World Press On Transgender Madrasa, French Expulsion Of Muslim Family And ISIS Nihilism: New Age Islam's Selection, 16 November 2020
By New Age Islam Edit
Desk
16 November
2020
• First Transgender Madrasa: Let It Be The
Spark For A Social Revolution
By Badiuzzaman Bay
• Independent Bangladesh Was Built On Values Of
Inclusion And Tolerance
By Shuprova Tasneem
• Vice President-Elect Kamala Harris Moved Me
To Tears
By Padma Lakshmi
• French Expulsion Of Muslim Family Highlights
Rarity Of Mixed Marriages In War-Scarred Bosnia
By Marija Arnautovic
• Muslim Women Deal With Infertility Too – Need Much Better Support
By Sadhbh O'sullivan
• The Bataclan Terrorists Were The Product Of
War-Honed Isis Nihilism – Not Muslim Council Estates
By Nabila Ramdani
-----
First Transgender Madrasa: Let It Be The Spark
For A Social Revolution
By Badiuzzaman Bay
November
12, 2020
On Friday,
November 6, the first madrasa for transgender Muslims in Bangladesh was opened
in Dhaka through a private initiative. Until now, there has been no madrasa (or
even school) exclusively dedicated to the transgender people in the country.
This makes it a historic moment for this long-marginalised community, perhaps
no less significant than the 2013 official recognition of a "hijra
sex", the 2019 granting of full voting rights through the creation of a
"third gender" category on the national voters list, or the 2020 decision
to include them in the national census to be carried out in January 2021.
According
to media reports, the madrasa, named Dawatul Quran Third Gender Madrasa, has
been set up in a three-storey building near Lohar bridge in the Kamrangirchar
area of Dhaka. Up to 150 students can study in the non-residential seminary.
There is no age limit for enrolment, no fee for education. Besides traditional
Islamic teachings, the madrasa authorities plan to provide lessons in Bengali,
English, maths and some vocational training which will give them the
opportunity to pursue better work opportunities and even more formal education
in the future, if they so desire.
While
talking to journalists at the inauguration ceremony, Abdur Rahman Azad,
secretary general of the madrasa, explained what drove him to take this
initiative. "For too long, they (transgender people) have been living a
miserable life. They can't go to schools, madrasas or mosques. They have been
victims of discrimination. We, society and the state, are to blame for this,"
he said. He added: "We want to end this discrimination. Allah does not
discriminate between people. Islam treats everyone as a human being. Hijras
should enjoy all rights like any other human being."
To those
following the event, it was a truly uplifting moment—coming as it did on the
eve of the global Transgender Awareness Week—and the first step, as the clerics
called it, towards integrating the minority group into the wider social
network.
You don't
normally put the words "transgender" and "madrasa" together
in the same sentence. School, maybe. But not madrasa, not in a country
increasingly plagued by militant intolerance and more doctrinaire forms of
Islam where the transgender community, commonly known as hijras, are often
viewed as deviant or "sinners". The madrasa is thus a statement, a
potent symbol of pluralism, a way to bring these people from the edge of
society to the centre of Islam, thereby the centre of life in Bangladesh.
Equally, and perhaps more strikingly, it also challenges common assumptions about
where the progressive ideas of pluralism and tolerance come from. Normally, we
associate such ideas with secular activists and individuals, who we expect to
lead movements for the rights and dignity of traditionally marginalised groups.
Seldom do we expect to see mawlanas at the forefront of such a movement. The
founders of the transgender madrasa have thus shown that the clerics, if
properly motivated, can be a powerful driver of positive social change because
of the influence religion holds over this country.
Education
is of course an important means to that end. And going forward, we need to make
sure more such citizen-led institutions are formed, while the authorities begin
a process of reintegrating students from the hijra and other marginalised communities
into the mainstream education system. The objective should be to empower them
so they can start fighting for their own rights, rather than being dependent on
others to do so. Education has historically played a crucial role in empowering
minority groups. An uneducated group can neither speak for themselves nor help
those who want to help them, prolonging their crisis in the process.
But the
magic of education is unlikely to work in this case unless we, the state and
society in general, also go through a process of (re)educating ourselves. While
we talk about their education and social reintegration, we must also remind
ourselves to cleanse our minds of anti-hijra biases and prejudices, which are
precisely why this community has had little change in their luck despite the
official recognition and other favourable decrees. Today, the hijras continue
to endure transphobic slurs and attacks. They are still cast away by their own
family, and forced to choose a life of dependence. They remain deprived of
their inheritance as the inheritance law only recognises males and females.
They are also not considered for jobs and other rights and services which are
taken for granted by most people, people who have little idea about their
gender-nonconforming counterparts but continue to hold sway over their life
anyway.
How
entrenched our biases are, and how dangerous our ignorance about them is, can
be understood from the government's first attempt to implement the
"hijra" category through an employment scheme, following the 2013
recognition. A report by the Human Rights Watch thus describes the incident:
"In December 2014, the Ministry of Social Welfare invited hijras to apply
for government employment—a major boon for a population usually consigned to
begging, ritual performances at ceremonies, and sex work, and who invariably
rely on hijra leaders (or gurus) for protection. At first welcoming this
potentially empowering development, Hijras seeking government jobs lined up for
the initial interview."
