordinary citizens but also refugees, temporary workers, immigrants and even tourists – think about movement. This book draws together many of the most politically vexing as well as most intellectually interesting features of migration. In particular, the chapters examine the complex ways religion is or is imagined to be involved in many aspects of migration: not only the so-called push-and-pull factors but also the forces that facilitate or exacerbate integration. Thomas Tweed’s now wellknown definition of religion as ‘confluences of organic-cultural flows that intensify joy and confront suffering by drawing on human and supernatural forces to make homes and cross boundaries’ (2006: 54; cf. Marshall’s chapter in this volume) reminds us that religion is ‘good to think with’ when it comes to understanding migration. Concomitantly, one could also say that migration is good to think with when it comes to understanding religion. In this chapter, I tease out and engage the key findings and intellectual patterns evident throughout the book. Although space and the limits of my own expertise mean I do not take up the key claims of all chapters equally, I believe it is the case that the themes I address reflect the main contributions of the volume. Since all of the main intellectual and political dynamics with which migration scholars and practitioners grapple also appear in these pages, this chapter may also be read on its own as an account – or at least my impressions – of the key concerns in the field.1

BEYOND THE PARALLEL SOCIETY DEBATE The ‘immigrant-receiving societies’ that feature most prominently in public and academic discourse about migration – the United States, the United Kingdom, Canada, Australia and also Germany, France, Spain, the Netherlands, Belgium, Italy and the Scandinavian countries – have on the one hand historically, if sometimes begrudgingly, accepted newcomers (as Peter Beyer notes). Nonetheless, on the other hand, each society has created rather more homogenous political narratives of historical continuity and shared identities that galvanize the many peoples of these societies into something like a common national identity. Notwithstanding claims to the contrary, most of these societies have been built through undulating patterns of migration over centuries, from adjacent and far-flung regions. Although this fact should make us suspicious of claims to homogeneity from any of these nations or nation states, they nonetheless story themselves as though they are inheritors of a specific, coherent, enduring European political and cultural lineage. This is so whether these countries are held together rather loosely (as federations with

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more than one official language and several distinct nations) or rather tightly (with a single language and minimal regional or provincial autonomy). Of course, historians and political scientists are right to draw our attention to the path dependencies at work in each society; the historically predictable approaches to gender, race, healthcare, reconciliation, commerce, food and so forth do indeed demonstrate the ways in which, for example, Italy is much different not just than Australia but even than neighbouring Switzerland. In his chapter, Peter Beyer underlines the tremendous political diversity evident under even the European umbrella, with neighbouring societies often charting very different courses. Think, for example, of the differences between the ways the French state frames citizenship (with its indifference to religious identity) as opposed to Germany’s ‘corporatist membership’ approach. This is not the place to delve into these differences except to say that one should anticipate, as Beyer observes, that the status of religion (especially minority forms) ‘was almost always contested in accordance with the underlying logic of one state, one nation, and (more often than not) one religion’. It is almost a truism to say that the supposed homogeneity of any one of these individual societies, not to mention clusters of societies – qua Europe and North America for example – as a whole, is always a product and project of the imagination, unfolding over many centuries of historical and political struggle. Here, as Beyer suggests, it is worth noting simply that there are, arguably, more features linking these societies – common legal orders, taxation regimes, daily rituals, travel and economic infrastructure, architectural styles, historical plagues and pandemics, linguistic heritage, democratic norms, technologies and popular culture patterns – than separating them. It is also the case that certain innovations and decisions now have the de facto imprimatur of almost all countries on this list: the rule of law, gender egalitarianism, the expansion of human rights, the liberalization of sexual norms, the division of powers, the equality of all citizens before the law, the right to protect one’s borders and the provision of public healthcare. Of course, there are exceptions to the general system at work – the US approach to healthcare and gun control, and the Swiss citizenship regime, for example – but in general one can see a suite of practices, policies and values linking these societies (cf. Jung and Stetter 2017). It is against this backdrop that one can most profitably read the anxieties that seem to be inspired by the arrival in any of these Western societies of large numbers of people ‘from away’, to borrow a rather charming phrase from the east coast of Canada. Of course, the differences supposedly embodied by these categorical others are often as much of a political fantasy as is the sameness attributed to members of a nation state. The internal diversity of newcomers as a cohort – with diversity existing even within the same segment of a cohort – should not need to be articulated either by members of these

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communities or by migration scholars, but of course it does. Indeed, while it is common for scholars of migration to focus on the trials and tribulations generated when people move from one nation state to another, in fact, there are invisible borders that also matter within a single national society. For example, in Diego García Rodríguez’s chapter, we meet transfeminine individuals, or waria, whose experiences of identity and also otherness change as they move between regions within Indonesia. Similar intra-national but quite real borders would face people moving between rural and urban spaces in Canada, the UK or France, especially if the person in question was thought to embody a transgressive (political, religious or gender) identity. With that as a preamble, it is important to acknowledge a tacit feature of this book’s chapters, which is that there is a concern – or so the story goes – that large numbers of newcomers from societies outside of the liberal democratic tradition threaten the values, laws and policies of the receiving society. As we see in Alyshea Cummins’ chapter on Ismaili Muslims in Canada, in particular, the very religious newcomer, the Muslim newcomer and, most challengingly, the very religious Muslim newcomer is often storied as the largest threat, since – again, this is a story, but a popular one – such newcomers may make demands on the society that may alter some of its key values. Alyshea Cummins’ research provides a window into Ismaili history, thought and religious culture in Canada and the practical ways that Ismaili migrants and religious leaders have worked with politicians, other Muslims and the general public to refashion Canadian understandings of Muslim identity. A biracial Ismaili insider herself, Cummins’ work reflects on the multiple identities of Muslim society and the additional challenges faced by migrants who are not part of the dominant group of migrants in the country in which they now live. The fact that through media and political messaging Muslims are on the one hand made to represent a particular kind of problem and on the other hand they can be the recipients of unpredictable expressions of kindness is clear in Helena de Morais Manfrinato Othman’s discussion of Palestinian refugees in Brazil. Nonetheless, the perceived threat represented by migrants – especially Muslims – is common, and the underlying anxiety of the dominant society originates not just in racism or nativism but in a concern about the risks of openness. It is true – indeed, it is probably inevitable – that social changes in the host society will occur; after all, it is a feature of most contemporary liberal states to have laws, policies or informal traditions that enable institutions to accommodate the particular practices and priorities of minority communities. In Canada we speak of the principles, case law and public policies associated with ‘reasonable accommodation’, but other societies manage the inevitability of change in other ways. Over time, these mechanisms have allowed, for example, disabled citizens to have stronger employment protections and better access to public spaces. Also, some religious residents have made use of these

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accommodation opportunities: as such, we see kosher and vegetarian dishes on airlines and in schools, religious headgear integrated into some uniforms (such as the Royal Canadian Mounted Police), alternative holiday provisions and the right to avoid military service for religious reasons. When I co-edited International Migration and the Governance of Religious Diversity (2009) with German sociologist Mathias Koenig, we asked established scholars from around the world to write chapters on the ways religion appears in public debates around migration, citizenship and diversity. Without being asked, virtually everyone focused on Muslim newcomers. It was as though there was an unspoken assumption that when people in liberal democracies worry about ‘religion’, usually they do not have Lutheranism or Buddhism in mind. The focus in most of the chapters on Islamic migrants was fascinating, but of course understandable, given that we were then living in the aftershock of the attacks of September 11, 2001. Still, this was a reminder of how the problematization of a particular religious tradition becomes naturalized. I imagine that if Koenig and I were to gather a new group of scholars together today, with the same non-specific instructions, most of the chapters would still focus on controversies associated with Muslim integration in the West. On a general level, even though the ongoing migration flows into liberal democracies have not – as Beyer observes in his chapter – led to fundamental changes in the immigrant-receiving societies, there continue to be strong prejudices in these societies about whether Muslim approaches to the individual, the state and the rightful place of religion in the trajectories of both are somehow inimical to the patterns that have emerged from Europe’s distinctive postReformation and post-Westphalian trajectories that were, intractably bound to the project of European colonialism. On a more specific level, however, the concern was, and still is, that Muslims might well ask a school to segregate classes by gender, stop teaching students and others about sexual health or sexual diversity, regulate the availability of pornography, constrain the rights of Jewish citizens, curtail the pork industry and legalize polygamy. Without question, the most vivid fantasy is that accommodating religious minorities would drastically degrade the legal and political norms; the nightmare scenario normally imagined was the formal imposition of so-called Shariah law2 in Muslim minority communities or on non-Muslim societies (though no Muslim group ever proposed anything even approaching the latter). Even if readers are like me and consider these fears to be specious, or even paranoid, in the interest of an honest public discussion, it is worthwhile to note that relatively new communities have pursued some existing and legitimate avenues for altering their new home societies. Just to use Canada as an example, in the province of Ontario we saw heated debates (2002–5) when a Muslim group announced it would use the existing Arbitration Act

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to negotiate Shariah-compliant family law resolutions (since Jews and Roman Catholics had been doing something similar for some time).3 As well, in 2018, Ontario also rolled back its liberal sexual education curriculum (to a previous, less progressive 1998 version) when ethno-religious minorities (many of whom were newcomers) joined forces with established (mostly) white evangelical Protestants to protest the more progressive approach.4 So, it is not entirely unreasonable for members of the dominant society to wonder if or when an individual or collective would step forward to challenge features of a society’s established (liberal) order. Generally, the existing data demonstrate that liberal democracies are robust enough to use these challenges to expand their definition of citizenship and to ensure that their society is responsive to new realities on the ground. That is, these public debates allow societies to reimagine themselves in creative ways that arguably strengthen their core liberal sensibilities. Advocates of the ancien regime may respond poorly, or clumsily, to claims from newcomers, and sometimes change will be rejected. Moreover, claims-makers may need to articulate their concerns frequently before there is even a partial compromise. Nonetheless, this is all part of the democratic process, as we see with the ways anti-prohibition, feminist, civil rights and capital punishment reform movements made headway in most societies. These moments of cultural negotiation or (actual or putative) crisis have the potential to be positive as long as one is committed to what we might call agonistic co-vivencia combining Tully (2004) and Milot (2009) and take a long view of the timeline involved in any struggle. Apart from how a given matter might be resolved, there is real benefit in the way these discussions bring to the surface many often virulently racist features of our societies that some well-mannered residents would rather pretend did not exist. The conversations are often painful, and hurtful, as we saw in Canada with the Bouchard-Taylor hearings in 2007, but there is arguably benefit to facing these deeply held prejudices. Many of us with an interest in migration and multiculturalism find it hard to resist the urge to pillory instances of xenophobic nativism among our political elite, whether from the alt-right, right or (almost better) political centre. In Canada, the so-called Hérouxville controversy in Québec supplied many of us with grist for our mills. After all, and especially in retrospect, it is hard not to laugh at the small Québec town’s proposed 2007 official charter that sought to make it clear that pork would be served at public events, Halloween would be celebrated by children and the residents would not tolerate wife-stoning.5 And then there is the more recent rather quixotic effort of the charismatic Maxime Bernier, whose upstart party’s national campaign was based squarely on then globally popular anti-immigrant rhetoric and did not attract enough votes to capture a single seat in the 2019 federal election.6 Even though there is value in subjecting the most flagrant instances of Islamophobia and other feverish

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anxieties to critique, these controversies may well be the ‘low hanging fruit’ of this field of study. In fact, a more interesting claim to interrogate would be the widespread concern that, as Petra Kuppinger notes in this volume, ‘European Muslims and their communities are frequently accused of living in isolation from mainstream society and withdrawing into their own group’. This concern is articulated in what is sometimes called the ‘parallel lives’ debate. According to those wringing their hands over the potential demise of ‘social cohesion’ and ‘national identity’, how can newcomers living parallel lives enrich the public good, and how can they make the most of the new society in which they have settled? These are legitimate concerns, obviously. After all, receiving societies invest a great deal in the future economic productivity and cultural integration of newcomers; moreover, the values and laws that have been developed in these societies over centuries (e.g. gender equality, LGBTQ rights, environmental protection policies, anti-discrimination) are worth protecting and not to be taken for granted. If people arrive and then immediately and permanently retreat into parallel societies, it is not outlandish to worry that such de facto ghettos might inhibit integration, which might in turn lead to poverty, radicalization and dependence on the welfare state. The good news is that – as many of this book’s chapters demonstrate – very few newcomers do, or want to, remain limited to whatever enclave they might enter upon arrival (Saunders 2012).7 Of course, the kinds of adaptations that Muslims communities make in order to find some workable way to be in a new society, often in the face of religious as well as racial prejudice, do generate tensions within individuals and the community as a whole. Cummins’ work shines a light on the significance of Ismaili Muslim congregation houses that help make space for a new and different kind of Muslim in Canada. As well, the data engaged in this book is consistent with previous work (see also Bramadat 2005) in arguing that the Chinatowns, Little Italies, ethno-cultural festivals and other such liminal spaces function as important points of initial integration and long-term sites of bi-directional cultural exchange. It surely strikes some readers as counter-intuitive to imagine ‘ethnic’ churches, temples, clan societies and mosques as sites of integration. After all, in these sites, services are delivered in a language other than that of the dominant society, and ties to some other place are actively cultivated; even in their architecture, these buildings appear to be designed to convey a sense of difference. As Michał Adam Palacz observes in his chapter, Polish Catholicism in Scotland enables alienated newcomers to feel connected to ‘the homeland of their memories and dreams’. Similarly, in her contribution to the project, Sabrina Weiß notes the ways Korean churches in Germany create a sense of solidarity that enhances the resilience of the members of the group. Will people remain involved in these religious communities for very long after arriving in a new society? Studies of religion and migration often focus on

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the pioneers of a migrant group but seldom consider those children who are brought along on the migrant journey (such as Rubina Ramji) or who are raised entirely in Canada. This is the subject of Rubina Ramji’s chapter on Buddhist, Hindu and Muslim youth in Canada. What Ramji shows is that 1.5- and secondgeneration migrants have religious identities that do not necessarily reflect the regional cultures from which their families migrated. A Buddhist secondgeneration youth is not different from another Buddhist second-generation youth just because one comes from Vietnam and another comes from Hong Kong. This reminds us that identities are intersectional. Gender and relationships and learning with and from grandmothers, fathers, mothers and friends shape their different Buddhist and religious identities in Canada. Ramji also shows that often Muslim women think of Islam as a private practice, whereas for men it is a communal one, and these different interpretations are conveyed to the second-generation youth. Whether anyone beyond the first-generation remains religious is a concern of relatively settled religious minority community members, as Sabrina Weiß contends when noting that Korean Christian ‘elders leveled the criticism that the church only functions as a “pass-through station” for the newcomers’. It would be worthwhile to imagine the different institutional trajectories of Korean Christian communities in Germany and in the Canadian context Michael Wilkinson engages in his contribution. After all, German and Canadian host societies are quite different, especially in the ways each state frames and supports religious diversity (growing out of the kind of path dependencies and national styles Beyer underlines). To what extent should we expect these different national situations to impact how individuals understand their relationship to these communities? That remains unclear, but these two chapters provide ample grounds for speculation. In their chapter, Mariia Alekseevskaia and Philippe Couton observe that ‘ethno-religious schools play a powerful role in ethno-cultural retention, but that role is generally short lived’. Marcin Lisak’s contribution to the volume confirms a similar ‘tendency of the evaporation of religiosity’ in the Polish migrant community he studies. In sum, over time, the social and religious habits of newcomers come to resemble those of their neighbours in the majority population (cf. Beyer and Ramji 2013). In most cases this results in, or is a reflection of, secularization at the individual level; and these changes also participate in broader shifts in most Western societies towards what Alekseevskaia and Couton describe as ‘creeping secularization’ at the societal level. Although this is not the place to engage these debates in detail, the shifting meanings of religion in the lives of newcomers to liberal democratic societies ought to be understood in terms of the shifting meanings of religion in the broader societies in question. Sometimes, of course, the arrival and establishment of non-Christian (or non-Western Christian) religious organizations and sites may appear to result in the return of religion to the public arena. After all,

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these organizations and sites do not just serve as fortresses but also as bridges. Petra Kuppinger observes that far from fomenting anomie and disengagement, German Muslim associations, ‘while obviously catering to Muslim constituencies, frequently also serve as spaces for exchange and experimental fields. . . . [They are] spaces where the pious meet, develop their communities, and seed and cultivate their local roots’. On the one hand, in some sense these findings support the general downward trajectory of institutional religion in immigrant-receiving Western societies. However, on the other hand, the volume also includes complicated data that suggests that it is precisely in what Harvey Cox famously called (1965) the ‘secular city’ that one sees the clearest signs of emergent forms of spirituality and religion. The latter observation seems to be confirmed by several chapters in this book, as well as by other recent studies (Bramadat et al. 2021) that have shown the vitality and creativity of (relative) newcomer forms of religion and spirituality in urban settings that are ordinarily storied as more and more exclusively secular. Sometimes one needs to adjust one’s lens or vantage point in order to understand that one is not in the middle of a zero-sum game of what we might think of as classic secularization according to which (to put it very crudely) more modernization results in less religion. Rather, the data emerging from complex urban sites suggest that the very meaning of the secular, the religious, the political and the spiritual are all subject to constant negotiation. The meanings of these terms are not and never have been, in other words, selfevident; they are deployed to justify different personal and political projects. This is not evidence of the politicization of previously stable and apolitical concepts; instead, religion, spirituality, the secular and the state have always been political in every sense of that term. These chapters provide interesting illustrations of the many ways that religious communities survive under the conditions of migration, and sometimes thrive in new regions, countries and cities in which we would generally expect both systemic and individual forms of secularization to be unfolding. This is not to say that the migrations detailed in this book necessarily lead to increased levels of religiosity – however one might measure that – in the host society, or even that under the pressures of migration religion serves as a kind of lifejacket. We can arguably see examples of each process in this book, just as we see examples of newcomers sometimes adopting the religious sensibilities of the dominant society. The larger point is that the outcomes of migration for religious migrants are often unpredictable, and the scholar’s posture – in my view – ought to be curiosity about how to understand the phenomena she or he encounters, rather than a determination to make his or her data fit a particular (and often pre-conceived) theoretical or ideological paradigm. This is probably the right place to note that many of us who have been attracted to this field

