What we don’t know about Europe’s Muslim kids and why we should care | Deeyah Khan | TEDxExeter

When I was a child,
I knew I had superpowers.

That’s right.

I thought I was absolutely amazing because
I could understand and relate to

the feelings of brown people like
my grandfather, a conservative Muslim guy,

and also I could understand
my Afghan mother and Pakistani father,

not so religious but
laid back, fairly liberal.

And of course I could understand and
relate to the feelings of white people,

the white Norwegians of my country.

You know white, brown,
whatever, I loved them all.

I understood them all even if they
didn’t always understand each other

They were all my people.

My father though was
always really worried.

He kept saying that,
even with the best education

I was not going to get a fair shake,
I would face discrimination,

according to him, and the only way
to be accepted by white people

would be to become famous.

Now mind you, he had this conversation
with me when I was seven years old.

So, while I’m seven years old he said

'Look, so its either got to be sports
or its got to be music.'

He didn’t know anything about sports,
bless him, so it was music.

So when I was seven years old
he gathered al my toys, all my dolls,

and he threw them all away.

In exchange he gave me a crappy little
Casio keyboard, and singing lessons,

and forced me to practice for hours
and hours every single day.

Very quickly he also had me performing
for larger and larger audiences,

bizarrely I became almost a poster child
for Norwegian multiculturalism.

I felt very proud of course because
even the newspapers at this point

were starting to write
nice things about brown people,

so I could feel that
my superpower was growing.

So when I was 12 years old walking home
from school I took a little detour

because I wanted to buy
my favourite sweets called 'salty feet'.

I know they sound kind of awful,
but I absolutely loved them.

They are basically these little
salty licorice bits, in the shape of feet.

And now that I say it out loud I realise
how terrible that sounds,

but be that as it may,
I absolutely loved them.

On my way into the store, there was this
grown white guy in the doorway

blocking my way, so I tried to walk around
him, and as I did that he stopped me,

and he was staring at me,
and he spit in my face and he said

‘Get out of my way you little black bitch,
you little Paki bitch, get out of my -

go back home where you came from.’
I was absolutely horrified.

I was staring at him, I was too afraid
to wipe the spit off my face,

even as it was mixing with my tears.
I remember looking around,

hoping any minute now a grownup
is going to come and make this guy stop.

But instead people kept hurrying past me
and pretending not to see me.

I was very confused because I was thinking

‘Well, my white people come on,
where are they? What’s going on?

How come they’re not
coming and rescuing me?’

So needless to say I didn’t buy the sweets
I just ran home as fast as I could.

Things were still ok though, I thought.

As time went on, the more
successful I became,

I eventually started attracting
harassment from brown people.

Some men in my parents community felt that
it was unacceptable and dishonorable

for a woman to be involved in music,
and to be so present in the media.

So very quickly I was starting to
become attacked at my own concerts.

I remember one of the concerts, I was
on stage, I lean in to the audience,

and the last thing I see is
a young brown face,

and the next thing I know is some sort
of chemical is thrown in my eyes.

And I remember I couldn’t really see,
and my eyes were watering,

but I kept singing anyway.

I was spit in the face in the streets
of Oslo, this time by brown men.

They even tried to kidnap me at one point.
The death threats were endless.

I remember one older bearded guy
stopped me in the street one time and said

‘The reason I hate you so much is that
you make our daughters think

they can do whatever they want.’

A younger guy warned me
to watch my back, he said

‘Music is un-Islamic
and the job of whores,

and if you keep this up you are going to
be raped and your stomach will be cut out,

so that another whore
like you will not be born.’

Again I was so confused.
I couldn’t understand what was going on,

my brown people now
starting to treat me like this.

How come?
Instead of bridging the two worlds,

I felt like I was falling
between the two worlds.

I suppose for me,
spit was kryptonite.

So by the time I was 17 years old
the death threats were endless,

and the harassment was constant.

It got so bad at one point
my mother sat me down and said

‘Look, we can no longer protect you,
we can no longer keep you safe,

so you’re going to have to go.’

So I bought a one-way ticket to London.
I packed my suitcase, and I left.

My biggest heartbreak at that point
was that nobody said anything.

I had a very public exit from Norway.

My brown people, my white people,
nobody said anything.

Nobody said ‘Hold on, this is wrong.

Support this girl, protect this girl
because she is one of us.’

Nobody said that. Instead I felt like,

you know at the airport,
on the baggage carousel,

you have these different suitcases
going round and round,

and there’s always
that one suitcase left at the end.

The one that nobody wants.
That nobody comes to claim.

I felt like that. I’d never felt so alone.
I’d never felt so lost.

So, after coming to London,
I did eventually resume my music career.

Different place, but unfortunately
the same old story.

I remember a message sent to me saying
that I was going to be killed,

and that rivers of blood
were going to flow,

and that I was going to be raped
many times before I died.

By this time I has to say I was actually
getting used to messages like this.

But what became different was that now
they started threatening my family.

So once again, I packed my suitcase,
I left music, and I moved to the US.

I’d had enough. I didn’t want to have
anything to do with this anymore.

And I wasn’t going to be killed for
something that wasn’t even my dream,

it was my father’s choice.

So I kind of got lost,
I kind of fell apart,

but I decided that what I wanted to do is

to spend the next however many years
of my life supporting young people,

and to try to be there in some small way,
whatever way that I could.

So I started volunteering for various
organisations that were working

with young Muslims inside of Europe.

And, to my surprise what I found,
was so many of these young people

were suffering and struggling.

They were facing so many problems
with their families and their communities,

who seemed to care more about
their honour and their reputation

than the happiness and
the lives of their own kids.

I started feeling like maybe I wasn’t
so alone, maybe I wasn’t so weird.

Maybe there are more
of my people out there.

The thing is what most people
don’t understand,

is that there are so many
of us growing up in Europe

who are not free to be ourselves.
We are not allowed to be who we are.

We are not free to marry, or to be
in relationships with, people we choose,

we can’t even pick our own career.

This is the norm in
the Muslim heartlands of Europe.

Even in the freest societies
in the world, we are not free.

Our lives, our dreams, our future,
does not belong to us,

it belongs to our parents,
and their community.

I found endless stories of young people,
who are lost to all of us,

Who are invisible to all of us,

but they are suffering and
they are suffering alone.

Kids that we are losing to forced marriages,
to honour based violence and abuse.

So eventually I realised, after several
years of working with these young people,

that I will not be able to keep running,

I can’t spend the rest of my life
being scared and hiding,

and that I’m actually going
to have to do something.

And I also realised that
my silence, our silence,

allows abuse like this to continue.

So I decided that I wanted to put
my childhood superpower to some use,

by trying to make people on
the different sides of these issues

understand what it's like to be
a young person stuck

between your family and your country.

So I started making films,
and I started telling these stories.

And I also wanted people to understand

the deadly consequences of us
not taking these problems seriously.

So the first film I made was about Banaz.

She was a 17 year old
Kurdish girl in London.

She was obedient, she did
whatever her parents wanted.

She tried to do everything right.

She married some guy
that her parent’s chose for her,

even though he beat
and raped her constantly.

And when she tried to go
to her family for help they said