Var jeg i stand til at beskytte min far fra Armed Islamic Group med en frugtkniv? Det var det spørgsmål, jeg måtte svare på en tirsdag morgen i juni, 1993, da jeg var jurastuderende.
Could I protect my father from the Armed Islamic Group with a paring knife? That was the question I faced one Tuesday morning in June of 1993, when I was a law student.
Jeg vågnede tidligt den morgen i min fars lejlighed i udkanten af Algier i Algeriet ved lyden af en insisterende banken på hoveddøren. Som en lokal avis beskrev det, så var dette en tid, hvor en akademiker blev dræbt hver tirsdag af fundamentalistiske morderes kugler. Det faktum, at min far underviste i Darwins teorier på universitetet, havde allerede resulteret i et besøg i klasseværelset af lederen af den såkaldte Islamiske Befrielsesfront, som fordømte min far som en fortaler for biologisme, før det lykkedes min far at smide ham ud, og nu ville personen udenfor hverken fortælle, hvem han var, eller forlade stedet. Min far forsøgte at ringe til politiet, men måske var det angsten for bølgen af bevæbnet ekstremisme, der allerede havde kostet så mange algierske betjentes liv, der forhindrede dem i at svare. Det var på dette tidspunkt, at jeg gik ud i køkkenet, hentede en frugtkniv, og stillede mig parat i entreen. Det var en fjollet ting at gøre, egentlig, men jeg kunne ikke komme i tanke om andre muligheder, så der stod jeg.
I woke up early that morning in Dad's apartment on the outskirts of Algiers, Algeria, to an unrelenting pounding on the front door. It was a season as described by a local paper when every Tuesday a scholar fell to the bullets of fundamentalist assassins. My father's university teaching of Darwin had already provoked a classroom visit from the head of the so-called Islamic Salvation Front, who denounced Dad as an advocate of biologism before Dad had ejected the man, and now whoever was outside would neither identify himself nor go away. So my father tried to get the police on the phone, but perhaps terrified by the rising tide of armed extremism that had already claimed the lives of so many Algerian officers, they didn't even answer. And that was when I went to the kitchen, got out a paring knife, and took up a position inside the entryway. It was a ridiculous thing to do, really, but I couldn't think of anything else, and so there I stood.
Når jeg ser tilbage på det, så tror jeg, at det var øjeblikket, der lagde den første sten i min vej til at skrive en bog, som hedder "Din fatwa gælder ikke her: Ufortalte historier fra kampen imod muslimsk fundamentalisme." Titlen kommer fra et pakistansk skuespil. Jeg tror faktisk, at det var øjeblikket, der sendte mig ud på den overvældende opgave at interviewe 300 personer med muslimsk baggrund fra næsten 30 lande fra Afghanistan til Mali, for at finde ud af, hvordan de kæmpede imod fundamentalismen uden vold, som min far gjorde, og hvordan de håndterede den risiko, det indebærer.
When I look back now, I think that that was the moment that set me on the path was to writing a book called "Your Fatwa Does Not Apply Here: Untold Stories from the Fight Against Muslim Fundamentalism." The title comes from a Pakistani play. I think it was actually that moment that sent me on the journey to interview 300 people of Muslim heritage from nearly 30 countries, from Afghanistan to Mali, to find out how they fought fundamentalism peacefully like my father did, and how they coped with the attendant risks.
Heldigvis, tilbage i juni, 1993, gik vores uidentificerede gæst sin vej, men andre familier var ikke så heldige. Og det var den tanke, der motiverede min research. Under alle omstændigheder Få måneder efter vendte en person tilbage og efterlod en seddel på min fars køkkenbord. Der stod, "du kan betragte dig selv som død". Efterfølgende dræbte Algeriets væbnede fundamentalister op imod 200.000 civile i det, der blev kendt som 90'ernes mørke årti. Det inkluderede hver eneste af de kvinder, I ser her. I den hårde indsats imod terror brugte staten tortur og pludselige forsvindinger. Og selvom disse begivenheder udviklede sig i en frygtelig retning, blev de stort set ignoreret af det internationale samfund. I sidste ende var min far, søn af en landmand og senere professor, tvunget til at stoppe sin undervisning på universitetet og til at flygte fra hans lejlighed. Men det, jeg aldrig vil glemme om min far, Mahfoud Bennoune, var, at som så mange andre algierske intellektuelle, nægtede han at forlade landet, og han fortsatte med offentligt at rette kritik både imod fundamentalisterne og ind imellem den regering, de kæmpede imod. I november, 1994, i avisen El Watans artikelserie med titlen "Hvordan fundamentalisme skabte en hidtil uset terrorisme," fordømte han for eksempel det, han kaldte 'terroristens radikale brud med den sande Islam, som troen blev udlevet af vores forfædre.' Dette var ord, der kunne få dig dræbt.