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have particular convictions regarding both the general trajectory of religion within contemporary societies and the nature (virtues, challenges, etc.) of the religions and the states that interest us. There is nothing at all surprising about this. The diversity of the paths traced in this book – for individuals, religious ideas, rituals, objects and political agendas – suggests the benefits of a slow and judicious approach to the people, movements, texts and material culture involved. As much as I appreciate, and generally share, some of the political predilections of colleagues who engage in what some would call ‘advocacy scholarship’ (in the sense that their research prioritizes the protection of a group or tradition they perceive to be under threat), it seems to me that the best scholarship is produced when people do not encounter a complex problem – such as the refugee crisis at the US-Mexico border, or the challenges facing Europe in response to the Syrian crisis – with too many inflexible certainties about either the religions, the individuals or the states involved. One of the most valuable lessons emerging both from this book and much recent research and activism is that unless the dominant culture harasses or selectively restrains (often racialized) newcomers, very few will remain trapped in the ‘parallel lives’ that so worry politicians. As Alison Marshall points out in her contribution, in the absence of discriminatory policies or patterns of cultural hegemony, Filipino religiosity – which is productively conflated with ethnicity and culture – serves to bolster the community as well as creates ties with the broader society. In cities such as Winnipeg, with its large Filipino community, groups such as the Knights of Rizal and the practices associated with Santo Niño help to cushion the shock of a new society, thus allowing newcomers to approach their new locations with more curiosity and optimism. In fact, a great deal of scholarship on migration is also an effort to correct unjust migration and citizenship regimes, and to broaden our notions of citizenship such that more people might have a path to citizenship, to use a familiar North American phrasing. For example, Alekseevskaia and Couton observe that ‘continuous latent discrimination and persistent stereotypes against Muslim immigrants, as well as a lack of inclusive curriculum in public schools, serve as strong reasons for some Muslim parents to favour Islamic schools’. How could one blame such parents? This volume is consistent with the general multicultural normative orientation of the literature on religion and migration (cf. Brown 2019). Moreover, we sometimes forget that these patterns of exclusion and asymmetry do not just impact those who arrived after the late 1960s when many liberal democracies reformed (and deracialized) their policies; these are longstanding patterns. Here I note the value of Tan Chee-Beng’s observation that ‘the early Chinese migrants to North America [around the beginning of the twentieth century] very soon became targets of Christian missionaries, and many became nominal Christians as a way of adapting to the dominant Christian society’.

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As I mentioned earlier, my own interest and expertise relate to migration flows to (and to a lesser degree, within) Western societies: where people come from, why they come, what kind of resistance or welcome they receive, why the receiving society frames the religions individuals as it were ‘bring with’ them as they cross borders; and the political and economic factors that impact the ways their religious and ethnic traditions are redefined by the newcomers themselves. Following some of the general principles sketched by Peter Beyer in this book, it is worthwhile to note that these dynamics are differently configured in Asian settings. Colleagues such as Alison Marshall have helped me to understand the particularities of migration – and especially the religious dimension thereof – to and within Asia. The Asian and Western settings are not categorically different, but the established powers with which newcomers have had to engage are different. In the Western context, the combined legacies of Christianity and the Enlightenment produced an emphasis on a certain kind of individualism, a certain understanding of the legitimate and limited powers of the state, and a discourse of freedom and rights that had a strong impact on the ways these societies frame citizenship and respond to outsiders. In China, however, newcomers who arrived in the imperial era needed to adapt to the power of Confucian norms and practices, whereas those who arrived in the modern period encountered a society in which state atheism generated the established political reality into which all citizens – migrants and members of the dominant ethno-cultural community – had to integrate. The pressures exerted by the dominant society – in both imperial and modern periods – were arguably far more definitive than they were for newcomers to Western societies that were less successful at and perhaps less inclined towards imposing a single perspective. For example, in the Chinese context, Buddhism was once problematized and then eventually – for reasons that are beyond the scope of this chapter to engage – adapted itself to the Chinese context. Islam, however, remains a minority religion. The ways minority communities succeed in Chinese society by fitting in likely explains why Chinese migrants to Western societies are generally eager to adapt to their new surroundings, even when these societies have created tremendous barriers through explicitly anti-Asian policies. The Chinese newcomers to the West persisted in the face of great obstacles perhaps because the practical benefits of this adaptation have been clear throughout Chinese history. This is not to suggest that Chinese migrants to the West, or those who move back and forth between the West and China, permanently or easily shed their religious identities or practices or were not vexed by the flagrant racism they encountered. Nonetheless, it is in the Asian migration stories discussed by Nichols, Tan, Marshall and García Rodríguez’s that we see some of the most innovative ways temples, monasteries, rituals and other lifeways can help

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migrants retain connections with their birth societies and religious sensibilities at the same time as they serve to help them make new homes.

LIVED RELIGION AND INTERSECTIONALITY The sober empirical work – of geographers, urban planners, sociologists, journalists and activists within non-governmental agencies – provides some of the most useful responses to the fixation of many people on the imagined parallel lives that would supposedly trap, stultify and potentially radicalize newcomers and drain the coffers of welfare states. As I noted earlier, the common conclusion of most of this work is that newcomers appreciate the religious and cultural hubs that might exist in their new society, but they will only remain, or feel, ‘trapped’ in these neighbourhoods and sub-cultures if they somehow receive the message that they are not welcome in the larger society. Particularly galling, of course, is the differential treatment experienced by groups that are both racialized and (as it were) religionized (e.g., with Pakistani Muslim newcomers expected to be more attached to their religion than white Belgian Catholic newcomers). Again, data has shown both the typically negative practical impact of this racialization on newcomers (e.g. their incomes, educational attainment), and also the ways in which people will generally wish to engage with the dominant society and seek (and often succeed) to overcome these barriers. The challenges faced by religious minorities are actually in some cases passed down within racialized families and communities. Beyond the charts, tables and predictive modelling used in these debates, there are real people trying to live lives in a new place – trying to raise families, get educations, cope with the trauma of displacement, create new social and professional networks and feel at home. Of course, they are also trying to make sense of how or whether they might reimagine, protect, proclaim, perform, reestablish themselves as religious subjects in societies in which religious identities and the relationship between religion and the state are quite different from what they would have experienced in their home societies. Here, there are too many trajectories for me to summarize or trace. What is worth noting, though, is the value in remembering that empirical data only tells part of the story. Any effort to understand what the migration of religious people might mean for a host society such as Denmark, Canada or Australia, or what migration might mean for those on the move, requires us to pay attention to two features of contemporary religion and society, both of which I have alluded to earlier. We often unintentionally flatten and fetishize people by paying attention to a particular feature that might interest us. Perhaps it is their socio-economic status, their race or (to use a Canadian phrase) visible minority status, their citizenship, age, sexual preferences or religious affiliations or practices. We are each constituted by intersecting characteristics, most of which we did not

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choose: a particular class location, a particular ethno-racial origin, a certain approach to religious observance, a certain birth year, a certain level of physical ability and so on. Here one might lean on Lori Beaman’s notion of ‘contaminated diversity’ to remember that the confluence of intersecting social forces from which actual people emerge into social relations are, well, just as messy as the subjectivities that emerge. Mixing and matching elements from ‘here’ and ‘there’ as well as ‘now’ and ‘before’ is, one might say, the norm rather than the exception. For the purposes of academic research, of course, we routinely illuminate one or two variables, since it is impossible to account meaningfully for the interaction of the many forces at work in making any of us who we are. In this project, authors focus on ‘religion’ and ‘migration’, and while some of us might factor in other variables (e.g. sexual orientation, as we see in Diego García Rodríguez’s chapter on the transgender waria, or the very pragmatic concerns we see in Tan Chee-Beng’s work on the Chinese diaspora, for example), we recognize that many others need to be bracketed. I draw attention to intersectionality simply to observe the value of interdisciplinary research (which in a large project can attend to more variables), and to encourage us always to ask why religion has become such a topic of interest for scholars and policy makers. One might note that ‘religion’ enters public and political discourse often to perform a boundary-making function between the ‘citizen’ and the immigrant ‘other’. Earlier I noted the tradition of ‘advocacy scholarship’ within the field of religion and migration, and here it is also worth noting that unless we are vigilant, it might well be the case that we are unintentionally doing the work of irreligious, or anti-religious (or simply anti-some-particular-religion) politicians, who would like supporters (Joppke 2010) to focus strictly on the religious features of a particular migrant influx. Perhaps such a focus might be ‘weaponized’ to stir up cultural anxieties about the ‘Muslim tide’ in Europe (cf. Saunders 2012), the growth of Catholicism in a mainly evangelical region (e.g. the Southern United States), or the presence of ethnically distinctive Muslim communities in a predominately Hindu state (e.g. the Rohingya). As such, we need to guard against research about the distinctive ethnoreligious traits of certain groups of migrants being deployed to strengthen specific nativist political movements. We might well be interested in the religious aspects of a given migrant cohort, or even just the ways this cohort might use religious imagery to frame their travels and travails. While we might have our own interests as researchers, in our analyses we can at least complicate any efforts to fetishize the religious practices of new arrivals. There is much to be learned from the experience many of us have had – of asking a newcomer questions about their religious identity, practices or places of worship only to discover that these issues pale by comparison to more basic concerns such as safety, finances, language, health and citizenship. Yes, religion may be a

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significant aspect of a person’s or a community’s identity, but it would be wise to remind our colleagues and members of the broader public that the people in question are no less complex than we are. Second, the value of a ‘lived religion’ approach in studying religion and migration is linked with the observations about intersectionality in the sense that paying attention to the many forces that intersect in one’s life also reminds us of the fact that people experience and enact religion in their quotidian lives. Brian Nichols points out in his chapter the many ways members of transnational Buddhist communities continue to interact with their families and monasteries at home in Singapore, the Philippines, China and Malaysia. What one might call the pragmatic and material orientation of these communities might surprise newcomers to East Asian religious phenomena, but it is a good reminder of the importance of everyday economics and international financial flows in the relationships that develop between migrants and both their natal and new communities. Here it is important to note that throughout this book – though perhaps most evident in the chapters by Nichols, Marshall and Tan – we see concern for the practical, efficacious impact of one’s religious practices on one’s mundane lifeways, whether they occur in the home or the adopted society. In Brian Nichols’ chapter, for example, Minnan Chinese monks migrated to Singapore, Malaysia and the Philippines and planted temples there while returning periodically to China on religious pilgrimages where they developed networks of faithful monks and donors seeking to cultivate merit. This practical concern for garnering merit throughout the Chinese cultural sphere is evident not just in the flow of migrant beliefs and practices, fundraising and community building, but also in the deities (such as Mazu, in Tan Chee-Beng’s chapter) that travel with migrants. Very few newcomers (or non-newcomers, for that matter) are professional theologians, after all, and so very few will be inclined towards metaphysical speculation or theological disputations; nor will they be likely to have deep or detailed knowledge of the history, texts, philosophies or legal traditions of their own religious communities. This is not to say, of course, that they are ignorant or victims of false consciousness, but rather that their religious lives are lived without much attention paid to the abstract intellectual labours that animate clerics, scholars and theologians. Unfortunately, the overwhelming majority of research on ‘religion’ relates to the formal and well-articulated systems of thought, morality, aesthetics, rituals and ancient languages. These are not irrelevant, and no serious scholar should ignore them. However, the fact remains that the vast majority of adherents in the proverbial pews and in the process of migration spend very little time thinking about these formalities (Levitt 2009). As such, to ask a newcomer if they are Sunni, Buddhist or Orthodox – and if so, what type, what scriptures they prefer and so forth – will elicit some information, but often much less valuable data

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than one might hope. As most scholars of multiculturalism and contemporary religion point out, in practice people are quite comfortable mixing and matching ideas, practices, lifeways, texts and so on. It is certainly interesting to ask about how a person’s quotidian practices change as one moves, but as I remarked earlier, this emphasis on the pragmatic, the embodied (see Helena de Morais Manfrinato Othman’s engagement of Birgitte Meyer’s ‘aesthetic formations’) and ultimately the adaptable is best understood as the rule rather than the exception.

CONCLUSION It is arguably the case that it is now more and more common for contemporary people to have the experience of multiplicity, of feeling spread out over time and space, of experiencing life as the intersection of various and sometimes even conflicting interests and subject positions. Where do we belong? To whom? To which laws? To which citizenship regime? To which god? If I am first and foremost a subject, to what other forces am I also subject? This is not mere wordplay – it reflects the fluidity of the modern person, the sense in which he or she is always – to return to Tweed (2006) – caught up in ‘organic-cultural flows’ that help us to ‘make homes and cross boundaries’. This crossing of boundaries, of course, is the central theme of this book. Whether people are forced to cross or cross for adventure; whether people are planning to stay forever or for a short while; whether one’s new society is a kind of resurrection or an interminable anguish, migrants share with one another this experience of liminality, of crossing over and – usually – seeking and making new homes. However, it is worthwhile to recall that even longsettled members of a given society inhabit multiple subject positions. One might never think of one’s passport, but one nonetheless knows oneself to be a father, worker, neighbour, husband, leftist, taxpayer, yoga practitioner, voter, gardener, volunteer, cyclist, consumer, activist, friend, democrat, traveller and so on. Each of these roles is associated not only with distinctive practices and assumptions but also with well-defined sites and social groups. When one is operating within several of these settings or subjectivities, one is to some extent aware that one is not acting in simple harmony with the dominant values of one’s culture. Is one’s participation in what we might consider the parallel lives imagined in this list by definition a problem, or is it actually rather a feature of everyday life in a pluralistic society? Is such a person categorically different in this respect from a newcomer, even a very religious newcomer? I raise these questions not to erase the distinctive features of the religious migrant, but rather to open us up to the many ways in which we might find in his or her often extremely difficult experiences aspects of our own lives that inspire both curiosity and compassion.

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Conclusion ALISON MARSHALL AND RUBINA RAMJI

Throughout this handbook, authors of all chapters have drawn the reader’s attention to specific and varied regional migrant identities and lived practices as Isma’ili Muslim or Malaysian Buddhist, for instance (Wimmer and Glick Schiller 2002). The social migration of peoples as these chapters have shown implies the migration of religions: although much of Europe considers itself to be secular, the very act of resettlement illustrates that much of the world is religious. Religion is a global matter, and it changes from global contexts to local regions, bringing about change (and continuity) of beliefs and rituals, while also taking into account generational and gender issues. While some chapters in this volume have focused on the religious impact of the movement of people from one place to another, others have investigated the impact of migration on religious institutions, education, geographies and traditions in settled societies, and on urban or suburban life and global cultures. The chapters have captured perspectives and ways of measuring and understanding religiosity in public (or in private) and collective contexts as congregation members or students. By this measure, a religion is strong if it has many congregants and faith-based schools and weak if it does not. Such an approach also focuses on the intensity of what people do when they gather together in temples and pray, or worship as a Maronite parishioner. This approach helps one understand the complex role of religious institutions including the Catholic and Protestant churches, both of which have the potential to foster diversity and integration for many, though not all. The chapters have provided a window through which we can see how religious veneration reflects regional migration histories and cultures. Distinctively they have shown that many migrant religious identities in Western worlds can be a source of agency and/or agitation.

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Chapters have touched on the pull factors of global economic migration including chain migration as in the case of Filipino and Sikh-Panjabi migration to North America, Korean migration to Germany and Canada, Chinese migrants to Southeast Asia or to other parts of the Chinese cultural sphere. Many chapters have showcased the dominant religions of a nation that supported and attracted (or rejected) the influx of generations of Catholic migrants to Scotland or Ireland, and Buddhists to Brazil. The dominance of Christianity in many European and Western nations has certainly influenced the ebb and flow of certain kinds of religious migrants in what we think of the West and the East. As we reflected on the chapters that had been assembled for this volume we were struck by how many of them seemed to focus on a religious belief or practice that enabled the momentum (or inertia) of migrants en route to belonging in new worlds. Along their way to other places, religious migrants and refugees had stopped at familiar pagodas, road-side shrines and temples, and at airport chapels and somehow home religio-cultural traditions had sustained many of them. Many had said prayers, made offerings or abandoned their religion for varying reasons, and then moved on. This doing or undoing of religion seemed to map the migration and stories of people in the twentyfirst century who had chosen or were forced to seek freedom, safety and/or economic and social opportunities beyond the place where they were born.

NOTES

CHAPTER 1 1 What exactly this term includes varies. For the purposes of this chapter, the ‘West’ and ‘Western countries’ will include Europe (from the Urals and the Caucasus to the Mediterranean and the Atlantic), North and South America, Australia and New Zealand. 2 I have attempted a detailed argument of what is summarized in this paragraph in Beyer 2006.

CHAPTER 3 1 In 2011 there was almost the same subpopulation of Poles (122,585), but in 2006 there were officially 63,276 Polish nationals and only 2,137 in 2002. The peak of the migrant inflow occurred between 2005 and 2007, when more than 230,000 Poles arrived to Ireland. A number of demographic estimations show that the highest number of Polish immigrants settled in Ireland might have reached over 180,000 in 2008, before the outburst of worldwide financial crisis, or even over 200,000 (Lisak 2010).

