In the light of the recent anti-temple rally led by Muslim convert Zamri Vinoth, I found myself wondering why converts often develop hostility toward the identity group they once belonged to.
As I reflected on this, it suddenly occurred to me that I myself am a religious convert.
I was born a Hindu. But if I am asked today — and if I am inclined to answer — I would probably describe myself as Buddhist.
Generally, however, I avoid answering questions about my religion, because I tend to interpret that question as really meaning: Whose people are you? And that is a question I am reluctant to answer, chiefly because every possible response feels misleading, because I do not identify with people primarily on the basis of religion.
My identity is instead grounded in class, race, nationality, and ethics.
Socially, I identify as working class, Indian, and Malaysian. ( You know what , scratch Malaysian - these days I am not even sure whether such thing as a Malaysian even exists). It is on these bases that I feel solidarity with others. As for religion, the closest I come to religious identification is ethical: I identify with those I would call true persons — or people whose intentions, speech, expressions, and actions are aligned as one.
This is not necessarily a religious identity. I can even identify with criminals who fully accept that they are criminals, speak openly as criminals, and behave accordingly. In my moral framework, if you believe that the world is made up of killers — that either you will kill me or I will kill you — and you state this openly before trying to kill me, and you do not blame me if I succeed in killing you instead, I would regard you as a true person, or a person of integrity, even though religious standards would almost certainly label you sinful.
This ethical identification is not confined to any single religious tradition. I have encounter true persons in Buddhism, Hinduism, Christianity, Islam, and beyond. And I also encounter profound delusions and hypocrisy within my own inherited traditions. Thus, shared religious labels do not automatically create an ethical identity for me.
So why, when thinking about converts like Zamri Vinoth, did it not immediately occur to me that I myself am a convert?
Well, one reason is because because I don't think that anybody else knows about my conversion other for me.
And the other reason that I arrived at is because I tend to make a distinction between identity conversion and spiritual conversion.
When one converts on the basis of identity, one leaves one group of people in order to join another. Conversion becomes an act of social, political or economic relocation — a transfer of loyalty, belonging, and social positioning. In such cases, hostility toward one’s former group is almost structurally inevitable. To fully belong in the new identity, one often feels compelled to publicly reject the old.
But when one converts on the basis of spirituality, something fundamentally different occurs. One does not leave a people — one leaves a self.
Spiritual conversion is not a migration between tribes. It is a transformation of being.
I consider myself a spiritual convert rather than an identity convert. Because of that, the people I identify with remain the same. I never left them. What I left behind was simply an older version of myself.
Before my conversion, I was deeply unhappy — though I did not realise it. I was angry, irritable, frustrated, moody, and emotionally disconnected. For a long time, I assumed this was simply who I was.
But unhappiness is like carrying a heavy burden. Even if you are unaware of it, the weight still presses down on you. After carrying it long enough, you begin to feel the strain. Slowly, I realised that I could not continue being who I was. The exhaustion became existential.
Something had to change — and that something was me.
As I searched for a way to free myself from this unhappiness, I discovered the works of the American working-class philosopher Eric Hoffer. Hoffer , which helped me understand why I was so unhappy. But while he diagnosed my condition with extraordinary clarity, he did not offer a cure.
Hoffer himself, incidentally, is someone I consider a true person. He readily admitted that as a migrant labourer, wherever he travelled to work, he would take a room “halfway between the books and the brothel” — between the library and the prostitutes.
Some might see hypocrisy in this, but this is not what my definiation of what hypocrisy is.
His relentless pursuit of meaning through books, while simultaneously spending his wages on prostitutes, strikes me as deeply human rather than morally contradictory. I was not a brothel person — I was more of a drinking person — but I too spent many hours at the bar while searching for answers in books.
When people say, “How can you behave this way when your religion forbids it?”, I sense that they see religion primarily as a social identity, rather than as a spiritual practice.
If religion is seen as spiritual practice, such a question would sound as absurd as asking a skinny person why they are going to the gym.
Practice begins precisely because one is not yet whole.
Nobody expects an obese or underweight person to have perfect discipline the day they sign up at the gym. Self-improvement is a long-term process. Over time, one gradually values health more than indulgence, but nobody expects you to give up nasi lemak, fried chicken, and multiple cups of teh tarik on day one of resolving to lead healthier life.
Spiritual practice is no different. No one becomes a saint the day they begin walking a religious path. What is a prerequisite however, is is honesty — to see yourself as you are, acknowledge the shortcoming and resolve to better youself by committing to a process of improving youself, regardless of how many times you face setbacks in the process.
But I digress.
Returning to Hoffer: once he helped me understand why I was unhappy, I sought methods to address that suffering. Buddhism, in my experience, offered the most practical results.
I will not claim that I no longer drink, or never become angry, irritated, or disconnected since taking the Buddhist instructions to heart. But I will say that I now drink less, get angry less, and remain increasingly convinced that if I continue on this path, I might one day reach a level of peace where even the prospect of death does not provoke terror or resentment in me. (Fingers crossed.)
This personal experience has led me to a firm conclusion: religious conversion is rarely driven by divine or supernatural causes.
As the late Raja Petra once remarked, if you talk to God, that is normal. But if God talks back, you should probably get your head checked. ( I am pretty sure it is Raja Petra who said this, but i can't confirm it, because his writing is locked in his website Malaysia -Today, which is blocked in Malaysia)
As a rule, people convert for two reasons: to improve their chances of success in life, or to improve their chances of happiness and inner peace.
Religious conversion, by the way, is not the only form of conversion people pursue to improve their chances of success. One can also convert nationality, profession, company, class position, or even gender in search of success.
Just because you cannot succeed as a Malaysian does not mean you must remain unsuccessful forever. Many Malaysians have flourished after becoming Australians or Canadians. And in this country, converting from Indian to another race can even clear the way for you to become Prime Minister one day!
As for happiness and inner peace, sometimes changing one’s religious path may genuinely help.
Spiritual conversion, therefore, should not be dogmatic. What matters is sincerity: honestly assessing how angry, bitter, depressed, or restless you are, and following whatever practice helps cleanse the heart and enlarge the mind.
When transformation is spiritual, its effects occur primarily within, not in outward identity.
Your race, clothing, diet, social circles, and cultural habits may remain largely unchanged. What shifts is your mind. What softens is your heart. And that transformation is something only you can truly experience, not something others can easily observe.
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