But it
didn't go as expected. They were humiliated by the ill-informed Social Welfare
Department officials who asked them inappropriate questions about their gender
identity and sexuality. Twelve of them were finally selected.
Then in
January 2015, the health ministry called for a "thorough medical
check-up" to identify "authentic hijras" among them. So the 12
finalists reported to Dhaka Medical College Hospital, where "physicians
ordered non-medical hospital staff such as custodians to touch the hijras'
genitals while groups of staff and other patients observed and jeered—sometimes
in private rooms, sometimes in public spaces. Hospital staff instructed some of
the hijras to return multiple times, stretching over a number of weeks, to
undergo additional examinations. Following these abuses at the hospital,
photographs of the 12 hijras were released to online and print media, which
claimed the hijras were 'really men' who were committing fraud to attain
government jobs. Some hijras reported that publication of the photos sparked
increased harassment from the general public and economic hardship for those
involved."
If this is
the outcome of a state trying to help, imagine the outcome of its inaction or
indifference. Imagine how hard it must be for the hijras "enjoying"
no such affirmative action or support or legal protection or whatever people
need to lead a dignified life. All this points to the need for educating the
"educators", those of us who sit in judgment of them but have no real
knowledge of their challenges and sufferings. It also points to the need for
sensitising state officials and policymakers responsible for undertaking
measures related to the rights and welfare of the hijra community.
While the
establishment of a transgender madrasa marks a much-needed first step—setting a
precedent that should inspire other religious leaders, secular activists and
even ordinary folks to come forward in this regard—it will be wise to remember
how zealots in other Muslim countries tried to undermine such efforts. In 2008
in Indonesia, transgender activist Shinta Ratri founded Pondok Pesantren Waria
al-Fatah, the first madrasa for transgender people in the world. It was built
as a safe haven for the transwomen to learn and pray. No prejudice. No bigotry.
No discrimination. But all that changed in 2016, when the madrasa was closed
after threats of violence from conservative groups claiming that it was
"violating Islamic precepts". We must remain careful that no such
untoward incidents take place here.
The only
way to counter any possible fundamentalist backlash is to establish more such
institutions and also schools and vocational training centres, which will
eventually bolster the pro-hijra campaign. The ultimate goal of all such
initiatives, however, should be to create the path to empower them socially,
legally, economically, politically, and psychologically. The same goes for all
other marginalised minorities also. Let's hope the Kamrangirchar madrasa sparks
off a social revolution to bring about the much-needed change for hijras.
-----
Badiuzzaman Bay is a member of the editorial
team at The Daily Star.
https://www.thedailystar.net/opinion/magic-madness/news/first-transgender-madrasa-let-it-be-the-spark-social-revolution-1993289
----
Independent Bangladesh Was Built On Values Of Inclusion
And Tolerance
By Shuprova Tasneem
November
16, 2020
I always
believed I lived in a tolerant society. What else could one think, growing up
in independent Bangladesh? The generations born after the Liberation War were
brought up on stories of the birth of the nation and the fundamental policies
enshrined in our constitution by the Father of the Nation—democracy,
nationalism, secularism and socialism. We learnt of how a united nation fought
the Liberation War, despite having collaborators in our own ranks who attempted
to use a twisted and defiled version of faith to justify genocide and create a
divided society. We overcame extremism, authoritarianism and prejudice, and
chose freedom, democracy and tolerance instead, building a country based on principles
of inclusion, with a place for everyone at the table—Banglar Hindu, Banglar
Christian, Banglar Bouddho, Banglar Musolman.
All one had
to do was look around them to see the signs of this liberal society. Is this
not the country where folk culture thrives on every inch of the land, where
there is a singer or a poet in every household, where the annual book fair
draws more crowds than Eid sales and Humayun Ahmed's stories still sell like
hot cakes? How can a society such as this, be anything but tolerant?
It was in
2001 when this illusion first shattered (for me), when two separate bomb blasts
carried out by militant outfit Harkat-ul-Jihad struck at the heart of the
capital's Pohela Boishakh celebrations at Ramna Batamul, killing 10 people and
injuring 50 others. The carefully orchestrated attack on one of the most
inclusive celebrations in Bangladesh, shown live on television and watched
across the nation, sent a clear message in this new era of rising
militancy—tolerance will not be tolerated.
This period
saw terrorist bombings of places of worship—10 people were killed in the 2001
Gopalganj Roman Catholic Church bombing and 12 died in the 2004 bombing of the
shrine of Shahjalal; assaults on centres of culture and entertainment—27 people
died in coordinated bombings of cinema halls in Mymensingh; as well as attacks
on journalists, teachers and political leaders, culminating in the horrific
August 21 grenade attack on an Awami League rally. It was a time of great
uncertainty and fear, at the height of which Jama'at ul Mujahideen Bangladesh
(JMB) exploded a total of 500 bombs in 300 locations across the country on
August 7, 2005.
After 2016,
international terrorism also reared its ugly head in Bangladesh, with ISIS and
Al-Qaeda inspired attacks on religious minorities, secular bloggers, members of
security forces and Sufi spiritual leaders. The painful memory of the 2016
Holey Artisan attack, one of the worst terrorist incidents this country has
ever seen, is still etched in our national psyche.