Luckily, back in June of 1993, our unidentified visitor went away, but other families were so much less lucky, and that was the thought that motivated my research. In any case, someone would return a few months later and leave a note on Dad's kitchen table, which simply said, "Consider yourself dead." Subsequently, Algeria's fundamentalist armed groups would murder as many as 200,000 civilians in what came to be known as the dark decade of the 1990s, including every single one of the women that you see here. In its harsh counterterrorist response, the state resorted to torture and to forced disappearances, and as terrible as all of these events became, the international community largely ignored them. Finally, my father, an Algerian peasant's son turned professor, was forced to stop teaching at the university and to flee his apartment, but what I will never forget about Mahfoud Bennoune, my dad, was that like so many other Algerian intellectuals, he refused to leave the country and he continued to publish pointed criticisms, both of the fundamentalists and sometimes of the government they battled. For example, in a November 1994 series in the newspaper El Watan entitled "How Fundamentalism Produced a Terrorism without Precedent," he denounced what he called the terrorists' radical break with the true Islam as it was lived by our ancestors. These were words that could get you killed.
Min fars land lærte mig i 90'ernes mørke årti, at den folkelige modstand imod muslimsk fundamentalisme er en af de vigtigste og mest oversete kampe for menneskerettigheder i verden. Dette er stadig sandt idag, hvor næsten 20 år er gået. Ser du, i hvert land, hvor man hører om bevæbnede jihadier der angriber civile, er der også ubevæbnede mennesker, der stiller sig op imod de militante. Og dem hører du ikke om. De mennesker har brug for vores støtte, hvis modstanden skal lykkes.
My father's country taught me in that dark decade of the 1990s that the popular struggle against Muslim fundamentalism is one of the most important and overlooked human rights struggles in the world. This remains true today, nearly 20 years later. You see, in every country where you hear about armed jihadis targeting civilians, there are also unarmed people defying those militants that you don't hear about, and those people need our support to succeed.
I Vesten går man ofte ud fra at muslimer støtter op omkring terrorisme. På højrefløjen bunder denne opfattelse nogle gange i ideen om, at muslimsk kultur essentielt er voldelig. Og på venstrefløjen er nogle af denne opfattelse, fordi de betragter muslimsk vold, fundamentalistisk vold, udelukkende som et resultat af reel forurettelse. Begge opfattelser er helt forkerte. Faktisk er mange personer med muslimsk baggrund rundt omkring i verden indædte modstandere af både fundamentalisme og terrorisme, og ofte med god grund. Det er nemlig langt oftere ofre for denne vold end dens udøvere. Lad mig give jer et eksempel. Ifølge en undersøgelse fra 2009 af de arabisktalende medier mellem 2004 og 2008, var mindre end 15% af Al-Qaedas ofre vesterlændinge. Det er et forfærdeligt tal, men langt størstedelen var folk med muslimsk baggrund, som blev dræbt af muslimske fundamentalister.
In the West, it's often assumed that Muslims generally condone terrorism. Some on the right think this because they view Muslim culture as inherently violent, and some on the left imagine this because they view Muslim violence, fundamentalist violence, solely as a product of legitimate grievances. But both views are dead wrong. In fact, many people of Muslim heritage around the world are staunch opponents both of fundamentalism and of terrorism, and often for very good reason. You see, they're much more likely to be victims of this violence than its perpetrators. Let me just give you one example. According to a 2009 survey of Arabic language media resources, between 2004 and 2008, no more than 15 percent of al Qaeda's victims were Westerners. That's a terrible toll, but the vast majority were people of Muslim heritage, killed by Muslim fundamentalists.
