the daughter of a Morrocan and UK lady -part 3

Submitted by Margaret (Poland), Jun 5, 2009 at 14:52

The day of the circumcision a man from the village attended us, he carried no sterile equipment but my parents preferred this method than that offered in the UK. No pain relief and done by a Muslim with a rusty blade. I was the virgin non-menstruating girl who was the altar they lay my brother on, me bent over and him across my back facing upwards. Its a cultural variation I believe as none of my later research has ever shown me that a girl had to be the altar when a boy is being cut, but it was the way it was done.

It was over quickly, some superstitious mumbo jumbo from the Islamic religion chanted over my crying brother as everyone around us cheered. Gifts were given and two sheep sacrificed up on the roof. I watched the sacrifices because my father insisted we watch. The butcher held the sheep down and tilted its head back exposing the neck. Then invoked Allah as the blade cut through and blood sprayed out everywhere. Did you know that animals run, even with most of their head hanging off? I was told that they were running to heaven but it didnt look much like a joyous run to me, the place smelt of fear and death and there was more blood than I had ever seen, or wanted to see again as long as I lived. 2 sheep, draining all their blood on the roof makes for a large pool of blood, one that my father made us walk through. Bare foot I stepped into the warm and thick liquid, as it splashed over my feet, I dont know how I managed the walk without being sick, I guess fear will help you through anything. All my family cheered as if I had done something special, all I could see was blood and death, and sacrifices no different to those I was told only barbarians did of old.

They split them, and skinned them, and sent us to wash the hides in the river, and then later in the evening there was a huge party to celebrate my brothers proper acceptance into the Islamic religion. A Muslim is not a Muslim unless he has been circumcised. I am just thankful that I did not suffer that fate, which was the fate of my grandmothers generation, female genital mutilation as was done to her. She tried to have my stepmother done but her husband forbade it, he was a good man, more a Sufi than a Muslim.

Of course my suicide attempt was not successful that year, and we returned home to England, back to the routine beating, Islamic training, and crying myself to sleep at night. This went on for another two years, no break or ease for me or my two natural sisters. My younger sister, the one that was born as my biological mother lost her ability to bear children was burned at the age of 8 (I was 12). Some money had vanished from the house and my step aunt claimed to have seen my little sister take this money with her own eyes.

They burnt my sisters hands, her feet and the sides of her legs, she still carries the scars as we do, and we still hear her screams whenever we remember. The burning was a way to make us identify with just a taste of the burning we would face in hell, a deterrent from what they would tell us. For us though, hell was a place on Earth and we saw our fathers face or my stepmothers, whenever we envisioned the devil. It took my younger sisters months to recover from that burning, and at her age the doctors could not do skin grafts until she had finished growing. She never did the skin grafts, for her the scars remind her that evil wears many faces.

If you wonder why no one helped us, why no one stepped in to protect us in a country that supposedly prizes itself on caring for abused children and protecting them, I cannot tell you. Social services were involved the whole time, we pleaded over the years for them to save us, we would go to the offices and they would bring us back to our parents, who would beat us the moment the social workers vanished. They saw the burn scars, they saw the whip marks and welts all over our bodies when we changed for gym lessons, yet they did nothing but issue warnings. They failed us our entire childhood.

At the age of 13 I received my final beating at the hands of my parents, my stepmother took a high-heeled shoe, and used the point to beat our heads in. First she attacked my eldest sister in the corridor as I stood in the corner waiting for my turn, my sister kicked her and ran up the stairs into the bathroom with blood running down the side of her face. This enraged my step mother even more who turned on me, the blows rained down around my head, the point of the heel penetrating my skull over and over. I remember feeling so hot on my face, and feeling like sweat was running freely, I put my hands up to my face, I pulled them away and they were covered in blood, it was everywhere. I passed out not long after.

I awoke 3 months later in a hospital, my hair only just starting to grow back where they had shaved it off to stitch my head back together. I had been in a Coma since the beating and I had almost died. My parents had informed the doctors that boys had pelted me with stones on my way home; as soon as I was able I told the doctors the truth. There could be no going home for me, not if I wanted to live and that I did.

The police went round and removed my eldest sister from the house, yet left my younger one there for whatever stupid reasons they did. The arranged a foster parents for my sister and she never looked back, for her Islam faded from her life the moment she was free, and after my slow recovery at hospital I joined her there. Up until the coma I had been an A+ student, aside from art and physical education there wasnt any subject I didnt excel in, and I had hoped to go to NASA on a sponsorship program that the school wanted to arrange for me (not that it would have ever happened with me being a worthless Muslim female). After the coma mathematics and science became my hardest subjects, nothing made sense anymore, and I failed lesson after lesson. Too ashamed to ask for help I dropped out of school, as I was shunted from one foster home to the next childrens home. I was angry and bitter, and my teenage years passed in a haze of anarchy.

My head was messed up, I longed to be loved but who could love me, or how could I recognise whom to trust and who was true? I had zero confidence; Muslim girls are not raised to have confidence as it interferes with subservience later on in life.

At the age of 17 my parents invited me to morocco on holiday with them, and yes I was stupid enough to accept. I still longed for acceptance, I still longed for a fathers love and I fell for the lies. I was semi smart though, and had the number to the British embassy and photocopies of my passport along with some hidden travellers cheques, just in case they tried to keep me there by force, as was done to so many other Muslim kids I knew. That shouldnt have been my fear; my fear should have been a developed body and rape as that is what happened that year.

I no longer wore Islamic gear at this stage, and to a Muslim male that is an invite to sex, doesnt matter whether your mouth says no, your hair says yes and that is all they see. I was raped by a family member that year, afterwards he said that there was no point in me telling anyone because I would be blamed and he would be blameless, not only that but my family would be shamed. He was right, so I didnt tell a soul. I just withdrew into myself and hid away. Waited to return to England with no one the wiser as to what had happened. I couldnt have gone to the police over there because they were known to rape girls who reported rape since their honour was sullied already.

It was true that no one would believe me or that I would be blamed, it came out many years later and my step mother said I should have felt honoured that some one so good wanted me that bad, whilst my father forbade its mention again. The family member immigrated to England years later too and even now he sits around my parents and enjoys their company, unpunished and free.

I feel rage; I feel a burning anger for something that I am powerless to change as of now. I do not believe in an afterlife, so I do not believe that he will get his comeuppance ever, and my unpunished rape is just a drop in the ocean, of all the Muslim women who have stood where I have with no recourse available to them.

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