The current
government must be commended for its strong stance against such acts of
terrorism and its active role in rooting out its exponents. However, terrorism
is only the most extreme version of the intolerance that has, time and again,
made its presence clear in our country. Unfortunately, we have not seen a
similar level of political will in dealing with this issue—it was only this
month, on November 7, that the Bangladesh Hindu, Bouddha, Christian Oikya
Parishad implored the Prime Minister, once again, to intervene and stop attacks
on minorities.
There is no
denying that these past few months have been especially grim for tolerance in
Bangladesh. On November 1, videos of a mob attack on several Hindu households
in Muradnagar, Cumilla went viral, and the local administration had to impose
Section 144 in that union to bring the situation under control. This came right
on the heels of the horrific images of the charred body of Shahidunnabi Jewel
circulating on social media. On October 29, he was beaten to death and burnt by
an angry mob in Lalmonirhat who (falsely) accused him of desecrating the Holy
Quran. During this year's Durga Puja, there were the usual reports of the
goddess' idols being vandalised. According to the Bangladesh Peace Observatory,
18 temples have been attacked and 27 idols were destroyed up to September this
year.
However,
the growing intolerance in our society is not just reflected in assaults on
different religious beliefs and ethnicities; there have been attacks on
cultural spaces and the inclusive philosophies they represent as well. Many
will remember the heart wrenching photo of Baul Ronesh Thakur standing in the
remains of his music room, which was torched by miscreants in May this year.
This is not the first time Bauls have come under attack—in 2011, religious
fanatics shaved the heads and beards of 24 Bauls in Rajbari, and in 2016, 20
criminals assaulted and shaved the heads of three Bauls, including a woman, in
Chuadanga. As The Daily Star columnist CR Abrar wrote in September, "such
assaults are ultimately attacks on free thought and democracy."
And such
assaults are, unfortunately, all too common nowadays. One only has to go on
social media to see the intolerance that has crept into our daily interactions.
A large number of attacks on minorities in recent years were incited by fake
news being spread on Facebook, usually of a "report" or rumour of a
minority individual posting something offensive about religion, with the most
serious of such incidents being the 2012 Ramu violence that led to mobs
destroying 12 Buddhist temples/monasteries and 50 houses in Cox's Bazar. Even
beyond that, whether the online conversations are centred on marital rape, the
eviction of indigenous communities from their ancestral land or the rights of
hijras to receive religious education—the dogmatism (bordering on fanaticism)
that surfaces is constant and reveals something sinister about us as a society.
It is only
natural for human beings to hold their beliefs close to their hearts. But why
are we so afraid of those who disagree with us? Why, instead of "agreeing
to disagree", must we attack, verbally and physically, those we consider
to be different? It is this refusal to allow differences to exist in society
that is truly concerning, especially when this intolerance of differing voices
have been institutionalised to a certain extent. If the authorities are
complicit in silencing dissent, how do we expect the citizens to not follow
suit? How else does one explain the incarceration of musician Shariat (Sarker)
Bayati, who was arrested under the controversial Digital Security Act for
"hurting religious sentiments" in December 2019, while those who
spread fake news and engage in online hate speech that ultimately leads to the
persecution of minority communities, walk free?
It is also
important to remember that we are currently faced with a unique 21st century
problem—we are a majority living with a minority complex. Islamophobia is a
harsh reality in many parts of the world, including in our neighbouring
countries, and many of the huge number of Bangladeshis living abroad have been
victims of anti-Muslim sentiments. However, at the same time, we must
acknowledge that some quarters are using this very real oppression of Muslims
in certain countries to manipulate ordinary citizens into following radical and
narrow-minded interpretations of religion. Everywhere in the world, we see
different leaders playing to their respective galleries—as French President
Macron flexes his liberal muscles to woo voters away from right-wing populist
leaders like Marine la Pen, isolating and alienating Muslim immigrant
communities in the process, so do leaders like Turkey's Erdogan and Pakistan's
Imran Khan jump at the opportunity to cater to their voter base and denounce
"liberal, anti-Muslim voices." Together, they contribute to creating
increasingly divided communities across the world, where the victims of such
polarisation are always ordinary citizens.
The
religious conservatives in Bangladesh are no different; whenever a global
conversation about Islamophobia arises, it is used as an opportunity to play on
the sentiments of believers and promote certain intolerant agendas. This is
where the authorities in Bangladesh have to navigate a slippery slope. We have
already seen them give in to these intolerant voices, culminating in the
removal of sculptures from public spaces and the removal of secular writers
from our education curriculum. But once you give an inch, they are bound to
take a mile, and we are now faced with demands that range from the distressing
to the downright ridiculous—this week, there were reports of demands from a
certain religious group to scrap the plans for erecting a statue of Bangabandhu
in the capital, as well as the demand from a popular online religious
"leader" that cricketer Shakib al Hasan issue a public apology for
attending a Kali Puja celebration in Kolkata.
