TO KNOW AND UNDERSTAND MUSLIM SEXUAL NORMS WITHIN THEIR RELIGION, YOU NEED TO FIND IT FROM THE HORSE'S MOUTH - FROM SOMEONE WHO WAS RAISED MUSLIM AND WENT THROUGH IT ALL. HERE I CONTINUE THIS KNOWLEDGE FROM AYAAN HIRSI ALI’S BOOK; SHE IS NOW IN HOLLAND AS A REFUGEE.
ALL BLACK LETTERING IS MINE FOR EMPHASIS - Keith Hunt
August 6 was my interview with the Dutch Immigration Service. My lawyer, a careful woman with long black hair, came with me. When I knocked on his office door the immigration official bounded out from behind his desk to shake my hand. He was polite, but I felt he was testing me, trying to catch me out. He kept probing my story, and I left feeling that he had seen through me. I would be rejected for sure.
After the interview I was in a constant state of tension. I thought Mursal would find me, or even Osman Moussa himself; both would be hunting for me now. I watched buses drive up to the center, filled with refugees from Bosnia. I watched CNN and the BBC on the TV at the asylum center and felt horrible. I was occupying a bed meant for someone deserving, someone from Liberia or Bosnia, who had suffered. I was a spoiled brat, stupid and ungrateful, who should thank her father for finding her a husband in a rich country.
I was carrying a huge weight of guilt over what had I done to our family. And I felt fear, not of being alone but of the unknown: What would become of me? But I also felt a sense of freedom. This was real life that I was experiencing. I remember thinking, in that refugee center, "If I fall down dead right now, then at least I've seen the world." I didn't for one moment ever seriously entertain the idea of going back to Germany and picking up my visa to Canada. That part of my life was over.
The Ethiopian girls with whom I shared the bungalow at first seemed frivolous and hopelessly silly. They said I was so lucky to be from a country mired in civil war, which meant I was far more likely than they were to get refugee status and be allowed to live in Europe. The time they spent getting dressed, and the clothes they wore! The makeup and the miniskirts, and lending each other belts—the whole procedure took forever, and then they went out uncovered, perfectly happy with themselves. Mina was the friendliest. One morning she told me, "Come on, take off the scarf and the long skirt. You're pretty."
"I will not!" I said. "I am a Muslim."
This was precisely what people had always warned me about: the devil, in the form of Ethiopian girls, Muslims were always boasting about something or other, but our whole culture was sexually frustrated. And who on earth did I think I was to personally wreak jitna on the world? They were friendly, because they knew it wasn't my fault I felt this way, but they really let me have it.
I got up and put on my headscarf, and stood at the doorway of the bungalow. A group of Bosnian asylum seekers lived a little farther on, and they were talking in the sun. These women were supposed to be Muslim, but they were really almost naked, wearing short shorts and T-shirts with not even a bra, so you could see their nipples. Men worked nearby, or sat and talked to them quite normally, apparently not even noticing them. I stared at them for a long time, thinking, Could there be some truth to what the Ethiopian girls had said?
The next morning, I decided to stage an experiment.
I would walk out of the door without a headscarf.
I was in my long green skirt and a long tunic, and I had my scarf in a bag with me in case of trouble, but I would not cover my hair.
I planned to see what would happen. I was sweating. This was really haram, and also the first time I had walked in a public space with my hair uncovered since I was sixteen.
Absolutely nothing happened!
The gardeners kept trimming the hedges. Nobody went into a fit. Still, these were Dutch people, so perhaps not really men. I walked past Ethiopians and Zaireans, and no one paid any attention to me; but then, these people were not Muslims either. So I walked over to the group of Bosnians. Nobody looked at me. If anything, I attracted less attention than when I was covering my head. Not one man went into a frenzy.
Slowly, in the next few days, I shed the headscarf. I thought to myself, "I will tell Allah that I was careful. It didn't do anyone any harm." He didn't strike me with a thunderbolt.
I concluded that when the Quran said women should cover their bodies, it must really just mean that they shouldn't attract attention to themselves. This way I didn't feel as though I was sinning. In fact, walking about with my hair in the air, I felt somehow taller.
