Free at Last E-Book

Asia Bibi

• Herausgeber: BroadStreet Publishing Group, LLC
• Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 216

Beschreibung

"I was going to die because of a cup of water."   After drinking water from the same cup as Muslim women, Asia Bibi, a Christian, was sentenced to hang by the Islamic Republic of Pakistan in 2010 on charges of blasphemy.   Bibi's case polarized all of Pakistan and mobilized international support from across the globe, including politicians, journalists, and countless organizations and supporters who fought for her freedom. For nine long years, Bibi awaited death in prison until she was formally acquitted in January 2019. Now a political exile, Bibi is reunited with her family in the West, but she will never be allowed to return to her homeland.   In Free at Last, Asia and journalist Anne-Isabelle Tollet, who championed Asia's cause for nearly a decade, share her story—one that reveals the heart and mind of a woman who refused to renounce her faith and unwittingly became the global symbol of the fight against religious extremism.  

Leseprobe

BroadStreet Publishing® Group, LLC

Savage, Minnesota, USA

www.broadstreetpublishing.com

FREE AT LAST: A Cup of Water, a Death Sentence, and an Inspiring Story of One Woman’s Unwavering Faith

Enfin Libre! © 2020, Groupe Elidia

Éditions du Rocher

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978-1-4245-6073-8 (e-book)

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Cover and interior by Garborg Design at GarborgDesign.com

Printed in the United States of America

20 21 22 23 24 5 4 3 2 1

For Eisha and Eisham

CONTENTS

Introduction by Anne-Isabelle Tollet

Chapter 1: In the Dark

Chapter 2: I’ll Tell You Everything

Chapter 3: First Death Sentence

Chapter 4: The Harvest

Chapter 5: To Be Christian in Pakistan

Chapter 6: The Popes

Chapter 7: My Supporters and the Price to Be Paid

Chapter 8: Multan Prison

Chapter 9: Second Death Sentence

Chapter 10: Outside My Prison

Chapter 11: Acquitted…Really?

Chapter 12: Free at Last

Chapter 13: Life in a Free Country

Acknowledgments

INTRODUCTION

It is not because things are difficult that we do not dare;

it is because we do not dare that they are difficult.

SENECA

It felt like floating between a dream and reality when, on Wednesday, October 31, 2018, at 5:47 a.m., I received a brief phone call from Ashiq.

“Good morning,” he said. “Asia Bibi is free. Congratulations!”

The long-awaited day had finally arrived: the Supreme Court of Pakistan acquitted Asia Bibi. What incredible joy! But it would be short-lived. After three days of quasi-civil war provoked by the Islamists, the Pakistani government made a U-turn and signed an agreement with the Islamists on November 3. The agreement prevented Asia from leaving the country before the court processed an application for judicial review of the acquittal. Despite my experience of Pakistan as one of the most unpredictable countries I know, I still felt deeply distraught, and so did Asia’s family.

Such disillusion! Cut to the quick, I was back at square one but undaunted. After eight long years of tireless efforts, now was not the time to throw in the towel. In the struggle against religious extremism, everything played out in the final round. I put all of my strength, courage, and determination into ending the fight with a knockout.

Thanks to unprecedented media mobilization in both the national and international press, and with the help of the highest political authorities, Asia Bibi was smuggled out of her prison cell in the middle of the night on November 7 before heading abroad six months later with her family, who was also receiving death threats.

I was finally going to hear Mrs. Asia Bibi with my own ears and see her with my own eyes. I had hoped for so long to meet her! After her first death sentencing in November 2010, I submitted myriad requests to the Pakistani authorities for permission to visit her in prison but to no avail. A Western woman, and a journalist to boot, should not relay this dark story, which brings Pakistan no honor, to the global press.

When I moved to Pakistan in 2008 as a permanent correspondent for a twenty-four-hour news channel, I never imagined that I would find myself leading this unlikely struggle with its many unforeseen developments. How many times had I shown up outside her prison in Sheikhupura with a bag of oranges in hand, passing myself off as a humanitarian worker or dressed as a Pakistani woman, to coax the sometimes unscrupulous guards into letting me in? It never worked. Even though I, too, received threats from Islamists, it was important to me to break the omertà so that her story would be heard around the world.

It all started one morning in November 2010. I was reading the English translation of the Pakistani press when I stumbled across a brief article stating that Asia Bibi, a young Christian woman, had just been condemned to death for blasphemy. According to the article, she had insulted the Prophet Muhammad. Pope Benedict XVI asked the Pakistani courts to review the judgment and grant her clemency. Immediately, the country ignited, and the most influential, radical religious parties set up demonstrations across the country to denounce the Catholic Church for meddling in the affairs of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan. I followed those demonstrations during which hateful extremists demanded death by hanging for Asia Bibi.

I became close to Asia Bibi’s family and promised to never abandon them, even when I returned to France. To this today, that bond remains unbroken. I’ve since written two books, Blasphemy1 and Death Is Not a Solution,2 to continue the fight against religious obscurantism, a nondivisive issue that is neither political nor religious. I have received worldwide support not only from millions of Christians but also from the Muslim and Jewish communities. The issue of blasphemy is a highly sensitive one, so I took the liberty of addressing the matter with Pope Francis directly and asked him not to intervene, as doing so might aggravate the situation in Pakistan. He listened.