CHAPTER 4 1 Ethnic identification categories used in the UK often conflate ethnicity with race: for example ‘White British’ or ‘Black British’. Poles in England and Wales are ascribed to the ‘Any other White background’ group, while in Scotland a separate ‘White Polish’ category was introduced in 2011. These labels are provided by government agencies and do not necessarily reflect the actual self-identification of Polish immigrants in Britain.

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2 The form of Roman Catholic religiosity described in this chapter should not be confused with the Polish Catholic Church in United Kingdom, an Old Catholic denomination, which is not in communion with Rome and operates a single parish in Glasgow. 3 My own translation. For the original lyrics, see Zaniewska (2001: 11). 4 For the original Polish lyrics, see Katolicka Agencja Prasowa (2007).

CHAPTER 5 1 During the twenty-one interviews (thirteen male, eight female) between twentythree and sixty-four years old; seven interviewees were born in South Korea; and one interviewee is a 1.5 Korean migrant. In the 1960s, in the first wave of Korean migration to Germany, for two first-generation Korean migrants, both were Christian when they migrated; they came as nurses as part of the recruitment agreement between the Federal Republic of Germany and South Korea. Koreans differentiate between Korean citizens abroad (Jaeoe gungmin), Korean citizens living abroad (Gyopo or Dongpo) and newcomers, 1. generation Korean migrants (Ilse, parents), 1.5 generation Korean migrants (Ilchom ose, born in Korea and emigrated as children), 2. generation Korean migrants (Ise, born abroad). 2 Kim and Kim (2105) show (with reference to Lee 2011: 199) that in ‘2009–2010 there were estimated to be more than 5,500 Korean diaspora churches around the world. About 4,000 of these were in the United States; about 300 were in Canada, 200 in Japan, 175 in Australia, 100 in Germany, 55 in the United Kingdom, and 50 each in Brazil and Argentina’ (300). Kim (2011: 150) mentioned 200 churches in major cities in Germany, the United Kingdom and France. 3 The agreement ‘Programm zur vorübergehenden Beschäftigung von koreanischen Bergarbeitern im westdeutschen Steinkohlenbergbau’ (Program for the Temporary Employment of Korean Miners in West German Coal Mines) entered into force after an exchange of notes on 7 and 16 December 1963, between Ruhrkohle AG and the Southkorean Overseas Development Corporation. This was unique because it was the first agreement between Germany and a non-European country. The agreement offered one of the few ways for Korean miners to visit and work in another country. The number of candidates was very high (up to 2,500 men partially applied for 100 advertised vacancies), with many candidates having an academic background. Over 60 per cent of the miners had completed high school or attended university. Additionally, the agreement was a political symbol of demonstration of support for a country divided by warring ideologies, just like Germany. 4 Unemployment in South Korea was around 30 per cent at this time. Lee and Moon (2013) note that nurses sent back over 1 million US dollars in remittances between 1967 and 1973 to their families in South Korea. 5 The official recruitment agreement for Korean nurses was completed on 26 July 1971. 6 Ministry of Foreign Affairs (MOFAT), 2016-08-05. 7 See Roberts (2017) on gendered stereotypes of Korean workers in West Germany.

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8 http://www​.koreaverband​.de​/en/, 2020-08-05. 9 Report of Pastor Chang Sung-Hwan, EKD Außenamt/6, 15 August 1973. 10 Chang was sent by the KNCC in 1972 to West Germany. 11 He denounced in particular the ghetto-like accommodations (‘ghettoartige Arbeiterheime’, Chang 1973: 4) and relatively high rents for Korean miners. 12 Interview with a Korean-German woman, aged twenty-nine, 29 July 2011. 13 Interview with a Korean pastor, aged forty-two, 14 May 2012. 14 Interview with a Korean-German woman, aged twenty-six, 1 June 2012. 15 Interview with a Korean nurse, aged fifty, 23 August 2011. 16 Interview with a Korean woman, aged twenty-six, 8 May 2012.

CHAPTER 7 1 This chapter is based on a research project conducted in major urban areas in Canada – Toronto, Ottawa and Montreal – that examined the involvement of second-generation immigrant Muslim, Hindu and Buddhist youth from different religious backgrounds, between eighteen and twenty-seven years of age, who had at least one immigrant parent and were either born in Canada or who arrived in Canada before the age of ten years (sometimes referred to as the 1.5 generation). Religion among Immigrant Youth in Canada is a research project funded by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada with Peter Beyer (principal investigator) and, as collaborators, Shandip Saha, Leslie Laczko, Nancy Nason-Clark, Lori Beaman, Marie-Paule Martel Reny, John H. Simpson, Arlene Macdonald and Carolyn Reimer. This chapter is a revised version of the one previously published by Lori Beaman, Nancy Nason-Clarke and Rubina Ramji, entitled ‘The Difference That Gender Makes’, in Growing Up Canadian: Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists. McGill-Queen’s University Press. 2013 (pp. 235–61). I am indebted to Alison Marshall for providing useful feedback on a previous draft. 2 Perhaps more telling is the relatively low participation rates in the study, and somewhat lacklustre involvement, of both Buddhist and Hindu males. While not as clear in the Muslim group, women in the highly involved categories comprised 50 per cent of all women, and men in those categories comprised 43 per cent of all men. Three out of the four (including Aasim and Sabirah) in the highest categories of orthopraxis and belief were women. And women were fewer than men in the nonreligious categories.

CHAPTER 8 1 This chapter is based on the findings of my research where I sought to understand why the Ismaili community was engaged in various high-profile efforts in Canada. I wanted to understand not only if these efforts were all connected but also how Ismaili Muslim identity and experience informed these various efforts. Due to the private and reserved nature of the Ismaili community, being an insider had its advantages. As an insider I had access to private and sacred spaces, and

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was entrusted with personal stories and experiences, which in turn helped me understand their social reality. However, I also consider myself an outsider due to both my biracial identity and in how my own understanding of the faith differs from mainstream Ismailism. As a scholar of religion, I am not determining which social formation is right or true. I have taken the claims given to me through survey responses and interviews at face value. This chapter explains how and why Ismailis express themselves as working towards ‘integration’ into Canadian society as well as the wider Muslim umma in Canada. This is not the only approach to integration but due to space constrictions other approaches should be examined in other literature about Muslims in Canada. 2 Zine, Islam in the Hinterlands, 2. 3 See chapters 1, 3 and 8 in Cummins, ‘Alleviating the Clash of Ignorance’. 4 Hirji, ‘Debating Islam from Within: Muslim Constructions of the Internal Other’. 5 Meena Sharify-Funk notes that prior to 11 September 2001 the media coverage of Muslims was an unfocused view but after September 11th it was up close, distorted, sensationalist and flooded with stereotypes. See, Sharify-Funk, ‘Representing Canadian Muslims: Media, Muslim Advocacy Organizations, and Gender in the Ontario Shari’ah Debate’. 6 Particularly ironic given that the Covid-19 pandemic requires face covering in public in much of the Global North. This sheds light on the very discriminatory perspectives of this regulation and viewpoint. 7 Hamilton, ‘Quebec Passes Bill Banning Niqab, Burka While Receiving Public Services’. 8 See Hoodfar, ‘The Veil in Their Minds and on Our Heads’. 9 See Heather Shipley’s ‘Reasonable Accommodation’ entry in Possamai and Blasi, The SAGE Encyclopedia of the Sociology of Religion. Bill 21 is disproportionately felt by Muslim, Sikh and Jewish people who wear religious clothing daily. The case of R vs NS (2013) and a subsequent Supreme Court outcome that translated to the ability of the court to deny a veiled woman access to legal justice is another example of how Muslim women can be forcibly excluded from the law and thereby limiting their rights. 10 Government of Canada, ‘Police-Reported Hate Crime in Canada, 2015’; Statistics Canada also noted that the majority (two-thirds) of hate crimes go unreported. See, Government of Canada, ‘The Daily – Police-Reported Hate Crime, 2019’. 11 Pitter, ‘Hate Crimes Against Muslims in US Continue to Rise in 2016’. 12 Johnson and Hauslohner, ‘I Think Islam Hates Us’; ‘FBI Reports Hate Crimes against Muslims Surged by 67% in 2015’. 13 One in three Canadian Muslims reported experiencing discrimination in the past five years related to religion or ethnicity; this is well above the levels of the population at large. See, ‘Environics: Survey of Muslims in Canada 2016’. 14 Islamophobic sentiments have emerged during the pandemic through media coverage about Covid-19 using unrelated imagery of Muslims. For example, CP24 used unrelated imagery of a mosque to accompany a story about a hookah lounge in Toronto fined for not complying with Covid-19 bylaws. See, Al-Qazzaz, ‘Islamophobia Is on the Rise during COVID-19’.

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15 In June 2021 a family was killed in a hit and run by a twenty-year ‘average’ Canadian who worked in an egg packing facility. In an interview with a coworker, the attacker is said to have made the odd comment about Muslims that suggested he was ‘suspicious’ of them and that he thought they were ‘different people’. See, ‘Co-Worker of London, Ont. Attack Suspect Troubled He Missed Warning Signs’. 16 Ramji, ‘Examining the Critical Role American Popular Film Continues to Play in Maintaining the Muslim Terrorist Image, Post 9/11’. 17 Ismael and Rippin, Islam in the Eyes of the West; Eid and Karim, ‘Ten Years after 9/11 – What Have We Learned’; Poole, Reporting Islam. 18 Abu-Laban, ‘The Canadian Muslim Community’, 76. 19 During this era, the belief in white superiority equated to progress was a norm throughout the Western world. Many Canadians believed that Anglo-Saxon peoples were the apex of evolution and that Canada’s greatness depended on this heritage. See, Palmer and Driedger, ‘Prejudice and Discrimination in Canada’; Chan, ‘Chinese Head Tax in Canada’. 20 Kelly, ‘Muslim Canadians’, 86. 21 Ma, ‘Canadian Refugee Policy’. 22 Biles, Burstein and Frideres, Immigration and Integration in Canada in the Twenty-First Century, 146–7. 23 Karim, ‘Crescent Dawn in the Great White North’, 263. 24 McDonough and Hoodfar, ‘Muslims in Canada: From Ethnic Groups to Religious Community’, 136. 25 Ibid. 26 Sayed, ‘Unsilenced Voices’; Biles and Ibrahim, ‘Religion and Public Policy: Immigration, Citizenship, and Multiculturalism – Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?’; Khan, Aversion and Desire. 27 In Beyer and Ramji’s research with 1.5- and 2-generation Muslims, Hindus and Buddhists, Canadian multiculturalism was often cherished and celebrated. See Beyer and Ramji, Growing Up Canadian; Canada’s freedom and democracy and its multiculturalism and diversity rank the highest when Muslims were asked about their greatest sources of pride about Canada. See, ‘Environics: Survey of Muslims in Canada 2016’. 28 Canada has more open immigration than in the past and as a result is growing more diverse. However, it is also perceived to be a fairly secular country where many are turning away from organized religion (Census reports also show this trend and the 2016 Environics report indicates this while also noting that Canadians may generally support choices to practice religion). Interestingly, the 2016 Environics report notes that for Muslims, moving to Canada does not appear to be having a secularizing effect and that they are more likely to say their attachment to Islam has grown since arriving in the country, particularly in the eighteen to thirty-four years old range. What this means in practice is left open. 29 Kymlicka, ‘Marketing Canadian Pluralism in the International Arena’, 845. 30 Ibid. 31 Ibid., 845–6.

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32 As people retire and Canadian birth rates remain low, the country requires immigration for economic progress. See, ‘#ImmigrationMatters’; This is further compounded by the recent pandemic and will impact Canada for years to come. See, El-Assal, ‘Despite Coronavirus, Canada Needs Immigrants’; Friedman, ‘All the Reasons Why Canada Needs Immigration – and More of It’; Friedman, ‘Why Canada Still Needs Immigrants despite Soaring Unemployment’. 33 Government of Canada, ‘2011 National Household Survey’. 34 According to Karim H. Karim, ‘The proliferation of associations indicates that there is no monolithic voice that speaks for all Muslims; different issues are championed by specific organizations’. To see how other Muslim communities are organizing, irrespective on intra-religious affiliation, see Karim, ‘Crescent Dawn in the Great White North’. 35 According to one internal source, the first Ismaili to arrive in Canada was Pakistani-born Safarali Ismaily, who settled in Ottawa in 1952. 36 Nanji, ‘The Nizari Ismaili Muslim Community in North America’, 156. 37 Ibid., 150. 38 Ibid., 156. 39 The title, ‘His Highness’ was granted to the Aga Khan IV by Her Highness Queen Elizabeth in 1957. The honorific title, ‘Aga Khan’ was granted to the first Aga Khan, Hasan ‘Ali Shah, by the Persian Shah, Fath ‘Ali Shah. 40 Muhammedi, ‘“Gifts From Amin”: The Resettlement, Integration, and Identities of Ugandan Asians Refugees in Canada’, 222–5; Cummins, ‘Alleviating the Clash of Ignorance’, 81–4. 41 Jamal, ‘Asians in Uganda, 1880–1972’. 42 Jamatkhana translates roughly to ‘congregation house’ and is where Ismailis go to pray and conduct other practices unique to their tariqah tradition. 43 Dewji, ‘The Aga Khan’s Discourse of Applied Pluralism: Converging the “Religious” and the “Secular”’. 44 Karim, ‘Crescent Dawn in the Great White North’, 266. 45 The Ugandan exodus resulted in approximately 2,800 resettling in Canada and by the end of 1973 there were roughly 3,000–4,000 Ismailis settled in western Canada alone. By 1975, the numbers increased to 10,000 Ismailis, and by 1981 this number doubled to roughly 20,000. See, Fernando, ‘East African Asians in Western Canada’; Nanji, ‘The Nizari Ismaili Muslim Community in North America’. 46 Karim, ‘Pluralism, Migration, Space and Song: Ismaili Arrangements of Public and Private Spheres’, 151. 47 McDonough and Hoodfar, ‘Muslims in Canada: From Ethnic Groups to Religious Community’. 48 Shi’i Imami Nizari Ismaili Muslims are the only Shi’i tradition that is guided by a living Imam. The current Ismaili Imam, Shah Karim al-Hussaini, the Aga Khan IV, traces succession through bloodline of the Prophet Muhammad through the marriage of the Prophet’s daughter Fatima and her marriage to his cousin, Hazrat ‘Ali ibn Abi Talib – this ‘Alid lineage is known as the Imamat.

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49 Ismailism is no longer a proselytizing tradition; however, conversion to the Ismaili faith still occurs, such as through marriage. Approximately 20 per cent of Ismaili marriages are interfaith; however, it is important to note that spouses are not required to convert to the Ismaili tradition. Further, it is also noteworthy that those interfaith marriages may choose to raise their children in multiple faith traditions. 50 Statistics Canada estimates that 28 per cent of the current Muslim population are born in Canada and the present study found that 40 per cent of the study’s participants were born in Canada. 51 These boards and portfolios serve not only the religious needs of the jama’at but also their secular needs. The main boards and portfolios are as follows: the Ismaili Tariqah and Religious Education Board, the Aga Khan Education Board, the Aga Khan Health Board, the Social Welfare Board, the Economic Planning Board, the Aga Khan Youth and Sports Board, the Settlement Portfolio, the Quality of Life Portfolio, the Grants and Review Board, the Diversity and Inclusion Portfolio (previously the Women’s Portfolio) and the Ismaili Volunteer Corporation. 52 See chapter 9 in Cummins, ‘Alleviating the Clash of Ignorance’. 53 See chapters 7 and 8 in Cummins. The concept of the Muslim ‘Other’ was made popular in Edward Said’s works, through the discourse of Orientalism. Said argues that the concept of the Orient was born out of a need to create a ‘Western’ identity. ‘European culture gained in strength and identity by setting itself off against the Orient as a sort of surrogate and even underground self ’ (Said 2003: 3). 54 See chapter 6 in Cummins. 55 The Aga Khan III made several gender reforms to ‘emancipate women’ such as abolishing the veil, polygamy, infant marriages, among other things. He also called for their education, civic participation and right for independence. See Kassam, ‘The Gender Policies of Aga Khan III and Aga Khan IV’. 56 See the ‘Not Muslim Enough’ section in chapter 8 in Cummins, ‘Alleviating the Clash of Ignorance’. 57 I refer to this as a collective trauma because Ismailis seem quite aware of the perceptions of other Muslims, whether or not they have experienced prejudice or discrimination by Muslims themselves. There is a collective fear and hesitation to engage with the umma because of the experiences of other Ismailis; whether those experiences occurred long in the past or present. 58 Sectarian violence occurs most frequently in the North African and Middle Eastern regions, in countries like Yemen, Israel, Palestine, Lebanon, Iraq and Syria, but Pakistan ranks highest in ‘social hostilities involving religion’. See the following for more information: ‘Trends in Global Restrictions on Religion’; Kishi and Theodorou, ‘6 Facts about Religious Hostilities in the Middle East and North Africa’; ‘Religious Hostilities Reach Six-Year High’. 59 Yaron Friedman, ‘Ibn Taymiyya’s Fatāwā against the Nuṣayrī-ʿAlawī Sect’, Der Islam, 82.2 (2005), 349–63 ; Shafique N. Virani, The Ismailis in the Middle Ages: A History of Survival, a Search for Salvation (Oxford University Press, 2007).