Freedom of
religious beliefs and practices is enshrined in our constitution, but that has
to apply to all religions, and it in no way gives us room to allow the use of
religion as a shield for a radicalism which promotes beliefs that ultimately go
against the values that this country was built on. The question we must now ask
ourselves is—where do we draw the line? How tolerant can we be of intolerance?
----
Shuprova Tasneem is a member of the editorial
team at The Daily Star.
https://www.thedailystar.net/opinion/news/independent-bangladesh-was-built-values-inclusion-and-tolerance-1995521
----
Vice President-Elect Kamala Harris Moved Me to
Tears
By Padma Lakshmi
Nov. 13,
2020
I was on a
hike in Garrison, N.Y., when I heard the news of Kamala Harris and Joe Biden’s
victory. I felt elated. Then suddenly I felt this heat welling up from my chest
into my throat and it burst out of me in tears I could not control. At first I
didn’t even know why I was sobbing.
Finally, I
was thinking. Finally a woman, and a woman of colour, takes this office.
I felt like
a marathon runner who breaks down into tears at the end of a race. And that
marathon was a lifetime of fighting to be seen and to advance, as an immigrant
and woman of color with few guides.
I cried
again as I watched Ms. Harris address the nation last weekend as the vice
president-elect. The world finally saw a Black woman, whose parents came from
Jamaica and India, near the pinnacle of American power. That vision, in an
instant, seemed to evaporate some of the unnecessary hurdles I had faced,
making a different path for a child like me growing up today.
Now, days
later, everyone is talking about President Trump again. His refusal to concede
shouldn’t steal Vice President-elect Harris’s moment — his time is up and her
time, and ours, is just beginning.
When I
first came to this country at age 4 from India, walking around New York City, I
was excited to see all kinds of people — with different colors of skin, styles
of dress and ways of moving through the world. But slowly I became aware of a
different world, through magazines and TV, where almost everyone was white.
I watched a
lot of television: “The Brady Bunch,” “The Partridge Family,” “One Day at a
Time,” “Three’s Company,” “Happy Days,” “Fantasy Island.” As a latchkey kid in
the ’80s, these shows raised me and taught me about American life.
Children
know when they are being sorted. I could see that the idealized America on the
TV screen and the magazine pages did not value Black and brown people like me
and many I knew.
I figured
out how to navigate the time a boy called me the N-word when I was 11; and
navigate the times I auditioned for acting roles in my 20s, only to be told
they weren’t “going ethnic”; and navigate the times in my 30s when I didn’t
know to negotiate full credit for my work.
Things
might have been different if I had seen more women like me in positions of
power — role models to show me a path.
Often now,
strangers — girls and women of color — approach me to say that seeing my face
on television expanded their aspirations. I’m just a cable food show host.
Imagine how wide the ripples of impact can be when a woman of color is vice
president.
Ms. Harris
understands this. “While I may be the first woman in this office, I will not be
the last,” she assured us. “Because every little girl watching tonight sees
that this is a country of possibilities.”
Over the
summer, I learned that Ms. Harris’s mother’s family comes from the same city in
India as my family. Her grandparents lived right around the corner from mine in
the Besant Nagar area of the city of Chennai. Our grandfathers might have
strolled together in the same walking group of retirees on Elliot’s Beach. We
both spent summers visiting there, and might have been sent on errands to the
same All-in-One corner store that sold half-rupee candies and lentils by the
kilo. In the United States, we were raised by single mothers who both worked in
health care — mine as a nurse and hers as a biomedical scientist.
When she
accepted the Democratic nomination for the vice presidency, she thanked her
“chitthis,” the word for aunties in Tamil, a language of South India — not in
Hindi, an official language of the country. Never in my life did I imagine a
Tamil-speaking vice president of the United States.
Our
striking commonalities made Ms. Harris’s victory particularly poignant for me —
but I think she offers many Black and brown girls and women a sense of belonging.
President
Trump’s attacks on women, on people of color and on immigrants feel personal to
us. As he allows a pandemic to run rampant in our country and even threatens
our democracy, it feels like a betrayal that so many Americans persist in
supporting him.
His vitriol
encourages those who hate us. In comments under my Instagram and Twitter posts,
people frequently tell me, “Go back to your country.”
I say: This
is my country. I have contributed to it with my taxes, my writing and
television shows and my activism. I am working to improve this nation, which
you do not do for a place you do not love.
I would
also like to say: So many women in my family and our communities have been
invisible, even as we have helped build this country with our own hands. We
have cleaned your toilets, we have waited on you in restaurants, we have done
your taxes, we have ministered to your children in the pediatrician’s office,
we have programmed your computers, we have cared for your elderly, we have even
led your companies. But you have sidestepped us and made us feel less important
than you.
Ms. Harris
is part of a new generation of elected women of color, taking office at this
absurdly divided time when people of color are both ascendant and under attack.
And these women are not just in power; they have excelled, often precisely
because of their life experiences. Senator Harris pinioned Brett Kavanaugh
during his confirmation hearing for the Supreme Court. Representative
Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez brilliantly rebuked a fellow congressman, Ted Yoho,
when he used a sexist insult against her. Representative Pramila Jayapal
grilled Attorney General William Barr about the decision to take an “aggressive
approach” against Black Lives Matter protesters — but not against gun-toting protesters
who crowded a state capitol.
