A Tortuous Path

Ayaan Hirsi Ali writes a short autobiographical sketch on the winding path she followed to finally arrive in America. It ias a story worth taking the time to read.

Life in Somalia was no Zamunda, with cool breezes and a benign king, where animals and humans interacted in peaceful non-verbal understanding. In 1969, twenty-three days before my birth, Somalia's infant democracy was toppled by a member of the army. Mohamed Siad Barre did what Idi Amin of Uganda, Mobutu Sese Seko of Zaire, and Mengistu Haile Mariam of Ethiopia were doing at the time. They killed, jailed, or chased away any man or woman who might be a threat to their power. My father, Hirsi Magan, was one of those who were jailed. My first memories of him are of me, my brother Mahad, my late sister Haweya, my grandmother, and my mother sitting, just after sunset, under a large tree we call the talal tree, cupping our hands and praying for him to be released. Our prayers were obviously heard, for after a while (I had no sense of time then: a while could extend between a month to a year) he was able to escape with the help of a close clan member who happened to be the director of the prison where my father was held. This clan member was ultimately betrayed and executed.

Diseases were common in my Africa. I got malaria, measles, a terrible form of pox which covers your body in boils, and hepatitis (also called yellow fever) where one's eyes are almost closed off with pus. My grandmother was attached to her traditions. She shunned all pleas to have us treated by modern doctors as ignoble, and instead force-fed us homemade herbal concoctions. Or she would have the local imam write verses of the Quran on a wooden board, rinse them off into a bowl, recite some verses, and spit into the bowl. I then had to drink that. Children's diseases like measles came and went, but my yellow fever resisted grandmother's potions. So Grandma took the next step that the tradition of her forefathers dictated. She took me to the local blacksmith. Grandma and two of my aunts bared my chest and pinned me to the ground. Meanwhile the blacksmith heated long iron rods with endings in the shape of nails. All the while I watched him and screamed with the terror of what was about to happen. When he pressed the iron rods into my chest I fainted from the pain.

It is a description of a truly tortuous - and tortured - path that she took. The politicians in the Netherlands were foolish to force her to leave. Their loss is our gain. Welcome to America.