Som barn vidste jeg, at jeg havde superkræfter Det er sandt.
When I was a child, I knew I had superpowers. That's right.
(Latter)
(Laughter)
Jeg mente, jeg var fantastisk, fordi jeg kunne forstå og relatere til følelserne hos brune mennesker, såsom min bedstefar, en konservativ muslim. Jeg kunne også forstå min afghanske mor og pakistanske far, ikke videre religiøse, men afslappede og ret liberale. Og selvfølgelig kunne jeg forstå og relatere til følelserne hos hvide mennesker. De hvide nordmænd i mit land. I ved, hvide, brune, ligemeget Jeg holdt af dem alle. Jeg forstod dem alle, selv når de ikke altid forstod hinanden; de var alle som mig.
I thought I was absolutely amazing because I could understand and relate to the feelings of brown people, like my grandfather, a conservative Muslim guy. And also, I could understand my Afghan mother, my Pakistani father, not so religious but laid-back, fairly liberal. And of course, I could understand and relate to the feelings of white people. The white Norwegians of my country. You know, white, brown, whatever -- I loved them all. I understood them all, even if they didn't always understand each other; they were all my people.
Min far var dog altid bekymret. Han sagde altid at selv med den bedste uddannelse, ville jeg ikke få en fair chance. Jeg ville stadig blive diskrimineret, ifølge ham. Og at den eneste måde at blive accepteret på af hvide, var at blive berømt. Den samtale tog han med mig, da jeg var syv år gammel. Så til mig på syv, sagde han "Hør, det skal enten være noget med sport eller indenfor musik." Han vidste intet om sport ... så det blev altså musikken. Så da jeg var syv, samlede han alt mit legetøj, alle mine dukker sammen og smed dem ud. I bytte fik jeg et elendigt lille Casio keyboard og ...
My father, though, was always really worried. He kept saying that even with the best education, I was not going to get a fair shake. I would still face discrimination, according to him. And that the only way to be accepted by white people would be to become famous. Now, mind you, he had this conversation with me when I was seven years old. So while I'm seven years old, he said, "Look, so it's either got to be sports, or it's got to be music." He didn't know anything about sports -- bless him -- so it was music. So when I was seven years old, he gathered all my toys, all my dolls, and he threw them all away. In exchange he gave me a crappy little Casio keyboard and --
(Latter)
(Laughter)
Jo! Og sangtimer. Og han tvang mig til at øve i timevis hver eneste dag. Ganske hurtigt fik han mig også til at optræde for større og større publikum, og mærkeligt nok blev jeg nærmest indbegrebet af norsk multikulturalisme Jeg var naturligvis meget stolt. For nu var selv aviserne begyndt at skrive pæne ting om brune mennesker, så jeg følte mine superkræfter vokse.
Yeah. And singing lessons. And he forced me, basically, to practice for hours and hours every single day. Very quickly, he also had me performing for larger and larger audiences, and bizarrely, I became almost a kind of poster child for Norwegian multiculturalism. I felt very proud, of course. Because even the newspapers at this point were starting to write nice things about brown people, so I could feel that my superpower was growing.
Da jeg var tolv år gammel på vej hjem fra skole, tog jeg en lille omvej, fordi jeg ville købe noget af mit favoritslik kaldet "salte fødder." Jeg ved godt navnet er frastødende, men jeg er helt vild med dem. De er egentlig bare små fodformede saltlakridser. Og nu jeg siger det højt, indser jeg, hvor forfærdeligt det lyder, men sådan er det altså. Jeg elsker dem. På vej ind i butikken, står der en fuldvoksen hvid fyr i døråbningen og blokerer den. Jeg prøver at gå udenom ham og da jeg gør det, stopper han mig og han stirrer på mig, og spytter mig i ansigtet og siger "Flyt dig ... din lille sorte tæve, din lille Paki tæve, rejs hjem til hvor du kommer fra" Jeg var fuldstændig i chok. Jeg stirrede på ham. Jeg var for bange til at tørre spyttet af mit ansigt, selv da det blandede sig med mine tårer. Jeg husker jeg kiggede rundt og håbede på at der snart ville komme en voksen og stoppe denne fyr. Men i stedet skyndte folk sig forbi mig og lod som om de ikke så mig. Jeg var meget forvirret, for jeg tænkte jo "Mit hvide folk, kom nu! Hvor er I? Hvad sker der? Hvorfor kommer de ikke og redder mig?" Behøver jeg sige at jeg ikke købte slikket. Jeg løb bare hjem så hurtigt jeg kunne.