Igennem de sidste 5 minutter har vi talt om fundamentalisme, og I har ret til at vide præcis, hvad jeg mener. Jeg vil citere en definition formuleret af den algierske sociolog Marieme Helie Lucas, og hun siger, at fundamentalismer, bemærk flertallet, altså indenfor alle verdens store religiøse traditioner, "fundamentalismer er ekstremt højreorienterede politiske bevægelser, som i en kontekst af globalisering manipulerer religion for at opnå deres politiske mål." Sadia Abbas har kaldt dette den radikale politisering af teologi. Jeg vil gerne undgå at give indtryk af, at der er en slags monolit derude, som man kan kalde muslimsk fundamentalisme, som er den samme alle steder, for disse bevægelser adskiller sig også fra hinanden. Nogle bruger og taler for vold. Nogle gør ikke, men de er dog sjældent forbundet. De kommer i forskellige former. Nogle er organisationer uafhængige af regeringen, selv her i England som f.eks. Cageprisoners. Nogle bliver til politiske partier, som Det Muslimske Broderskab, og andre er åbenlyst bevæbnede grupper som Taliban. Men i alle tilfælde er det radikale projekter. De er ikke konservative eller traditionelle tiltag. De forsøger for det meste at ændre folks forhold til Islam snarere end at bevare det. Det, jeg taler om, er det ekstreme, muslimske Højre, og det faktum, at dets tilhængere er eller foregiver at være muslimer, gør dem ikke mindre aggressive end det ekstreme Højre alle mulige andre steder. Så efter min mening, hvis vi betragter os selv som liberale eller venstreorienterede, fortalere for menneskerettigheder eller feminister, så må vi modsætte os disse bevægelser og støtte deres græsrodsmodstandere. Lad mig sige det helt klart. Jeg støtter en effektiv kamp imod fundamentalisme, men også en kamp, der i sig selv må respektere international lov. Så intet af det, jeg siger, må opfattes som en retfærdiggørelse af at nægte at demokratisere. Og dette er et opråb af støtte til den pro-demokratiske bevægelse i Algeriet idag, Barakat. Der er heller ikke noget af det, jeg siger, der skal opfattes som en retfærdiggørelse af overtrædelser af menneskerettighederne, som eksempelvis massedødsdommene som blev udstedt i Egypten tidligere denne uge. Det jeg siger er, at vi må stille os op imod disse muslimske fundamentalistiske grupper, fordi de truer menneskerettighederne i adskillige kontekster med muslimske flertal, og de gør det på adskillige måder. Tydeligst med de direkte angreb på civile udført af bevæbnede grupper. Men denne vold er kun toppen af isbjerget. Disse bevægelser diskriminerer generelt religiøse og seksuelle minoriteter. De ønsker at indskrænke religionsfriheden for alle, der enten praktiserer anderledes eller slet ikke praktiserer. Og allermest karakteristisk er det, at de fører en gennemgribende krig imod kvinders rettigheder.
Now I've been talking for the last five minutes about fundamentalism, and you have a right to know exactly what I mean. I cite the definition given by the Algerian sociologist Marieme Helie Lucas, and she says that fundamentalisms, note the "s," so within all of the world's great religious traditions, "fundamentalisms are political movements of the extreme right which in a context of globalization manipulate religion in order to achieve their political aims." Sadia Abbas has called this the radical politicization of theology. Now I want to avoid projecting the notion that there's sort of a monolith out there called Muslim fundamentalism that is the same everywhere, because these movements also have their diversities. Some use and advocate violence. Some do not, though they're often interrelated. They take different forms. Some may be non-governmental organizations, even here in Britain like Cageprisoners. Some may become political parties, like the Muslim Brotherhood, and some may be openly armed groups like the Taliban. But in any case, these are all radical projects. They're not conservative or traditional approaches. They're most often about changing people's relationship with Islam rather than preserving it. What I am talking about is the Muslim extreme right, and the fact that its adherents are or purport to be Muslim makes them no less offensive than the extreme right anywhere else. So in my view, if we consider ourselves liberal or left-wing, human rights-loving or feminist, we must oppose these movements and support their grassroots opponents. Now let me be clear that I support an effective struggle against fundamentalism, but also a struggle that must itself respect international law, so nothing I am saying should be taken as a justification for refusals to democratize, and here I send out a shout-out of support to the pro-democracy movement in Algeria today, Barakat. Nor should anything I say be taken as a justification of violations of human rights, like the mass death sentences handed out in Egypt earlier this week. But what I am saying is that we must challenge these Muslim fundamentalist movements because they threaten human rights across Muslim-majority contexts, and they do this in a range of ways, most obviously with the direct attacks on civilians by the armed groups that carry those out. But that violence is just the tip of the iceberg. These movements as a whole purvey discrimination against religious minorities and sexual minorities. They seek to curtail the freedom of religion of everyone who either practices in a different way or chooses not to practice. And most definingly, they lead an all-out war on the rights of women.
