A God Who Hates: The Courageous Woman Who Inflamed the Muslim World Speaks Out Against the Evils of Islam

by Wafa Sultan

  My reading, though, ranged far beyond the books and articles I needed to read in order to pass the medical equivalency exams. When I discovered the existence of an Arabic-language press printed and published in California, I was delighted. In great hope and expectation I set out at once to look for these newspapers and read them. I expected that the freedom we enjoyed in America would allow us to express things we had previously repressed, and air opinions we had kept bottled up—only to discover little by little that these newspapers were a carbon copy of our press in the Arab world. Each paper is supported by a specific country or party, and the struggle between the newspapers closely resembles the struggles we experienced in our homelands.

  At that point slender threads still bound me to Islam. I decided to embark upon a free search for the lost truth, in hopes of perhaps replacing these threads with a sturdy rope. I began my research on two different planes—the Muslim plane, which enabled me to gain a more profound and intimate knowledge of Islam without the fears induced by social pressures, and the American plane, so as to acquire a deeper firsthand knowledge of American society, too, which would allow me to compare what I had learned about both.

  While engaged in this research I did not stop writing for so much as a day, and began to compose an article more or less every week. In these brief essays I calmly expressed very mild criticism of our customs and education methods, supporting my position with comparisons with what I had read and observed in the United States. Every article was like a stone thrown into still waters: Each one made waves and as, over time, I became increasingly critical and outspoken, they generated an increasing number of reactions. If the development of my writing in the period between early 1989, when my first article was published, and September 10, 2001, were to be plotted on a graph, a slow but steady rise would be observed in the line that represents the severity of my criticism. Each point along that line would reflect the extent to which my way of thinking and my attitude to Islam had changed, and record precisely when that change took place.

  I became addicted to reading both Islamic and American books, and the more assiduously I read, the more I discovered that our tragic condition in the Muslim world, as compared with that of the United States, is simply the sad result of our Islamic belief system. I had expected that the slender thread, which during the first four years of my life in America had continued to bind me to Islam, would be replaced with a sturdy rope, only to discover day by day that it had become more fragile than ever. I moved from one newspaper to another, as each one banished me, sending me to the next. The Saudi-supported paper was the first to turn down my work. I was then adopted by a paper supported at the time by Saddam Hussein’s government—not because they liked what I wrote, but because they hated the Saudis.

  After his defeat in the first Gulf War, Saddam Hussein tried to use Islam as a lever to win the trust of his people and save his regime from collapse, and so I did not last long at that newspaper either, and ended up writing for a paper supported by the Syrian Embassy in Washington. As the Syrian government, like Saddam Hussein’s, initially, can hardly be accused of being religiously inclined, my presence in the pages of this newspaper was a little more prolonged. A problem did crop up later, however, because the publisher was a Christian, and after a certain point he, as a non-Muslim, could no longer withstand the increasingly vehement attacks launched against my articles in his paper by the Muslim diaspora.

  Muslims withdrew their advertisements from the paper in protest against what I wrote, and the publisher called me about two months before the September 11th terrorist attack to ask me if he could give my telephone number to CAIR (the Council on American-Islamic Relations) because one of its members wanted to talk to me. I agreed, of course, and that same day I received a telephone call from Mr. Hussam Ayloush of CAIR. Mr. Ayloush was courteous and did his best to restrain himself during our conversation. He expressed his displeasure at what I had written and said that I had come close to overstepping the line. When a Muslim—especially if he is a member of CAIR—tells a writer that he or she has come close to overstepping the line, his words, naturally, carry a veiled threat whose dangers can be understood only by those with an excellent command of Arabic and a profound understanding of Islam. After they heard what he had said, a number of my loyal friends asked me to ease up and be patient, as things did not bode well. I began to boil internally like a pressure cooker, and, as my temperature rose, I felt I was about to explode.

  I often look back and wonder, where did my resolve come from? There were so many incidents, but one memory comes back to me from the time I left Syria. My husband left for America about a year before I did. When I submitted a request for a passport for my children, the officer at the emigration and permits department refused to give me one on the grounds that, under Islamic law, I was not my children’s legal guardian and that it was up to their father to submit the request. I took from my bag the power of attorney which my husband had obtained from the appropriate authorities and which legally authorized me to dispose of his money, his possessions, and all his affairs, but the officer handed it back to me, saying, “That’s a power of attorney, not proof of guardianship. It gives you the right to dispose of his property, but you do not have guardianship of his children.”

  “But they are my children, too, sir.”

  “A woman is not the guardian of her children. Do you understand?”

  “What can we do now? Please, I need their passports and their father isn’t here.”

  “The only solution is for you to bring a man from your husband’s family who will declare that he permits you the right to obtain a passport for your children.” Only one member of my husband’s immediate family lived in the same town as we did, and I had never met him in my life. Ali was an alcoholic notorious for his ill nature and poor character, because of which my husband had never wanted to introduce him to me.

