Why We Left Islam (13 page)

That’s when you enter the sixth valley: anger. You become angry at yourself, and at everything else. You realize how much of your precious life you lost believing in so many lies.

Then you realize you are the lucky one for having made it this far and that there are billions of others who are still trying to shield themselves with denials and not venture out of their comfort zone. They are still wading in the quagmire of the first valley. At this stage, when you are completely free from faith, guilt, and anger, you are ready to understand the ultimate truth and unravel
the mysteries of life. You are filled with empathy and compassion. You are ready to be enlightened. The enlightenment comes when you realize that the truth is in love and in our relationship with our fellow human beings and not in a religion or a cult. You realize that Truth is a pathless land. No prophet or guru can take you there. You are there already.

C
HAPTER
S
IX
AN UNTOLD LOVE STORY

“Yes; there was a ceremony, but it was not her wedding. She was dressed in white, but that was not her wedding gown. Lots of people came to the party, but they came to curse her and to throw stones at her. No music was played and no merry songs were sung; only screams of
Allah-u-Akbar
filled the air.”

S
INCE SEPTEMBER 11, we have continually heard that Islam is a peaceful religion. Yet the actions of hundreds of thousands of fanatical Muslims have certainly provided good cause for us to think otherwise. If we move away from the headlines, there are also untold stories that never make the news, yet reveal a dark side of Islam. For while it is most certainly true that there are many peaceful people within Islam, there are many who are not.

In the following tragic story, you will meet Yagmur, who recounts how her sister fell in love with a young man whose parents forbade him to marry her. Yagmur remembers how happy their young faces were and how in love they were. In order to obtain permission to marry from their parents, Yagmur’s sister and her boyfriend told of her pregnancy. What transpires in this real-life story of heartbreak and torture is unimaginable to most of us in the West. Upon hearing about his daughter’s pregnancy, Yagmur’s father in a rage took her sister to the religious elders. There it was ruled that since adultery had been committed, Yagmur’s sister would be sentenced to death by stoning. It is a tragic story of love with unimaginable brutality at its core. The setting of this saga may come as a surprise to many. Rather than taking place in Saudi Arabia, Iran, or Afghanistan, the setting is Turkey—which many today believe should soon become a permanent member of the European Union.

An Untold Love Story

My name is Yagmur (it means “rain”). I was born in rural Turkey, in a village. Generally, Turkish women enjoy many freedoms that our Arab sisters can’t even think of. Rural Turkey is a different story. Honor killings take place every day, women don’t have much say (if any) in household matters, and female employment is out of the question. However, much hard work is done by women because men don’t want to strain themselves. Women are actually like cattle or slaves. If a husband tells you to do something, you have to obey.

My mother was a fairly educated woman; she taught me at home and I even went to school. My hobby was reading books. Through them I learned different languages and acquired a lot of knowledge.

I was a disciplined and obedient girl, unlike my sister who was somewhat uppity. When she was eighteen, she fell in love with a young man. They both loved each other, but he was meant for another girl, thus his parents had decided. Dating is utterly forbidden in Islam; marriages are arranged and often young people meet on their wedding day.

My sister was rebellious. She “dated” that young man. Every night she would go to see him. They even kissed and then their relationship went too far: She got pregnant. At first they planned to run away to a big city where they would be safe. They knew religious rules in villages and realized they could be in trouble. Authorities don’t care what’s going on in rural Turkey. Sometimes
imams, mullahs,
and elders who try to practice
Sharia
and break the secular state law are punished. But usually authorities are more interested in big cities full of tourists and turn a blind eye to what happens in villages.

I remember their young faces. I didn’t understand the whole situation; I was a little girl. But when I looked at them I could see they were happy. Their happiness made me happy, too, and I wanted to smile.

Instead of eloping, they decided to speak to my father. Pregnancy is a very good reason to get permission for marriage, or so they thought.

Alas, my sister had miscalculated my father’s love for her and his obsession with his religion. He became furious. Instead of letting the two young lovers marry and build their nest of love, he took her to the religious elders and they ruled that she had committed adultery. She was sentenced to death by stoning. They showed no mercy even for her unborn child. She had stained the “honor” of the family and the only way to remove that stain was to nip her life in the bud. Her unborn baby was a stain, too, and that little creature had to be destroyed as well so my family could live honorably.

In the evening before her execution, she came to my room and told me that she would miss me. She was crying and hugged me to her bosom. Then she smiled and said that soon she would see her unborn baby. I was blissfully unaware of her fate, but I felt that something bad was about to happen. I was so scared!

I still remember her black eyes; she stared at the sky while she was dug into the ground. She was wrapped in white sheets and her hands were tied to her body. She was buried up to her waist. The rabid mob circled her with stones in their hands and started throwing them at her while the roars of
Allah-u-Akbar! Allah-u-Akbar!
added to their frenzy. She twitched with pain as the stones hit her tender body and smashed her head. Blood gushed out from her face, cheeks, mouth, nose, and eyes. All she could do was to bend to the left and to the right. Gradually the movements slowed down and finally she stopped moving even though the shower of the stones did not stop. Her head fell on her chest. Her bloodied face remained serene. All the pain had gone. The hysterical mob relented and the chant of
Allah-u-Akbar
stopped. Someone approached and, with a big boulder in his hand, smashed the skull of my sister to finish her off. There was no need for that; she was already dead. Her bright black eyes that beamed with life were shut. Her jovial laughter that filled the world around her was silenced. Her heart that beat with such a heavenly love for only a short time had stopped. Her unborn baby was not given a chance to breathe one breath of air. He (or she) accompanied his young mother in her solitary and cold tomb, or who knows, maybe to a better place where love reigns
and pain and ignorance are not known. These two budding lives had to be nipped so my father could keep his honor.

