Infidel

by Ayaan Hirsi Ali

  The people who ask me this usually have grown up in rich countries, Western Europe and America, after the Second World War. They take life for granted. Where I grew up, death is a constant visitor. A virus, bacteria, a parasite; drought and famine; soldiers, and torturers; could bring it to anyone, any time. Death comes riding on raindrops that turned to floods. It catches the imagination of men in positions of authority who order their subordinates to hunt, torture, and kill people they imagine to be enemies. Death lures many others to take their own lives in order to escape a dismal reality. For many women, because of the perception of lost honor, death comes at the hands of a father, brother, or husband. Death comes to young women giving birth to new life, leaving the newborn orphaned in the hands of strangers.

  For those who live in anarchy and civil war, as in the country of my birth, Somalia, death is everywhere.

  When I was born, my mother initially thought death had taken me away. But it didn’t. When I got malaria and pneumonia, I recovered. When my genitals were cut, the wound healed. When a bandit held a knife to my throat, he decided not to slit it. When my Quran teacher fractured my skull, the doctor who treated me kept death at bay.

  Even with bodyguards and death threats I feel privileged to be alive and free. When I took the train to Amsterdam thirteen years ago, I took a chance at a life in freedom, a life in which I would be free from bondage to someone I had not chosen, and in which my mind, too, could be free.

  I first encountered the full strength of Islam as a young child in Saudi Arabia. It was very different from the diluted religion of my grandmother, which was mixed with magical practices and pre-Islamic beliefs. Saudi Arabia is the source of Islam and its quintessence. It is the place where the Muslim religion is practiced in its purest form, and it is the origin of much of the fundamentalist vision that has, in my lifetime, spread far beyond its borders. In Saudi Arabia, every breath, every step we took, was infused with concepts of purity or sinning, and with fear. Wishful thinking about the peaceful tolerance of Islam cannot interpret away this reality: hands are still cut off, women still stoned and enslaved, just as the Prophet Muhammad decided centuries ago.

  The kind of thinking I saw in Saudi Arabia, and among the Muslim Brotherhood in Kenya and Somalia, is incompatible with human rights and liberal values. It preserves a feudal mind-set based on tribal concepts of honor and shame. It rests on self-deception, hypocrisy, and double standards. It relies on the technological advances of the West while pretending to ignore their origin in Western thinking. This mind-set makes the transition to modernity very painful for all who practice Islam.

  It is always difficult to make the transition to a modern world. It was difficult for my grandmother, and for all my relatives from the miyé. It was difficult for me, too. I moved from the world of faith to the world of reason—from the world of excision and forced marriage to the world of sexual emancipation. Having made that journey, I know that one of those worlds is simply better than the other. Not because of its flashy gadgets, but fundamentally, because of its values.

  The message of this book, if it must have a message, is that we in the West would be wrong to prolong the pain of that transition unnecessarily, by elevating cultures full of bigotry and hatred toward women to the stature of respectable alternative ways of life.

  People accuse me of having interiorized a feeling of racial inferiority, so that I attack my own culture out of self-hatred, because I want to be white. This is a tiresome argument. Tell me, is freedom then only for white people? Is it self-love to adhere to my ancestors’ traditions and mutilate my daughters? To agree to be humiliated and powerless? To watch passively as my countrymen abuse women and slaughter each other in pointless disputes? When I came to a new culture, where I saw for the first time that human relations could be different, would it have been self-love to see that as a foreign cult, which Muslims are forbidden to practice?

  Life is better in Europe than it is in the Muslim world because human relations are better, and one reason human relations are better is that in the West, life on earth is valued in the here and now, and individuals enjoy rights and freedoms that are recognized and protected by the state. To accept subordination and abuse because Allah willed it—that, for me, would be self-hatred.

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  The decision to write this book didn’t come to me easily. Why would I expose such private memories to the world? I don’t want my arguments to be considered sacrosanct because I have had horrible experiences; I haven’t. In reality, my life has been marked by enormous good fortune. How many girls born in Digfeer Hospital in Mogadishu in November 1969 are even alive today? And how many have a real voice?