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60 Pakistan has an overall population of 207,774,520 and 96 per cent are Muslim. Approximately 75 per cent of Muslims are Sunni, roughly 25 per cent are Shi’i belonging predominantly to either the Ismailiyya or Ithna‘ashariyya schools of thought. It is unclear how many Ahmadiyya reside in Pakistan because the state does not allow them to identify as Muslim on the census even though many still do. In 2017, sectarian violence in Pakistan resulted in 224 deaths and 678 injuries, a significant increase from the previous year which reported 137 deaths and over 182 injuries. Victims of persecution in Pakistan are mainly adherents of Shi’i, Sufi and Ahmadi Muslims, but also consist of other religious minorities such as Hindus and Christians. See the following for more information: Pakistan Bureau of Statistics | 6th Population and Housing Census (Pakistan: Pakistan Bureau of Statistics, 2017) (accessed 7 November 2017); 2017 Annual Report: Pakistan (United States Commission on International Religious Freedom, 2017) (accessed 7 November 2017); ‘Sectarian Violence in Pakistan’ (accessed 7 November 2017). 61 ‘Karachi Ismailis Massacred on Bus’, BBC News, 13 May 2015, section Asia (accessed 7 November 2017). 62 Alison Meuse, ‘Syria’s Minorities: Caught Between Sword Of ISIS And Wrath of Assad’, NPR.Org, 18 April2015 (accessed 26 January 2021). 63 In October 2015, ISIS claimed responsibility for the suicide bombing in a Sulaimani Ismaili centre of worship in Najran, Saudi Arabia, killing two and injuring a dozen. See, Ahmed Al-Omran, ‘Islamic State Claims Responsibility for Saudi Mosque Bombing; Casualties Include Two Dead and a Dozen Injured at Ismaili Shiite Place of Worship in Najran’, The Wall Street Journal. Eastern Edition (New York, N.Y: Dow Jones & Company Inc, 2015); Generally speaking, Sulaimani Ismailis in Saudi Arabia, like other Shi‘i communities, face discrimination in employment, education, political representation and the justice system due to their minority religious affiliation. See, Christoph Wilcke, ‘Christoph Wilcke: Discrimination against Ismailis in Saudi Arabia’, The Guardian, 22 September 2008, section Opinion (accessed 26 January 2021); Also see, The Ismailis of Najran: Second Class Saudi Citizens (Human Rights Watch, 22 September 2008) (accessed 26 January 2021) for other human rights issues. 64 ‘Grenade Attacks Kill Two Ismailis’; Flanagin, ‘Why Terrorists Are Targeting Pakistan’s Ismaili Community’. 65 The Amaan message ‘sought to declare what Islam is and what it is not, and what actions represent it and which do not. Its goal was to clarify to the modern world the true nature of Islam and the nature of true Islam’. This conference was held in the context of violent Muslim extremism and the subsequent assaults against Western nation states and against other Muslims communities. Although well

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intended, this conference does exactly what intolerant Muslim authorities do, they build figurative parameters around the concept of being a Muslim thereby excluding those who do not conform to the process. However well intended, exclusive polemics, by nature, divide rather than unite. Thus, a more inclusive solution is necessary in combating all forms of intolerance – this will be discussed later in this chapter. See, ‘Summary – the Amman Message’. 66 Browers, ‘Official Islam and the Limits of Communicative Action’. 67 Ibid, 950. 68 Ibid, 950. 69 Ismaili Constitution. 70 Aga Khan IV, ‘Delegation of the Ismaili Imamate Inaugural Ceremony’; Aga Khan IV, ‘Global Centre for Pluralism’; Aga Khan IV, ‘Aga Khan Park, Toronto’. 71 Since the 1970s, the Aga Khan has had significant activity in Canada including: being interviewed by CBC, receiving honorary doctorates from various Canadian universities, and being granted honorary citizenship by the government of Canada. To see a timeline of all the significant activity that the Imamat has had with Canada, see Cummins, ‘Alleviating the Clash of Ignorance’, 98–9. 72 To read more about the Aga Khan Museum and how they are making space for Muslim diversity, see chapter 5 in Cummins, ‘Alleviating the Clash of Ignorance’. 73 For a more elaborate discussion on the many ways the Ismaili community is nuancing the image of Muslims and Islam in Canada, please see Cummins. 74 It is important to note that the following examples are primarily descriptive in nature. It is equally important to understand that these examples point to the need and desire to do something to curb the harmful effects of othering, which Ismailis know very well. 75 Patel, ‘Ismaili Religious Education and Modernity’. 76 See chapter 6 in Cummins, ‘Alleviating the Clash of Ignorance’. 77 See chapters 5 and 6 in Cummins for a more elaborate discussion. 78 ‘The Ambassadorial Role of the Ismaili Centres’. 79 See chapter 5, Shaping Pluralistic Dispositions in Education, in Cummins, ‘Alleviating the Clash of Ignorance’.

CHAPTER 9 1 On the morning of 11 September 2001, nineteen men hijacked four American commercial airliners bound for California, crashing into the two towers of the World Trade Center in New York City and the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. 2 A mixture of different religious doctrines or beliefs, with reinterpretation of their elements. 3 Muslims are divided into Sunni and Shia; Sunnis follow the Sunnah (the traditions and practices of the Prophet Muhammad, and the compilation of these traditions, the Hadiths), following his successor Abu Bakr. Shiites follow another lineage of succession via his cousin and son-in-law, Ali. Alawite Muslims consider themselves

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Shiites, although many Muslims consider them a sect. The Druze, despite their Ishmaelite origin, do not consider themselves Muslims. 4 In his book Orientalism (Said 2003), Edward Said demonstrates how the ways of thinking, imagining and translating the ‘eastern other’ in antagonistic and ontologically distinct terms from the West have emerged and taken shape in the Western world. 5 A recent study by the Pew Center estimated that there currently are 1,486 million Muslims in Latin America and the Caribbean (Logroño Narbona, Pinto and Karam 2015). 6 Despite the predominantly negative frames in the media, other ‘positive’ portrayals of Islam were seen in Brazil, despite their orientalist origins. The soap opera O Clone [The Clone] focused on a group of Moroccan Muslims and an intercultural relationship between one of the characters and a Brazilian. While the characters and scenes were often caricature-like, they helped shape a positive image of Islam, and the show was well received in Brazil. Soon after, belly dancing and jewelry inspired by the Muslim characters became even more popular in the country (Ferreira 2015). 7 Occupations are political activities articulated by social housing movements that seek to physically and politically occupy buildings and properties that have been legally and socially abandoned, based on the idea of city rights and reinforcing the legal principle of the social function of ownership. 8 The war began in 2011 with protests against President Bashar al-Asad, amid the context of popular uprisings in the region that became known as the Arab Spring. The conflict escalated in subsequent years and led to massive migrations within and out of Syria, with 6.7 million refugees (mostly in Turkey and Lebanon) and 6.5 million people relocated internally (UNHCR 2019).

CHAPTER 10 1 We rely on the definition that a religious or a faith‐based school publicly self‐identifies as ‘religious, openly affiliate[s] with a religious group, or [is] run by, or exclusively serve[s], a religious group or society’ (Hiemstra and Brink 2006: 1158). 2 In this chapter, the terms ‘Calvinist’, ‘Reformed’, ‘Dutch Calvinist’ and ‘Canadian Reformed’ are used as synonyms. 3 For the sake of this chapter’s clarity, we refer to their schools as Canadian Reformed or Dutch Reformed schools, although the community members name them Christian schools.

CHAPTER 14 1 In my research on Filipinos and religion in Canada, I heard about Filipinos who were also Buddhist or Muslim but I did not interview anyone who self-identified in this way. 2 I interviewed 26 women and 27 men living in Canada, and surveyed 250 people and interviewed 8 people living in the Philippines, using feminist ethnographic

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research methods, encouraging research participant to edit and revise transcripts before publication. See Linda Cullum, & Diane Tye eds Feminist Qualitative Research special issue. Resources for Feminist Research 28 (1&2): 2000. This kind of advocacy scholarship is common, assumed and often not talked about by researchers of vulnerable migrant and refugee communities. See Peter Kellet, ‘Active Engagement or Passive Scholarship?’ Durham Anthropology Journal 16.1 (2009): 22–31. I visited residences, churches, temples and cathedrals, as well as restaurants, shops and festivals. All but two research participants interviewed in Canada had been raised Catholic in the Philippines. Seven of them now attended Protestant Christian churches but only two of them had actually converted to Protestant Christianity (in the Philippines not Manitoba). Most research participants were still Catholics after having lived many years in Canada. Three research participants and first-generation immigrants self-identified as one of spiritual but not religious, agnostic or atheist. None were Muslim or Buddhist. In Manitoba there was little change in Filipino religious self-identification after migration. 3 Milton (Padlon Ben) Mestito, interview, Winnipeg, 17 July 2015 and Jorie Sawatsky, interview, Steinbach, Manitoba, 17 March 2014. 4 https://www​.winnipegfreepress​.com​/our​-communities​/times​/forum​/Filipinos​ -disproportionately​-hit​-by​-COVID​-19​-574099061​.html. 5 Covid-19, novel coronavirus guidelines for faith-based practice. April 2021. https:// www​.gov​.mb​.ca​/asset​_library​/en​/covid​/restoring​_faith​_based​_gatherings​.pdf. Accessed 26 May 2021. And Father Edmund Vargas, A faith perspective on creating a better 2021. CBC Canada. https://www​.cbc​.ca​/news​/canada​/calgary​/community​/ calgary​-filipino​-vargas​-religion​-pandemic​-1​.5857760. Accessed 26 May 2021.

CHAPTER 16 1 This research is based on local records and interviews with monks and officials during ethnographic research in Quanzhou and Xiamen, China, between 2005 and 2009 supported in part by the Fulbright Foundation and the Asian Cultural Council. 2 See also Welch 1969: 192–3; Ashiwa and Wank 2005: 224; DeBernardi 2002: 310–11. 3 See also Ashiwa and Wank 2005: 226. At the age of twenty-four Zhuandao went to Yangzhou Gaomin Monastery 高旻寺 and practiced with master Xuyun 虛云 (Hsu Yun, 1840–1959) for two years. He also studied Tiantai with Master Dixian 谛闲 at Tiantong Monastery (Yu 1997: 25). 4 Information on Zhuandao from documents in the Quanzhou Buddhist Museum at Kaiyuan monastery. 5 The following list is from the Baogaoshu ‘ Regulations concerning the recognition of donors to the school’, 22a. 6 See also DeBernardi 2008: 60–4. 7 Guangqia was from Nan’an, Ruideng from Zhangzhou. 8 Guangqia was from Nan’an, Ruideng from Zhangzhou.

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9 Nanputuo sizhi. 10 Upon his departure, Wu Zuxu became headmaster and remained so until 1966 when the Cultural Revolution disrupted the school’s activities. 11 Xingyuan had also served as abbot of Xiamen Nanptuo and had received dharma transmission from the highly respected Buddhist master Hongyi (1880–1942) (Ashiwa and Wank 2005: 227; Chia 2020: 12). 12 Interview with Daoxing 2009. 13 Interview in Quanzhou, 2006. 14 Interview with Daoxing, 2009. Daoxing spoke of the monks as using the interest (lixi) earned by this deposit, but Huang Yushan says the money was kept in the sutra library and deposited in a local bank in the 1980s; he added that there was not much left. While the identity of this fund needs more complete documentation, it is possible that this fund was the same fund that Chen Jiageng 陳嘉庚 (1874–1961, aka Tan Kah Kee) of Singapore had set up in Xiamen to fund the Kaiyuan charity in the 1920s (endowed with ¥200,000) (Baogaoshu, Dongshi). 15 Yoshiko Ashiwa explores the relations that several of these monks have with Xiamen’s Nanputuo temple, where Zhaunfeng had served as abbot (Ashiwa 2000). 16 Oral interview, Wu Songbai, 2009. 17 1993 stele recording the restoration of Quanzhou Kaiyuan Chan Monastery. According to Wu Songbai, Kaiyuan Monastery was renovated during this period with most funds coming from domestic sources, 4,600,000. Wu Songbai, interview, 2009. This, however, was not mentioned in the 1993 stele inscription which named the Singapore temples and monks as contributors. 18 Interview with Wu Songbai, 2009. 19 There is, for example, underground columbarium at Quanzhou Kaiyuan with sections reserved for overseas Chinese, which has been extremely successful. 20 Funds to support the war against Japan were collected and conveyed by Guangqia (Nanputuo sizhi). 21 Chinese communities in Malaysia also incorporated local deities into their syncretic traditions of Buddhism (Lee and Chin 2015).

CHAPTER 17 1 This and all subsequent names have been changed to protect anonymity. 2 The name of the kampung has been changed for confidentiality.

CHAPTER 18 1 This impression seems to be confirmed by Frank Usarki’s meta-level analysis of the migration and religion literature (mostly concerned with Latin American phenomena). In addition to the thorough bibliographies associated with each

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chapter in this book, readers may wish to consult Brown (2019); Frederiks and Nagy (2016); Jeung and Calvillo (2017); Meyer and van der Veer (2021). 2 Of course, to say ‘Shariah Law’ is somewhat akin to saying ‘chai tea’. 3 See: https://www​.degruyter​.com​/document​/doi​/10​.1515​/wps​-2016​-0001​/html; cf. Korteweg and Selby (2012). 4 See: https://www​.cbc​.ca​/news​/canada​/toronto​/student​-walkout​-protest​-ontario​-sex​ -ed​-changes​-1​.4833097. 5 See Montpetit: https://www​.cbc​.ca​/news​/canada​/montreal​/herouxville​-quebec​ -reasonable​-accommodation​-1​.3950390. 6 See Ling: https://foreignpolicy​.com​/2019​/10​/20​/canada​-maxime​-bernier​-populism​ -peoples​-party/. 7 In The Myth of the Muslim Tide: Immigration, Islam, and the West (2012), the Globe and Mail columnist Doug Saunders provided a sketch of the deep concerns that the immigration of Muslims into Europe is sure to alter – indeed, tear – the fabric of European society. The book was written before the recent resurgence of right-wing populism that has marked the last five years in Europe, the United States, India and South America, and yet it was prescient in anticipating the rhetoric that became commonplace in the United States regarding Central and South American newcomers (‘illegals’), and in the United Kingdom regarding immigrants, refugees and temporary workers from continental Europe. Saunders went to great lengths to demonstrate that the evidence did not support the widespread anxieties then circulating in Europe. Current migration trends and studies – including this book – do not alter his argument. See, for example, Brown (2019).

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Rodriguez, D. G. 2019. ‘The Muslim Waria of Yogyakarta: Finding Agency within Submission’. Transgender Studies Quarterly 6 (3): 368–85. Rodriguez, D. G. 2020. ‘Queer Religious Geographies? Qu(e)erying Indonesian Muslim Selves’. Gender, Place & Culture 27 (9): 1326–47. Scherer, B. 2017. ‘Queerthinking Religion: Queering Religious Paradigms’. The Scholar and Feminist Online 14 (2). Schippert, C. 2005. ‘Queer Theory and the Study of Religion’. Revista de Estudos da Religião 4: 90–9. Stryker, S. 2008. ‘Transgender History, Homonormativity, and Disciplinarity’. Radical History Review, Issue 100: 145–57. Taylor, Y. and R. Snowdon. 2014. Queering Religion, Religious Queers. New York: Routledge. Waitt, G. 2014. ‘Sea Change: Gender, Sexualities, Mobility, and Home’, in G. T. Bonifacio (ed.), Gender and Rural Migration: Realities, Conflict and Change, 211–27. New York: Routledge. Warner, M. 1999. The Trouble with Normal: Sex, Politics, and the Ethics of Queer Life. New York: Free Press. Yue, A. 2008. ‘Queer Asian Australian Migration: Creative Film Co-production and Diasporic Intimacy in The Home Song Stories’. Studies in Australasian Cinema 2 (3): 229–43.

CHAPTER 18 Bramadat, Paul. 2005. ‘Toward a New Politics of Authenticity: Ethno-Cultural Representation in Theory and Practice’. Canadian Ethnic Studies 37 (1): 1–20. Bramadat, Paul and Matthias Koenig, eds. 2009. International Migration and the Governance of Religious Diversity. Kingston, On: School of Policy Studies, Queen’s University:  McGill-Queen’s University Press. Bramadat, Paul, Mar Griera, Julia Martínez-Ariño and Marian Burchardt, eds. 2021. Urban Religious Events: Public Spirituality in Contested Spaces. London: Bloomsbury. Brown, Rachel. 2019. ‘Muslim Integration in French Society’. Oxford Research Encyclopedias. https://doi​.org​/10​.1093​/acrefore​/9780190228637​.013​.798. Demerath, N. Jay. 2000. ‘The Rise of “Cultural Religion” in European Christianity: Learning from Poland, Northern Ireland, and Sweden’. Social Compass 47 (1): 127–39. Frederiks, Martha, and Dorottya Nagy, eds. 2016. Religion, Migration and Identity: Methodological and Theological Explorations. LEIDEN; Boston, MA: Brill. http://www​.jstor​.org​/stable​/10​.1163​/j​.ctt1w8h267 (accessed 4 May 2021). Hervieu-Léger, Danièle. 2006. ‘The Role of Religion in Establishing Social Cohesion’, in Krzysztof Michalski (ed.), Religion in the New Europe, 45–63. Budapest: Central European University Press. Jeung, Russell and Jonathan Calvillo. 2017. ‘Race, Immigration, Ethnicity, and Religion in America’. Oxford Research Encyclopedias. https://doi​.org​/10​.1093​/ acrefore​/9780199340378​.013​.487. Joppke, Christian. 2010. Citizenship and Immigration. Cambridge: Wiley. Jung, Dietrich and Stephan Stetter, eds. 2017. Modern Subjectivities in World Society: Global Structures and Local Practices. London: Palgrave Studies in International Relations.