From then on, the only thing I was careful about was trying to stay away from the Somali men.
I knew they could recognize me as a Somali. One had already approached me to ask me about my clan. I had used the new name, Ayaan Hirsi Ali, and he had not been Darod, so he didn't instantly realize I was lying. Still, I knew it was only a matter of time before I was discovered.
One day the Ethiopians told me a friend of theirs was coming over to teach them to ride bicycles. He was an Ethiopian refugee and had bought them three secondhand bicycles with the 20-guilder living allowance we all received every week. They planned to ride into the village: it would be an adventure. So I went along.
I watched the Ethiopian girls straddling the saddles in their short skirts and sniffed at their wanton, typically Ethiopian behavior. All the same, I would have liked to ride a bicycle, too. But when I tried, in my long skirt, I could only perch sideways on the thing. "This isn't a horse, you know!" the Ethiopian man scoffed. 'You'll have to wear trousers. Go buy yourself a pair of jeans."
I had just received my 150-guilder clothes allowance. The next day I walked to the village with Mina and tried on some cheap trousers. Only men's sizes were long enough to cover my legs, and I finally emerged with an enormous, baggy pair of men's jeans. They showed not one inch of the shape of my legs, and I wore them with a tunic that went halfway down my thighs. You couldn't have described this outfit as immodest. Then I tried the bicycle. Falling off it, I felt I was free.
I began having a huge amount of fun. Every day, the Ethiopian girls found something to do. One day they asked me, "Do you want to swim?" I said, "I can't. I'll drown," but they said, "Rubbish," and I could borrow a swimsuit at the pool. So, less than a month after I first arrived in Europe, I found myself in an ill-fitting swimsuit, in front of a crowd of other asylum seekers, women and men.
I cringed. I wasn't ready for this. Even while I was splashing in the pool I thought about Allah and the angels looking down at me. But when I looked around, none of the men was even noticing me. Every so often a man would look at me, but I in no way had the impression that because of me, any of them would end up in Hell or drowned at the bottom of the pool. The tall Bosnians, and the Zaireans, with their wonderful torsos: I found myself noticing them, too. But I was not going into any kind of fit either.
I kept coming back to it, arguing with myself, trying to justify what I was doing. I was supposed to cover myself because I was so beguiling that I would lead men astray; even the allure of perfume or high heels under a black hidjab could supposedly cause an intolerable chaos of desire. But this was clearly not true: everything was going on entirely the same.
I kept returning to the Bosnians. I found them fascinating, partly because all the Dutch workers at the center called them "the Muslims," as if all the rest of us weren't. I struck up a conversation with one Bosnian girl, who said of course she was a Muslim, though she never wore a headscarf; she had on a tiny T-shirt. She never read the Quran, either; she didn't even know how to say Bism'Allah Al-Rahman Al-Raheern, "In the name of Allah Most Gracious Most Merciful." I didn't see how this girl thought she qualified as a Muslim, but to her, apparently, Islam wasn't really a religious belief at all, more like an ethnicity. I found this mystifying.
At the end of August, I got an official letter from the Dutch refugee office. My heart sank; this must be my letter of rejection. I would be sent to Canada, or to Nairobi—it amounted to the same thing. I didn't deserve refugee status; it was over. When Mina saw my face, I confessed to her that I had lied to the authorities. She shrugged and said she had lied, too; the camp was full of people with manufactured stories quaking that they would be thrown out.
Mina opened the letter for me. It was a transfer. I was to go to Lunteren, to a long-stay center, to await the final answer.
I wrote to Haweya at a personal post office box that she had recently rented in Eastleigh. I gave her my address and told her to keep it to herself. She wrote back, "There was a lot of fracas here when you left. Father asked me to give him your address. I refused, and now we don't talk."
She went on, "Your husband is in Germany looking for you, and the whole search is being coordinated by father here. If you are going to run away, or meet him, it is up to you, but I am warning you, if you don't already know, that practically all the Osman Mahamtid in that area are looking for you everywhere. Be warned." She also asked me to send her clothes and a passport so that she, too, could get out. My nightmare was coming true: I was being hunted……..