So when I was 12 years old, walking home from school, I took a little detour because I wanted to buy my favorite sweets called "salty feet." I know they sound kind of awful, but I absolutely love them. They're basically these little salty licorice bits in the shape of feet. And now that I say it out loud, I realize how terrible that sounds, but be that as it may, I absolutely love them. So on my way into the store, there was this grown white guy in the doorway blocking my way. So I tried to walk around him, and as I did that, he stopped me and he was staring at me, and he spit in my face, and he said, "Get out of my way you little black bitch, you little Paki bitch, go back home where you came from." I was absolutely horrified. I was staring at him. I was too afraid to wipe the spit off my face, even as it was mixing with my tears. I remember looking around, hoping that any minute now, a grown-up is going to come and make this guy stop. But instead, people kept hurrying past me and pretended not to see me. I was very confused because I was thinking, well, "My white people, come on! Where are they? What's going on? How come they're not coming and rescuing me?" So, needless to say, I didn't buy the sweets. I just ran home as fast as I could.
Livet var stadig OK, tænkte jeg. Som tiden gik og jo mere succes jeg fik, begyndte jeg også at blive chikaneret af brune mennesker. Visse mænd i mine forældres omgangskreds fandt det uacceptabelt og æreskrænkende for en kvinde at være indenfor musikken og være så synlig i medierne. Kort tid efter, begyndte jeg også at blive angrebet under mine egne koncerter. Jeg husker en af koncerterne. Jeg er på scenen og læner mig ud mod publikum, og det sidste jeg ser er et ungt brunt ansigt, og i næste øjeblik får jeg kastet et eller andet kemikalie i øjnene, og jeg husker at jeg nærmest intet kan se og mine øjne løber i vand men jeg fortsætter med at synge. Jeg blev spyttet i ansigtet på gaden i Oslo, denne gang af brune mænd. De forsøgte endda at kidnappe mig en gang. Jeg fik dødstrusler konstant. Jeg husker en ældre mand med skæg, der stoppede mig på gaden og sagde "Årsagen til at jeg hader dig så meget er at du får vores døtre til at tro at de kan gøre hvad der passer dem" En yngre fyr advarede mig at jeg skulle passe på. Han sagde musik brød med islamisk lære og var et job for ludere, og at hvis jeg fortsatte, ville jeg blive voldtaget og få min mave skåret op, så jeg ikke kunne føde horeunger som mig.
Things were still OK, though, I thought. As time went on, the more successful I became, I eventually started also attracting harassment from brown people. Some men in my parent's community felt that it was unacceptable and dishonorable for a woman to be involved in music and to be so present in the media. So very quickly, I was starting to become attacked at my own concerts. I remember one of the concerts, I was onstage, I lean into the audience and the last thing I see is a young brown face, and the next thing I know is some sort of chemical is thrown in my eyes and I remember I couldn't really see and my eyes were watering but I kept singing anyway. I was spit in the face in the streets of Oslo, this time by brown men. They even tried to kidnap me at one point. The death threats were endless. I remember one older bearded guy stopped me in the street one time, and he said, "The reason I hate you so much is because you make our daughters think they can do whatever they want." A younger guy warned me to watch my back. He said music is un-Islamic and the job of whores, and if you keep this up, you are going to be raped and your stomach will be cut out so that another whore like you will not be born.
Igen var jeg virkelig forvirret. Jeg forstod ikke hvad der foregik. Mit eget folk var begyndt at behandle mig sådan her - hvorfor dog det? I stedet for at bygge bro mellem verdener, mine to verdener, følte jeg, at jeg faldt ned mellem dem. På en måde var spyt mit kryptonit.
Again, I was so confused. I couldn't understand what was going on. My brown people now starting to treat me like this -- how come? Instead of bridging the worlds, the two worlds, I felt like I was falling between my two worlds. I suppose, for me, spit was kryptonite.