Now Ms.
Harris will have new authority and reach as vice president. The Trump era she
is ending empowered people to show their racism nakedly, in slights and jeers
and acts of violence. For many people of color and immigrants, the message was
clear: You do not belong here, and you are not wanted.
It will be
a difficult and long path to undo that damage. But for me and other girls and
women of color, Ms. Harris embodies an opposite message: You do belong here,
her life says, and you obviously can achieve absolutely anything.
------
Padma Lakshmi is the host and executive
producer of “Taste the Nation” and “Top Chef” and an artist-ambassador for the
A.C.L.U.
https://www.nytimes.com/2020/11/13/opinion/padma-lakshmi-kamala-harris.html?action=click&module=Opinion&pgtype=Homepage
-----
French Expulsion Of Muslim Family Highlights
Rarity Of Mixed Marriages In War-Scarred Bosnia
By Marija Arnautovic
November
14, 2020
SARAJEVO --
When Amela and Srdjan saw the headlines out of France about a lovestruck young
Bosniak beaten and shamed over her love for an Orthodox Serb, they saw a bit of
their younger selves.
"We
got married in the middle of the [Bosnian] war," Amela says of the
unlikely pair's decision three decades ago when their city, the Bosnian
capital, Sarajevo, was under a deadly siege.
Blushing
bride Amela is Bosniak, a mostly Muslim ethnic group that is a majority in most
of Bosnia-Herzegovina. Her groom, Srdjan, is an Orthodox ethnic Serb, a group
that animated Yugoslavia's formation in the early 20th century but became a
minority in several parts of that country as it dissolved in the early 1990s.
Many of
their respective co-ethnics were locked in conflict to carve out swaths of the
erstwhile socialist patchwork that communist leader Josip Broz Tito so famously
tried to keep stitched together for four decades.
Sarajevo, a
proudly polyethnic metropolis of over half a million people when it declared
sovereignty in 1991, was encircled by Bosnian Serb military forces in what ended
up being the longest siege of a capital city in modern history.
Amela and
Srdjan's courtship was discouraged by many of their neighbors and loved ones,
who were even more appalled at the idea of a mixed marriage at the height of an
ethnically and religiously fueled conflict.
"My
family sulked a little, and there you have it," Amela, a mother of two,
says matter-of-factly, adding encouraging words for others who are similarly
scorned. "Now we don't care who says what. We don't pay attention anymore.
We live our lives."
"When
they have only one thought on their mind," Amela says, seemingly as much
about them as about last month's news of the star-crossed lovers in France,
"it's up to them -- where it's normal [in a country] for you to marry into
another religion."
French
Foreign Minister Gerald Darmanin described being "deeply shocked" by
the August incident in eastern France, in which police were called as a
17-year-old Bosnian-Muslim girl was "shaved and beaten because she 'loved
a Christian.'"
The woman
-- whose family had been in France since 2017 and had been denied refugee
status -- was taken to a hospital with a broken rib and other injuries
inflicted on her by her family.
Her parents
and four other members of the Zahirovic family were deported to Sarajevo on
October 24 for what the French Foreign Ministry called the "unacceptable
behavior of the family."
The
families of the couple had lived in the same building in the city of Besancon
and their relationship "wasn't a problem," a French prosecutor said,
until "they started talking about marriage [and] the girl's parents told
her, 'We're Muslims, you can't marry a Christian.'"
Bosnia's
ambassador to France, Kemal Muftic, told RFE/RL's Balkan Service that the
Bosnian emigres' case had particularly resonated among the French because it
echoed postwar abuses there after the defeat of the Nazis.
"It
was all reminiscent of French history when, after World War II, French women
who had had contact with the [occupying] Germans had their hair cut,"
Muftic said. "The whole case caused harm to the Bosnian community in
France."
That number
included negative views among 55 percent of Bosnian Serbs, most of whom are
Orthodox Christians; 43 percent of Bosnian Croats, who are mainly Catholic; and
33 percent of the predominantly Muslim Bosniaks.
That
suggests that Bosnia's main ethnic minorities -- Serbs and Croats -- are more
guarded when it comes to marrying outside their ethnicity or faith.
"We
can even say that these ethnic groups that consider themselves vulnerable or
minorities are somehow more opposed to mixed marriages," says psychologist
Srdjan Puhalo, who worked on the study.
"Maybe
it's their fear of disappearance somewhere. That is to say, maybe [they
believe] it's a guarantee -- if they stick to their ethnic groups -- that they
will survive in Bosnia."
But just
some 3 percent of the roughly 18,000 marriages throughout Bosnia in 2019 were
registered as ethnically mixed, in a country where Bosniaks make up about 50
percent of the country's population, Serbs some 31 percent, and Croats 15
percent.
The wars of
Yugoslav succession of the 1990s were notorious for an ethnically fueled
ferocity that Europe hadn't seen since World War II.
"When
you look at who fought in Bosnia-Herzegovina, you see that Serbs, Croats, and
Bosniaks fought each other; you see that Orthodox, Catholics, and Muslims
fought each other," psychologist Puhalo says.