I mødet med disse bevægelser har den vestlige diskurs i de seneste år for det meste kun budt på to fejlagtige reaktioner. Den første, som primært findes på højrefløjen, antager at de fleste muslimer er fundamentalister, eller at noget omkring Islam er grundlæggende fundamentalistisk, og det er både stødende og forkert. På venstrefløjen møder man omvendt ofte en diskurs der er for politisk korrekt, eller værre endnu, finder undskyldninger for volden, og dette er ligeså uacceptabelt. Så det, jeg leder efter, er en helt ny måde at tale om dette, som er funderet i de erfaringer og håb, som vi kan få fra folk, der oplever volden på nært hold. Jeg er i smertende høj grad opmærksom på den voksende diskrimination imod muslimer de seneste år i lande som Storbritannien og USA, og det er også grund til en seriøs bekymring. Men jeg tror fuldt og fast på at disse fortællinger, der gør op med stereotype forestillinger, og som handler om folk med muslimsk baggrund, der har konfronteret fundamentalisterne og har været deres primære ofre, også er en god måde at imødekomme den diskrimination. Så lad mig introducere jer for fire personer, hvis historier jeg har den store ære at få lov til at fortælle.
Now, faced with these movements in recent years, Western discourse has most often offered two flawed responses. The first that one sometimes finds on the right suggests that most Muslims are fundamentalist or something about Islam is inherently fundamentalist, and this is just offensive and wrong, but unfortunately on the left one sometimes encounters a discourse that is too politically correct to acknowledge the problem of Muslim fundamentalism at all or, even worse, apologizes for it, and this is unacceptable as well. So what I'm seeking is a new way of talking about this all together, which is grounded in the lived experiences and the hope of the people on the front lines. I'm painfully aware that there has been an increase in discrimination against Muslims in recent years in countries like the U.K. and the U.S., and that too is a matter of grave concern, but I firmly believe that telling these counter-stereotypical stories of people of Muslim heritage who have confronted the fundamentalists and been their primary victims is also a great way of countering that discrimination. So now let me introduce you to four people whose stories I had the great honor of telling.
Faizan Peerzada og Rafi Peer Teatrets workshop, opkaldt efter hans far, har i årevis fremmet scenekunsten i Pakistan. I takt med at den fundamentalistiske vold voksede begyndte de at modtage trusler og pres for at aflyse deres forestillinger, hvilket de nægtede. Og i 2008 ramte en bombe deres ottende internationale scenekunstfestival i Lahore, og resulterede i en regn af glasstumper, som faldt ud over deres spillested og skadede 9 personer. Og senere samme aften traf Peerzada-gruppen en meget svær beslutning: De annoncerede, at deres festival ville fortsætte som planlagt næste dag. Og samtidigt sagde Faizan, at hvis vi bøjer os for islamisterne, så vil vi ende med at sidde i et mørkt hjørne. Men de vidste ikke, hvad der ville ske. Ville nogen komme? Faktisk kom tusindvis af mennesker næste dag for at støtte scenekunsten i Lahore, og gjorde både Faizan begejstret og skrækslagen, og han henvendte sig til en kvinde, som var mødt op med sine to børn, og han sagde: "Du ved godt, der var en bombe her igår, og der er en trussel idag." Og hun svarede: "Det ved jeg godt, men jeg kom til jeres festival med min mor, da jeg var på deres alder, og jeg har stadig klare minder fra dengang. Vi bliver nødt til at være her." Med stålsatte publikummer som dette kunne Peerzada-gruppen gennemføre deres festival som planlagt.