Så da jeg var fyldt 17 år, var dødstruslerne endeløse og chikanen konstant. Det blev så slemt på et tidspunkt, at min mor sagde til mig "Hør, vi kan ikke længere beskytte dig eller garantere din sikkerhed, så du må afsted." Jeg købte en enkeltbillet til London, pakkede min kuffert og rejste. Det der gjorde mest ondt på mig dengang, var at ingen sagde noget. Det var offentlig kendt at jeg rejste fra Norge. Mit brune folk, mit hvide folk - ingen sagde noget. Ingen sagde "Stop, det her er forkert. Støt denne pige, beskyt denne pige, for hun er en af os." Det var der ingen der sagde. I stedet følte jeg mig som ... I ved nok ude i lufthavnen på bagagebåndet er der alle disse kufferter, der kører rundt og rundt, og der er altid en efterladt kuffert, som ingen vil have, ingen kommer og henter. Sådan følte jeg mig. Jeg havde aldrig følt mig så alene. Aldrig følt mig så fortabt.
So by the time I was 17 years old, the death threats were endless, and the harassment was constant. It got so bad, at one point my mother sat me down and said, "Look, we can no longer protect you, we can no longer keep you safe, so you're going to have to go." So I bought a one-way ticket to London, I packed my suitcase and I left. My biggest heartbreak at that point was that nobody said anything. I had a very public exit from Norway. My brown people, my white people -- nobody said anything. Nobody said, "Hold on, this is wrong. Support this girl, protect this girl, because she is one of us." Nobody said that. Instead, I felt like -- you know at the airport, on the baggage carousel you have these different suitcases going around and around, and there's always that one suitcase left at the end, the one that nobody wants, the one that nobody comes to claim. I felt like that. I'd never felt so alone. I'd never felt so lost.
Så efter min ankomst til London, genoptog jeg min musikkarriere. Et nyt sted, men desværre den samme gamle historie. Jeg husker en besked jeg modtog, at jeg ville blive dræbt og at floder af blod ville flyde og at jeg ville blive voldtaget mange gange før jeg døde. På det tidspunkt var jeg faktisk vant til at få beskeder som den, men det var nyt at de også truede min familie.
So, after coming to London, I did eventually resume my music career. Different place, but unfortunately the same old story. I remember a message sent to me saying that I was going to be killed and that rivers of blood were going to flow and that I was going to be raped many times before I died. By this point, I have to say, I was actually getting used to messages like this, but what became different was that now they started threatening my family.
Endnu engang pakkede jeg kufferten, forlod musikken og flyttede til USA. Jeg havde fået nok. Jeg ville ikke have noget med det at gøre mere. Og jeg ville helt sikkert ikke dø for noget, der ikke engang var min drøm - det var min fars valg.
So once again, I packed my suitcase, I left music and I moved to the US. I'd had enough. I didn't want to have anything to do with this anymore. And I was certainly not going to be killed for something that wasn't even my dream -- it was my father's choice.
Jeg mistede mig selv. Jeg gik i stykker indeni. Men så besluttede jeg at det jeg ville var at bruge de næste år, uanset hvor mange, af mit liv på at støtte unge mennesker og være der for dem, bare en smule på alle de måder jeg kunne. Jeg lavede frivilligt arbejde for mange organisationer, der arbejdede med unge muslimer i Europa. Til min store overraskelse, opdagede jeg at mange af disse unge mennesker både kæmpede og led. De kæmpede med problemer i deres familier og samfundet omkring dem, som tilsyneladende gik mere op i deres ære og omdømme end deres egne børns liv og lykke. Jeg følte snart at jeg måske ikke var helt alene og måske ikke så anderledes. Måske der var flere af min slags derude.
So I kind of got lost. I kind of fell apart. But I decided that what I wanted to do is spend the next however many years of my life supporting young people and to try to be there in some small way, whatever way that I could. I started volunteering for various organizations that were working with young Muslims inside of Europe. And, to my surprise, what I found was so many of these young people were suffering and struggling. They were facing so many problems with their families and their communities who seemed to care more about their honor and their reputation than the happiness and the lives of their own kids. I started feeling like maybe I wasn't so alone, maybe I wasn't so weird. Maybe there are more of my people out there.