After the
traumatic and tragic experiences of World War II a half-century earlier, there
was enormous pressure in the form of propaganda encouraging the
"brotherhood and unity" that had existed between the two world wars,
according to Tamara Dzamonja Ignjatovic, professor of psychology at the University
of Belgrade.
Recent
generations of Bosnians lived through "an experience of ethnic conflicts
and wars of the 1990s that, unfortunately, still have an echo in our
region," she says.
She says
those painful traumas are the main reason for the continuing unpopularity of
multiethnic marriages. Media and ongoing personal prejudices feed resentment
against such marriages when they do take place.
"We
are living the consequences of these conflicts in the 1990s and today, and as
part of these daily political events the same issues are being raised every now
and again," Dzamonja Ignjatovic says.
Back in
Sarajevo, Amela and Srdjan remember a time before the Balkan conflicts when
they rarely noticed the ethnic implication of someone's name, much less the
historical baggage it carried.
When he
talks about the prejudices that preceded France's internationally reported
expulsion of the Zahirovic family, Srdjan says he thinks one of the legacies of
the Balkan conflict is that many of its survivors, at home and abroad, have
spent decades "living in some of their national clans."
https://www.rferl.org/a/french-expulsion-of-muslim-family-highlights-rarity-of-mixed-marriages-in-war-scarred-bosnia-/30949980.html
---------
Muslim Women Deal With Infertility Too – Need Much Better Support
By Sadhbh O'sullivan
15 November
2020
Struggles
with infertility are a devastatingly common problem that affects one in seven
straight couples in the UK. Not only that, but it’s a problem that’s growing:
ONS data shows a record low of birth rates in 2018 and points to the combined
factors of ageing populations and falling fertility rates. But while the
breakdown of infertility rates by ethnicity are not documented by the NHS,
figures from 2019 show that the majority (66%) of people seeking treatment for
fertility are white. This is emblematic of a much larger problem of who gets to
talk about, and who gets access to treatment for infertility.
As Sally
Cheshire, Chair of Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority (HFEA), said at
the time those figures were published: “We know that some patients from an
ethnic minority background face unique cultural and sometimes religious
challenges when they struggle to conceive. We recognise that there is still a
stigma attached to infertility in general, but it’s important people know it’s
a recognised medical condition like any other.”
Those that
are speaking out about it report several factors co-conspiring to stigmatise
infertility in Muslim communities. Some women cite undue pressure to have
children. Other women report that discussing infertility or child loss in and
of itself is taboo. There is also, for many, a mistrust of the NHS and the
prevalence of conditions that impact fertility may not be fully known. There’s
also growing evidence that two conditions that are major causes of infertility
(PCOS and endometriosis) disproportionately affect Black, Asian and minority
ethnic women.
All of this
is exacerbated by the fact, as Dr Pragya Agarwal points out a piece for The
Independent, that the public face of infertility and IVF is a straight, middle
class white woman in her early- to mid- thirties, a culturally generated idea
that suggests infertility and baby loss only affects or is important to one
type of woman.
But that
doesn't mean no-one is talking about it. On social media, spaces of support and
resilience are working to change the narrative about fertility among Muslim
women. Sama and Ruksar from @muslimah.support, an Instagram page providing
support to Muslim women struggling with infertility, miscarriage and all things
in between. There is also Farah, a life coach from @inspirehercoaching who,
together with Sama and Ruksar are just three of those who are providing
emotional support, comfort and messages of hope to others like them. Under
hashtags like #musliminfertility and #muslimttc ('ttc' or 'trying to conceive'
is a common acronym in infertility forums) these women are documenting not only
the struggle and pain of their own experiences, but are also serving as a
specific support group for others like them. In doing so, they are slowly
shaking the taboo of infertility amongst their own community, pushing for
better medical and community support and, most importantly, providing a message
of hope. Here are their stories.
It all
started when I hit puberty. I had irregular periods but didn't think anything
of it. In fact, I was happy that I never had periods. No monthly bleeding, yay!
But I didn't realise the severity of it, which is why I never got myself
checked.
After only
a few years, the weight piled on. I went from a size 8/10 to a size 14/16. I
went to the GP and they blamed my studies, saying that it was stress. I
persisted, I told them time and time again that it was something else. Finally,
after three years, I got diagnosed with PCOS but I had no knowledge around it
and kept getting fobbed off. It didn't worry me though as I thought I'd never
get married. I thought, "who's gonna marry me anyway?"
I was wrong
though, I did get married. And after five years of trying for a child we
weren't getting anywhere. I lied to myself, saying that I'm not the issue. When
in fact, I am. I lie to myself, saying that I don't want kids, when in actual
fact, I do.
Some days I
feel so alone. I don't speak about my troubles. But since making our Instagram
page I have realised that there are so many other women out there who feel
exactly the same way.
My whole
experience has been distorted by being a Muslim woman, by the 'Bengali shame' –
where we're pushed into thinking that miscarriages are shameful and the woman's
fault. I feel there is little-to-no support in the Muslim community in all
honesty.
We use the
account to share stories and support one another. We always inform readers that
we are not medical specialists and are not trained but we support through our
own experiences. Sometimes, all people need is someone to talk to that isn't
directly involved and someone who will take them seriously. In my experience,
doctors just don't. I suffer from PCOS and the doctors were only focused on my
weight. I discharged myself after they called me fat and told me I would never
carry a baby full term.