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Korteweg, Anna C. and Jennifer A. Selby, eds. 2012. Debating Sharia: Islam, Gender Politics, and Family Law Arbitration. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Levitt, Peggy. 2009. God Needs No Passport: Immigrants and the Changing Religious Landscape. New York: New Press. Lehmann, David. 2013. ‘Religion as Heritage, Religion as Belief: Shifting Frontiers of Secularism in Europe, the USA, and Brazil’. International Sociology 28 (6): 645–62. Meyer, Birgit and Peter van der Veer, eds. 2021. Refugees and Religion: Ethnographic Studies of Globar Trajectories. London: Bloomsbury. Milot, Micheline. 2009. ‘Modus co-vivendi: Religious Diversity in Canada’, in Paul Bramadat and Matthias Koenig (eds), International Migration and the Governance of Religious Diversity, 105–29. Montréal/Kingston, Ontario: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Riesebrodt, Martin. 2010. The Promise of Salvation: A Theory of Religion. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Saunders, Doug. 2012. The Myth of the Muslim Tide: Do Immigrants Threaten the West? Toronto: Knopf. Tully, James. 2004. ‘Recognition and Dialogue: The Emergence of a New Field’. Critical Review of International Social and Political Philosophy 7: 84–106. Tweed, Thomas A. 2006. Crossing and Dwelling: A Theory of Religion. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

CONCLUSION Wimmer, Andreas and Nina Glick Schiller. 2002. ‘Methodological Nationalism and Beyond: Nation-State Building, Migration and the Social Sciences’. Global Networks: A Journal of Transnational Affairs 2 (4): 301–34.

AUTHOR INDEX

Abu-Lughod, L.  260 Adger, W. Neil  75 Adler, R. P.  197 Aga Khan IV  128, 131, 133–5 Alba, Richard  195, 196 Alekseevskaia, Mariia  7, 151–64, 280, 282 Ali, Faisal Mohamed  162 Allison, Derek  152 Alphonso, Caroline  157 Alvis, Robert E.  55, 59 Ambrose, L. M.  89, 92 Ammerman, Nancy T.  198, 201 Anderson, A.  90 Anderson, Benedict  141 Anderson, C.  264 Andersen, K.  54 Anjos, Emilson Soares dos  174, 176 Anwar, Muhammad  70 Appadurai, Arjun  141 Arakaki, Ushi  174 Araújo, Ana Lucia  171 Archer, M.  54 Arend, Rudolf  67 Ashiwa, Yoshiko  248, 249, 252 Astor, Avi  183 Atkins, Peter  154 Auerbach, S.  31 Aulakh, R.  30 Aune, Kristin  111 Ayers, Stephanie L.  168

Azcoitia, Alfredo  170 Azzara, Monique  183 Bacchetta, P.  263 Bagley, Carl  162 Bakht, Natasha  118 Baldoz, Rick  219 Ballard, R.  27 Bance, P.  27 Barelli, Ana Inés  170 Barman, Jean  157 Bautista, Darlyne  220 Bautista, Julius J.  230 Beaman, Lori  5, 10, 11, 24, 91, 103, 285, 293 n.1 Beaumont, Justin  181 Becci, Irene  181 Becker, Jochen  182 Becker, Penny Edgell  198, 201 Bennett-AbuAyyash, Caroline  153 Benton, Gregor  241 Bergen, John  154 Berman, B. J.  11 Beyer, Peter  2, 5, 6, 9–24, 91, 92, 102, 154, 274, 275, 277, 280, 283, 293 n.1 Bhabha, Homi K.  6 Bhargava, R.  11 Bibby, Reginald  101, 102 Biden, Joe  273 Bielo, James  181 Biles, John  105

350

Bin Laden, Osama  143 Blumer, Herbert  200 Bober, Alicja  64 Bober-Michałowska, Alicja  62, 66 Boellstorff, T.  261, 266, 270 Boli, J.  19 Bond, Ross  56, 57, 112 Borjas, G.  28 Bouchard, Gérard  162 Bouchard, Pierrette  161 Bouma, G. D.  10 Bourdieu, Pierre  217 Bowman, Marion  181 Boyd, Monica  4 Bradley, Joseph M.  57 Bramadat, Paul  8, 10, 33, 91, 105, 273–87 Breton, Raymond  159 Brodeur, Patrice  10 Brown, Louise  157 Brown, Rachel  282 Bryk, Anthony  154 Bulosan, Carlos  219 Burchardt, Marian  181 Burstein, Meyer  153 Burton, Sandra  220 Bush, George W.  143 Butler, Judith  143, 147 Cadge, W.  38, 195 Cancellieri, Adriano  182, 186, 187 Canton, N.  31 Caron-Malenfant, Éric  153 Carreira, Manuel M.  256 Casanova, José  38, 181 Castles, S.  9 Cesari, Jocelyn  33, 183 Ceylan, Rauf  183 Chafetz, Janet Saltzman  2, 11, 91, 181 Chandler, S.  237 Chang, See-jeong  77 Chang, Sung-Hwan  80 Chau, Adam  216 Chaves, Mark  6 Chen, Carolyn  2 Chen, Zhiming  242 Chia, Jack Meng-Tat  248, 252, 255–7 Chiodelli, Francesco  182 Choy, Bong-youn  76 Choy, Catherine Ceniza  4

AUTHOR INDEX

Chu, J. Y.  243, 244 Chua, P.  5 Clarke, Brian  5 Cloke, Paul  181, 182 Conley, Richard S.  198 Connor, P.  38, 54, 153 Cordova, Dorothy  4, 219 Cordova, Fred  230 Couton, Philippe  7, 151–64, 280, 282 Cox, Harvey  281 Crossette, B.  29 Crowder, L. S.  241 Cruz, Denise  4 Csordas, Thomas J.  1 Cummins, Alyshea  6, 7, 123–38, 276, 279 Curry, C.  32 Czarnowski, Stefan  37 Dalai Lama  177 Date, Jack  32 Dawson, Lorne  33 de Graaf, H. J.  242 de Morais Manfrinato Othman, Helena  139–49, 276, 287 de Wit, H.  264 de Wit, Matty A. S.  317 Dean, Kenneth  249 DeHanas, Daniel Nilsson  181, 190 Denton, H. H.  29 Devgan, S.  29 Devine, Joseph  69 Devine, Thomas M.  57 Dirlik, A.  4 Doebler, S.  40 Domingo, A.  26 Dosanjh, Ujjal  30 Dougherty, Kevin D.  198, 200–1 Douglas, R. M.  57 Dowden, R.  30 Durkheim, Emile  37, 235 Dusenbery, V  26 Dwyer, Claire  232 Dwyer, Claire  182, 184, 185 Dy, Aristotle  241, 249, 252, 253, 256 Eade, John  182 Ebaugh, Helen Rose  11, 76, 91, 168, 181, 195 Ebert, Kim  198

AUTHOR INDEX

Ecklund, Elaine H.  38 Edgell, Penny  92 Ee, Joyce  257 Elisha, Omri  181 Emerson, Michael O.  200, 203 Eng, Irene  249 Engel, David  56 Ergin, H.  264 Espinoza Higgins, M.  38 Esposito, John L.  2, 161 Esposito, Richard  32 Esses, Victoria  153 Fanning, B.  39 Farrar, M.  11 Farrelly, M. J.  11 Fay, Terence J.  229, 232 Fesenmyer, Leslie  182 Fischer, Johann  181 Fize, Michel  161 Foley, Michael W.  181, 195, 197, 198 Foner, Nancy  195, 196 Frideres, James  105 Fujino, D. C.  5 Gale, Richard  183, 184 Gallagher, Kerry  71 Gandhi, Indira  27, 29, 30 Gandhi, Rajiv  30 Garbin, David  6, 181, 182, 187 Garcia-Muñoz, T.  38 Garha, N. S.  26 Gawlina, Józef  60, 64 Gay, Geneva  156 Gerlach, Julia  181 Ghavami, Negin  5 Ghosh, Ratna  162 Gibson, C.  197 Gilbert, David  232 Gill, P. S.  27 Gilmartin, M.  39 Giordan, G.  10 Glendon, Mary Ann  156 Glenn, Charles  154–6 Glick Schiller, N.  289 Glock, Charles Y.  41 Goggin, J.  197 Goldman, Aaron  56 Gonzalez III, Joaquin Jay  232

351

Goodman, M. J.  11 Gorski, Philip S.  6 Goujon, Anne  153 Gray, B.  39 Grieco, Elizabeth  4 Grzywaczewski, Józef  58, 61, 71 Guest, Kenneth J.  11, 181, 187–9, 241 Gula, Józef  59, 60 Gutmann, Amy  152, 154 Guyotte, Roland L.  232 Haddad, Yvonne Yazbeck  2, 161 Hagan, Jacqueline  38, 76, 168 Halikiopoulou, D.  40 Halstead, Mark  156 Hamilton, Leah  153 Hannerz, U.  19 Hansing, Katrin  181 Harding, J. S.  11 Harper, Stephen  125 Hasan, Sazid  153 Heckathorn, D.  40 Helweg, A.  27 Herman, Nancy J.  201 Hernández, Alberto  167 Hickman, Mary J.  57 Hinnells, J. R.  11 Hirschman, Charles  153, 197 Hoffman, Steven  168 Hoge, Dean R.  181, 195, 197, 198 Holdaway, Jennifer  181 Holland, Peter  154 Holtmann, C.  91 Hoodfar, Homa  118 Hori, V. S.  11 Hoskins, J.A.  177 Hu, Christine  181 Huang, J. C.  237 Hunt, S. J.  261 Hurh, Won Moo  76 Hutter, Manfred  78 Hüttermann, Jörg  183 Huyser, Kimberly R.  198, 200, 201 Hwang, Wei-Tjang  242 Ibarra, Carlos S.  167 Ibrahim, Humera  105 Inglehart, R.  38 Iriany, I. S.  261

352

Jabłońska-Frąckowiak, Danuta  67 Jabłoński, Aleksander  67 Jackson, J. W.  200 Jacobsen, Knut A.  26 Jaffer, Mobina  130 James, Michael S.  32 John Paul II  69 Johnston, Hugh J.  26, 28 Johnston, L.  40 Jonker, Gerdien  183 Joppke, Christian  285 Joshi, K. Y.  25, 33 Jung, Dietrich  275 Kachulis, Eleni  217 Kanmaz, Meryem  183 Kanter, Rosabeth Moss  203 Katsiaficas, Dalal  5 Kawanami, Hiroko  3 Kelley, Ninette  16, 221 Kelly, Patricia  161 Khaled, Leila  144–6, 148 Kim, Hun S.  82 Kim, Karen Chai  200, 203 Kim, Kirsteen  77, 81 Kim, Kwang Chung  76 Kim, Matthew D.  77 Kim, Sebastian C.  77, 81 Kim, Sharon  77 King, R.  260 Kinoshita, P. J.  3 Kivisto, Peter  195 Klausen, J.  11 Klok, Jolien  2 Kniss, Fred  195, 203 Knott, Kim  117 Koenig, M.  10, 38, 54, 277 Kogan, Irena  152 Kong, Lily  181 Kothari, R.  30 Kouros, T.  38, 53 Kowalski, Adam  62 Krotofil, J.  39 Kuah-Pearce, Khun Eng  248, 249, 255, 257 Kumar, M.  33 Kumar, Sajjan  30 Kunimoto, Iyo  169 Kuppinger, Petra  7, 179–93, 279, 281

AUTHOR INDEX

Kurien, P. A.  11 Kvisto, Peter  5 La Brack, B.  28 Lakatos, Eva Maria  175 Laliberté, A.  11 Landau, E.  33 Langhein, Joachim  166 Lanz, Stefan  182 Lauterbach, Burkhart  183 Lavan, A.  54 Lee, Helen  77 Lee, J.  93 Lee, Soon-keun  86 Lee, Valerie  154 Lee, Young-Bin  80 Lefebvre, Solange  10 Leonard, Karen  181 Lesser, Jeffrey  170 Levitt, P.  91, 181, 190, 286 Ley, David  182, 184, 185 Li Jen, T.  27 Lim, C.  2 Lin, Yi-Min  249 Ling, R.  11 Lisak, Marcin  7, 37–54, 280, 291 n.1 Livezey, Lowell  185 Logan, J.  176, 177 Lottermoser, Stephanie  183 Loyal, S.  39 Luhmann, NIklas  54 Luibhéid, E.  260 Mabalon, Dawn Bohulano  219 McCready, Richard C.  57 MacDonald, Stuart  5 MacGregor, C. A.  2 McGuire, Meredith B.  5, 117 McKeown, Adam  248 Mackrael, Kim  221 McLeod, Angela  153 McLoughlin, S.  11, 182 MacMullen, Ian  155 McRoberts, Omar M.  181 Maeyama, Takashi  167 Mahmood, S.  260, 263 Mai, N.  260 Maliepaard, Mieke  152 Manalansan, M.  1, 260

AUTHOR INDEX

353

Manço, Ural  183 Mandel, Ruth  183 Mann, Charles C.  1 Mann, G. S.  28 Manning, P.  9, 12 Marconi, Marina de Andrade  175 Marshall, Alison R.  1–8, 215–34, 217, 218, 225, 230, 233, 240, 274, 282, 283, 286, 289–90, 293 n.1 Marsiglia, Flavio Francisco  168 Martin, Joanne  203 Martínez, Maya Cervantes  172 Marx, Karl  37 Massey, D.  38 Master Lu  188, 189 Matas, Robert  30 Matovina, Timothy  171 Matsue, Regina Yoshie  174 Meister, C.  11 Melendy, H. Brett  219 Memon, Nadeem  162 Metcalf, Barbara Daly  181 Meyer, Birgit  141, 287, 303 n.1 Meyer, J. W.  12 Mickiewicz, Adam  64 Miller, M. J.  9 Mills, J. V. G.  242, 278 Milot, Micheline  153, 158, 278 Min, Pyong Gap  76, 195 Mirhady, V.  260 Mishra, A.  26 Mitus, W. J.  66 Moghissi, H.  11 Moon, S.  94 Mooney, Nicola  35 Mora, G. Cristina  195, 197 Moran, Peter  64 Moreira, J. M.  143 Mori, Kainei  244 Moya, José C.  166 Mullins, Mark  74, 76, 87 Myrvold, Kristina  26

Nichols, Brian J.  8, 247–58, 283, 286 Nicolson, Murray  156 Nisanci, Zubeyir  7, 195–215 Norris, P.  38 Numrich, Paul  181 Numrich, Paul D.  195, 203

Nadal, Kevin L.  232 Nakache, N.  3 Nath, Kamal  30 Nederveen Pieterse, J.  18 Nenshi, Naheed  130 Nery, John  232 Neuman, S.  38

Rahnema, S.  11 Ramji, Rubina  1–8, 91, 105–21, 123, 127, 215, 280, 289–90, 293 n.1, 295 n.16, n.27 Ramnath, Maia  26 Read, Anne  158 Reckel, Johannes  77

O’Donnell, Ellen  57 Ogden, J.  26 Oishi, Nana  4 Okamoto, Dina G.  198 O’Mahony, E.  39 Orsi, Robert A.  1, 117, 181 Ortiz, Renato  140 Osterhaus, Ellen  158 Ostrow, Michael H.  199 O’Sullivan Lago, R.  39 Ota, H.  172 Pace, E.  10 Palacz, Michał Adam  7, 55–72, 279 Palmer, Norris W.  195 Pan, Lynn  219 Papadakis, Y.  38, 53 Parise, Paolo  170 Park, Hyung  77 Park, Robert E.  199, 200 Partridge, Christopher  3 Peach, Ceri  184 Perez-Leclerc, Mayra  217 Pettigrew Thomas, F.  203 Peumans, W.  260, 261 Phua, Sheena  32 Pigeaud, G.  242 Pinto, Paulo Gabriel Hilu da Rocha  140, 142 Posadas, Barbara M.  232 Prabawa-Sear, K.  270 Pratt, D.  11 Prophet Mohammad  238 Puar, Jasbir K.  260, 261 Putnam, Robert D.  198

354

Reed, Jim  35 Reimer, S.  103 Reiss, Michael  151 Rial, Carmen  143, 173 Rizal, José  218, 221, 232, 282 Robertson, Roland  9, 12, 91, 102 Rodriguez, Diego García  4, 8, 259–72, 276, 283, 285 Rogers, Leoandra Onnie  5 Romejko, Adam  58, 61, 71 Ross, Anthony  57 Rousseau, L.  11 Ruo, Show Ying  252, 256 Ryder, Bruce  152 Ryn, Zbigniew  66 Said, Edward  142, 297 n.53, 300 n.4 St-Amant, Jean-Claude  161 Saint-Blancat, Chantal  182, 186, 187 Salganik, M.  40 Salma Lakhani, Alberta  130 Sampson, R. J.  197 San Buenaventura, Steffi  227 Saunders, Doug  279, 285 Schatz, Merle  77 Scherer, B.  261 Schiffauer, Werner  183 Schipper, K.  238 Schippert, C.  261 Schmitt, Thomas  183 Seljak, David  91, 105 Senzai, Farid  2, 161 Shah, Bindi  181, 184, 232 Shah, Nayan  4 Sharma, Nandita  221 Sharma, Sonya  111 Sherif, Muzafer  200 Sheringham, Olivia  173 Shin, Eui H.  77 Shoji, Rafael  170 Sian, Katy P.  32 Singh, A.  32, 33 Singh, Beant  31 Singh, Bhai Maharaj  26 Singh, G.  26–30 Singh, J.  26, 29, 31–5 Singh, Jagmeet  31 Singh, Jasjit  5, 7, 25–35 Singh, M.  32