  I also don’t want my reasoning to be dismissed as the bizarre ranting of someone who has been somehow damaged by her experiences and who is lashing out. People often imply that I am angry because I was excised, or because my father married me off. They never fail to add that such things are rare in the modern Muslim world. The fact is that hundreds of millions of women around the world live in forced marriages, and six thousand small girls are excised every day. My excision in no way damaged my mental capacities; and I would like to be judged on the validity of my arguments, not as a victim.

  My central, motivating concern is that women in Islam are oppressed. That oppression of women causes Muslim women and Muslim men, too, to lag behind the West. It creates a culture that generates more backwardness with every generation. It would be better for everyone—for Muslims, above all—if this situation could change.

  When people say that the values of Islam are compassion, tolerance, and freedom, I look at reality, at real cultures and governments, and I see that it simply isn’t so. People in the West swallow this sort of thing because they have learned not to examine the religions or cultures of minorities too critically, for fear of being called racist. It fascinates them that I am not afraid to do so.

  In March 2005, Time magazine informed me that I would be named one of its one hundred “most influential people in the world today.” I went straight out to buy a copy of the magazine, of course, but I was weeks early; that issue wouldn’t come out until mid-April. So the magazine I bought wasn’t about me, it was about poverty in Africa. The woman on the cover was young and thin, with three small children. She was wrapped in the same kind of cloth my grandmother used to wear, and the look in her eyes was hopeless.

  It threw me back to Somalia, to Kenya, to poverty and disease and fear. I thought about the woman in that photograph, and about the millions of women who must live as she does. Time had just named me to their category “Leaders and Revolutionaries.” What do you do with a responsibility like that?

  Perhaps I could start by telling people that values matter. The values of my parents’ world generate and preserve poverty and tyranny, for example, in their oppression of women. A clear look at this would be tremendously beneficial. In simple terms, for those of us who were brought up with Islam, if we face up to the terrible reality we are in, we can change our destiny.

  Why am I not in Kenya, squatting at a charcoal brazier making angellos? Why have I been instead a representative in the Dutch Parliament, making law? I have been lucky, and not many women are lucky in the places I come from. In some sense, I owe them something. Like the Galla woman I once translated for in Schalkhaar, I need to seek out the other women held captive in the compound of irrationality and superstition and persuade them to take their lives into their own hands.

  Sister Aziza used to warn us of the decadence of the West: the corrupt, licentious, perverted, idolatrous, money-grubbing, soulless countries of Europe. But to me, there is far worse moral corruption in Islamic countries. In those societies, cruelty is implacable and inequality is the law of the land. Dissidents are tortured. Women are policed both by the state and by their families to whom the state gives the power to rule their lives.

  In the past fifty years the Muslim world has been catapulted into modernity. From my grandmother to me is a journey of just two gene
rations, but the reality of that voyage is millennial. Even today you can take a truck across the border into Somalia and find you have gone back thousands of years in time.

  People adapt. People who never sat on chairs before can learn to drive cars and operate complex machinery; they master these skills very quickly. Similarly, Muslims don’t have to take six hundred years to go through a reformation in the way they think about equality and individual rights.

  When I approached Theo to help me make Submission, I had three messages to get across. First, men, and even women, may look up and speak to Allah: it is possible for believers to have a dialogue with God and look closely at Him. Second, the rigid interpretation of the Quran in Islam today causes intolerable misery for women. Through globalization, more and more people who hold these ideas have traveled to Europe with the women they own and brutalize, and it is no longer possible for Europeans and other Westerners to pretend that severe violations of human rights occur only far away. The third message is the film’s final phrase: “I may no longer submit.” It is possible to free oneself—to adapt one’s faith, to examine it critically, and to think about the degree to which that faith is itself at the root of oppression.

  I am told that Submission is too aggressive a film. Its criticism of Islam is apparently too painful for Muslims to bear. Tell me, how much more painful is it to be these women, trapped in that cage?