Det som de fleste mennesker ikke forstår er at så mange af os, der vokser op i Europa, ikke er frie til at være os selv. Vi må ikke være dem vi er. Vi kan ikke gifte os frit eller være i forhold med dem vi vælger. Vi kan ikke vælge vores karrierer. Det er normen i de muslimske højborge i Europa. Selv i verdens mest frie samfund, er vi ikke frie. Vores liv, vores drømme, vores fremtid tilhører ikke os selv, de tilhører vores forældre og samfundet omkring dem. Jeg fandt utallige historier om unge, som er tabt af os alle, som er usynlige for os, og som lider - helt alene. Unge vi mister til tvangsægteskaber, til æresrelateret vold og misbrug.
The thing is, what most people don't understand is that there are so many of us growing up in Europe who are not free to be ourselves. We're not allowed to be who we are. We are not free to marry or to be in relationships with people that we choose. We can't even pick our own career. This is the norm in the Muslim heartlands of Europe. Even in the freest societies in the world, we're not free. Our lives, our dreams, our future does not belong to us, it belongs to our parents and their community. I found endless stories of young people who are lost to all of us, who are invisible to all of us but who are suffering, and they are suffering alone. Kids we are losing to forced marriages, to honor-based violence and abuse.
Til sidst indså jeg efter mange års arbejde med disse unge mennesker, at jeg ikke kan blive ved med at flygte. Jeg kan ikke bruge resten af mit liv på at være bange og gemme mig og at jeg er nødt til at gøre noget. Og jeg indså også at min tavshed, vores tavshed tillader misbruget at fortsætte. Så jeg besluttede mig for at bruge min barndoms superkræfter til noget ved at prøve at få folk på begge sider af disse udfordringer til at forstå hvordan det er at være et ungt menneske fanget mellem sin familie og sit land.
Eventually, I realized after several years of working with these young people, that I will not be able to keep running. I can't spend the rest of my life being scared and hiding and that I'm actually going to have to do something. And I also realized that my silence, our silence, allows abuse like this to continue. So I decided that I wanted to put my childhood superpower to some use by trying to make people on the different sides of these issues understand what it's like to be a young person stuck between your family and your country.
Så jeg begyndte at lave film og fortælle disse historier. Og jeg ønskede også at folk skulle forstå de fatale konsekvenser ved ikke at tage problemerne alvorligt.
So I started making films, and I started telling these stories. And I also wanted people to understand the deadly consequences of us not taking these problems seriously.
Min første film handlede om Banaz. Hun var en kurdisk pige på 17 år, der boede i London Hun var lydig, hun gjorde alt hvad hendes forældre bad om. Hun forsøgte at gøre alting rigtigt. Hun giftede sig med den mand hendes forældre havde valgt selvom han slog og voldtog hende konstant. Og da hun søgte hjælp hos sin familie, sagde de "Gå tilbage og vær en bedre hustru." For de ville ikke have en fraskilt datter i familien, fordi, selvfølgelig, det ville kaste skam over familien. Hun blev tævet til hendes ører blødte, og da hun endelig gik fra ham og fandt en ung mand efter eget valg og blev forelsket i ham, fandt samfundet og familien ud af det og hun forsvandt. Hun blev fundet 3 måneder senere. Hun var mast ned i en kuffert og begravet under huset. Hun var blevet kvalt og tævet til døde af tre mænd, hendes tre fætre, efter ordre fra faren og onklen. Hendes historie bliver kun mere tragisk af at hun havde været hos det engelske politi 5 gange for at bede om hjælp, hvor hun fortalte dem at hendes familie ville slå hende ihjel. Politiet troede ikke på hende, så de gjorde ingenting.
So the first film I made was about Banaz. She was a 17-year-old Kurdish girl in London. She was obedient, she did whatever her parents wanted. She tried to do everything right. She married some guy that her parents chose for her, even though he beat and raped her constantly. And when she tried to go to her family for help, they said, "Well, you got to go back and be a better wife." Because they didn't want a divorced daughter on their hands because, of course, that would bring dishonor on the family. She was beaten so badly her ears would bleed, and when she finally left and she found a young man that she chose and she fell in love with, the community and the family found out and she disappeared. She was found three months later. She'd been stuffed into a suitcase and buried underneath the house. She had been strangled, she had been beaten to death by three men, three cousins, on the orders of her father and uncle. The added tragedy of Banaz's story is that she had gone to the police in England five times asking for help, telling them that she was going to be killed by her family. The police didn't believe her so they didn't do anything.