Like all the asylum seekers, I had to check in once a week to have my card stamped. September 1 was my first Tuesday in Lunteren, so that morning I went over to the police office at the asylum-seeker center. When I went to the desk, the policewoman looked at me and disappeared underneath the desk for a minute. She reemerged, cooing in English, "Oooh! Congratulations!" and waving a pink card instead of my green one. I didn't understand, but she shook my hand and said, 'You can stay in Holland for the rest of your life. You are a recognized refugee, and now I will read you your rights."
Sweating, I thought, "Thank you Allah, thank you."
The policewoman told me that there is no better status than the A status I received. As an A-status refugee, I would never again have to check in to have my card stamped. I could work or register for unemployment benefits, I could buy or rent property, I could attend university, receive free health care, and after five years in the country I could apply for naturalization and vote. I didn't even know they had elections in Holland. What would they vote about? I thought. Everything seemed to work so perfectly.
"Do you have any more questions?" the policewoman asked me, and I said, "Yes. Why are you doing this?" She said, "The authorities have determined that you have a well-founded fear of persecution. It's the law.”…….
And could I really go to the university? I asked. The policewoman said yes, although I would have to learn the language first, of course.
I left, floating, staring at the pink card with my photo, printed in indecipherable Dutch. Suddenly, I could stay in this country, with all these nice people. It was like a dream.
THE ISLAM TEACHING FOR WOMEN TO DRESS IN A TENT, SHOWING NOTHING BUT THEIR EYES, AND SOMETIMES NOT EVEN THEIR EYES, AS THEY LOOK THROUGH A MESH-SCREEN; IT IS SO MEN WILL NOT LUST AFTER THE FEMALE FORM. WHAT THEY JUST DO NOT SEEM TO GET IS BECAUSE MEN HAVE A TEN TIME MORE SEX HORMONE THAN FEMALES, EVEN JUST HAVING A WOMAN STAND THERE UNDER ALL THIS COVER-UP STUFF, CAN MAKE A MAN’S MIND MOVE TO SEXUALITY, AND CAN STILL MOVE INTO THE LUST MODE, IF THE THOUGHT IS NOT PUT AWAY. AND MUSLIM MEN NEVER THINKING TO ASK A WOMAN IF SHE COULD LUST AFTER A MAN, EVEN WITH 1/10 THE SEX HORMONE OF MEN, IN SEEING THEIR BODIES ONLY MAYBE 3/4 COVERED, CERTAINLY SEEING THEIR FACES - AND FACES [NICE WELL SHAPED GOOD LOOKING FACES] CAN ALSO LEAD TO SEXUAL LUST IF NOT CHECKED RIGHT AWAY.
ARAB MUSLIM MEN JUST HAVE NOT COME INTO THE REALITY OF THE FACTS OF SEXUALITY IN THE 21ST CENTURY.
NOW OF COURSE SOME ISLAMIC MALES LIVING IN THE WESTERN WORLD, HAVE COME INTO THE CORRECT TEACHING OF SEXUAL SCIENCE, AND JUST PLAIN LOGIC THAT WOMEN CAN LUST AFTER MEN ALSO. HENCE MOST MUSLIM MEN IN THE WEST DO LET THEIR WIVES WEAR CLOTHES THAT SHOW THEIR SHAPE, TOGETHER WITH STILL WEARING THE HAIR COVERING.
YET OF COURSE FOR THE MUSLIM PEOPLE READING THE QURAN, LIVING BY IT, THEY WOULD SAY, SUCH PEOPLE ARE “SO-CALLED” MUSLIMS, BUT IN REALITY WOULD NOT BE TRUE MUSLIMS.
WE HAVE COVERED ON THIS WEBSITE IN MANY ARTICLES OF SUDY, WHAT THE ETERNAL GOD IN HEAVEN, HAS TO SAY ON DRESS, CLOTHING, JEWELRY, AND MAKEUP. THE READER IS REFERRED TO THEM FOR THE TRUTH FROM THE BIBLE ON THOSE TOPICS.