  Acknowledgments

  I was born in a country torn apart by war and grew up in a continent mostly known for what goes wrong rather than right. Measured by the standards of Somalia and Africa I am privileged to be alive and thriving, a privilege I never can and never shall take for granted. For without the help and sacrifice of family, tutors, and friends, I would not have been any different from my peers who struggle just to survive.

  I wish to start with my mother who held me close and refused to believe that I would die for being born too early and underweight. My grandmother who taught me the art of survival. My father who insisted that I go to school. My late sister for her friendship, her laughter, her sense of adventure. My brother for his never-ending sense of hope.

  I want to acknowledge my teachers at Juja Road who, besides the regular curriculum, were dedicated to instilling discipline in us, and some of my teachers at the Muslim Girls’ School, such as Mrs. Mumtaz, Mrs. Kataka, Mrs. Owour, Mrs. Choudry, and Mrs. Karim, who “saw something in me.”

  A special thanks to Jim’o Musse and the Italian doctor at Nairobi hospital whose name I have forgotten but whose face I shall never forget—together they saved my life. I am grateful to my stepmother, half-sisters, cousins, aunts, and uncles who welcomed me to their homes, counseled me, and pampered me for nine long months in Mogadishu.

  I would not have become the woman I am without the openness, hospitality, and opportunity that Holland offered me as a nation. The kindness and civility with which I was welcomed into Holland was profound. I felt at home from the very beginning. The INS officials, the police, the social workers at the refugee centers, my language teachers, the volunteers, the landlords, and many more who helped me when I first entered Holland left a deep impression on me of how civilized a nation can be. My deepest gratitude goes to my “Dutch family”—Johanna, Maarten, Irene, and Jan—who offered me a real home in my new country. Also, they helped me learn how to become a self-sufficient Dutch citizen and overcome my own cultural prejudices.

  Maarten van der Linde, my first professor at Hoge School in Driebergen, will remain dear to me for his devotion to giving vocations to as many nonnative Dutch as possible. Without Maarten I would not have taken those admissions exams, let alone pass them.

  My tutors at Leiden introduced me to my faculty of reason. I particularly enjoyed the classes given by Professor Rudy Andeweg, Professor Paul ’t Hart, and Professor Henk Dekker. Dr. Henk Kern’s history workshops were both a challenge and a pleasure to attend. Professor Paul Cliteur made Introduction to Law seem like an entertainment class, and I am grateful that he and his wife, Carla, later became very good friends. I have since discovered he is better at law than cooking.

  For all our disagreements on issues of multiculturalism, Islam, and integration and religion, I will remember Paul Kalma for his honesty and help. He protected me from the threats of the Islamists and from the pen of those who tried to slander me. I thank Margo Trappenburg, Bart Tromp, and especially Arie van der Zwan.

  I want to acknowledge leading Dutch feminists: Cisca Dresselhuys, Nahed Selim, Naema Tahir, Adelheid Roosen, and Jeltje van Nieuwenhoven, who welcomed me as one of them and provided me inspiration in the debate to help improve Muslim women’s rights.

  Many people have stood up for me when freedom of speech was at issue. My special thanks to Betsy Udink, Nelleke Noordervliet, Max Pam, Joost Zwagerman, and Peter van Ingen for their support.

  I am grateful to Gijs van de Westelaken and Theodor Holman and anyone else who contributed to Submission, Part 1.

  I owe deep gratitude to Gerrit Zalm, Neelie Kroes, Jozias van Aartsen, and Henk Kamp. They were instrumental in boosting and preserving my political career. They believed in me, took a stand for me, and coached me throughout my years in Dutch Parliament, and continue to do so.

  Frits Bolkestein was my intellectual mentor—he and his wife, Femke Boersma, opened their home to me and offered me comfort and support in my hours of need.

  Special thanks to:

  De Herenclub—the Gents’ club—Chris, Chris, Hans, Herman, Jaffe, Leon, Paul, Sylvain: for your ideas and inspiring conversations. You taught me so much and always had the courage to criticize me when you thought I was wrong.

