Neelie and van Aartsen arrived and were hustled in quickly. When I hugged Neelie, I felt like crying again. Jozias looked harassed. He was in the middle of preparing for a party congress the next day, and his life had been threatened, too; he was also living with bodyguards now. We sat facing each other in the room that had been prepared; Neelie raised her eyebrows and said, “Goodness.”
You could tell from her whole tone that she thought all this cloak-and-dagger stuff was perfectly ridiculous. She said, “So it’s safe here? Why couldn’t we meet at my house?”
After the guards closed the door, Jozias asked where I’d been. I told him: a motel in an industrial area in the United States, between highways; no contact with friends, talking only to bodyguards. Neelie was livid. I said, “If I must go back there for a while longer, I want at least some way of communicating, a place to get some news and e-mail people. I need to spend more time with fellow human beings.”
Two men from the Justice Ministry were supposed to be meeting us after dinner, the chief of the terror-fighting department and the chief of the unit of protection and security. Neelie and Jozias grilled them about why I had to live this way, in such total isolation, so far away. Exactly what kind of attack did they really expect?
Finally, after weeks of passive acceptance, something inside me sparked to life. I said to those men, “I will bow to your judgment about when I can come back permanently, because this is your job. But I’m not going back to that motel. In America nobody recognizes me. I want permission to go to a university. I want to be writing, reading, doing something with myself. I can’t look at that highway for longer than a few more days.”
Neelie swept them out with a pointed look and closed the door. She told me that my friends in Holland were agitating to find out what had happened to me. People wanted to know where I was. Newspapers were questioning the need for all the security. Part of bringing me to Holland was to quiet this sort of thing and show people that I was all right. We agreed that before I returned to America I would meet a very good friend of mine, Herman, and also a reporter from the daily paper NRC Handelsblad. Jozias suggested I also write a statement to make it clear that I was all right, which he would read to the assembled Party members the next day.
I spent that next day alone in the house in Zelhem, waiting for decisions to be made. Finally, I was told I would meet Neelie, have dinner with Herman, and then receive Frank Vermeulen from the NRC for an interview. They wouldn’t tell me where I was going, though it was easy to recognize the Ministry of Finance when we drove in. They sat me down in a large, empty office, and Neelie arrived with a bottle of champagne. We settled down to write a text for Jozias to read to the assembled Liberals. Then Herman came in and I asked him to find a university in America where I could go that would be acceptable to the people at the Justice Ministry.
It was so good to see them, to talk. I was overwhelmed: two friends at once, after so long alone, felt almost too rich for me.
When Neelie’s champagne was finished, Herman asked for another glass. I went to the guard at the door and asked, “Could we have a bottle of wine?” He said, “But after dinner you have an interview with a reporter! You can’t drink wine!”
Herman said, “Jesus, what is this?” He couldn’t believe the way I was living and being treated. I suppose I was already used to it, but now that I was back in Holland, it was starting to seem odd even to me.
* * *
At the NRC interview, one of the civil servants in charge of my security, Tjeerd, insisted on being present to assess whether I said anything that could endanger my security. When he walked in, Frank Vermeulen raised both eyebrows at the arrangement.
When the interview ended, I asked Tjeerd to leave and settled back just to talk to Frank as a friend. When the door closed, Frank asked, “How long is this going to go on? They can’t keep you out of the country forever. It’s madness. You’re a member of Parliament and you’ve done nothing wrong, but you even have a minder listening in—it’s like the old Soviet Union.” I told him, “I don’t understand half the stuff that happens. Sometimes it feels as if they don’t trust me with my own life.”
* * *
The next day, I was told, “You’re going to a neighboring country, and then you’re going back to Massachusetts.” The guard shift had changed—they rotated every eight days—and I knew none of these new guards; they wouldn’t tell me any more than that. We drove across the border, far into Germany, to a sordid, filthy hotel in a little town called Meckenheim, though I didn’t know that at the time.