AUTHOR INDEX

Singh, Ravi  35 Singh, Sarika  34 Singh, Sidhak  34 Singh, Sukhdeep  33 Singh Deo, Gobind  33 Singh Dhillon, Baltej  29 Singh Hayer, Tara  30 Singh Johal, Jagtar  31 Singh Mandla, Gurinder  28 Singh Rajoana, Balwant  31 Singh Sagar, Gyani Sundar  28 Singh Sandhu, Tarsem  28 Singh Sidhu, Malkiat  31 Singh Sodhi, Balbir  32 Skirbekkc, Vegard  153 Smith, Jane  2, 161 Smith, Jane I.  2, 161 Smith, T.  6, 38, 215 Snowdon, R.  261 Song, Minho  77 Soucy, A.  11 Spickard, James V.  5, 9 Sponza, Lucio  57 Stachura, Peter D.  58 Stark, R.  41 Stasiulis, Daiva Kristina  4 Stepick, Alex  181, 190 Stetter, Stephan  275 Stocki, Wacław  66 Stolz, J.  39 Straut Eppsteiner, H.  38 Strhan, Anna  182 Stryker, S.  261 Suryadinata, Leo  237 Sutcliffe, Steven  180 Sweet, Lois  153 Takaki, Ronald  219 Tamimi Arab, Pooyan  183 Tan, C. B.  8, 238–43, 282, 283, 285, 286 Tarlo, Emma  181 Tatla, D. S.  26–31 Taylor, Charles  153, 155, 162, 163 Taylor, Y.  261 Telford, Hamish  162 Thiessen, Elmer  154, 157 Thomas, G. M.  19 Thomas, William I.  58 Tiflati, Hicham  162

AUTHOR INDEX

355

Tigner, James L.  167, 169 Tomaszewski, Wiktor  62–4, 66, 67 Tong, Yuying  198 Torruella, I. M.  244 Trebilcock, M.  16, 221 Treibel, Anette  165 Tremblay, Stéphanie  153, 158, 162 Trimmer, T.  9, 12 Trochimczyk, Maja  63 Trudeau, Pierre Elliott  128 Truitt, Allison  184, 190, 191 Trump, Donald  125, 273 Truzzi, Oswaldo  142 Trzebiatowska, Marta  59, 70, 71 Tse, Justin  182, 184, 185 Tsui, S.  33 Tsuji, Teruyuki  181 Tully, James  278 Turner, B. L.  76 Tweed, Thomas A.  6, 59, 60, 62, 64, 66, 67, 71, 181, 216, 230, 235, 274, 287 Tyldom, G.  40 Tytler, Jagdish  30

Warner, M.  261 Warner, R. Stephen  1, 5, 11, 38, 91, 151, 153, 181 Warren, Mark R.  5 Watson, Jacqueline  154 Weber, Max  37 Weiß, Sabrina  7, 73–87, 279, 280 Welch, Holmes  248, 257 Werbner, Pnina  181 Wickberg, Edgar  216, 241 Więcaszek, Leszek  61, 69 Wilkinson, Michael  7, 89–103, 280 Williams, Raymond Brady  195 Williams, Rory  57 Wimmer, Andreas  289 Wittner, Judith G.  91, 151, 181 Wójcik, Wiesław  60 Wong, Tze-Ken Danny  241 Woodhead, Linda  1, 3 Wu, Pina  187 Wu Zexu  252 Wulff, Christian  192, 193 Wuthnow, R.  101

Ugolini, Wendy  57 Usarski, Frank  7, 165–77 Uslaner, Eric M.  198

Yang, Fenggang  195 Yeh, Chiou-Ling  240 Yinger, J. M.  38, 53 Yip, A. K. T.  261 Yong, Clement  33 Yong, Ching-Fatt  256 Yonggi-Cho, Paul  90, 92, 93, 103 Yoshida, Yosaburo  167 Yu, Henry  1 Yu, Lingbo  250, 252 Yue, A.  260

Vasquez, Manuel  181 Vaughan, Gisele  11 Vergara, Camilo José  181 Vincett, G.  111 Voas, D.  40 Wach, Joachim  166 Währisch-Oblau, Claudia  76 Walker, Brian, C. S.  75 Wallace, Paul  27 Wallerstein, I.  17 Walls, Patricia  57 Wank, David  248, 249, 252, 255

Zeller, Dariusz A.  67 Ziarski-Kernberg, Tomasz  56–8 Zine, Jasmin  156, 161, 162 Znaniecki, Florian  37, 58 Zubrzycki, Jerzy  55, 56, 58, 60

SUBJECT INDEX

Accrediting Association of Bible Colleges  90 advocacy scholarship  282, 285 African New World religions, growth in  20 African Traditional Religion(s)  18 Aga Khan Development Network  131 Aga Khan Foundation Canada  134 Aga Khan Museum and Park (AKM)  134 Aga Khan Museum Curriculum-Linked Resources  135 Agama Konghucu (Confucian Religion)  237 Ahmadi  1, 127, 132 Aklan Ati-atihan Manitoba Float  228 Amatsu-Norito  174 American Christian Evangelical missionary churches  142 Amida-Buddhism  167 ancestor worship  167, 239–40 anglophone and francophone Catholic schools  155–7 anti-Muslim bills  125 anti-Muslim sentiments  125, 130, 162–3, see also hate crimes and securitization, post 9/11 anting-anting (religious amulets)  226, 227 anti-prohibition  278 anti-Sikh violence  30

Arab-Muslim population in Brazil, see also Brazil aesthetic formations  141–2 American Christian Evangelical missionary churches  142 Brazilian conception of Islam  141 immigration myths  142 intellectual orientalism  142 neo-Pentecostal Evangelical alliance  142 Arab Spring  300 n.8 assassination of Beant Singh  31 assassination of Indira Gandhi  29–30 Babbar Khalsa International (BKI)  31 Baha’i 18 Basel Missionary Society  241 bayanihan spirit  216–17 The Bloomsbury Handbook of Religion and Migration description  1 intersection of religion and migration  2 Sikh, Muslim, Hindu, Daoist, Christian and Buddhist perspectives  1 bombing of Air India Flight  31 bombing of Nagasaki and Hiroshima  169 The Books and the Pilgrimage of the Polish Nation (Mickiewicz)  64 Bouchard-Taylor Commission on Reasonable Accommodation  162, 278

SUBJECT INDEX

Brazil Arab population (see Arab-Muslim population in Brazil)  139, 141, 142 impact of humanitarian narratives on Muslims  140 Jornadas de Yarmouk and Syrian conflict  145–8 Leila Khaled Occupation  144–5 media narratives about Islam  149 Muslim women (see Muslim population in Brazil) public citizenship  148 second- and third-generation migrants  140 September 11, narrative event  140, 141, 144, 149, 277, 294 n.5 Brazilian conception of Islam  141 Brazilian dekasegi  174 Brazilian housing organization  144–5 Brazilian National Committee on Refugees (CONARE)  145 Brazilian pluralism  144 Brazilian print media, investigation  143 Brazilian Umbanda  174 Buddhism Amida-Buddhism  167 Chinese Buddhism  237, 248, 250, 253, 257, 258 humanistic Buddhism  237 Japanese immigrant Buddhism in Brazil  173 Korean Buddhism  78 Mahayana Buddhism  237, 249 meditation to define  106 Pure Land Buddhism  173, 174 revival of (see post-Mao China, revival of Buddhism) Tibetan Buddhism  8, 237 Vajrayana-Buddhism  177 Buddhist Academy of China in Beijing  254 Buddhist forms of kinship  256–7 Buddhist idea of merit (gongde)  247 Buddhist Layperson’s Society  251 ‘Camp Prayer’ by Polish troops  62–3 Canada, nature of Muslim diaspora  124, see also Canadian Muslim settlement

357

intra-umma othering  124 minority group  124 Canadian Islamophobia  125, 126, 130, 135, 137, 294 n.14 Canadian Muslim settlement  294 n.1–2 Immigration Act and policies  126–7 Ismaili councils  128 Ismaili Islam in Canada  129–30 Ismaili refugees in 1990s  128 Multiculturalism Act (1988)  126 post-Second World War  126 pre-Second World War immigration  126 race-based discriminatory immigration policies  126 selfless service, or seva  129 Shaping Pluralistic Dispositions in Education initiative  128 Syrian Ismaili refugees  129 tariqah traditions  129 Ugandan-Ismaili resettlement  127, 296 n.45 Candomblé  18, 171 Cantonese funeral rites and symbolism  240–1 Cao Dai  18 Catholic All Souls’ Day  240 Catholic female-dominated procession  186 chain migration  221 Chicago, dense urban neighbourhood (Livezey)  185 Chicago School  199, 200, 212 Chicago’s Dr José Rizal commemorative statue  225 Chinatown  187–9, 219, 239, 245, 279 Chinese Buddhism  237, 248, 250, 253, 257, 258 Chinese Buddhist Association of Singapore  250, 251 Chinese ideas of face (mian)  247 Chinese migration Chinese speech group  240 and Christianity (see Christianity and Chinese migration) and Muslims (see Muslims and Chinese migration) transnational networks (see transnational networks, China) would-be migrants  239

358

Chinese speech group  240 ‘Chinoy’ or ‘mestizos’  216 Christian and Buddhist places of worship  188 Christianity and Chinese migration establishment of PRC in 1949  242 Hakka Christians  241, 245 role of Wong Nai Siong  241 Teochew migrants  241 civic engagement approaches  197 church attendance  197 church-related civic participation  205, 206 church-related volunteer participation  205, 207 civic participation outside church  206, 207 congregational attendance  212 contextual and institutional dynamics  211 data and methods  201 activities, USCLS  202 church-related leadership index  202 control variables, race from six options  203, 210 dependent variables  202 independent variables, immigrant worshippers and congregations  202–3 social capital  202 USCLS  201 forms of  198 immigrants and non-immigrants in US congregations  205 immigrant worshippers and congregations, participation  195 immigration and civic engagement  199 involvement in religious organizations  198 leadership roles and immigration in church  206 competition between social groups (Park)  199 competition for  213 multiracial and multi-ethnic congregations  200–1

SUBJECT INDEX

newcomers and established social groups  200 social distance and segregation  200 social-group consciousness  199 worshippers with diverse backgrounds  201 nature and advantages  197–8 non-immigrants involvement  212 ordered logistic regression models, church-related volunteerism, leadership roles  208–9​ relationship and religious participation  212 statistics for independent variables  204 through community service  197 2008/2009 U.S. Congregational Life Survey (USCLS)  196 civic participation Hussein Mosque and local councils  190 interfaith and intercultural series, “To Approach One Another”  190 local Pagoda or Buddhist centres  190–1 Muslim associations  191 Muslim Women’s Sports Club  191 participation in immigrant faith communities  190 participation of Vietnamese Buddhist community  190–1 Qur’an study associations  192 women’s debate clubs or interfaith associations  192 civil rights movements  22, 34 clashes, on Khalistan  30 Cold War  243 communal prayer  59, 71 Confucianism  236–7 Confucian norms and practices  283 congregations, definitions  91 Corpus Christi  44, 49, 51 Covid-19 pandemic  2, 125, 155, 218, 233, 274 ‘Crossing and Dwelling,’ Tweed’s idea of  216 Cuban American shrine of Our Lady of Charity in Miami, study of  59 Cuban Catholics  59, 66 cultural difference

SUBJECT INDEX

adjustments to integrate/accommodate the religious differences  11 dimensions  10 Cultural Revolution (1966 to 1976)  248, 253 cultural sociology  92 Dabogong Festival  243 Daoist/Taoist  8, 188 Daojiao Jie or Taoist/Daoist Religion Festival  243 de-Europeanization of Christianity  92 deity worship  239, 245 Dejiao (Moral Uplifting Society)  237 dekasegi  170 dequeering  260 desecularization  37–8 diasporic nationalism  35 Diverse immigrant religious communities  180 Dom Polski (Polish House)  61 Dr José Rizal at 2015 Winnipeg Street Festival, image of  226 dual affiliation of the congregation  93 dukun  263, 270 Dungan people  242, 245 Eastern Pentecostal Bible College  89–90 embodied practices  259 Ensaaf  34, 35 ethno-cultural festivals  279 ethno-religious schools  155–7, 280 Eucharistic procession on Corpus Christi  44, 49, 51 Eurocentric learning  161 Evangelical Christianism  173 evangelism  98–103 external religiosity  168 extra-ethnic marriages  169 faith-based healings  173 faith-based schools in Canada Catholic schools anglophone and francophone Catholic schools  156–7 Dutch Reformed schools  157 evolving role of Catholic schools for immigrant communities  156–7 immigrant communities and Catholic schools  157

359

State-funded Catholic education  156 Christian, Jewish and Muslim schools  152 Dutch-Canadian Reformed communities  153 Dutch Reformed schools Dutch ethno-cultural identity  160 Federation of Canadian and American Reformed Churches (CanRC)  159 non-cisgender identities and pornography  160 Ontario Canadian Reformed schools  159 strict hiring and enrolment policies  160 ethno-religious bubble effect  152 identity retention and transformation  156–63 Jewish schools Franco-Quebec heritage  158 Liberal and Zionist schools  158 Modern Orthodox, values  158 Montreal’s Jewish community  158 traditionalist schools, values  158 ultra-Orthodox haredi schools  158 minorities’ cultural and vision of equal dignity raised  163 Muslim schools anti-Muslim and anti-immigrant sentiments  162–3 Bouchard-Taylor Commission on Reasonable Accommodation  162 Eurocentric learning  161 female students, empowerment of  161 non-discriminatory aspects of immigration  160 Ontario Teacher’s Certificate (OTC)  162 preference of public schools for financial reasons;  160–2 Québécois identification  162 teachers’ qualifications and strategies  161–2 new value system  156 religion and education  152 religious schooling

360

business or non-profit organizations  153 independent schools  152–155 ‘Nones’  153 non-recognition of religious schools  155 patterns for developing faith-based schools  155 private education  154 public education monopoly  154–5 2017 poll  162 famine Irish  156 Feast of Our Lady of Czêstochowa, Queen of Poland  64 Federation of Canadian and American Reformed Churches (CanRC)  159 female students, empowerment of  161 Filipino Catholic ritual, annual Santacruzan procession  186 Filipino migration to Canada bayanihan spirit  216–17 Christian and folk practices  215–16 exclusionary legislation  217 first-generation Filipino migrants  215 history of  219–21 early 1700s  219 Immigration Act, 1967  221 Johnson-Reed Act  219 large American settlements of Filipinos  219–20 pattern of trampoline migration  220 Tydings-McDuffie Act, 1934  220 Order-in-Council PC 1923-183 217 Philippines and China, family-based cultures  216–17 racism towards Asian migrants and Filipinos  218 religion in Manitoba (see Manitoba, religion in) Temporary Foreign Workers programme  218 Filipino voluntary association  221 first-generation immigrants  105, 218, 226–7 Filipinos  215, 218, 226, 227 Ismailis  129, 130 Koreans  75, 77, 79, 81–85 folk religions  18

SUBJECT INDEX

Franco-Quebec heritage  158 #FreeJaggiNow campaign  31 Fujianese congregation at Transformation  189 Fujianese or Toisanese community  188–9, 251, 256 Full Gospel Mission Church  93 Fuzhou Yongquan Monastery  249 gender boundary maintenance  121 embodied nature of religion  117–20 Buddhist men and women  117–18 dress  118 food  119 generational split  119–20 hijab, wearing  118–19 Muslim men and women  118 9/11 attacks  119 public nature of private religious practice  117 gendered goals  112–17 second-generation religious youth in Canada action of respect  114 Buddhist female, story of  106–7, 114 Buddhist male, story of  106, 112, 114 familial practices  116–17 Hindu female, story of  107–8 Hindu male, story of  108–9, 116 Muslim female, story of  108–10, 115 Muslim male, story of  110–13, 115–16 women, role in religious practices  111 German reunification  79, 192, 193 Germany, Korean Christians in  192 n.3 Buddhism, spread of  78 challenges difficulties within the mission  80 ecumenical transdenominational church  80 Korean Christian denominations, categories  80 Protestant Church in Germany (EKD)  80 social resilience  80

SUBJECT INDEX

cooperation with established churches  81–2 structural discrimination of Korean churches  82 United Evangelical Mission (UEM)  81 growth of churches Evangelical Church in Germany (EKD)  79 Evangelical Church in the Rhineland  79 Evangelical Church of Westphalia  79 first networks and structures  79 Korean National Council of Churches (KNCC)  79 ‘Schwester-Bruder-Treffen’ (meeting of brothers and sisters)  79 labour emigration German Catholic Mission  78 MOFAT  78 racism and xenophobia  7 Ghadar movement  26–7 Ghanaian Pentecostals  182 Global Centre for Pluralism  134 globalization  12, 91, 94, 102, 165 globalized spiritualities diverse immigrant faith communities  182 Ghanaian Pentecostals  182 importance of religion in global cities  181 new age movements/practices  180–1 notions of the secular city  181 spirituality  182 global mélange  18 global migration  9–23, see also reconstruction of religions and states global economic migration  167, 220, 290 Global North  17, 94, 180 Global South  3, 17, 92, 94, 260 glocalization of religions and (nation-) states, see also reconstruction of religions and states African Traditional Religion(s)  18 diverse religious cultures  18 folk religions  18 Global North and Global South  17