There were
times when even my faith couldn't keep me going. There were times when I think
'why me?' But there are so many verses in the Qur'an that say that once the
storm passes, there will be ease. Fa Inna ma Al usri yusra.
I got
married in 2014 and went straight on the pill but came off it about a year
later to see what happened. Obviously I thought I would be pregnant within a
few months after all the scares we got in school about it. But after trying for
a year we had to go to the GP to see what was going on, and it was followed up
with many, many tests. But even though we couldn't get pregnant, all the
results came back normal.
We had
three rounds of IVF/ICSI funded by the NHS that resulted in no embryos, no
pregnancies, and no reason for fertility issues found. Our diagnosis in the end
was 'unexplained subfertility'. The last round of ICSI was emotionally and
physically so extremely hard that we decided to take a break. That break lasted
four years.
I left work
Oct 2019 to focus on a new coaching business but also mainly to focus on TTC
(trying to conceive) again. We had a lot of mainstream and holistic treatments
such as cupping, acupuncture and IVF planned for 2020. 2020 had other plans so
we have done very little. We will try again when we can.
For me,
being a Muslim meant I never went through the 'why me?' stage because of my
trust in God. My faith gave me a sense of understanding and a reminder that
this short time on earth is at times painful but we will be OK. On the other
side, there is definitely pressure you feel as a Muslim woman to have children.
Cultural Muslim communities can at times only validate a marriage by the
children marriage produces.
I feel my
faith gave me strength but people from the faith often see women through the
lens of a wife and mother. This can damage a woman's self-worth and identity. I
consciously decided against this narrative very early on.
One thing I
saw early on in this journey of TTC is that there is very little support,
communication or understanding of infertility in the Muslim community. While I
get the support I need from those I know and love this isn't true for others.
One way I have tried to fill this void is by writing a book aimed at Muslim
women facing infertility with the clear message of the need to take control. It
shall be out in 2021.
Although
the main part of my fertility journey started after I got married, it was
always there in the background long before. I always had irregular periods and
was tested twice for PCOS, but because it doesn't always come up on blood tests
the doctors deemed me fine. But my sister was diagnosed with it when she was a
teenager so it was always at the back of my mind.
When I got
married I decided to come off the pill after six months because of how I
personally feel it affects your fertility. And we were lucky enough to get
pregnant after about 10 months. But I kept having issues in my pregnancy. I was
on medication for diabetes among other things and the doctors didn't take me
off them until I asked them to. And, at my last midwife appointment they had me
referred to a specialist team because the medication I'd been on could cause
abnormalities.
At 13 weeks
I started bleeding and the hospital treated me terribly. At first they thought
I was a foolish first-time mum and I had to go into A&E three times with
awful cramps and bleedings before I was finally referred for a scan and we
could confirm I'd had a miscarriage.
It was a
life-changing experience, and from then on I saw there was a lack of any sort
of support within the Muslim community and more specifically within the
Southeast Asian community where I come from. That's when I started to speak to
women like Sama who have gone through similar things or are facing infertility
themselves.
We couldn't
find the support and space to talk for Muslim women at all. For women of any
colour it is just such a taboo to talk about. Considering we've had people turn
around and say all the nastiest things you could think of, we knew there needed
to be a place that would actually come up if you're googling 'Muslim
miscarriage' or 'Muslim infertility'. And a place where women could talk
without feeling judged.
When I had
my miscarriage I was told not to talk about it and that I wasn't allowed to cry
about it in front of other women. I obviously was not in the best mental health
space then. My face would look as though I had been crying and people would ask
me what happened but there were women in my own generation who told me that I
was not allowed to talk about it. There was no acknowledgement of my
bereavement or the loss of my child. And if you're struggling with infertility
it is shameful and it is immediately blamed on the woman. I hate the fact that
it's just 'one of those things' because it shouldn't be. There's so many taboos
within the Muslim community that I wish people would talk about more.
Unfortunately, infertility and child loss is one of those things. It's not been
an easy ride to have your own family turn around and tell you to have patience
while disregarding the fact you've already had a child.
It's not
that it's been so long I'm over it, I still grieve on and off, but I detach
myself and take a very matter-of-fact approach to all this now because it's
easier for me to cope. I couldn't talk to the women on Instagram and Facebook
if I was constantly emotionally attached because it would damage my mental
health. I have to be distanced from my own experience to listen to others.
https://www.refinery29.com/en-gb/muslim-infertility-miscarriage-trying-to-conceive
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The Bataclan Terrorists Were The Product Of
War-Honed Isis Nihilism – Not Muslim Council Estates
By Nabila Ramdani
15-11-2020
In the most
devastating terrorist attack ever carried out on French soil, it was the random
targeting of its victims that was perhaps the most disturbing part.
When those
of us who were born and brought up in Paris look back on the slaughter of that
one night in November 2015, we realise that anyone could have been caught up in
the city-wide horror show.
It was
Friday the 13th – a conspiracy theorist’s dream date, and as eerie as the
unseasonably warm autumn weather that ensured thousands of potential murder
victims were on the streets.