There, I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to stand up for myself. I walked out. Just walked out of the hotel, to get coffee and some fresh air.
A junior DKDB officer, Robert, was on guard in the corridor. He looked at me as if I were in the throes of acute psychosis, ran after me and asked, “What do you think you’re doing?” I told him, “I’m getting coffee,” and kept walking. Robert was a trained police officer, trained to guard, so he walked after me. Outside the hotel, the road was deserted; it was freezing. I saw a sign. I said, “Okay, we’re in Meckenheim, and that’s in Germany. We’ll follow the signs to the center of town.”
A few feet behind me, Robert was on the phone with Hendrik; he was armed, but he was very nervous. I wasn’t. The air was fresh and clean, and it felt good to walk. But it was a Sunday morning, and most places in Meckenheim are closed. I caught sight of a bar, peeked through, and asked, “Coffee?” Neither I nor Robert spoke German. The barman nodded.
He was Turkish; it was a Turkish coffee bar. Robert looked paralyzed with shock; I admit I, too, felt a little scared. But I sat down and pretended it was the most delicious coffee I had ever tasted. Deep in my heart I wanted to run away as quickly as I could, but I needed my dignity more. I needed to reclaim my life.
So I drank that coffee very slowly and ordered another cup. As more Turkish guest workers came in Robert moved his hand to his phone; he didn’t want to have this fight on his own. But I told him, “These are innocent people. They have a business to run. They won’t shoot their clients.”
Finally I stood up, said Danke, and walked out. About five yards down the road we both burst out laughing. I said, “You’re relieved, aren’t you?” Robert said yes, and I said, “Me, too.” He said, “See? There can be danger everywhere,” and I said “No, they didn’t do anything to us, just sold us coffee. Let’s walk. We’re not going to sit in that morgue of a hotel.”
When we got back, I was swept off to a luxurious spa for rich old people, which was not what I wanted either. I wasn’t demanding luxury, I just didn’t want to sleep in a room that stank.
* * *
I was returned to Massachusetts, back to the horrible motel outside Andover. I decided to send Theo’s son a present for Sinter-klaas, the Dutch Santa Claus, who brings gifts on December 5. Two weeks later my package was returned, unopened. Theo’s son wanted nothing from me. That felt bad.
I was again very low. The days crept by with no news of any transfer. My new guards didn’t want me leaving the hotel, even to go to the gym. I begged constantly for the phone: talking to friends was the only thing I could do, the only way I could stay sane. But there was a new rule: I wasn’t to use the phone unless my guards were present, listening. It was like being imprisoned. I withdrew even further into myself and began spending most of the time alone, in my room.
Finally the news came: I was to be transferred to San Diego. I couldn’t yet make use of the university facilities; that was still waiting for clearance. But it was warm there, and Pete was back on my security detail. He drove me to the beach and had me hike through the dunes, in the sharp sea air, for hours. He let me use his phone, and he kept his distance, so he wouldn’t overhear my conversations.
I began to revive and to sleep properly, purely from physical exhaustion, for the first time since Theo died. The day before Christmas, Neelie called. We agreed I would go back to Holland on January 10.
When the day cam
e, I was flown to Frankfurt, Germany, even though I wanted to be in Holland—I wanted to be home, preparing for the press conference that I was scheduled to give on January 18 in The Hague. But this wasn’t allowed, for some reason. We went to one German hotel, then another. Why? Nobody ever explained it; it was just security. The second hotel had a computer, an Internet connection. I settled down to write the statements I would give when I returned to work. I wanted to e-mail a draft of my ideas to my friends, but the Internet connection in my room didn’t work. So around midnight I asked the guards to accompany me to reception and ask if I could e-mail it from there.
The man at reception was Turkish. He looked at me and said, “Hey, are you by any chance that Somali woman who’s a member of Parliament in the Netherlands, whose friend was murdered?”
