The Caged Virgin: An Emancipation Proclamation for Women and Islam (11 page)

My sister and I were still very young when we began to notice that we were always told to respect our brother. He was only ten months older than I, but we realized that only boys count. A Muslim woman’s status depends on the number of sons she has. When people asked my grandmother how many children she had, she would answer: “One.” She had nine daughters and a son. She was the same with regard to our family, said we had only one child. “What about us?” Haweya and I would ask. “You are going to bear sons for us,” she replied. It drove me to desperation. What was I to do with my life on earth? Bear sons! Become a production plant for sons. I was nine years old at the time.

To maximize their potential as producers of sons, girls are taught from early on always to conform—to God, to their father and brothers, to the family, to the clan. The better a woman seems at this, the more virtuous she is thought to be. You should always be patient, even when your husband demands the most dreadful things of you. You will be rewarded for this in the hereafter. But the reward itself is small. Women can look forward to dates and grapes in paradise. That is all.

When we were living in Saudi Arabia, my brother was always allowed to go everywhere with my father. We had to stay at home. But my sister and I were inquisitive children. We wanted to come, too, thought it was unfair. That was a word that touched a chord in my father. We knew this. And he immediately wanted to set the record straight. “Allah has said: ‘I have given woman an honorable position. I have placed paradise underneath her feet.’” We looked down at my mother’s feet, and then at my father’s, and burst out laughing. As always, his were covered by expensive leather shoes from Italy, while my mother’s were bare, the skin badly cracked and peeling from walking on cheap sandals. My father laughed with us, but my mother grew angry, hit us, and sent us out of the room. She was terrified of blasphemy.

In Kenya I went from my primary school to the Muslim Girls Secondary School. The school was attended by girls from Kenya but also from Yemen, Somalia, Pakistan, and India. There were some very bright girls there, who were good at everything, academic subjects as well as sport. In the mornings our names were called out. You had to say “Present.” But after a certain age there seemed to be a growing number of absent girls. No one knew where they had gone. Later we heard that they had been married off. Some I met again after a year or two. There was nothing left of them. All those girls had become production plants for sons: plump, pregnant, or already holding a child in one arm. The fighting spirit, the light in their eyes, the jittery energy had all vanished. Among these girls, suicide and depression were common. In a way I was lucky that my father was not living with us at the time. Otherwise I would probably also have been contracted to marry someone when I was sixteen, and at that age you cannot run away. Where could I have fled?

From the mid-1980s Islam was becoming more prominent in Kenya. Like many other adolescents I was looking for something, and I was strongly impressed by our Islam teacher. She looked striking, with a pale, heart-shaped face that formed a mysterious contrast with her black headscarf and long black dress. She could talk passionately about the love of God and our duties to Him. It was through her teaching that I first felt the need to become a martyr. It would bring me closer to God. Submission to Allah’s will—that was what it was about. We repeated this sentence over and over, like a mantra: “We subject ourselves to God’s will.” I spontaneously began to wear a veil and black garments over my school uniform. My mother was thrilled, my sister less so.

Then I got a boyfriend. That was forbidden. We kissed. That was worse than forbidden. On top of everything he was a very religious boyfriend, strict when it came to doctrines regarding the relations between men and women. But in actual life he did not observe the rules. At that moment I experienced my first strong doubts. Because I lied and he lied. The more religious I became, the more I found myself lying and deceiving. That seemed wrong.

Later on I stayed in a refugee camp on the border between Somalia and Kenya. I saw how women who had been raped during the war were abandoned. And I asked myself, If God exists, why does He allow this? It was forbidden to think such thoughts, let alone speak them, but my belief was crumbling. Nonetheless I continued to call myself a Muslim.

September 11 was a decisive turning point, but it was not until six months later, after I had read
The Atheist Manifesto
by Herman Philipse, that I dared to admit to others that I no longer believed. I had been given the book in 1998 by my boyfriend Marco but didn’t want to read it at the time. I thought: an atheist manifesto is a declaration of the devil. I could feel an inner resistance. But recently I felt ready. The time had come. I saw that God was an invention and that subjection to His will meant nothing more than subjecting yourself to the willpower of the strongest.

I have nothing against religion as a source of comfort. Rituals and prayers can provide support, and I am not asking anyone to give those up. But I do reject religion as a moral gauge, a guideline for life. And this applies above all to Islam, which is an all-pervasive religion, dominating every step of your life.

People blame me for not drawing a distinction between religion and culture. Female circumcision, they say, has nothing to do with Islam, because this cruel ritual does not take place in all Islamic societies. But Islam demands that you enter marriage as a virgin. The virginity dogma is safeguarded by locking girls up in their homes and sewing their outer labia together. Female circumcision serves two purposes: the clitoris is removed in order to reduce the woman’s sexuality, and the labia are sewn up in order to guarantee her virginity.

