The Caged Virgin - Ayaan Hirsi Ali [49]
I am not the only immigrant who has come to the Netherlands, Europe, or the West in search of freedom. There are millions like me. They come on planes through the mediation of people traffickers, having sold all their possessions to pay for the journey. Immigrants from countries with no freedom escape on trucks, walk for days on end, or float across the sea in fragile little boats. Thousands of people have died on their way to Europe.
What Europe has managed to do in the last fifty-eight years, through remembering the dead and celebrating its freedom, is to realize that freedom and the peace that comes with it demand constant effort to maintain. The enjoyment of personal identity and the acceptance of pluralism are only really possible when the rights of individuals are guaranteed. The realization that civil society means living with conflict; that to do this you need words. And that therefore the word—freedom of speech—is the key to a stable society.
It is here in Europe that immigrants like me can explore the reality of free speech without risking serious repercussions, such as banishment, imprisonment, book burning, censorship, or decapitation. Every day I discover the effect that words can have—this is painful at times. They can be hurtful and offensive, and may cause misunderstandings. But they can also clarify, explain, and generally relieve suffering. For immigrants from countries where there is no freedom of speech it will be difficult to know how to handle this freedom. Difficult but necessary.
We need words to understand the present times. We need words to come to terms with our past. Words to express that clash of loyalties we experience when we move to a new country; that feeling of being torn between two worlds. Words to describe our insights into our culture and religion, which are part of the reason we left our hearth and home.
As an immigrant who has settled in Europe, I am in a position to compare the way of life in my native country with that of my future country. In order to share my observations with other immigrants who find it difficult to adjust, I need words. I need words so that I can say that maybe the standards and values our parents brought us up with, and their religion, are not as wonderful as we always imagined.
As I said at the beginning, lately I have found myself in unfamiliar situations that have turned my life upside down. But I will never forget where that life began: at the Digfeer Hospital, in Mogadishu, now severely damaged by warfare. And I will never cease to ask myself, How many children who were born there at the same time I was have had a good life?
Ten
Four Women’s Lives
In 1992, I escaped to the Netherlands, fleeing the marriage my father arranged for me to a fellow clan member in Canada. Despite my fierce protestations, my father refused to change his mind. On my way to Canada, in Germany, I seized the opportunity to run away from my family and escaped to Holland, where I was taken to the Center for Asylum Seekers. I was the only one there who could tell my fellow seekers’ story in English. Two Somali girls, who were living in the same bungalow as I was, asked if I would come with them to the refugee worker and help explain their situation. Soon I was asked to go everywhere with them. They had lice, so we had to go to the medical services. I went with them to the registration office for foreigners; to the office for legal help; to various