Og problemet ved det er at ikke bare har mange af vores unge de samme problemer med deres familier og deres familiers omgangskreds, men de møder også misforståelser og ligegyldighed i de lande, de vokser op i. Når deres egne familier svigter dem, så vender de sig mod os andre og når vi ikke forstår dem, så mister vi dem.
And the problem with this is that not only are so many of our kids facing these problems within their families and within their families' communities, but they're also meeting misunderstandings and apathy in the countries that they grow up in. When their own families betray them, they look to the rest of us, and when we don't understand, we lose them.
Mens jeg lavede denne film, var der mange der sagde til mig "Jamen, Deeyah, du ved jo at sådan er deres kultur, det er bare sådan de behandler deres børn og vi bør ikke blande os." Jeg kan love jer at mord ikke er en del af min kultur. Forstår I? Selvfølgelig skal folk som mig, unge kvinder med samme baggrund som jeg, have de samme rettigheder og den samme beskyttelse som alle andre i vores land - hvad ellers?
So while I was making this film, several people said to me, "Well, Deeyah, you know, this is just their culture, this is just what those people do to their kids and we can't really interfere." I can assure you being murdered is not my culture. You know? And surely people who look like me, young women who come from backgrounds like me, should be subject to the same rights, the same protections as anybody else in our country, why not?
Så i min næste film ville jeg prøve at forstå hvorfor nogle af vores unge muslimer i Europa bliver tiltrukket af ekstremisme og vold. Og med valget af det emne indså jeg, at jeg selv var nødt til at se min værste frygt i øjnene: de brune mænd med skæg. De samme mænd eller mænd som dem, der havde forfulgt mig det meste af mit liv. Mænd jeg havde været bange for det meste af mit liv. Mænd, jeg havde næret et dybt had til i mange, mange år.
So, for my next film, I wanted to try and understand why some of our young Muslim kids in Europe are drawn to extremism and violence. But with that topic, I also recognized that I was going to have to face my worst fear: the brown men with beards. The same men, or similar men, to the ones that have hounded me for most of my life. Men that I've been afraid of most of my life. Men that I've also deeply disliked, for many, many years.
Så jeg brugte de næste to år på at interviewe dømte terrorister, jihadister og tidligere ekstremister. Hvad jeg allerede vidste og tidligt stod klart var at religion, politik, Europas fortid som kolonimagt og Vestens udenrigspolitiske fejltrin i nyere tid, alle var en del af billedet. Men jeg var mere interesseret i at finde ud af hvad de menneskelige, hvad de personlige årsager var til at nogle af vores unge mennesker var modtagelige overfor grupper som disse. Og hvad der virkeligt overraskede mig, var at jeg fandt sårede mennesker. I stedet for de monstre jeg var på udkig efter, som jeg håbede at finde - for, ærligt talt, ville det være meget tilfredsstillende - fandt jeg nedbrudte mennesker. Ligesom Banaz, var disse unge mænd dybt splittede i forsøget på at bygge bro mellem deres familier og de lande, som de var født i. Og jeg lærte også at ekstremistgrupper, terroristgrupper udnytter disse følelser hos vores unge til deres fordel og styrer dem - kyniskt - styrer dem mod vold. "Kom til os", siger de. "Afvis begge sider, din familie og dit land, for de afviser dig. For din familie, er deres ære vigtigere end dig og for dit land, vil en ægte nordmand, englænder eller franskmand altid være hvid og ikke dig." De lover også vores unge de ting de higer efter: at betyde noget, heltemod, tilhørsforhold og mening, et fællesskab der elsker og accepterer dem. De får de magtesløse til at føle sig magtfulde. De usynlige og de stumme bliver pludselig set og hørt. Det er hvad de gør for vores unge. Hvorfor er det disse grupper, der gør det og ikke os?