Faizan Peerzada and the Rafi Peer Theatre workshop named for his father have for years promoted the performing arts in Pakistan. With the rise of jihadist violence, they began to receive threats to call off their events, which they refused to heed. And so a bomber struck their 2008 eighth world performing arts festival in Lahore, producing rain of glass that fell into the venue injuring nine people, and later that same night, the Peerzadas made a very difficult decision: they announced that their festival would continue as planned the next day. As Faizan said at the time, if we bow down to the Islamists, we'll just be sitting in a dark corner. But they didn't know what would happen. Would anyone come? In fact, thousands of people came out the next day to support the performing arts in Lahore, and this simultaneously thrilled and terrified Faizan, and he ran up to a woman who had come in with her two small children, and he said, "You do know there was a bomb here yesterday, and you do know there's a threat here today." And she said, "I know that, but I came to your festival with my mother when I was their age, and I still have those images in my mind. We have to be here." With stalwart audiences like this, the Peerzadas were able to conclude their festival on schedule.
Og næste år, mistede de alle deres sponsorer på grund af sikkerhedsrisikoen. Da jeg mødte dem i 2010 var de i gang med den første, efterfølgende festival, som de var i stand til at holde på samme spillested. Og dette var den niende scenekunstfestival for unge, der blev holdt i Lahore i et år, hvor denne by allerede havde oplevet 44 terrorangreb. Det var på dette tidspunkt at det pakistanske Taliban var begyndt på deres systematiske angreb på pigeskoler, som senere kulminerede i angrebet på Malala Yousafzai. Hvad gjorde Peerzada-gruppen i den situation? De opsatte skoleteater for piger. Jeg havde det privilegium at se "Naang Wal", som var en musical på punjabi, og pigerne fra Lahore Grammar School spillede alle rollerne. De sang og dansede, de spillede musen og vandbøflen, og jeg holdt mit vejr og tænkte på, om vi ville nå til slutningen af dette fantastiske show? Og da vi nåede slutningen, åndede hele publikummet samstemmende lettet op, og et par stykker fældede endda en tåre, og de fyldte auditoriet med den fredfyldte lyd af klapsalver. Og jeg kan huske, at jeg i dette øjeblik tænkte, at bombemændene ryddede alle overskrifterne her to år før, men denne aften og disse mennesker er mindst ligeså vigtig en historie.
And then the next year, they lost all of their sponsors due to the security risk. So when I met them in 2010, they were in the middle of the first subsequent event that they were able to have in the same venue, and this was the ninth youth performing arts festival held in Lahore in a year when that city had already experienced 44 terror attacks. This was a time when the Pakistani Taliban had commenced their systematic targeting of girls' schools that would culminate in the attack on Malala Yousafzai. What did the Peerzadas do in that environment? They staged girls' school theater. So I had the privilege of watching "Naang Wal," which was a musical in the Punjabi language, and the girls of Lahore Grammar School played all the parts. They sang and danced, they played the mice and the water buffalo, and I held my breath, wondering, would we get to the end of this amazing show? And when we did, the whole audience collectively exhaled, and a few people actually wept, and then they filled the auditorium with the peaceful boom of their applause. And I remember thinking in that moment that the bombers made headlines here two years before but this night and these people are as important a story.
Maria Bashir er den første og eneste kvindelige chefanklager i Afghanistan. Hun har haft stillingen siden 2008 og åbnede faktiske et kontor for at efterforske sager om vold imod kvinder, som hun betegner som det vigtigste område indenfor hendes mandat. Da jeg mødte hende i hendes kontor i Herat, trådte hun ind i rummet omringet af fire store mænd, men fire store våben. Faktisk har hun nu 23 bodyguards, fordi hun har været udsat for bombeangreb, der var tæt på at dræbe hendes børn, og som kostede en af hendes vagter et ben.
Maria Bashir is the first and only woman chief prosecutor in Afghanistan. She's been in the post since 2008 and actually opened an office to investigate cases of violence against women, which she says is the most important area in her mandate. When I meet her in her office in Herat, she enters surrounded by four large men with four huge guns. In fact, she now has 23 bodyguards, because she has weathered bomb attacks that nearly killed her kids, and it took the leg off of one of her guards.
