I was born Tamil, and I was born into a world that told me about gods and peace and compassion. I was told that Buddhism was a path of kindness — a way to see all life as one, to treat everyone with respect. But my reality was very different. My people — Tamil people — have suffered wounds that never truly healed. And those wounds weren’t created by strangers. They were created by those who claimed to fight for a Buddhist land.
Dr. B. R. Ambedkar embraced Buddhism because, for him, it was a way to escape the shackles of caste and oppression. Buddhism gave him and millions of Dalits dignity and a sense of identity they had been denied for centuries. It was a symbol of liberation — a peaceful protest against a system that treated them as less than human. In his time, Buddhism was a path toward equality and self-respect.
But my time is different. My reality is different. The Buddhist identity that gave Ambedkar strength is not the Buddhism I see around me today. What I witnessed is Buddhist nationalism being used as a weapon — monks and leaders turning a blind eye to the suffering of Tamil people. The same religion that gave Ambedkar hope has been manipulated into something that hurts my own.
That is why I cannot accept Buddhism the way Ambedkar did. I respect his journey, and I understand the power it gave him. But for me, as a Tamil who has seen Buddhist mobs and leaders justify atrocities, my path must be different. My liberation is not in following their faith — it is in stepping outside all religion and choosing my humanity and my people above any god.
When I look back at the history of my people, my heart feels heavy. The civil war in Sri Lanka left so many of us crushed under the weight of someone else’s religion. Buddhist nationalism was used like a weapon against Tamils. Temples that preached peace stood silent while villages burned. Leaders who called themselves protectors of the faith watched as my people disappeared, one by one.
That’s not the Buddhism they talk about in books. That’s not the compassion I was told to admire. That’s why I cannot embrace a religion that has been twisted into hate. That’s why I cannot close my eyes and pretend that this suffering never happened.
And so, I am an atheist — not because I don’t want to believe in anything, but because my trust in gods and religion was shattered. If Buddhism can stand by during genocide, if religion can let my people cry without reaching out a hand, then I choose to believe in something else.
I believe in my own strength.
I believe in my people.
I believe in my memories — of my village, my family, my language.
I choose this path not out of hate, but out of honesty. I cannot follow teachings that let my people suffer in silence and when I look deeper, I realize that belief itself often grows into superstition. What begins as faith can so easily become fear — fear of angering gods, fear of being punished, fear of breaking some ancient ritual. Religion can wrap people in rules they don’t understand, making them blind to the pain outside their doors. I watched my people suffer while those in power spoke of compassion, yet followed blind superstitions. In the end, belief doesn’t always lead to light — sometimes it just traps us in the dark.
And even as I carry these wounds, I know my humanity doesn’t come from religion — it comes from remembering who I am.
From telling the stories my ancestors never got to tell.
From standing for the Tamil identity that was pushed into the dark.
That is my faith now.
And that is why I am not Buddhist — and why I am an atheist.
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