In the months since Theo’s death, I had seen a few people recognize me from time to time—I saw surprise on their faces—but this was the first time anyone had confronted me. I said, “What?” The clerk said, “You are her. There was a letter on his body threatening her and she disappeared, and it’s you, isn’t it?” I made a silly laugh and said, “Oh, no. Many people make that mistake, but I’m not her.”
This was an absolute breach of security. This clerk was completely unknown to me, and he had my room number. I asked my guards, “Are you sure it’s wise to stay here?” But Case, the senior guard, said, “Tomorrow I’ll call the office. All this moving around—it’s not good for your rest.”
It could have been laughable, only my life was at stake. I went to my room and piled furniture and suitcases in front of the door and balanced the coffee machine and some cups and saucers on top, just in case I fell asleep, so I would hear if someone tried to come in. I spent the night awake, waiting for the noise and the man with the knife and the gun. Next morning Case got the order to transfer me to a hotel in Aachen, along with a reprimand for not having moved me immediately.
We were creeping closer to The Hague. I wasn’t allowed to leave my hotel room now, because receptionists recognized me. I wanted to get in contact with Theo’s parents before I went back to Holland, so I asked Case to arrange for me to call them. But he told me, “We’ve talked to their police contact person, and they don’t want to have contact with you. When they’re ready for contact they’ll seek it.”
I found out later this wasn’t true; Theo’s parents have been utterly warm and welcoming to me. They never told anyone such a thing. I guess someone at Justice couldn’t be bothered to make the call.
I asked if I could meet with my friend Paul Scheffer, the critic, so he could help me with my text, which was too long and too emotional. I wanted to be professional and talk about my work, but I also wanted—needed—to say that I was sad about Theo, that I felt guilty he had died, and I wanted to convey the message that I, and Holland, had to move forward, not bow to terror.
I was driven into Holland on January 15. Paul and I met in a police station in Dreiberg and came up with a much shorter text. I spent the night in a military helicopter base in Soesterberg. It didn’t matter now; we were nearly home. Just to be back in Holland felt good.
The next day was Sunday, and I was taken to Leon de Winter’s house. I could barely contain my relief and happiness. Leon was there, and his wife, Jessica, and Afshin Ellian, the Iranian law professor I first met at The Balie, as well as Jaffe Vink and Chris Rutenfrans from Trouw. I was overcome with the need to touch, to hug them all.
On Tuesday morning, I returned to Parliament. When I stepped out of the car in the cobbled courtyard, a huge bank of cameras faced me. Every time I stepped forward they all moved back, in formation. The chairman of Parliament welcomed me back formally, in his office, and then I went to see Jozias van Aartsen, who greeted me warmly. We walked into the Liberal caucus meeting, the usual meeting that happens every Tuesday morning. Almost every Liberal MP came up and kissed me. All the envy and bad feeling seemed to have melted away.
The caucus meeting settled down to an interminable discussion of where committee meetings should be held: in a meeting room in Parliament, or at the offices of the Liberal Party. It was as if I had never been gone. I excused myself and spent the morning working on the text of my speech in my office and making phone calls, unhampered by listening ears.
At 2 p.m. I walked into the lower chamber of Parliament. It was full of reporters and MPs. All of them stood up and applauded, even the ones who had always disagreed with everything I said. The chairman made a short speech and the minister of defense, Henk Kamp, came over to shake my hand and welcome me home with real warmth in his eyes.
At 4 p.m. I walked over to the news center for my press conference. It’s an easy walk, but the photographers and cameramen jostled each other, filming every step I took. The room was crammed with reporters. I took a deep breath and started to read my speech. I had been gone from Parliament for seventy-five days, but now I was home.
EPILOGUE
The Letter of the Law
It was sixteen months later—Monday evening, May 15, 2006—when Gerrit Zalm, the finance minister, came to my apartment in The Hague. With him was Willibrord van Beek, the new Liberal Party caucus leader. Both looked grim. They had a message for me.