  Leon, Jessica, Mo, and Mo: you are anchors of strength and I can never thank you enough.

  The Van Gogh family.

  The two I’s—Iris and Ingrid—and Peter: without your guidance and levelheadedness I would have lost my mind many a time in the past few years. It is great to have you by my side.

  My publishers around the world, in particular Tilly, for your commitment and friendship, and Leslie and Chris for your insights and support that helped me complete this book.

  Ruth, for all your help in writing this book. Your patience, your inquisitive mind, your sensitivity, were all crucial to making this book happen. I know at times your pretty face frowned when I got behind in my work. I know that sometimes you wanted to pull out that wonderfully thick hair of yours. But you always had a kind word. And you always held out your hand to encourage me along.

  Susanna, my agent, my friend, my sister—and even sometimes my Jewish mother! Thank you and your team for your unfailing calm, conscientiousness, and confidence.

  The entire staff of the Dutch Royal and Diplomatic Protection Service (DKDB).

  Annejet, Anne Louise, Britta, Corin, David, Evelyn and Rose, Evelyn, Frederique, Frédérique, Geeske, Giovanni, Hans, Hein, Isabella, Joachim, Marco, Mirjam, Nina, Olivia, Olivier, Roeland, Ruben, Sebastian, Tamara . . . I have been so fortunate over the years to have had so many friends who have supported me through thick and thin. I cannot name you all, and I would hate to forget someone, but you know who you are. Thank you for always surrounding me with your warmth, love, and understanding.

  About the Author

  AYAAN HIRSI ALI was born in Somalia, was raised Muslim, and spent her childhood and young adulthood in Africa and Saudi Arabia. In 1992, Hirsi Ali fled to the Netherlands as a refugee, escaping a forced marriage to a distant cousin she had never met. She learned Dutch and worked as an interpreter in abortion clinics and shelters for battered women. After earning her college degree in political science, she was elected to Parliament, where she worked to raise awareness of the plight of Muslim women in Europe. Hirsi Ali was named one of Time magazine’s 100 Most Influential People of 2005, one of the Glamour Heroes of 2005, and Reader’s Digest’s European of the Year, and she has received numerous human rights awards. She is author of The Caged Virgin: An Emancipation Proclamation for Women and Islam, and works for the American Enterprise Institute in the Uni
ted States. If you would like to contribute to Ayaan Hirsi Ali’s security trust, please visit www.AyaanHirsiAli.org.

  INFIDEL

  Ayaan Hirsi Ali

  Reading Group Guide

  ABOUT THIS GUIDE

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  The following reading group guide is intended to help you find interesting and rewarding approaches to your reading of Infidel. We hope this enhances your enjoyment and appreciation of the book.

  Infidel Reading Group Guide

  Discussion Questions

  1. Hirsi Ali tells us that this book is “the story of what I have experienced, what I’ve seen, and why I think the way I do” (page xxii). Which experiences does she highlight as being integral to forming her current views on Islam?

  2. “No eyes silently accused me of being a whore. No lecherous men called me to bed with them. No Brotherhood members threatened me with hellfire. I felt safe; I could follow my curiosity” (page 185). This passage refers to Hirsi Ali’s initial impression of walking the streets in Germany. What other significant differences between the West and Islamic Africa did she observe during her first days in Europe? Upon arriving in Holland, what were her initial impressions of the Dutch people and the Dutch government? Did these change significantly while she lived there?

  3. How did Hirsi Ali’s immigration experience and integration into Dutch society differ from those of other Somalians?

  4. Discuss the differences that Hirsi Ali noticed between raising children in Muslim countries and raising children in the West. In particular, what did she notice about Johanna’s parenting? How were Muslim parents different from Dutch parents in their instructions to their children on the playground? (See page 245.)

  5. In Hirsi Ali’s words, “A Muslim girl does not make her own decisions or seek control. She is trained to be docile. If you are a Muslim girl, you disappear, until there is almost no you inside you” (page 94). How do the three generations of women in Hirsi Ali’s family differ in their willingness to “submit” to this doctrine?