Circumcision dates back to pre-Islamic times, when the ritual was observed among certain animist tribes. Clans in Kenya first circumcised their women out of a fear that the clitoris would grow too large during child delivery and smother the baby. But these existing local practices were spread by Islam. They became more important and were sanctified. In countries such as Sudan, Egypt, and Somalia, where Islam is a big influence, the emphasis on virginity is very strong.

People also say that my negative image of Islam is the product of personal trauma. I am not saying that I had a rosy childhood, but I managed to get through it. It would be selfish to keep my experiences and insights to myself. It wouldn’t be feasible. Young Muslim girls in the Netherlands who still have the light in their eyes do not have to go through what I did. We must face the facts and offer to immigrants what they are denied in their own culture: individual dignity. The big obstacle to the integration of immigrants is undeniably Islam.

Marco—my former boyfriend who gave me
The Atheist Manifesto
—lived in the same students’ house as I did. We circled around each other for two months and then we fell in love. I didn’t mention it to my parents. But I told my brother, who demanded that I break off the relationship immediately. I ignored him. Marco and I lived together for five years. Incidentally, it was a big step for me to move in with someone else. That went right into the teeth of what is conventionally expected in our culture: you remain a virgin until you are married off. In the end it did not work out because we are both strong-willed and neither of us is inclined to give in. That always led to arguments. Moreover, I am rather scattered, while he is meticulous and strict. That also gave rise to problems. We are still very fond of each other; it just became impossible to go on. Around us we saw other relationships trying to survive despite tremendous pressure, with all its consequences. We did not want that.

The fact that I did not want to be married—not to a distant cousin in Canada nor to anyone else—could not be discussed. My father said: “Child, just trust me to know what is best for you.” But I did not trust him, and I fled to the Netherlands. I wrote him what I think was a loving but unambiguous letter, in which I begged him to let me have my freedom. He sent it back to me. In the margin he had written in red ink that he regarded this as an act of treason, that he never wanted to see me again, and that I was no longer to call myself his child. We did not speak for six years. One evening in 1997 the phone rang. Marco answered, listened, and handed me the receiver. “I think it’s your father,” he said. I took the receiver and heard “Abbe,” my child. He had forgiven me and wanted to let me know he was proud of me because I was taking good care of my sister. I wept and wept. It was one of the most beautiful days in my life. He had taken me back as his daughter.

My faith has been a faith of fear. Fear of making mistakes. Fear of incurring Allah’s anger. Fear of being sent to hell; fear of flames and of fire. Allah was like the government: always present, everywhere; ready to arrest my father and lock him away in prison. My relationship with Allah was like this: as long as He left me in peace, I was happy. Certainly, I prayed when I was in pain; I begged Him to stop my mother from beating me. But like any child who, sooner or later, realizes at the back of his mind that Santa Claus does not exist, I accepted that I should not expect much from Him.

I think I am an atheist at heart; it just took me a while to find my convictions confirmed in print somewhere. This may sound arrogant, but I think that most people who call themselves religious are essentially atheists. They avoid thinking about whether they really believe in God and allow themselves to be distracted by details. We should have a debate in the Netherlands about the source of our moral standards: did we people invent them, or were they the work of God? We should begin by analyzing the things our prime minister—or any world leader—says. Have you ever listened to him properly? He is forever referring to biblical standards and values, never to the things God asks us to do or forbids us. Yet he is an academic, a man who has learned to use well-reasoned arguments to find certain truths. Can he believe that the world was created in six days? That Eve was created from Adam’s rib? That simply cannot be true. Scientists are unbelieving. I am convinced that our prime minister is not a Christian.

With the first commandment Muhammad wanted to lock away common sense, and with the second he subjugated the beautiful, romantic side of mankind. I am really appalled that so many people are denied access to art. In this respect, Islam is a culture that has been outlived, by which I mean it is an unchanging, fossilized culture. Everything is written down in the Koran, and that is the end of the discussion. Personally, I still find the teachings of Muhammad outdated, but since in my present capacity as politician I can’t afford to enter into an argument with people who will forever accuse me of having called them backward, I had to take back that remark. Or, rather, I modified my statement: I find the principle of Islam—to submit yourself to Allah’s will—a backward point of departure, but that doesn’t mean that I find those who adhere to the belief primitive as well. They are behind in their development, which is not the same thing. It is not too late to make progress.