361

hierarchy  17 Indigenous religions  18 isomorphism between nation state and religion  17 nationalist movements  17 nation-state model  17 new religions  18 reconstruction  17–18 reforms  17–18 religion model  17–18 Guandi (god of wealth)  239–41 Guangxi speech group  236 Guanyin (goddess of mercy)  239–41, 250, 252–3, 258 Gulf War  124 gurdwara committee system  35 Guyanese congregation  93 Gyani Sundar Singh Sagar’s campaign in 1959  28 Hajj  109 Hakka Christians  241, 245 Han Chinese  236, 238 hate crimes and securitization, post 9/11  31–4 hate crimes  32–3 media accusations of racism  32 post-9/11 discrimination  32 racialization as ‘Muslim-looking’ people  32 Rushdie affair in 1988  31 terrorist threat  33 turban and 5Ks in schools and workplaces  33 Young Sikh Association Singapore (YSAS/YSA)  32 He Xian Jun Buddhist Temple  188 hijab  109–11, 118–19, 131, 141 hijrah  165, 264 Hinduism 18 100, 105, 108, 109, 111, 114, 116, 192 ‘Hinterhofmoschee’ (backyard mosque)  183 Hongwanzihui (Universal Red Swastika Society)  237 Huazang Temple  253 Huiquan (1874–1942)  250 humanistic Buddhism  237 Hussein Mosque  179–80, 190 hypermobility  26, 34

362

identity construction  97, 98 identity retention and transformation, Canada, see faith-based schools in Canada I Guan Dao  18 immigrant faith-based communities  180 ‘immigrant-receiving societies’ advocacy scholarship  282 anti-Asian policies  283 Christianity and the Enlightenment  283 citizenship, French  275 Confucian norms and practices  283 ‘corporatist membership’ approach, Germany  275 cultural negotiation  288 discrimination and stereotypes  282 ethno-cultural festivals  279 ethno-religious schools  280 features, linking societies  275 gender and relationships  280 German Muslim associations  281 Hérouxville controversy in Québec  288 ‘immigrant-receiving societies’  274 institutional religion in immigrantreceiving societies  281 Islamophobia  278 Ismaili migrants  276 Ismaili Muslim congregation houses, significance of  279 liberal democracies  288 migration and multiculturalism  288 outcomes of migration  281–2 path dependencies at work  275 patterns of cultural hegemony  282 Polish Catholicism in Scotland  279 post-Reformation and post-Westphalian trajectories  277 Shariah law  277–88 social changes in the host society  276–7 social cohesion and national identity  279 Immigration Act, 1967  221 Immigration Act and policies  126–7 Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965  28 immigration laws in Canada, 1961  28

SUBJECT INDEX

immigration myths  142 imported’ patrons and saints  171 Indian Workers Association (IWA)  28 individual prayer  40, 43–6, 49, 51 Indonesia, migration and queer travels, see Queer Muslims in Indonesia Indus-culture  165 integration  10, 24 adjustments to integrate/accommodate the religious differences  11 sites of  279 intellectual orientalism  142 interfaith and intercultural series, “To Approach One Another”  190 internal religiosity  167 International Islamic University of Malaysia  245 International Migration and the Governance of Religious Diversity (2009)  277 International Sikh Youth Federation (ISYF)  29 intra-umma difference  137 intra-umma intolerance  131–2 intra-umma othering  124 #IPledgeOrange protest movement  31 Ireland, Polish immigrants, see Polish immigrants in Ireland Islamophobia  126, 130 Ismaili centres  129, 134, 135 Ismaili councils  128–9 Ismaili Muslims, Canadian  294 n.1 Aga Khan, forty-ninth hereditary Imam  133 Aga Khan Museum and Park (AKM)  134 Aga Khan Museum Curriculum-Linked Resources  135 Canadian Islamophobia  125, 126, 130, 135, 137 Global Centre for Pluralism  134 intra-umma difference  137 Ismaili centres  135 Jamati Ambassador Program (JAP)  135 migrant religious adaptations  137 Muslim diaspora, nature of  124 intra-umma othering  124 minority group  124

SUBJECT INDEX

Muslim settlement (see Canadian Muslim settlement) Muslim Student Association  134 othering discourses consequences anti-Muslim bills  125 anti-Muslim prejudice and discrimination  124–5 Islamophobia  126 Quebec City Mosque shooting  125 otherness, internalizing  130–2, 137 Aga Khan Development Network  131 prejudice and discrimination  131 strengthening of Ismaili identity  130 Shaping Pluralistic Dispositions in Education (SPDE)  135 Shi’a Imami Nizari Ismaili Muslims  123 takfirism  131–3 intra-umma intolerance  131–2 kafir, labelling as  132 Ugandan Ismailis  133 Italian or Spanish Catholics in Germany  193 Jacob Joo and congregation  89 English Ministry congregation in 1996  89 Mission work expansions  94 multiculturalism  99–101 pastor of Pentecostal World Mission Church  89 short-term missionaries  93 jama’at  129–30 Jamati Ambassador Program (JAP)  134, 135 jamatkhanas (congregation houses)  128, 296 n.42 Japanese migration Japanese Buddhist priests  172 Japanese immigrant Buddhism in Brazil  173 Japanese religiosity and Buddhist temples  169–70 to Latin America  167 Jesus Christ  99, 100, 238 Jodo-School  172 Johnson-Reed Act  219

363

Joo, Jacob  89–91, 93, 94, 98–101, 103 Jornadas de Yarmouk and Syrian conflict  145–8 Leila Khaled Occupation and the media  146 media’s attention  148 neglect and abandonment of Brazilian families  147–8 refugees’ vulnerability  147 traumas and intercultural challenges  146 urban occupation movements  146 Judaism  14, 18, 56 kafir, labelling as  131–2 Kenya, migrants from  1, 109, 128 ‘Kesri Lehar’ campaign  31 Khalistan movement  30 Khalsa Aid, a UK-based Sikh charity  35 Khalsa Food Pantry  35 Khalsa Jatha of the British Isles (KJBI)  27 Khalsa Peace Corps  35 Knights of Rizal  232–3 Komagata Maru incident  26 Kongjiao Hui or Confucian Religion Societies  237 Korean Buddhism  78 Korean Christians in diaspora concept of resilience  74 data material and methods ethnographic research  74–5 generational tensions  77 Korean Christian student groups  75 migrant churches as social and educational centres  76–7 migration  75–6 preservation of ethnic identity  76 refuge for physical safety  76 resilience  75 Resilience, migration and the function of Korean churches  75–7 social resilience  75 in Germany (see Germany, Korean Christians in) post-traditional reorganization and glocal (global-and-local) engagement  74

364

religious and organizational identity, preservation of  74 types of resilient churches  82–6 persistence type  82–3 transformation type  83–6 Korean Christian values  96 Korean congregation cultural sociology  92 definitions  91 Korean Pentecostal identity  92 migration and religion, characteristics  92 multicultural interaction  98–101 religious diversity  98 religious freedom  100 tolerance  99 value of multiculturalism  99 religion and local culture  91 religious diversity acceptance  101 celebration  101 millennial phase of globalization  102 pluralization  102 rejection of immigration and religious diversity  101 religious inclusion and exclusion  103 religious interactions  102 responses to immigrants (Bibby)  101–3 use diversity for evangelism and church growth  101 second-generation youth  95–8 identity construction  97, 98 Korean Christian values  96 language differences  96–7 use of English and Korean  95 transnational relations  92–4 dual affiliation of the congregation  93 Full Gospel Mission Church  93 Guyanese congregation  93 politics and religion  94 Russian-speaking congregation  93 sermons in a local congregation  94 shift of Christianity to Global South  94 short-term missionaries  93

SUBJECT INDEX

Yonggi-Cho’s Full Gospel Church in Seoul, Korea  90, 92, 93, 103 Korea Program  77 labour shortages  3, 27, 219 Latin American migration chronology Catholicism  170 causes and conditions for migratory process  167 Christian religiosity  170 dekasegi  170 destination of a migrant  169 developments, Meiji-era (1868– 1912)  167 external religiosity  168 extra-ethnic marriages  169 impact of immigration on religious life  169 internal religiosity  167 Japanese migration to Latin America  167 Japanese religiosity and Buddhist temples  169–70 Pentecostal churches, role of  168 socio-psychological factors  167–8 investigation of cases of pilgrimage  166 nonreligious reasons for migration  171 predominance of religion or migration desire for religious freedom  172 Japanese Buddhist priests  172 nonreligious-motivated migration  171 nonreligious reasons  171 spiritual assistance of migrants or mission  172 range of migration-religion relation Brazilian dekasegi  174 faith-based healings  173 individual level  172 Japanese immigrant Buddhism in Brazil  173 meso-level of religion  173 Pure Land Buddhism  174 religious life of Brazilian migrants  173

SUBJECT INDEX

role of Evangelical Christianism  173 Sekai Kyūsei Kyō (the Church of World Messianity)  174 research on religion and migration  175 synthesis consequences  175 relevance of religion for migration  176 religion as a dependent variable  176, 177 religion as independent variable  176–7 research on religion and migration – analytical framework  175 theory of transplantation of religion (Pye, Michael)  166 leadership roles and immigration, see also civic engagement competition between social groups (Park)  199 multiracial and multi-ethnic congregations  200–1 newcomers and established social groups  200 social distance and segregation  200 social-group consciousness  199 worshippers with diverse backgrounds  201 Lebanese migrants, see also Arab-Muslim population in Brazil cheap labourers  219 images about Lebanese descendants  142 refugees from the Syrian conflict  147–8 in São Paulo  139 Syrian-Lebanese, or more colloquially Turks  142 legislation American legislation about Asian migrants  219 Bill 21  125 Covid-19 pandemic and lockdown  218 discriminatory  4 exclusionary  6, 125, 217–18 in the Philippines  220 racist legislation  4

365

Leila Khaled Occupation Brazilian housing organization  144–5 Brazilian National Committee on Refugees (CONARE)  145 pro-Palestinian movement  144–5 Liberal and Zionist schools  158 lived religion and intersectionality distinctive ethno-religious traits  285 impact of one’s religious practices  286 notion of contaminated diversity (Beaman’s)  285 relationship between religion and state  284 tradition of advocacy scholarship  285 value of interdisciplinary research  285 value of lived religion approach  286 Longshan Temple  254 low-waged contract labour  3 Lutheranism  277 Mahayana Buddhism  237, 248–9 Malaysia, see also Sikh activism in diaspora attracting Muslim students from China  245 Buddhist Fujian expatriates  252 charitable institutions  253 Chinese Christian missionaries to  242 Chinese Mahayana temples  237 establishment of a Hui community  242 Fuzhou migrants  242 Hainanese associations  240 Hokkien and Teochew speech groups  240 Melaka, the earliest temple  239 Minnan-speaking immigrants  247 overseas Chinese  255 presence of Sikhs  26 revival of Buddhism in early post-Mao China  249 Rev. Zhu Mo in  237 statue of Guangze Zunwang  239 Taoist/Daoist associations  238 temples and monasteries  243, 245 transnational Buddhist communities  286 worship of Nadugong  241 Zhuandao  251 Mandla v Dowell Lee case  27–8

366

Manitoba, religion in, see also Filipino migration to Canada Aklan Ati-atihan Manitoba Float  228 anting-anting (religious amulets)  226–7 Catholic and Protestant churches  229–30 Catholic Women’s League meetings  231–2 change of religion after migration  228 Chicago’s Dr José Rizal commemorative statue  225 Covid-19 era  233–4 Cuban American devotion to Our Lady of Charity, analysis  230 Dr José Rizal Park opening  233 Filipino religious lives  226–7 Filipino voluntary association  221 image of Dr José Rizal at 2015 Winnipeg Street Festival  226 Knights of Rizal  232–3 migratory patterns  230 Pabasa ng Pasyon (reading of the Passion)  227–9 Pre-First World War European immigrants  231 research participant data  222–4​ Santo Niño and divine figures  230–1 St Edwards church services  232 temporary workers in Canada  225 Mass mobilizations  3, 261 Mazu/Tianhou, official sea deity in the Yuan dynasty  239, 286 Medicine Buddha  253 Meiji-era (1868–1912)  167 Miaolian (1824–1907)  248 Midland Langar Seva Society  35 migrants, definition  2 migration advantages  2–3 concept of  10 definition  165 migrant religious adaptations  137 19th- to mid-20th century global society global restructuring  12–13 human rights codes  12

SUBJECT INDEX

imperial, economic and colonial expansion  12 ‘New World’  14 non-European migration  14 power inequalities  12 situations and consequences  13–14 transatlantic slave trade, forced migration  13 of Pentecostals  90 in post-second world war era  19–20 burgeoning of international organizations  19 power stratification  19–20 technological developments  19 ‘Westphalian’ model  19 and religion, characteristics  92 Minnan Buddhist Academy  254 Minnan community in Manila  252 Minnan (Hokkein) culture  248–9 Minnanren (Hokkien in Southeast Asia)  236 Minnan-speaking immigrant communities  247 Minnan Transnational Buddhist Network  255 Modern Orthodox, values  158 Modlitwa Obozowa (Camp Prayer)  62–3 Monkey King Temple  243–4 mudik, returning home  265–71 concept of ‘home’  268–9 concept of tanggung jawab  266–8 definition  261–2 facial feminization, process of  267 notion of prestasi  270 opportunity to support family  270 queer religious migratory experience  269 significance of  259 value of responsibility  266–7 muhajirs  264 multicultural interaction  98–101 multiculturalism  3 Canadian multiculturalism  92, 101, 126 migration and  288 multicultural interaction  98–101 Multiculturalism Act (1988)  126 1971 Multiculturalism Policy  126 threat to Western liberal values  127 value of  99

SUBJECT INDEX

Multiculturalism Act (1988)  126 Muslim associations  191, 281 Muslim populations in Brazil, see also Brazil impact of humanitarian narratives on Muslims  140 media narratives about Islam  149 Muslim women as a foreign threat  141 public citizenship  148 second- and third-generation migrants  140 Muslims and Chinese migration  242 Dungan people  242 from Hui and the Uyghur  242, 245 International Islamic University of Malaysia  245 Muslim Student Association  134 Muslim Women’s Sports Club  191 Nadugong, worship of  241 National Sikh Youth Federation (NSYF)  34, 35 Neocatechumenal Way and Bible Study groups  61 neo-Pentecostal Evangelical alliance  142 networking  79, 84, 247 new age movements/practices  180–1 9/11 (September 11)  2, 8, 31, 32, 33, 102, 110, 119, 124, 139, 295 n.16, n.17 Brazilian pluralism  144 Brazilian print media, investigation  143 coverage of Islam in the media  144 narrative event  143–4 Brazilian pluralism  144 Brazilian print media, investigation  143 coverage of Islam in the media  144 violent reactions against Islam  143–4 violent reactions against Islam  143–4 1920–5 Gurdwara Reform Movement  27 1948 Palestine war  145 1984 Living History Project  34, 35 Ningbo’s Tiantong Monastery  250 Nipa hut  216–17 Nishkam Help  35

367

Nominal Christians  240–1, 282 non-Christian  14, 21, 37, 56, 57, 77, 80, 99, 100, 103, 125, 140, 144, 184, 280 nonreligious-motivated migration  171 Ontario Canadian Reformed schools  159 Ontario Teacher’s Certificate (OTC)  162 Operation Blue Star (1984), see also Sikh activism in diaspora anti-Sikh violence  30 assassination of Indira Gandhi  29 Babbar Khalsa International (BKI)  31 bombing of Air India Flight  31 clashes, on Khalistan  30 emergence of the annual rally  30 #FreeJaggiNow campaign  31 International Sikh Youth Federation (ISYF)  29 #IPledgeOrange protest movement  31 ‘Kesri Lehar’ campaign  31 Khalistan movement  30 1985 attack on former B.C. premier Ujjal Dosanjh  30 Terrorist and Disruptive Activities (Prevention) Act (TADA)  31 Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act (UAPA)  31 World Sikh Organization (WSO)  30 opłatek  66 ‘otherness’ consequences anti-Muslim bills  125 anti-Muslim prejudice and discrimination  124–5 Islamophobia  126 Quebec City Mosque shooting  125 internalizing  130–2, 137 Aga Khan Development Network  131 prejudice and discrimination  131 strengthening of Ismaili identity  130 Our Lady of Czêstochowa, Queen of Poland  64, 65, 67, 69 Pacific Coast Khalsa Diwan Society in 1912  27 Pakistan  298 n.60 first Ismailis in Canada from  127

368

Muslim migrants and refugees  1 Pakistani Muslims  57, 125 Pakistani Taliban splinter group Jundullah and ISIS  132 victims of intolerance, discrimination and violence  132 Palestinian refugees  139, 144, 276 Panjabi Suba movement  27 peer-referral process  40 Pentecostal Assemblies of Canada (PAOC)  92 Pentecostal churches, role of  168 Pentecostals, Korean  83, 91–4, 97–8, 102–3 Pentecostal World Mission Church  90, 93 People’s Union for Civil Liberties  30 persistence type, Korean churches, see also Korean Christians in diaspora conservation of the shared cultural heritage  82–3 home country orientations  83 phase of conservation  83 Philippines, see also Filipino migration to Canada Buddhism in  252 Catholic immigrants from nonEuropean countries  58 family-based cultures  216–17 legislation  220 pilgrim/pilgrimage investigation of cases of  166 metaphor of  64–6 Icon of Black Madonna of Czêstochowa  64–5, 65 singing and praying in native language  65 traditional oaths of loyalty  65 pluralization  92, 102 Polish diasporic Catholicism in Scotland anti-Catholic riots  57 anti-Semitism  56 assimilation of Poles in Britain  58–9 diasporic institutions and traditions  70 ethnic identification  56 festive rituals and rites of passage age-long customs  66–7 Christmas Eve vigil supper  66 commemorating dead on All Saints’ and All Souls’ Days  67