  I inquired about him and was directed to his home in a poor quarter far from where we lived. His wife greeted us with a warm smile, and signs of compassion for me could be read in her face. Very quietly, for fear of being overheard, she whispered in my ear: “He’s drunk all the time. I don’t know if he’ll agree to do what you ask. Try to bribe him with a bit of money. He won’t take in what you say, but the sight of the money may bring him round.”

  At the emigration and permits department, after I’d stuffed fifty Syrian pounds (one dollar) into his pocket, Ali approached the officer in charge, holding out his identity card, which proved he belonged to my husband’s family—without specifying the closeness of the relationship—and said, “Yes officer. She’s my brother’s wife, and my brother has appointed me guardian of his children. In accordance with my brother’s wishes I shall not prevent her from acquiring passports for his children.” When we left the building I had the passports in my hand, but the anger grew inside me. A knowledgeable and respectable woman and a doctor, I was not considered fit to be the guardian of my own children, but a drunkard of no moral worth had the right, for one dollar, to become my guardian and the guardian of my children.

  I fled my prison with suitcases containing nothing more than painful memories. I was leaving my two children behind and would send for them when their father and I were able to support them. Packed in my suitcases with the love I held for my children were the faces of Suha, Fatima, Amal, and thousands of other women whose tragedies, had I decided to write about them, would fill too many books to fit into the American Library of Congress. I left for America spurred on by a single aim: To defend those Allah had cut down in size until they were smaller than flies. I had the aim and the will, but I lacked any clear vision or plan which would enable me to attain my goal. But, America re-formed me, armed me with knowledge, clarified my vision, and helped me to outline my plan to save those victims. I decided to bring “Allah” to justice on criminal charges.

  8.

  “Who is that woman on Al Jazeera?”

  THAT’S WHAT EVERYONE in the Arab world starting a
sking: “Who is that woman on Al Jazeera who told a man to be quiet so that she could speak?” At the time, I had no idea the firestorm I had ignited. When I think back to my first appearance on Al Jazeera, I am still stunned and can’t believe what I did. In my first appearance with the Al Jazeera television network, I debated a Muslim clergyman named X who was not all that different from the preacher in our local mosque. The program’s host called me two days ahead of time to ask if I could take part. He didn’t explain what the program was like, but said, “We’d like to hear your opinion on the extent of the connection between Islamic teachings and terrorism.” I had not carried on a conversation in literary Arabic for almost sixteen years. During that time I had written that form of Arabic but had not spoken it. I had no idea what the program was like, as I don’t have Al Jazeera on my cable list and I’m not a fan of television in general.

  Of course, Al Jazeera had good reason for choosing me. My essays were well known all over the Arab world. My opinions on the subject were clear and precise. They chose me so that they could show Arab viewers how superficial my attitude was, discredit me, and confirm that I was incapable of defending my opinions. They were convinced that even though, as a writer, I was able to assert my views to my readers, I would prove virtually incapable of doing so on television, where I would be knocked out with one decisive blow. The number of television viewers in the Arab world is much larger than the number of readers, and it includes all classes of Muslim Arab society. If I were to be shown up as a failure before this audience, they thought it would really be the end of me!

  The general public in the Arab world tends, in the main, to judge any discussion by the same criteria my mother used to evaluate the preacher in our local mosque: by vocal stridency and volume. The other guest on the program was a talented preacher skilled in the arts of bellowing and raiding. He did not allow me one quarter of the time allocated to me. He did not respect my right to reply, nor did he respect my time as the philosophy of raiding believes neither in rights nor in privacy. His shouting and raging robbed me of the time allocated to me. He did not hear a word I said, nor did he reply to a single question I asked.

  Calmly and with what I thought was exceptional patience I managed to express my thoughts, and within a short time I had stated my opinion to the viewers clearly and succinctly. Never in the history of Islam has a woman vied with a man’s ability to raid and shout. Never in the history of Islam has a woman silenced a man’s clamor with her calmness or overcome his shouts by her ability to talk and convince. The philosophy of raiding at which Muslim men so excel failed for the first time in its history, defeated by a woman who had not held a conversation in literary Arabic for sixteen years and who was speaking to an audience of millions of Muslims for the first time.

  As our time began to run out, the program’s host gave me another few seconds to conclude what I had to say and summarize my opinions, but the raiding guest interrupted me once more. Time seemed too short and too precious for me to waste even a second of it, and I shouted at him: “Be quiet! It’s my turn!” I uttered this sentence without realizing that it would open a new chapter in Arab and Muslim history. Never in the history of Islam has a woman clearly and forcefully asked a Muslim man to be quiet because it was her turn to speak. Women in Islamic custom and tradition don’t have a turn. They have no time that is theirs alone. Women in Islam don’t even possess their own selves, or the right to make their own decisions.

  My mailbox was flooded with letters. The statement “Be quiet, it’s my turn” was the subject of most of these. Viewers who supported my position praised what I had said and considered it to have been one of the best things I had said during the debate. But Muslim men who saw it as a threat to their ability to raid and shout cursed me and regarded my courage to say it as a disgraceful impertinence. What is important to me is that I broke a taboo that other Muslim women may have seen me break. I broke a taboo I do not observe and which I do not regard as sacrosanct, and I hope that it encourages other women to follow in my footsteps. I challenged the insolence of a Muslim sheikh and exposed his shallowness and hypocrisy for the first time in fourteen centuries.

