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What we don't know about Europe's Muslim kids

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    When I was a child,
    I knew I had superpowers.
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    That's right.
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    I thought I was absolutely amazing
    because I could understand
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    and relate to the feelings
    of brown people, like my grandfather,
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    a conservative Muslim guy.
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    And also, I could understand
    my Afghan mother, my Pakistani father,
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    not so religious but
    laid-back, fairly liberal.
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    And of course, I could understand
    and relate to the feelings of white people.
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    The white Norwegians of my country.
    You know, white, brown, whatever,
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    I loved them all. I understood them all,
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    even if they didn't always
    understand each other,
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    they were all my people.
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    My father, though,
    was always really worried.
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    He kept saying that
    even with the best education,
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    I was not going to get a fair shake.
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    I would still face discrimination,
    according to him, and that they only way
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    to be accepted by white people
    would be to become famous.
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    Now mind you, he had this conversation
    with me when I was seven-years-old.
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    So while I'm seven-years-old,
    he said, look,
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    so its either got to be sports,
    or its got to be music.
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    He didn't know anything about sports --
    bless him -- so it was music.
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    So when I was seven-years-old,
    he gathered all my toys, all my dolls,
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    and he threw them all away.
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    In exchange, he gave me a crappy little
    Casio keyboard and singing lessons.
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    He forced me, basically, to practice
    for hours and hours every single day.
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    Very quickly, he also had me performing
    for larger and larger audiences,
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    and bizarrely, I became almost
    a kind of poster child
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    for Norwegian multi-culturalism.
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    I felt very proud, of course.
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    Even the newspapers were starting
    to write nice things about brown people,
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    so I could feel that
    my superpower was growing.
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    So when I was 12-years-old,
    walking home from school,
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    I took a little detour
    because I wanted to buy
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    my favorite sweets called Salty Feets.
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    I know they sound kind of awful,
    but I absolutely love them.
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    They're basically these little salty
    licorice bits in the shape of feet.
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    And now that I say it out loud,
    I realize how terrible that sounds,
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    but be that as it may,
    I absolutely love them.
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    So on my way into the store,
    there was this grown white guy
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    in the doorway blocking my way.
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    So I tried to walk around him,
    and as I did that, he stopped me
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    and he was staring at me,
    and he spit in my face,
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    and he said, get out of my way
    you little black bitch,
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    you little Paki bitch,
    go back home where you came from.
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    I was absolutely horrified.
    I was staring at him.
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    I was too afraid to wipe
    the spit off my face,
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    even as it was mixing with my tears.
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    I remember looking around,
    hoping that any minute now,
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    a grown-up is going to come
    and make this guy stop.
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    But instead, people kept hurrying past me
    and pretended not to see me.
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    I was very confused
    because I was thinking,
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    well, my white people, come on!
    Where are they? What's going on?
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    How come they're not
    coming and rescuing me?
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    So, needless to say,
    I didn't buy the sweets.
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    I just ran home as fast as I could.
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    Things were still okay, though, I thought.
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    As time went on, the more successful
    I became, I eventually started attracting
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    harassment from brown people.
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    Some men in my parent's community
    felt that it was unacceptable
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    and dishonorable for a woman
    to be involved in music
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    and to be so present in the media.
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    So very quickly, I was starting to become
    attacked at my own concerts.
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    I remember one of the concerts,
    I was onstage, I lean into the audience
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    and the last thing I see is
    a young brown face
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    and the next thing I know
    some sort of chemical is thrown in my eyes
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    and I remember I couldn't really see
    and my eyes were watering
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    but I kept singing anyway.
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    I was spit in the face in the streets
    of Oslo, this time by brown men.
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    They even tried to
    kidnap me at one point.
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    The death threats were endless.
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    I remember one older bearded guy
    stopped me in the street one time,
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    and he said, the reason
    I hate you so much
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    is because you make
    our daughters think
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    they can do whatever they want.
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    A younger guy warned me
    to watch my back.
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    He said music is un-Islamic
    and the job of whores,
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    and if you keep this up,
    you are going to be raped
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    and your stomach will be cut out so that
    another whore like you will not be born.
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    Again, I was so confused.
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    I couldn't understand
    what was going on.
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    My brown people now starting
    to treat me like this -- how come?
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    Instead of bridging the worlds,
    the two worlds, I felt like I was
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    falling between my two worlds.
    I suppose for me, spit was kryptonite.
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    So by the time I was 17-years-old,
    the death threats were endless
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    and the harassment was constant.
    It got so bad, at one point my mother
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    sat me down and said, look,
    we can no longer protect you,
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    we can no longer keep you safe,
    so you're going to have to go.
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    So I bought a one-way ticket to London.
    I packed my suitcase, and I left.
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    My biggest heartbreak at that point
    was that nobody said anything.
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    I had a very public exit from Norway.
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    My brown people, my white people,
    nobody said anything.
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    Nobody said, hold on, this is wrong.
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    Support this girl, protect this girl
    because she is one of us.
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    Nope. Nobody said that.
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    Instead, I felt like,
    you know at the airport, on the baggage
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    carousel you have these different
    suitcases going around and around
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    and there's always that one suitcase left
    at the end, the one that nobody wants,
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    the one that nobody comes to claim.
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    I felt like that. I'd never felt so alone.
    I'd never felt so lost.
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    So, after coming to London,
    I did eventually resume my music career.
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    Different place but unfortunately
    the same old story.
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    I remember a message sent to me
    saying that I was going to be killed
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    and that rivers of blood were going
    to flow and that I was going to be raped
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    many times before I died.
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    By this point, I have to say,
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    I was actually getting used
    to messages like this,
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    but what became different was that
    now they started threatening my family.
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    So once again, I packed my suitcase,
    I left music and I moved to the US.
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    I'd had enough. I didn't want to have
    anything to do with this anymore.
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    And I was certainly not
    going to be killed for something
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    that wasn't even my dream --
    it was my father's choice.
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    So I kind of got lost.
    I kind of fell apart.
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    But I decided that what I wanted to do
    is spend the next however many years
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    of my life supporting young people
    and to try to be there in some small way,
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    whatever way that I could.
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    I started volunteering for various
    organizations that were working
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    with young Muslims inside of Europe
Title:
What we don't know about Europe's Muslim kids
Speaker:
Deeyah Khan
Description:

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Video Language:
English
Team:
closed TED
Project:
TEDTalks
Duration:
20:11

English subtitles

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