SUBJECT INDEX

Resurrection Mass  66 Shepherds’ Mass  66 Jews, ethno-religious minority  56 local Irish-American clergy  58 Parishes, network of  60–2 Episcopal Conference of Poland  60–1 network of Polish chaplaincies in Scotland  61 pastoral care to compatriots  61 PCM  60 Polish congregation, St Mary’s Cathedral  62 spiritual welfare of exiles  60 pilgrim, metaphor of  64–6 Icon of Black Madonna of Czêstochowa  64–5, 65 singing and praying in native language  65 traditional oaths of loyalty  65 Polish Catholicism in Scotland, characteristics  58, 291 n.1 Polish Catholic Mission in Scotland (PCM)  55 Polish Catholics and Polish Catholic identity  57 Polish diasporic Catholicism  71 Polish-language Mass  71 religious-cum-patriotic songs Modlitwa Obozowa (Camp Prayer)  62–3 national anthem  63 traditional religious and patriotic hymn  63 sacred artefacts with national meaning  67–9 baroque-style religious artefact  69 Black Madonna of Czêstochowa  68 chapels adorned with national symbols  69 combination of national and religious symbols  67 Scotland, Protestant majority country  57 Tweed’s theoretical model  59–60, 71 Virgin Mary as Queen of Poland  55 Zubrzycki’s sociological study of Polish immigrants  58 Polish Ex-servicemen’s Association  60

SUBJECT INDEX

Polish immigrants in Ireland association between several variables  47 Catholicism  51–2 correlations for factors of religiosity  48–9​ decline in public practices  47 discussion  45–53 immigrant religiosity  38 impact of migration on individual religiosity  53 income ad religiosity  47 indicators of religiosity  45, 46 individualization, category of  54 Irish and Polish, socio-religious patterns attendance at religious services  40 decline of Polish immigrant religiosity  39 subjective dimension of religion  39–40 language  50 methodology peer-referral process  40 RDS  40–1 referral chains  41 social condition of Polish immigrants  40 Niklas Luhmann’s approach to religion  54 range of theologizing/revival concept  51 results change of religious belief  42 cultural rituals and habits  44 drop in praying or meditating  43 five dimensions of religiosity  41 language  43–4 Polish Catholicism rituals  44 RDS survey  41 religion-based social activity and participation  43 religious profile  42 variables, religious practices  42–3 role of religion on emigration  53–4 scale of religiosity among Polish immigrants  52 secularization thesis  53

369

socio-economic motives  38 socio-economic status  38–9 variable ‘type of relationship’  50 post-9/11 discrimination  32, see also hate crimes and securitization, post 9/11 post-EU enlargement in 2004  37 post-Mao China, revival of Buddhism, see also Buddhism activities of the Kaiyuan orphanage  252 bi-directional migrant networks  248 Buddhism in the Philippines  252 Buddhist Layperson’s Society  251 Chinese Buddhist Association of Singapore  251 Cultural Revolution (1966 to 1976)  248 Huazang Temple  253 Mahayana Buddhist doctrines of compassion  248 Medicine Buddha  253 Merit, face and guanxi  247 Miaolian (1824–1907)  248 Minnan community in Manila  252 Minnan-speaking immigrant communities  247 networks, advantages  248 Ningbo’s Tiantong Monastery  250 religious recovery in post-Mao China (1976 to 1999)  248 Report Book for the Orphanage and School  251–2 Republican Period (1912–49) revival of Buddhism  248 Singapore-Fujian lineage associations  248 Temple of Paradise/Bliss (Jilesi)  250 Temples, Singapore  252 Three Principles of the People  250 transnational Buddhist network  248 transnational networks  248 war with Japan (1937–45)  248 pre-Second World War immigration  126 pro-Palestinian movement  144–5 Protestant Reformation  15, 57, 277 Pujue Temple  254 Pure Land Buddhism  173, 174 Putuo Temple  254

370

Qingtian migrants, study of  244 Quanzhou Kaiyuan Monastery  250, 254, 302 n.17 Quanzhou Women’s Buddhist Academy  254 Quebec City Mosque shooting  125 Quebec/Québécois French-speaking populations in Canada  21 Hérouxville controversy  278 identification  162 Islamic schools  162 partial government funding of private schools  158 Quebec City Mosque shooting  125 Queer Muslims in Indonesia act of fasting  263 definition  260–2, 265 dequeering  260 hijrah, definition  264 HIV+ Muslim waria  262 LGBTIQ+ rights  262 mudik, returning home  265–71 concept of home  268–9 concept of tanggung jawab  266–8 definition  261–2 notion of prestasi  270 opportunity to support family  270 process of facial feminization  267 queer religious migratory experience  269 significance of  259 value of responsibility  266–7 Muslim waria (transfeminine individuals) migrants  259 pesantren waria  264–5 relationship between being queer and Muslim  261 religious migration, reasons  264 self-defined HIV+ Muslim waria, experiences  259–72 transnational queerdom  263 Qur’an study associations  192 race-based discriminatory immigration policies  126 racism  3, 32, 33, 79, 216–18, 237, 276, 283 Ramadan  109, 119, 186, 190, 266, 271

SUBJECT INDEX

reconstruction of religions and states  14–18 developing Westphalian model of difference (see Westphalian model) glocalization (see also glocalization of religions and (nation-)states) African Traditional Religion(s)  18 diverse religious cultures  18 folk religions  18 Global North and Global South  17 glocalization  16–17 hierarchy  17 Indigenous religions  18 isomorphism between nation state and religion  17 nationalist movements  17 nation-state model  17 new religions  18 reconstruction  17–18 reforms  17–18 religion model  17–18 ‘refugee crisis’ in Europe  273 religion and im/migration advantages  2 civic participation  190–2 definition by Tweed  274 embodied nature of Buddhist men and women  117–18 dress  118 food  119 generational split  119–20 hijab, wearing  118–19 Muslim men and women  118 9/11 attacks  119 public nature of private religious practice  117 and ethnic identity in Canada  91 German reunification  193 globalized spiritualities  180–2 houses of worship (see worship) ideal global immigrant  2 immigrant faith-based communities  180 Italian or Spanish Catholics in Germany  193 local, becoming and being  187–9 Christian and Buddhist places of worship  188

SUBJECT INDEX

Fujianese congregation at Transformation  189 He Xian Jun Buddhist Temple  188 Temple of Heavenly Thanksgiving  188 Transfiguration Church  188 Luhmann’s approach to  54 significance of  235 struggle for visibility  185–7 brass-band of a Kimbanguist Congolese church  187 Filipino Catholic ritual, annual Santacruzan procession  186 mosque controversy  185–6 quest for recognition and participation  186 unique spiritual practices and celebrations  187 religions in China ancestor worship  240 Buddhism, Mahayana  237 Cantonese funeral rites and symbolism  240–1 Chinese popular religion  237 Confucianism  236–7 deity worship  239, 245 Dejiao devotees  238 demographic information  236 ethnic categories  236 Han Chinese  236 humanistic Buddhism  237 Kongjiao Hui or Confucian Religion Societies  237 rejection of immigration and  101 and religious diversity  98 religious groups  238 revitalization movements  237 San Fancón  241 sanjiao (Confucianism, Buddhism and Taoism/Daoism)  236 Spanish Catholicizing policy  241 Taoism/Daoism  237 Tibetan Buddhism  237 transnational networks (see transnational networks, China) worship of Nadugong  241 religious dress, issues for Sikhs  33 religious freedom  91, 100, 155, 164, 172, 184, 233

371

religious inclusion and exclusion  103 religious interactions  102, 218, 232 religious recovery in post-Mao China (1976 to 1999)  248 religious schooling, see faith-based schools in Canada Report Book for the Orphanage and School  251–2 Republican Period (1912–49) revival of Buddhism  248 resilience  75, see also Germany, Korean Christians in concept of  74 social resilience  75, 80 rites of passage  58 festive rituals and age-long customs  66–7 Christmas Eve vigil supper  66 commemorating dead on All Saints’ and All Souls’ Days  67 Resurrection Mass  66 Shepherds’ Mass  66 Roman Catholicism  14, 39 Rushdie affair in 1988  31 Russian-speaking congregation  93 same-sex socialization, concept of  113 San Fancón  241 sanjiao (Confucianism, Buddhism and Taoism/Daoism)  236 Santo Niño and divine figures  230–1 Scotland, Polish Catholicism, see Polish diasporic Catholicism in Scotland Second World War  17 burgeoning of international organizations  19 Canadian Muslim settlement  126 migration in post-Second World War  19–20 power stratification  19–20 pre-Second World War immigration  126 technological developments  19 ‘Westphalian’ model  19 Second-Generation Immigrants Buddhists  106, 107 Filipinos  215, 226, 231 Hindus  107, 108 Ismailis  129

372

Koreans  75, 82, 84, 85, 86, 90, 95, 98 Muslims  109, 110, 120, 162 secular city, notions of  181 secularization  37–40, 49, 53, 54, 70, 155, 157, 280–1 Sekai Kyūsei Kyō (the Church of World Messianity)  174 sermons in local congregation  94 seva or selfless service  35, 129–30, 136 Shaping Pluralistic Dispositions in Education (SPDE)  128, 135 Shariah law  277 Shi’i Muslims  1, 123, 127, 132 short-term missionaries  93, 103 Sikh activism in diaspora early Sikh activism  26–9 anti-British insurgency  26 events outside gurdwaras  35 Ghadar movement  26–7 Gyani Sundar Singh Sagar’s campaign in 1959  28 Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965  28 immigration laws in Canada in 1961  28 Indian Workers Association (IWA)  28 issues relating to turban  29 Khalsa Jatha of the British Isles (KJBI)  27 Komagata Maru incident  26 Mandla v Dowell Lee case  27–8 1920–5 Gurdwara Reform Movement  27 Operation Blue Star  29 Pacific Coast Khalsa Diwan Society in 1912  27 Panjabi Suba movement  27 settle in Canada  26 struggle by Sikhs against Indira Gandhi’s authoritarian regime in 1975–7 27 Tarsem Singh Sandhu’s campaign  28 turban campaigns  28 hypermobility during British Empire  26 impact of Blue Star (see Operation Blue Star (1984))

SUBJECT INDEX

populations of Sikhs outside India  25–6 post-9/11, hate crimes and securitization  31–4 hate crimes  32–3 media accusations of racism  32 post-9/11 discrimination  32 racialization as ‘Muslim-looking’ people  32 Rushdie affair in 1988  31 securitization  33 terrorist threat  33 turban and 5Ks in schools and workplaces  33 Young Sikh Association Singapore (YSAS/YSA)  32 Sikh Coalition (US)  34, 35 Sikh Council UK  34, 35 Sikh Welfare and Awareness Team (SWAT)  35 Singapore Buddhist communities  286 Chinese Buddhist Association of Singapore  251 Chinese Mahayana temples in the diaspora  237 Guangze Zunwang temples  243 Hokkien and Teochew speech groups  240 Longshan Temple  254 Minnan Chinese monks  286 Minnan-speaking immigrant communities  247, 252 overseas Chinese  255–6 Pujue Temple  254 Singaporean Sikh community  26–7 Singapore-Fujian lineage associations, Kuah-Pearce’s study  248 Singapore Grand Prix  32 sites for formal Buddhist practice  250 Taoist/Daoist Mission  243 temples  252 Tianhou temples  239 Young Sikh Association Singapore (YSAS/YSA)  32 Singapore-Fujian lineage associations, Kuah-Pearce’s study  248 Sino-Japanese War  256–7 slavery, abolition of  167 social cohesion  10, 37, 169, 279

SUBJECT INDEX

social network  40–1, 145, 149, 168, 198 Soto-Zen-school  172 Southeast Asia, see also transnational network under and after Mao Chinese deities and beliefs  236, 238 Chinese diaspora  242, 249–56 Chinese temple fairs  240 early Chinese establishment  244–5 financial capital flow  248 Guangdong visit  239 mass immigration of monks to  257 networks of overseas Minnan people  249 transnational religious contacts  243 South Korean Ministry of Foreign Affairs (MOFAT)  78 Spanish Catholicizing policy  241 spirituality  52, 61, 71, 107, 113, 157, 182, 216, 265, 271, 275 split personality syndrome  156 State-funded Catholic education  156 Sufi  1, 127, 129 Sunnis  1, 127, 131–2, 139–40, 286, 298 n.60, 299 n.3 Sun Zhongshan/Dr Sun Yatsen (1866– 1925)  250 Surat Initiative  34, 35 syncretism  140 Syrian civil war (2011–)  141 Syrian conflict  273 Jornadas de Yarmouk and  145–8 Leila Khaled Occupation and the media  146 media’s attention  148 neglect and abandonment of Brazilian families  147–8 refugees’ vulnerability  147 traumas and intercultural challenges  146 urban occupation movements  146 refugees from  147–8 Syrian Ismaili refugees  129 Syrian-Lebanese or ‘Turks’  142 Syrian refugee crisis  2 takfirism  131–3 intra-umma intolerance  131–2 kafir, labelling as  132 Tanzanian Ismaili migration  127

373

Taoism/Daoism  236–8 tariqah traditions  129 Tarsem Singh Sandhu’s campaign  28 Temple of Heavenly Thanksgiving  188 Temple of Paradise/Bliss (Jilesi)  250 Temporary Foreign Workers programme  3, 218 Teochew migrants  241 Terrorist and Disruptive Activities (Prevention) Act (TADA)  31 terrorist threat  33 Tibetan Buddhism  8, 237 Tokugawa government (1603–1867), encapsulation  167 ‘Tomb of Lonely Poles’  67 traditionalist schools, values  158 ‘trampoline migration’  220 transfeminine individuals, see waria Transfiguration Church  188 ‘transformation’ type, Korean churches, see also Korean Christians in diaspora glocal engagement  83–6 post-traditional reorganization  83–6 realignment of religious practices  85 reorganization  85 responsive process of transformation  84 transnationalism  91 transnational networks, China Dabogong Festival  243 Daojiao Jie or Taoist/Daoist Religion Festival  243 establishment of temples  243 Monkey King Temple  243–4 pilgrimages  243 social support of churches  244 study of Qingtian migrants  244 transnational network under and after Mao, see also post-Mao China, revival of Buddhism Buddhist Academy of China in Beijing  254 Buddhist forms of kinship  256–7 creation and survival of the network  256 Cultural Revolution (1966–76)  253 culturo-linguistic heritage  256 fundraising for a Buddhist charity  257–8

374

Longshan Temple  254 mass immigration of monks to Southeast Asia  257 merit incentives  255 Minnan Buddhist Academy  254 Minnan Transnational Buddhist Network  255 post-Mao revival of religion  255 Pujue Temple  254 Putuo Temple  254 Quanzhou Kaiyuan Monastery  254 Quanzhou Women’s Buddhist Academy  254 restoration of Buddhism  253–4 restoration of temples and monasteries  254–5 transfer of money  256 transnational queerdom  263 transnational relations  92–4 transplantation of religion, theory of (Pye, Michael)  166 ‘travel ban,’ Trump’s  273 Trumpism  21 turban, see also Sikh activism in diaspora campaigns  28 and 5Ks in schools and workplaces  33 issues relating to  29 twentieth-century Pentecostal revivals  89 Tydings-McDuffie Act, 1934  220 Ugandan Ismailis  127, 133, 296 n.45 ultra-Orthodox haredi schools  158 umma  124 United States Congregational Life Survey (USCLS)  196, 201 Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act (UAPA)  31 Vajrayana-Buddhism  177 Virgin Mary  55, 58, 63, 64, 241, 252, 258 Vodoun  18 waria, see also Queer Muslims in Indonesia Muslim, (transfeminine individuals) migrants  259, 276 pesantren waria  264–5 self-defined HIV+ Muslim waria, experiences  259–72

SUBJECT INDEX

war with Japan (1937–45)  248 Western societies British settler societies and European countries  20 of North America and Oceania  20 European societies  20 four British settler societies  21–2 importing ‘guest workers’  22 Latin American societies  20 temporary inhabitants  23 Westphalian model cultural genocide  16 immigration policies  16 Protestant Reformation  15 religious and cultural diversity  14–15 Treaties of Westphalia in 1648  15 Western Catholic Christian religion in Europe, progress of  15 ‘White Polish’  57, 291 n.1 women Catholic Women’s League meetings in Manitoba  231–2 debate clubs or interfaith associations  192 Muslim woman as a foreign threat  141 Muslim Women’s Sports Club  191 Quanzhou Women’s Buddhist Academy  254 role in religious practices  111 women’s debate clubs or interfaith associations  192 World Sikh Organization (WSO)  30, 34, 35 worship houses of Chicago, dense urban neighbourhood  185 communal spaces, acquiring  183 Highway to Heaven  184 ‘Hinterhofmoschee’ (backyard mosque)  183 opposition to purpose-built houses of worship  183–4 temple  184 spatialities and controversial houses Chicago, dense urban neighbourhood (Livezey)  185

SUBJECT INDEX

communal spaces, acquiring  183 Highway to Heaven  184 ‘Hinterhofmoschee’ (backyard mosque)  183 opposition to purpose-built houses of worship  183–4 temple  184 Yiguan Dao (The Way of Pervading Unity)  237

375

Yonggi-Cho Full Gospel Church in Seoul, Korea  92, 93, 103 Young Sikh Association Singapore (YSAS/YSA)  32 Yuanying (1878–1953)  250 Zen institution in Latin America  172 Zhen Kong Jiao (Religion of the True Void)  237

376

377

378

379

380

381

382