So I spent the next two years interviewing convicted terrorists, jihadis and former extremists. What I already knew, what was very obvious already, was that religion, politics, Europe's colonial baggage, also Western foreign policy failures of recent years, were all a part of the picture. But what I was more interested in finding out was what are the human, what are the personal reasons why some of our young people are susceptible to groups like this. And what really surprised me was that I found wounded human beings. Instead of the monsters that I was looking for, that I was hoping to find -- quite frankly because it would have been very satisfying -- I found broken people. Just like Banaz, I found that these young men were torn apart from trying to bridge the gaps between their families and the countries that they were born in. And what I also learned is that extremist groups, terrorist groups are taking advantage of these feelings of our young people and channeling that -- cynically -- channeling that toward violence. "Come to us," they say. "Reject both sides, your family and your country because they reject you. For your family, their honor is more important than you and for your country, a real Norwegian, Brit or a French person will always be white and never you." They're also promising our young people the things that they crave: significance, heroism, a sense of belonging and purpose, a community that loves and accepts them. They make the powerless feel powerful. The invisible and the silent are finally seen and heard. This is what they're doing for our young people. Why are these groups doing this for our young people and not us?
Sagen er, jeg prøver ikke at retfærdiggøre eller undskylde for volden. Jeg prøver blot at sige at vi må forstå hvorfor nogle af vores unge bliver tiltrukket af dette. Jeg vil også gerne vise jer disse barndomsbilleder af nogle af mændene i filmen. Hvad der virkelig slog mig, var at så mange af dem - det ville jeg aldrig have troet - at så mange af dem havde fædre, der var fraværende eller voldelige. Og adskillige af disse unge mænd fandt omsorgsfulde og medfølende faderfigurer i disse ekstremistgrupper. Jeg fandt også mænd, ofre for racerelateret vold, som brød ud af offerrollen ved selv at blive voldelige. Til min store skræk fandt jeg faktisk noget jeg genkendte. Jeg fandt de samme følelser som jeg følte som 17-årig, da jeg flygtede fra Norge. Den samme forvirring, den samme sorg, den samme følelse af svigt og ikke at tilhøre nogen. Den samme følelse af at være fortabt og splittet mellem kulturer.
The thing is, I'm not trying to justify or excuse any of the violence. What I am trying to say is that we have to understand why some of our young people are attracted to this. I would like to also show you, actually -- these are childhood photos of some of the guys in the film. What really struck me is that so many of them -- I never would have thought this -- but so many of them have absent or abusive fathers. And several of these young guys ended up finding caring and compassionate father figures within these extremist groups. I also found men brutalized by racist violence, but who found a way to stop feeling like victims by becoming violent themselves. In fact, I found something, to my horror, that I recognized. I found the same feelings that I felt as a 17-year-old as I fled from Norway. The same confusion, the same sorrow, the same feeling of being betrayed and not belonging to anyone. The same feeling of being lost and torn between cultures.
Når det så er sagt, så valgte jeg ikke destruktionen. Jeg valgte kameraet fremfor våben. Og årsagen til at jeg gjorde det, var mine superkræfter. Jeg kunne se at forståelse fremfor vold er svaret. At se mennesker med alle deres dyder og fejl fremfor at holde fast i karikaturerne: os og dem, forbryderne og ofrene. Jeg accepterede også til sidst det faktum at mine to kulturer ikke behøvede at være på kollisionkurs, men i stedet blev et rum hvor jeg fandt min egen stemme. Jeg holdt op med at føle at jeg skulle vælge side, men det tog mig mange, mange år. Der er så mange af vores unge i dag der kæmper med de selvsamme udfordringer, og de kæmper med dem helt alene. Og det efterlader dem åbne som sår. Og for nogle bliver radikal islams verdenssyn en infektion, der gnaver i disse åbne sår.
Having said that, I did not choose destruction, I chose to pick up a camera instead of a gun. And the reason I did that is because of my superpower. I could see that understanding is the answer, instead of violence. Seeing human beings with all their virtues and all their flaws instead of continuing the caricatures: the us and them, the villains and victims. I'd also finally come to terms with the fact that my two cultures didn't have to be on a collision course but instead became a space where I found my own voice. I stopped feeling like I had to pick a side, but this took me many, many years. There are so many of our young people today who are struggling with these same issues, and they're struggling with this alone. And this leaves them open like wounds. And for some, the worldview of radical Islam becomes the infection that festers in these open wounds.