She wanted to marry a man whom she loved. She dreamt of wearing a white wedding dress; that there would be a big ceremony, lots of people would be invited and they all would congratulate her, chant merry songs, and throw flowers and confetti at her. Yes, there was a ceremony, but it was not her wedding. She was dressed in white, but that was not her wedding gown. Lots of people came to the party, but they came to curse her and to throw stones at her. No music was played and no merry songs were sung; only screams of
Allah-u-Akbar
filled the air. The only hug she got was from the cold earth in which she was half buried. The only kisses that she received were from the rocks thrown at her that tore her flesh and broke her bones. They were the kisses of death. She was not united with the man whom she loved but was wed to death.

This was a tragedy for my sister’s young lover. His life lost its meaning. He got lashes but nothing more. He could well forget about the whole affair and get along with his life, but he didn’t. I recall seeing him standing in front of our house every day, as if waiting for my sister to come out and meet him. I could see him crying. I can only imagine that when he was not crying in front of our house he was in the cemetery, crying over the grave of his love and his baby. One day he could no more bear his pain and hanged himself.

His death was hushed and no one talked about it. Maybe no one cared. He was reunited with his love and his baby. No one can hurt them anymore. No one can separate them from one another again.

It is a sad story. But unlike the story of Romeo and Juliet, it is a story that is never told. No one talks about those young lovers. No one sheds tears for them. Not only were they buried, their memories were also buried as if they never existed—their tender love was a shame to others—a shame that had to be washed with blood.

But the saddest part is that, according to Islam, my sister deserved that death. The elders were sure she would be burning in hell for eternity. No, I can’t imagine that God can send someone to hell for loving and for being happy. I can’t accept a cruel God.

When I turned eighteen, I was married off to a Turkish businessman from Germany. When I came to Germany I found out that he had another wife.

He is not a bad man at all. He is very kind, but he is a Muslim. He doesn’t understand why Europeans don’t like polygamy, for instance. He doesn’t allow us to leave the home. He protects our honor in this strange way.

Then we moved to the U.K. Here we are even more isolated than in Germany because there are fewer Turks. In Germany, we at least could meet our fellow expats.

As for my relationship with my husband’s first wife, we are friends. There is some rivalry between us, that’s for sure. But I am alone and can’t meet anyone or leave home. Her life is just as dull and empty as mine. We can’t hate each other; we should be friends to overcome our troubles. My co-wife and I are like two cellmates. We only have each other. There is not much room for antagonism or hard feelings.

I have five children; she has four. She occupies a more privileged position within our family because she has a son. I have given birth only to daughters so far.

We are both educated, but she is so obsessed with kids that she has given herself up. I am still trying to grasp at nonexistent straws; probably one day I will be freed. . . . I read books, keep myself informed, and like to think. She is not remotely interested in reading books or thinking. I am alone.

Sometimes I think of running away, but I have five daughters. I can neither leave them, nor run away with them. I am stuck.

Even though I left Islam a long time ago, I cannot stop praying or fasting. My husband keeps a rod for the disobedient.

When I try to protest, my mouth is shut up with quotes from the Qur’an. Islam defines our lives. Isn’t it stupid that people live according to a book written a long time ago?

I am not whining about my life. But I do hate Islam. At least I could object to certain traditions, but Islam preserved the worst in our culture, reducing women into slavery and keeping them ignorant. What can you expect from an uneducated woman?

When I look at my daughters, I pray that they may live in a free world, free from Islam and this slavery.

Yagmur Dursun is a pen name. Some details of this story have been changed to hide the identity of the author.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN
I AM AN EX-MUSLIM AND PROUD OF IT!

“I remember being taught to hate (not directly so, of course) by instilling fear against “those evil Jews,” and my teachers attempting to lure me into
jihad
by promising the seventy-two
Huur Al-Ay (
virgins in paradise
).
Of course, I was never drawn into that: I’m gay.”

F
OR MANY FORMER MUSLIMS, the level of hate and rhetoric towards so-called “infidels” or
kafirs
is simply too great. Indeed, for many young Muslims who have been exposed to Western freedoms, such suppression becomes unbearable. Tragically, this sort of tyranny is no longer confined to Islamic lands, but can be found in major Western cities. Take, for example, the case of Nissar Hussein, a former Muslim in Bradford, England, who, according to the
London Times,
has been a victim of a three-year campaign of hate for leaving Islam. His family has been “jostled, abused, and attacked.”
¹
The family has also been asked to move out of their neighborhood. All of this, not because of what Hussein believes, but because he no longer believes in Islam. It is sadly true that such stories are becoming more frequent throughout Britain and in other parts of the world.

In the testimony you will read here, another apostate tells of his disdain for his former culture and his desire to expose its dark side—but with a sense of fear of the consequences of doing so. Indeed, it is easy to understand where that fear comes from, and why. No one—even in the West—is safe from the violence of Islam.

Former Muslim

I’m not going to give details of my personal life (my original country, family history, and so on), but suffice it to say I come originally from a Muslim country where you’d least expect to meet an ex-Muslim. Also, I am an Arab, still haven’t passed the age of twenty, and I am here to share my story.

Detailing my experiences as I know them from the vantage point of nineteen years spent as a Muslim is by no means an easy task. Coming from a religious Muslim background, I was taught to believe that the Qur’an was inerrant, that Mohammad’s words were to be respected, and that any form of defiance or criticism would be met with severe repercussions. I was thus forced into Islam against my will, so to speak, and I was forced to grow up with it and stick to it and was never allowed to question it.