Hvorfor fortsætter hun? Hun siger med et smil, at det er det spørgsmål alle stiller. Som hun siger, "hvorfor risikere ikke at leve?" Og det er simpelthen det, det betyder for hende: En bedre fremtid for alle de kommende Maria Bashir er risikoen værd, og hun ved, at hvis folk som hende selv ikke løber risikoen, så er der ingen bedre fremtid. Senere i interviewet fortæller chefanklager Bashir, hvor bekymret hun er omkring de mulige resultater af regeringens forhandlinger med Taliban, de samme mennesker, som har forsøgt at dræbe hende. "Hvis de får en plads i vores regering," spørger hun: "Hvem vil så beskytte kvindernes rettigheder?" Og hun opfordrer det internationale samfund til ikke at glemme dets løfter til kvinderne, fordi de ønsker fred med Taliban. Et par uger efter jeg forlader Afghanistan, ser jeg en overskrift på internettet. En afghansk anklager er blevet myrdet. Jeg googler desperat, og samme dag finder jeg heldigvis ud af, at Maria ikke er ofret, men desværre er en anden afghansk anklager blevet skudt på hans vej til arbejde. Og når jeg idag hører den slags overskrifter, tænker jeg, at når de internationale styrker forlader Afghanistan de kommende år, så må vi stadigvæk bekymre os om, hvad der sker med befolkningen, med alle som Maria Bashir. Nogle gange hører jeg stadig hendes stemme for mig, hvor hun uden nogen form praleri siger: "Situationen for kvinder i Afghanistan bliver en dag bedre. Vi skal forberede os på den dag, selvom vi bliver dræbt."
Why does she continue? She says with a smile that that is the question that everyone asks— as she puts it, "Why you risk not living?" And it is simply that for her, a better future for all the Maria Bashirs to come is worth the risk, and she knows that if people like her do not take the risk, there will be no better future. Later on in our interview, Prosecutor Bashir tells me how worried she is about the possible outcome of government negotiations with the Taliban, the people who have been trying to kill her. "If we give them a place in the government," she asks, "Who will protect women's rights?" And she urges the international community not to forget its promise about women because now they want peace with Taliban. A few weeks after I leave Afghanistan, I see a headline on the Internet. An Afghan prosecutor has been assassinated. I google desperately, and thankfully that day I find out that Maria was not the victim, though sadly, another Afghan prosecutor was gunned down on his way to work. And when I hear headlines like that now, I think that as international troops leave Afghanistan this year and beyond, we must continue to care about what happens to people there, to all of the Maria Bashirs. Sometimes I still hear her voice in my head saying, with no bravado whatsoever, "The situation of the women of Afghanistan will be better someday. We should prepare the ground for this, even if we are killed."
Der findes ikke ord, der er stærke nok til at fordømme terrorgruppen Al-Shabaab, som angreb Westgate-centeret i Nairobi på netop den dag, hvor der blev afholdt en madlavningskonkurrence for børn i september 2013. De dræbte 67, heriblandt digtere og gravide kvinder. Langt derfra, i USA's Midtvest, var jeg så heldig at møde somali-amerikanere, der arbejde hårdt for at forpurre Al-Shabaabs indsats for at rekruttere en lille gruppe unge fra Minneapolis til at deltage i grusomheder som Westgate-angrebet. Abdirizak Bihi's studerende, 17-årige nevø Burhan Hassan blev rekrutteret der i 2008, sendt til Somalia, og dræbt, da han forsøgte at komme hjem. Siden da har Mr. Bihi, som leder Det Somaliske Center for uddannelse og støtte, som drives uden budget, højlydt fordømt rekrutteringen og regeringens utilstrækkelighed og visse somali-amerikanske institutioner som det islamiske Abubakar As-Saddique Center, hvor han mener, at hans nevø blev radikaliseret under et program for unge. Men han kritiserer ikke bare moskéen. Han retter også sin kritik imod regeringen for dens mislykkede forsøg på at gøre mere for at forhindre fattigdom i hans miljø. På grund af han egen mangel på økonomiske ressourcer har Mr. Bihi været nødt til at være kreativ. Han vil undgå, at Al-Shabaab rekrutterede flere unge, i efterdønningerne på gruppen angreb på folk, der så World Cup i Uganda i 2010. Derfor arrangerede han en Basketballturnering i Ramadanen i Minneapolis som et modsvar. Flokke af somali-amerikanske børn kom ud for at dyrke sport på trods af den fatwa, der var imod det. De spillede basketball, som Burhan Hassan aldrig ville komme til at gøre igen. På grund af hans indsats er Mr. Bihi blevet udstødt af ledelsen af Abubakar As-Saddique-centret, som han plejede at have et godt forhold til. Han fortalte mig, at "en dag så vi imamen på TV, og han kaldte os vantro og sagde, at 'disse familier prøver at ødelægge moskéen." Det her står i total modsætning til det, som Abdirizak forsøger at gøre, når han afslører Al-Shabaabs rekruttering. Han prøver at redde den religion, han elsker, fra et lille antal ekstremister.
