I’m really enjoying Ayaan Hirsi Ali’s memoir Infidel. In part because I also spent the early 70s in the Horn of Africa and remember the turmoil she describes. I can visualize her and her siblings playing within the compound of the home. Stories of soldiers showing up at homes to question people or haul them off to jail were part of the news the house workers would share when they reported for duty in the morning. It was an unsettling time.
Her parents’ story is daring. After many years being held as a political prisoner, her father was aided in a successful prison break. He fled to Ethiopia. Her mother then went to work at securing false passports for herself and her three children. When asked where she wanted to reunite the family, she chose Saudi Arabia.
My mother didn’t want to move to Ethiopia, because Ethiopians were Christians: unbelievers. Saudi Arabia was God’s country, the homeland of the Prophet Muhammad. A truly Muslim country, it was resonant with Allah, the most suitable place to bring up children. My mother had learned Arabic in Aden; more important, she also imbibed a vision that Islam was purer, deeper, closer to God in the countries of the Arabian peninsula. Saudi Arabian law came straight from the Quran: it was the law of Allah. Inevitably, the life of our family, reunited in Saudi Arabia, would be predictable, certain, and good.
Although their life in Somalia wasn’t sophisticated, they had many freedoms. And thus the move to Mecca and then Riyadh was oppressive.
But as soon as we left the mosque, Saudi Arabia meant intense heat and filth and cruelty. People had their heads cut off in public squares. Adults spoke of it. It was a normal, routine thing: after the Friday noon prayer you could go home for lunch, or you could go and watch the executions. Hands were cut off. Men were flogged. Women were stoned. In the late 1970s, Saudi Arabia was booming, but though the price of oil was tugging the country’s economy into the modern world, its society seemed fixed in the Middle Ages.
Women were not to leave the home without male companionship. Yet she did. There was shopping to do and kids had to be taken to school. Thus she was heckled by neighbors and degraded. Yet she still persisted with the choice to give up liberties in order to feel she was leading the good life.
I think there were times when she was happy: cooking in the evenings, her family around her. But how many of those evenings did she have? Sometimes, at night, I would hear my parents talking, my mother listing all the ways my father had failed her, her voice tense with rage. Abeh would tell her, “Asha, I am working to give us a future in our own country.” Or he would say, “These things wouldn’t happen if we were living in a normal country.” Abeh never liked Saudi Arabia and always wanted us to move to Ethiopia with him. But my mother wouldn’t do it: Ethiopians were unbelievers.
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