My apartment was full of people, and the only place we could talk in private was among piles of laundry drying in my spare bedroom. I asked Gerrit, “Tell me the bad news first.”
Looking me straight in the eye, he told me that the integration minister, Rita Verdonk, was planning to nullify my Dutch citizenship. I would receive the official letter from the Ministry of Justice sometime in the next half hour. Rita had assured him that she would not make the news public until the following day, when I would announce that I was resigning from Parliament.
I struggled not to show emotion, but Van Beek looked on the verge of tears as he said to me, “We won’t let this happen.” Gerrit said angrily that it was a farce, and I should get a good lawyer, and when they left, he looked so sad that I felt compelled to comfort him. “Don’t worry,” I said. “Everything will be fine.”
I kept my tears back until they had gone.
Five minutes after Gerrit left, Rita called. Our conversation was brief and cold. She told me there was nothing personal about her decision. She said she couldn’t do anything about it, her hands were tied. She had been forced to determine that my Dutch citizenship was invalid. Because I had given a false name and date of birth when I applied for my nationality in 1997, citizenship had never been granted me in the first place.
Ten minutes after Rita and I had said our clipped good-byes, the doorbell rang. It was one of the security guards from the DKDB, a friendly man who usually had a loopy grin. Only now he wasn’t smiling. In his hand was a white envelope printed with the logo of Justice holding her scales.
“Dear Madam,” the letter announced “I hereby inform you that in my judgment you have not received Dutch citizenship, due to the use of incorrect personal data during the naturalization process. The decree that naturalized you is void. You have six weeks to respond.”
I had barely finished reading the letter when the TV news opened with a report that Rita Verdonk had declared that I had never been a Dutch citizen.
I was no longer Dutch.
* * *
This strange turn of events had actually begun weeks before, on April 27, the last Thursday before the parliamentary spring break. My schedule had been full of appointments all week and I was a bit frantic from it, but there was one I was looking forward to in particular. A documentary producer from a program called Zembla was coming to Parliament to talk to me about the places I had grown up in Kenya and Somalia and to show me some raw footage he had filmed there.
He set up a VCR. Once again, I saw the schools I had attended, and the house in Kariokor where we first lived, after Abeh left us. There was my brother, Mahad, thin and nervous, wrapped in sunglasses. I was surprised that this reporter had gone to such trouble, but I was warmed by nostalgia, as well as struck by the overwhelming number of
Islamic head-scarves now on the streets of Nairobi. When I was at Juja Road Primary School, our headmaster had refused to let my mother send us to school in headscarves; now it seemed they were in every corridor.
After he turned off the tape, the Zembla reporter peppered me with questions about my past, in an unmistakably hostile tone. I was taken aback and struggled to remain courteous as he said that Mahad had told him I had never been excised—he claimed that our family was much too progressive to mutilate children’s genitals. I tried to explain that Mahad was trying to save face: he didn’t want to admit to an outsider that his family practiced traditions that would seem barbaric to Westerners. My brother could say what he liked, but that didn’t make it true.
The reporter went on: Was it true that when I first entered Holland, I lied on my asylum application? This was familiar ground; I had talked about it often. As soon as I entered Dutch politics, I had volunteered the fact that I had held back information on my asylum application, and subsequently, whenever I was asked about it, in private or in public, I admitted that I had lied and explained why. So, once again, I told this Zembla producer that when I applied for refugee status in 1992, I did not tell the whole truth.
The reporter had more questions, all with the same hostile tone, but my parliamentary assistant, Iris, knocked at the door. The head of the Unit for Security and Protection from the Justice Ministry had just arrived in my office, along with his deputy: I had to go. Still seething slightly from the tone of the interview, I walked in to find Arjan Jonge Vos from the Ministry with an unusually compassionate look on his normally expressionless face. “Sit down,” he said. “Please have a glass of water.”
Infidel Page 44