There are no words adequate to denounce the al Shabaab terrorists who attacked the Westgate Mall in Nairobi on the same day as a children's cooking competition in September of 2013. They killed 67, including poets and pregnant women. Far away in the American Midwest, I had the good fortune of meeting Somali-Americans who were working to counter the efforts of al Shabaab to recruit a small number of young people from their city of Minneapolis to take part in atrocities like Westgate. Abdirizak Bihi's studious 17-year-old nephew Burhan Hassan was recruited here in 2008, spirited to Somalia, and then killed when he tried to come home. Since that time, Mr. Bihi, who directs the no-budget Somali Education and Advocacy Center, has been vocally denouncing the recruitment and the failures of government and Somali-American institutions like the Abubakar As-Saddique Islamic Center where he believes his nephew was radicalized during a youth program. But he doesn't just criticize the mosque. He also takes on the government for its failure to do more to prevent poverty in his community. Given his own lack of financial resources, Mr. Bihi has had to be creative. To counter the efforts of al Shabaab to sway more disaffected youth, in the wake of the group's 2010 attack on World Cup viewers in Uganda, he organized a Ramadan basketball tournament in Minneapolis in response. Scores of Somali-American kids came out to embrace sport despite the fatwa against it. They played basketball as Burhan Hassan never would again. For his efforts, Mr. Bihi has been ostracized by the leadership of the Abubakar As-Saddique Islamic Center, with which he used to have good relations. He told me, "One day we saw the imam on TV calling us infidels and saying, 'These families are trying to destroy the mosque.'" This is at complete odds with how Abdirizak Bihi understands what he is trying to do by exposing al Shabaab recruitment, which is to save the religion I love from a small number of extremists.
Jeg vil fortælle en sidste historie. Det er historien om en 22-årig jurastuderende i Algeriet, som hedder Amel Zenoune-zouani, og som havde den samme drøm om en karriere inden for retssystemet, som jeg selv havde tilbage i 90'erne. Hun nægtede at opgive sit studie, til trods for at fundamentalisterne, der dengang kæmpede imod den Algierske stat, truede alle, der fortsatte deres uddannelse. Den 26. Januar, 1997, stod Amel på bussen i Algier, hvor hun studerede. Hun var på vej hjem for at tilbringe en aften i Ramadanen med sin familie, men hun ville aldrig få lov at færdiggøre jurastudiet. Da bussen nåede udkanten af hendes hjemby, blev den standset i et checkpoint bemandet af mænd fra The Armed Islamic Group. Med sin skoletaske på ryggen, blev Amel trukket ud af bussen og dræbt på gaden. De mænd, der skar halsen over på hende, sagde efterfølgende til alle andre: "Hvis du går på universitetet, vil vi en dag slå jer allesammen ihjel, på den her måde."
Now I want to tell one last story, that of a 22-year-old law student in Algeria named Amel Zenoune-Zouani who had the same dreams of a legal career that I did back in the '90s. She refused to give up her studies, despite the fact that the fundamentalists battling the Algerian state back then threatened all who continued their education. On January 26, 1997, Amel boarded the bus in Algiers where she was studying to go home and spend a Ramadan evening with her family, and would never finish law school. When the bus reached the outskirts of her hometown, it was stopped at a checkpoint manned by men from the Armed Islamic Group. Carrying her schoolbag, Amel was taken off the bus and killed in the street. The men who cut her throat then told everyone else, "If you go to university, the day will come when we will kill all of you just like this."
Amel døde præcis kl. 17.17. Det ved vi, fordi da hun faldt om på gaden, gik hendes ur i stykker. Hendes mor viste mig uret med den store viser, der stadig pegede optimistisk opad imod 17.18, som klokken aldrig slog. Kort før hendes død, sagde Amel til hendes mor og hendes søstre, "Intet vil ske os, inshallah, om Gud vil, men hvis noget sker, så skal du vide, at vi døde for videnskaben. Og du og far skal holde hovedet højt."