Der er et afrikansk ordsprog, som lyder: "Hvis de unge ikke bliver en del af landsbyen, så vil de brænde den ned blot for at føle dens varme." Jeg vil gerne spørge muslimske forældre og fællesskaber, vil I tage jer af jeres børn og elske dem uden at tvinge dem til opfylde jeres forventninger? Kan I vælge børnene fremfor egen ære? Kan I forstå hvorfor de føler sig vrede og fremmedgjorte når I sætter egen ære højere end deres lykke? Kan I prøve at være jeres børns ven, så de kan stole på jer og har lyst til at dele deres oplevelser med jer fremfor at opsøge andre.
There's an African proverb that says, "If the young are not initiated into the village, they will burn it down just to feel its warmth." I would like to ask -- to Muslim parents and Muslim communities, will you love and care for your children without forcing them to meet your expectations? Can you choose them instead of your honor? Can you understand why they're so angry and alienated when you put your honor before their happiness? Can you try to be a friend to your child so that they can trust you and want to share with you their experiences, rather than having to seek it somewhere else?
Og til vores unge mennesker, der fristes af ekstremisme, anerkender I, at jeres vrede bunder i smerte? Vil I finde styrken til at modstå disse kyniske gamle mænd, der vil udgyde jeres blod for egen vindings skyld? Kan I finde en måde at leve på? Kan I se at den bedste hævn er at leve et glad, rigt og frit liv? Et liv bestemt af jer og ingen andre. Hvorfor blive det næste muslimske barn, der dør? Og til resten af os, hvornår vil vi begynde at lytte til vores unge? Hvordan kan vi hjælpe dem med at vende deres smerte mod noget konstruktivt? De tror, vi ikke kan lide dem. De tror, vi er ligeglade med deres skæbner. De tror, vi ikke accepterer dem. Kan vi finde en måde at få dem til at føle noget andet? Hvad vil det kræve af os at se dem og bemærke dem før de enten bliver ofre for vold eller dem, der udfører det? Kan vi få os selv til at bekymre os om dem og se dem som vores egne? Og ikke blot være oprørte når ofre for vold ligner os? Kan vi finde en måde at modstå had og fjerne opdelingerne iblandt os? Det nytter ikke at opgive hinanden og vores børn, selv ikke hvis de har opgivet os.
And to our young people tempted by extremism, can you acknowledge that your rage is fueled by pain? Will you find the strength to resist those cynical old men who want to use your blood for their own profits? Can you find a way to live? Can you see that the sweetest revenge is for you to live a happy, full and free life? A life defined by you and nobody else. Why do you want to become just another dead Muslim kid? And for the rest of us, when will we start listening to our young people? How can we support them in redirecting their pain into something more constructive? They think we don't like them. They think we don't care what happens to them. They think we don't accept them. Can we find a way to make them feel differently? What will it take for us to see them and notice them before they become either the victims or the perpetrators of violence? Can we make ourselves care about them and consider them to be our own? And not just be outraged when the victims of violence look like ourselves? Can we find a way to reject hatred and heal the divisions between us? The thing is we cannot afford to give up on each other or on our kids, even if they've given up on us.
Vi er alle i samme båd. Og på lang sigt vil vold og hævn ikke fungere mod ekstremister. Terrorister vil have os til at krybe i skjul i vores huse af frygt og lukke vores døre og vores hjerter. De vil have os til at rive flere åbne sår op i vores samfund, så de kan bruge dem til at sprede deres smitte. De vil have at vi skal blive som dem: intolerante, hadefulde og onde.
We are all in this together. And in the long term, revenge and violence will not work against extremists. Terrorists want us to huddle in our houses in fear, closing our doors and our hearts. They want us to tear open more wounds in our societies so that they can use them to spread their infection more widely. They want us to become like them: intolerant, hateful and cruel.
Dagen efter angrebene i Paris, sendte en af mine venner dette foto af hendes datter. Det er en hvid pige og en arabisk pige. De er de bedste venner. Sådanne billeder er kryptonit for ekstremister. Disse to små piger med deres superkræfter viser vejen frem mod det samfund vi skal bygge sammen, et samfund der inkluderer og støtter, fremfor at afvise vores børn.
The day after the Paris attacks, a friend of mine sent this photo of her daughter. This is a white girl and an Arab girl. They're best friends. This image is the kryptonite for extremists. These two little girls with their superpowers are showing the way forward towards a society that we need to build together, a society that includes and supports, rather than rejects our kids.
Tak for at I lyttede.
Thank you for listening.
(Bifald)
(Applause)