It is a capital offense to insult God’s prophet, Muhammad. God himself let this be known to the Prophet, as He gave him other such opportune messages. You need only read the Koran: He stole Zayneb, His pupil’s wife, with the excuse that it was Allah’s will. And, even worse: he fell in love with Aisha, his best friend’s nine-year-old daughter. Her father said: “Please wait until she has reached adulthood.” But Muhammad did not want to wait. So what do you think happens? He receives a message from Allah that Aisha must prepare herself for Muhammad. In other words, Muhammad teaches us that it is fine to take away your best friend’s child. By our Western standards Muhammad is a perverse man. A tyrant. He is against freedom of expression. If you don’t do as he says, you will end up in hell. That reminds me of those megalomaniacal rulers in the Middle East: Bin Laden, Khomeini, and Saddam. Are you surprised to find a Saddam Hussein? Muhammad is his example; Muhammad is an example to all Muslim men. Why do you think so many Islamic men use violence? You are shocked to hear me say these things, but like the majority of the native Dutch population, you overlook something: you forget where I am from. I used to be a Muslim; I know what I am talking about. I think it is tragic that, now that I finally live in a democratic society, where freedom of opinion is the greatest good, I still have to struggle with the posthumous blackmail of the Prophet Muhammad. In the Netherlands a Muslim can read the Koran and think that Muhammad is fantastic. And I am also allowed to think that Muhammad is a despicable individual. He says women should stay indoors, wear a veil, avoid certain types of work, can’t have the same rights of inheritance as their husbands, and should be stoned if they commit adultery. I want to show that there is another reality, besides the “truth,” which is spread across the world with Saudi money. I realize that the women who call themselves Muslims do not understand me yet, but one day their blinkers will drop. We must open up all the channels of socialization—family, education, the media—to make sure that Muslim women become independent and self-supporting. This will take many years, but one day these women will realize, as I did: I don’t want my mother’s life.

At busy times I think, Now I must recover myself. At such moments I like to be by myself for a bit. Walk around in pajamas, read a book, or just stay in bed. Yes, hanging around, that’s what it amounts to. There was a time when I would sit around like this for three days in a row, but in recent months that hasn’t happened. I think the Christian use of Sundays will stand me in good stead.

Allah says, First you must obey me, then the Prophet Muhammad, and finally your father and mother. Obey them in everything. There is only one moment when you are allowed to refuse them: when they ask you to stop believing in Allah. I waited a long time before I openly declared my break with Islam. I was afraid of the consequences, of losing my family. All my life I had been sitting on the fence until I couldn’t any longer. Everything I do now, the things I write and say, I could not have done if I had remained in that awkward position. Now there is a big empty god between my family and me; they no longer wish to see me. That is how perverse religion can be: it interferes with intimate relationships and forces parents to choose between their children and their god.

They are always in my thoughts. I miss them. There is sadness. And yet I am better able to control my guilty feelings now that I no longer believe I will have to pay for my disobedience with a place in hell. What makes me particularly sad is the thought that it is all so unnecessary: why don’t they accept me as I am? I want my father to be there when I am sworn into the Dutch Lower House of Parliament. I want him to hold and cuddle me, like he used to. It won’t happen. I want to send my mother money, but the money won’t reach her. I want to know how she is, but I am afraid to phone her. She has chosen Allah, not me.

My mother is a strict woman with a strong will. She knows how to manipulate her surroundings, and if it doesn’t work, she hits you and starts throwing things about. Everything in our house used to be broken. She was cool, distant, a perfectionist. If I managed to give nine out of ten correct answers at school, all she would ask was why I had got one wrong. I was afraid of her, but I also admired her. She was always there for us, and she had to do it all on her own. My father was the most important man in Somalia when he first met my mother. That was shortly after the country became independent. My father was busy with politics twenty-four hours a day, setting up a parliament and a literacy program. When the democratic movement failed and my father ended up in prison, she was very loyal to him. She went to visit him every day, often taking him food. But when she was tired and needed his support, he wasn’t there for her. This happened again and again. We had to follow him to different countries, where people spoke languages that she—the proud daughter of a prominent judge—couldn’t understand; where she had to leave the house—although Allah had asked her to stay inside—in order to converse, in poor Arabic, with the local shopkeepers. I can understand why she became so bitter. It is not a fair comparison, but I can’t deny it: I miss my father more than my mother. He was affectionate, cuddled us, and played with us. My father used to say I was beautiful. And smart. He would praise me very highly. When my father was with us I was happy. But he kept leaving us without saying good-bye properly. The last time he left the house, he said “I’ll be back next weekend,” but we didn’t see him again until ten years later. And yet…yes, perhaps our loss of contact is the heaviest price I have had to pay. I want to go and visit him, but I know he will shut the door in my face. I know he prefers to remain under the illusion that I am mentally ill. But I will keep trying. When I miss him, when I feel the urge to speak to him, when I would like him to give me a hug, the way he used to, I am enough of a realist to know that he won’t listen to me this time. But I am also enough of an idealist to keep hoping that one day he will answer the door again.

