Publicly leaving a religion is not just a personal decision, it can become a social act that invites strong reactions. Among the most extreme of these are death threats, often framed as punishment for crossing a boundary that others consider sacred.
I have received such threats.
Strangely, over time, I began to see them differently—not purely as expressions of violence, but as something more performative. Many of these threats seemed to depend on one thing: my reaction. Fear, silence, withdrawal. When those reactions did not come, the interaction often dissolved.
At one point, I even found myself responding:
“I am here. I am not running away. When are you going to kill me?”
More often than not, the person would back away.
It made me reflect: perhaps the threat was never only about killing. Perhaps it was about control.
Fear as Performance
Death threats, in many cases, function as a form of psychological intimidation. Their power lies not just in the possibility of violence, but in their ability to produce fear.
There is an expected script:
Threat → Fear → Silence
But when fear is not produced, the script breaks.
What I came to understand is this:
fear is not just imposed, it is co-produced.
If the target refuses to participate in that fear, something shifts.
Defiance and Meaning
I once joked with my guru:
“Maybe I was born into this religion so I can understand what it feels like when someone threatens to kill you for leaving it.”
It was a joke, but also not a joke.
Because in that experience, something changed. The threat lost its meaning. Or rather, I gave it a different meaning.
Instead of seeing it as something that should silence me, I began to see it as something that revealed how deeply identity and belief are tied to control.
Fear Within the Community
What surprised me more was that the pressure did not only come from outside.
Within humanist circles, I was once told:
“You should stop going public. Anything can happen. Someone could stab you in a crowd.”
This was not a threat—but it was still driven by fear.
It reflects something important: even within dissenting communities, people internalize risk and begin to regulate each other. A kind of self-protection emerges—stay quiet, stay safe.
But I found myself responding simply:
“So be it.”
Not because I dismiss the risk, but because I refuse to let fear decide the limits of my voice.
When Fear Stops Working
This is not unique to my experience.
We see it in history.
During World War II, resistance fighters continued their work despite knowing the risks : arrest, torture, execution. They saw what happened to others, yet many did not retreat. In some cases, repression strengthened their resolve.
We see it today in places like Iran, where people protest despite violent crackdowns. Or in North Korea, where individuals attempt to escape despite the risk of being shot.
What this suggests is something important:
Fear has limits as a tool of control.
There comes a point, a threshold, where the cost of doing nothing feels greater than the risk of acting.
At that point, fear does not disappear. But it no longer decides.
Context Matters: Singapore
In Singapore, the dynamic shifts again.
When someone tells me I deserve death for leaving Islam, my response is different:
“I can report you to the police for threatening me.”
Here, I am not just relying on personal defiance. I am invoking the law.
This changes the power dynamic:
The one making the threat is no longer in control
They become accountable Fear is redirected.
Beyond Fear
Across all these experiences, personal, social, historical, one thing becomes clear:
Threats are meant to control.
But they do not always succeed.
Sometimes, they reveal more about the system that produces them than about the person they are directed at.
And sometimes, they fail.
Not because the danger is unreal.
But because the individual chooses not to be governed by it.
Fear may exist. But it does not have to decide.
April 1st, 2026