Amel died at exactly 5:17 p.m., which we know because when she fell in the street, her watch broke. Her mother showed me the watch with the second hand still aimed optimistically upward towards a 5:18 that would never come. Shortly before her death, Amel had said to her mother of herself and her sisters, "Nothing will happen to us, Inshallah, God willing, but if something happens, you must know that we are dead for knowledge. You and father must keep your heads held high."
Tabet af sådan en unge kvinde er ikke til at forstå, og imens jeg researchede, forsøgte jeg at finde frem til Amels håb igen. Hendes navn betyder ovenikøbet håb på arabisk. Jeg mener, jeg fandt det to steder. Det første sted er i hendes families styrke, ligesom i alle de andre familier, der fortsat fortæller deres historie, og fortsætter deres liv til trods for terrorismen. Faktisk overkom Amels søster, Lamia, hendes sorg, studerede jura, og er idag advokat i Algier. Dette er kun muligt, fordi de bevæbnede fundamentalister i høj grad blev overvundet i landet. Det andet sted, hvor jeg fandt Amels håb, var der, hvor kvinder og mænd forsat stiller sig op imod jihadierne. Ud af respekt for Amel, må vi støtte alle dem, som fortsætter kampen for menneskerettigheder idag, som eksempelvis Network of Women Living Under Muslim Laws. "Det er ikke nok", sagde kvinderettighedsforkæmperen Cherifa Kheddar til mig i Algier. "Det er ikke nok at kæmpe imod terrorisme. Vi skal også udfordre fundamentalismen, for fundamentalismen er den ideologi, der skaber grobunden for terrorisme."
The loss of such a young woman is unfathomable, and so as I did my research I found myself searching for Amel's hope again and her name even means "hope" in Arabic. I think I found it in two places. The first is in the strength of her family and all the other families to continue telling their stories and to go on with their lives despite the terrorism. In fact, Amel's sister Lamia overcame her grief, went to law school, and practices as a lawyer in Algiers today, something which is only possible because the armed fundamentalists were largely defeated in the country. And the second place I found Amel's hope was everywhere that women and men continue to defy the jihadis. We must support all of those in honor of Amel who continue this human rights struggle today, like the Network of Women Living Under Muslim Laws. It is not enough, as the victims rights advocate Cherifa Kheddar told me in Algiers, it is not enough just to battle terrorism. We must also challenge fundamentalism, because fundamentalism is the ideology that makes the bed of this terrorism.
Hvordan kan det være, at folk som hende - som alle dem, jeg har nævnt, ikke er mere kendte? Hvorfor ved alle, hvem Osama Bin Laden var, og kun få kender til alle dem, der modsatte sig verdens Bin Laden'er i deres egen kontekst. Vi må ændre dette billede, og derfor beder jeg jer om at dele disse fortællinger gennem jeres netværk. Tag endnu et kig på Amel Zenounes ur, der for evigt er stoppet med at gå, og så se på jeres eget ur, og beslut jer for, at dette er det tidspunkt, hvor vi skal støtte folk som Amel. Vi har ikke ret til at tie omkring dem, bare fordi det er nemmere, eller fordi den vestlige politik er fejlslagen. For klokken slår 17.17 for alt for mange Amel Zenoune'er på steder som det nordlige Nigeria, hvor jihadier stadig dræber studerende. Det er tid til højlydt at støtte alle dem, som udfordrer fundamentalismen og terrorismen med fred i deres egne samfund. Det er nu.
Why is it that people like her, like all of them are not more well known? Why is it that everyone knows who Osama bin Laden was and so few know of all of those standing up to the bin Ladens in their own contexts. We must change that, and so I ask you to please help share these stories through your networks. Look again at Amel Zenoune's watch, forever frozen, and now please look at your own watch and decide this is the moment that you commit to supporting people like Amel. We don't have the right to be silent about them because it is easier or because Western policy is flawed as well, because 5:17 is still coming to too many Amel Zenounes in places like northern Nigeria, where jihadis still kill students. The time to speak up in support of all of those who peacefully challenge fundamentalism and terrorism in their own communities is now.
Tak!
Thank you.
(Bifald)
(Applause)