  Who was I to perform such a feat? What I did made me begin to wonder just who I was and what I believed in. Who was that woman on Al Jazeera? I am a Muslim woman. Yes, I think of myself as a Muslim, whether or not I believe in Islam. I did not choose to be a Muslim, but it is not within my power to make myself anything else. Each one of us is whoever she is persuaded to be in her early years. Each one of us has fallen into the trap set for him in childhood, and the rest of his life is no more than a bitter struggle either to stay in that trap or leave it. The decision to stay or go is yours alone and life challenges every one of us no matter what we do. If you decide to stay, life will present you with challenges which will drag you out of it, and if you decide to leave it will challenge you to remain. Staying is a challenge, and leaving is a challenge. One’s freedom lies in your decision to stay or go.

  I fell into the trap of Islam in the early years of my childhood. When I grew older, I decided to escape from that trap. My freedom lies in my decision. I don’t believe that I will ever be able to free myself completely from the jaws of that trap—no one can—but my inability to do so does not detract from my freedom. I am free now, whether I manage to free myself completely or only partially.

  That’s life’s game. Every person is born with a sort of birthmark, which others have prepared for him. He plays no part in deciding what that birthmark looks like or the elements it’s made up of, but he finds himself forced to wear it, imprinted on his flesh, throughout his lifetime, as it can never be completely removed and it can never completely fade. Each birthmark contains a person’s family’s values, principles, customs, and traditions. This is all you possess, and all you have with which to confront life’s challenges. Some parts of it will impede you; others will make your path smoother. You alone will decide what to keep and what to get rid of. Life isn’t fair. Why?

  Each person’s birthmark differs from the next. What Margaret Thatcher found in her birthmark in no way resembled what my grandmother found in hers. Mrs. Thatcher found things that smoothed her way to becoming prime minister of Great Britain. Its motto said, “You can be anything you want to be.” In the course of her life, Mrs. Thatcher faced a great many challenges that placed obstacles in her path, but by staying true to the mark she received at birth, she managed to overcome these challenges.

  My grandmother’s birthmark was different. What my grandmother found enabled her to dance for joy at her husband’s wedding to a second wife while dying of sadness inside. The motto inscribed on her birthmark was different. It said, “Women are defective. Marriage will conceal one tenth of that defect, and the grave will hide the other nine tenths.” My grandmother could have refused to dance at her husband’s wedding, but she chose to obey his orders and continue as his wife under his protection, so that marriage would conceal some of her defect. The game life played with Margaret Thatcher was less rough than the game it played with my grandmother. Mrs. Thatcher was convinced that she was fit to be prime minister, while my grandmother was convinced that she was fit only to be my grandfather’s wife.

  Life presented both women with challenges designed to make them renounce their convictions, but my grandmother faced challenges that made it much more difficult for her to give up her beliefs than it was for Margaret Thatcher. Let’s assume for the sake of argument that Mrs. Thatcher, discouraged by the challenges she faced, decided to renounce her conviction that she could be whoever she wanted to be. Renouncing this conviction would have deprived her of the office to which she aspired, but she would not have ended up homeless on the streets. In Margaret Thatcher’s unconscious that conviction would have gone on nagging at her until she used it to become, if not exactly what she had wanted, at least something close to what she had wanted.

  And let’s assume for the sake of argument that my grandmother, for her part, had decided to renounce her
conviction that women are a defect of which marriage covers up one tenth. Her renunciation of that conviction would have helped her refuse my grandfather’s orders and avoid the pain that dancing at his wedding caused her. But had she done that she would have ended up in her father’s house, a disgrace to herself and her family.

  In my grandmother’s unconscious this conviction would have continued to nag at her, just as Mrs. Thatcher’s did. Never in all her life, even when things were at their best, did my grandmother ever become anything more than a small portion of that defect which she had been persuaded she embodied.

  The birthmarks we inherit remains etched into the depths of our unconscious, and however we may try to remove it, a large scar will remain to affect us and remind us. And so I repeat: I am a Muslim. In the realm of my conscious mind I exercised my freedom and decided to leave Islam, but to what extent have I succeeded in freeing my unconscious from the birthmark which has been imprinted upon it? There is still a huge scar barring my way.

  I ask myself again, “Who is that woman on Al Jazeera?,” and I can only answer, as my grandmother might have because of the lessons of Islam: “She is defective! She is grateful to her husband for covering up one tenth of this defect of hers and is waiting for the grave to hide the other nine tenths.” We know from modern studies in neurobiology that the birthmark, as I’m calling it, is accompanied by anatomical, chemical, and physiological changes in the cells and tissues of the brain. I don’t know if I have the capacity to re-program myself, but I know one thing: I don’t want my daughters’ birthmarks to affect them in the same way I am affected by the one my mother gave me.