Killing
unarmed civilians is demonically easy. Black market Kalashnikovs and explosives
allowed nine suicidal terrorists to strike at will, taking 130 lives and
wounding more than 400 others.
Victims
including Christians, Jews, Muslims and non-believers were gunned down or blown
to pieces. They were attending a rock concert, a football match, or relaxing in
a café or restaurant.
The
attackers – all drugged up, venomous young men obsessed by the easy deaths
prevalent in gaming and Hollywood action film culture – were focused on nothing
beyond body counts.
Despite
this, such barbarity has since been attributed to a mindset typical of ethnic
minority communities living in council estates on the edges of cities such as
Paris.
The wicked
deceit is that, by definition, Muslims want to destroy and maim because they
are brought up to hate the West, and their cultural and religious background
somehow justifies this.
This
despicable propaganda was advanced by president Emmanuel Macron himself this
month when, in a letter published in a British newspaper, he used what sounded
like eugenics parlance to describe underfunded suburbs full of Muslims as
“breeding grounds for terrorists in France”.
Delivering
lines straight out of a Donald Trump fake news generator, he further claimed,
without any evidence whatsoever, that there are “districts where small girls
aged three or four are wearing a full veil, separated from boys, and, from a
very young age, separated from the rest of society, raised in hatred of
France’s values”.
Never mind
that forcing someone to wear a burqa is an imprisonable crime in France, as is
child abuse and radicalising minors. Bizarrely, in an era when cameras are
everywhere, there were no images to back up Macron’s words about these infant
sociopaths. There have been zero arrests, let alone prosecutions, for these
alleged crimes.
Five years
on from the Bataclan, firearms are much harder to get hold of, but – according
to Macron – the estates still contain: “hundreds of radicalised individuals,
who we fear may, at any moment, take a knife and kill people”.
Rather than
spreading collective guilt so easily, Macron would do well to study the
profiles of the November 2015 “commando”, as they are often described by more
responsible commentators.
Of the nine
men eventually killed by security forces, all had spent time fighting in Syria
or Iraq with Isis, the so-called Islamic State.
This armed
terrorist group grew out of the insurgency following the American-led invasion
of Iraq in 2003. Isis became infamous for its merciless cruelty towards
enemies, not least because of the stomach-churning torture and execution videos
it produced.
Battle-hardened
fighters such as Abdelhamid Abaaoud, the Belgian-Moroccan ringleader of the Paris
attackers, did not pick up their sadistic extremism in provincial Mosques or
secret Qu’ran-reading classes, nor indeed from parents or teachers.
Instead,
they learnt about combat in a Middle East, Asia and North Africa torn to pieces
by the best military technology in the world, which is that used by the US and
its allies.
Some of the
nine men were meant to be under surveillance, having travelled between places
such as Syria, Iraq and Yemen, but nothing stopped them doing what they wanted
on 13 November. Their commanders said they were carrying out “punishment” for
the bombing of women and children in their camps.
Intriguingly,
the only surviving member of the group is Salah Abdeslam, who had never made it
to the Isis caliphate. Lacking in anything approaching soldierly morale and
training, he froze on the night, dumped his suicide vest, and ran away.
What
Abdeslam did have in common with the others is that his interest in religion
was perfunctory, and there was no evidence of him being radicalised on a
council estate, or of being any kind of devout Muslim.
Instead, he
ran a bar in Brussels, where he drank alcohol and took illegal substances,
following convictions for a range of crimes, including armed robbery and drug
possession.
Like the
others, Abdeslam is known to have been as high as a kite on the night of the
attack, having filled his body with cannabis and cocaine.
“I’m not
ashamed of who I am,” Abdeslam has since written to a correspondent from the
high-security French prison cell, where he is expected to spend the rest of his
life.
Look at the
suspects involved in other acts of terrorism since 2015, and you will see that
all are would-be Isis soldiers-cum-street-criminals.
Shock value
and mass media coverage is crucial to these lone wolf delinquents, as they
behead, stab or – as in Nice four years ago – use weapons as basic as a heavy
goods vehicle to cause as many casualties as possible.
In recent
weeks, such terrorists have come from Tunisia, Pakistan and the
Russia-controlled state of Chechnya. All are instable countries, full of the
kind of disturbed young men who might take up arms for groups like Isis.
This is why
François Hollande, the president of France in 2015, quite rightly described the
Paris attacks not as an explosion of Muslim dissent from the suburbs, but as an
“act of war”.
Two days
afterwards, he used his position as commander-in-chief of his country’s armed
forces to launch the biggest airstrike ever of Opération Chammal, an anti-Isis
bombing campaign.
Ordnance
rained down on Raqqa, Syria, killing an estimated 1,000 Isis-linked operatives
and goodness knows how many associated civilians.
This is the
price of war, and exactly what keeps lethal violence escalating in countries
from Afghanistan to Libya. As we saw on 13 November 2015, the perpetrators of
such barbarity are the products of cataclysmic conflict and not of
overwhelmingly peaceful Muslim communities.
https://www.independent.co.uk/voices/bataclan-terrorist-attacks-paris-2015-isis-war-crimes-drugs-macron-b1722926.html
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