There are a few religious fanatics around who will want to kill me because I have become an atheist, and because—by killing me—they will secure a place in heaven for themselves. Or so they believe. But I think that I pose a threat, above all, to those Muslims who fear that I might be able to influence Dutch opinion, and thus see to it that subsidies to ethnic minorities will be withdrawn and Islamic schools closed. Don’t forget: I already have many Dutch Muslims on my side, but they are keeping it under tight cover. As soon as they reveal themselves, as soon as things begin to change and new laws become accepted, the drive to kill me will cease. To me it is simply a matter of persevering. How much longer will I need protection? Not very long. This is not just about me. Islam and the way in which people or parties devote themselves to defending Muhammad’s doctrines have become a topic for international debate, documented in United Nations reports. Bin Laden and his followers have achieved exactly the opposite of what they had in mind. Things will probably have to get worse first—the United States’ invasion of Iraq will show how much worse—but September 11, mark my words, was the beginning of the end of Islam as we know it.

I was contracted to marry a distant cousin and start a family with him in Canada. When I ran off, my father disowned me. With the passage of time my father regretted his decision and went to great lengths to get me a divorce. He felt I should marry again; the prospect of me staying childless was unbearable to him. Last summer the divorce was settled, but of course the good news fades once you know I was never faithful to my husband in those years. I have had various boyfriends and lived with someone for five years. I never told my father, but the Somali community in the Netherlands—which keeps close tabs on me—undoubtedly passed on the information. It’s not looking good for me: for committing lechery I should be given ten strokes of the cane, according to the Koran, and for committing adultery I could be stoned.

Outside the religious context I have always been loyal. I have observed that people find it difficult to enter a relationship with me. Marco, the boy with whom I lived for a while, used to say I was elusive. “You don’t express yourself,” he would say. “I never know where I stand with you.” It is true that I find it hard to attach myself to others, but I do it all the same. (It is more likely that I will break up with someone because of an argument.) I am on good terms with Marco now; so good, in fact, that he is wondering why we don’t move in together again. But I know how quickly he flies off the handle, and I just don’t want to have to go through that again. I am not good at expressing my anger. I don’t want to; I come from a family whose members were always squabbling, and now I want the opposite.

My mother thought exercise classes were indecent. She refused to give me the extra money required by the school, so I stole it. I did the same in order to attend singing lessons and to buy the crayons we needed for school. As soon as she noticed money had gone missing from her purse, she would begin to swear, grab me by the hair, and pull me all the way across the room. I was always covered in bruises. She struck me with her hand, a stick, or anything she could lay her hands on. I also used to steal food from my mother’s pantry to give to the beggars passing our door. The first time this happened, my mother seemed mildly amused, but when she saw a whole crowd waiting outside the house one day—and realized our food for the entire month had vanished from the cupboard—she flew into a rage.

A saint? Me? Not by a long stretch. I have sinned according to the religious principles I was brought up to observe. I’ve also been naughty—teased other girls at school, rung people’s bells and run away, hurt my grandmother’s feelings by questioning her authority. And if that is not bad enough, let me tell you how I was responsible for stigmatizing our Koran teacher. When my mother came to the conclusion that sending us to Koran school was a waste of time, she hired a private teacher to teach us at home. We had to prepare our own ink and copy out passages from the Koran on wooden boards. Then we had to wash the boards and start all over again. Every Saturday. After a while I got fed up and locked myself in the lavatory, together with my sister. The teacher, my mother, or my grandmother—whoever it was that came to the door—we refused to open it. I shouted the most dreadful things at the Koran teacher, that writing on boards was obsolete, even back in the sixteenth century. At a certain point my mother sent the teacher away: “Here is your money, they don’t want to have Koran lessons. I’m exhausted, I’m giving up.” Not much later—I was at home on my own—I saw the Koran teacher approaching our house. I ran to the gate, but it was too late. He dragged me into the house, blindfolded me, and began to hit me. He thumped me, again and again, until I managed to pull off the blindfold. Then he took hold of my head and threw me against the wall. More than once. I heard a crack and lost consciousness. It turned out he had fractured the base of my skull. I had to stay in hospital for twelve days and the bill was sent to him. On top of that, he had to pay us compensation for the grief he had caused. After that he couldn’t show himself anywhere. Damaged for life. I will have to live with that: I drove someone to destruction.