This fight also led me to deliver speeches at the United Nations in both New York and Geneva. The European Parliament voted on a resolution in support of Asia Bibi. The mayors of Paris, Madrid, Bordeaux, Le Mans, La Flèche, and La Brède all responded to my call to make Asia Bibi the citizen of honor in their towns and cities. French presidents Nicolas Sarkozy, François Hollande, and Emmanuel Macron spoke to their Pakistani counterparts, encouraging them to defend the values of justice and respect human rights in a society that is increasingly subject to religious fanaticism.

Through the Asia Bibi International Committee,3 an organization I founded in 2015, I collected numerous testimonials of support from around the world. Thanks to her husband, Ashiq, these were relayed to Asia in her tiny cell. In return, she let me know that these gestures of sympathy gave her a sense of hope—the hope of recovering her freedom.

Asia Bibi became, very much in spite of herself, a symbol of the way the blasphemy law has gone adrift and of how it is so often abused to settle personal conflicts by spreading false accusations. In 1860, British colonial authority put into place the blasphemy law, which spares neither Muslims nor religious minorities. General Muhammad Zia-ul-Hag made the law even more severe in 1986 under his dictatorship as part of his initiative to Islamize society.

The assassinations of the governor of the Punjab and then the Federal Minister for Minorities affairs in 2011 stifled any attempts at productive debate and reform within the government, and tensions around the issue grew. In this regard, Pakistani Prime Minister Imran Khan made a great show of bravery by publicly acknowledging the Supreme Court’s decision to acquit Asia Bibi.

Once she was finally free and in a free country, I thought it would be easy to find the woman for whom I had been the spokesperson for all these years. But because of continued death threats from Islamists, Asia Bibi is no longer safe anywhere, and I had a difficult time locating her in Canada. When I found myself standing in front of the door to her house, a bouquet of white roses in hand, my heart raced. I rang the doorbell, but it was not working. I knocked feebly three times and received no response. I heard pots clanging in the kitchen over the voice of a woman speaking Urdu.

It’s her, yes, it’s her! I said to myself. I was worried, intimidated, and scared of frightening this family who wasn’t expecting visitors, because nobody—myself included—was supposed to know their address. I knocked on the door again, this time a little louder, and then waited a few seconds before calling Ashiq’s name. I knew he would recognize me immediately because I had seen him several times in Pakistan as well as in France, Spain, and Switzerland.

The door finally opened, and Ashiq, whom I had always known to wear traditional Pakistani garb, appeared in front of me decked out in a trendy tracksuit. Clinging to my bouquet of flowers as one would a flotation device, I felt flustered. Ashiq didn’t seem to recognize me, and without a word or a smile, he gestured for me to enter. Once inside, he gave me a big hug. Over his shoulder, I spotted a small woman with a round face and long black hair tied up in a ponytail. Asia looked at me, dumbstruck. I struggled to grasp that she was truly there, in the flesh, and I was standing before her. I had pictured meeting her for the first time on an airport runway, like the way people meet when a hostage is returned.

Ashiq muttered a few words in Urdu, and Asia’s face lit up before enveloping me in her gentleness. I couldn’t get over it; the woman whose suffering I had reported on for years was finally by my side. She hugged me hard, the way my daughter does, and pressed her head to my chest. Asia seemed to regard me as a member of her family who might disappear at any moment. I was relieved and deeply moved.

“Thank you. Thank you for everything you did for me. If I am alive and free, it is thanks to you and the support of God. You saved my life. You are an angel, my soul sister,” she said.

I heard her voice for the first time. A voice that did not tremble despite all her trials and suffering, but a voice that was powerful, alive, and sparkling. I wanted to take her face between my hands, but that seemed too intimate and premature. I put both of my hands on her shoulders, smiled affectionately, and responded, “I have been waiting for you, Asia.”

Then her two daughters, Eisha and Eisham, who had been watching the scene unfold, took me in their arms as their parents, now emotional, stood by. Asia then invited me to sit down and offered me Pakistani tea. On the couch in their suburban house, we spent a long time recounting the last ten years, so happy and relieved to have them behind us. I asked Asia if she was in good health, and she responded with a candid yes, even though she sometimes had a few head pains. I was struck by how strong, smart, and brave this small woman was.

Asia Bibi’s acquittal established a precedent in Pakistan. Now, anyone who makes false accusations of blasphemy will, in turn, face harsh consequences. Her freedom was certainly a complete, collective victory. A chain of support forged around the world, and it raised awareness among the media, politicians, and nongovernmental organizations (NGOs).

Without the commitments of so many individuals, the mother of two would have never again seen her children, who were deprived of her for ten years. Asia Bibi is able to hold her daughters in her arms and cover them in kisses once again, and that is thanks to countless people who supported her and prayed for her from all corners of the globe. And for that, I will never be able to say thank you enough!

Anne-Isabelle Tollet

____________________

1Blasphème, XO édition, May 2011.

2La Mort n’est pas une solution, Éditions du Rocher, March 2015.

3www.asiabibi.com

Chapter 1

IN THE DARK

The future is also about memory.

DENYS GAGNON

I’m not the type to remember dates, but some days you never forget. Like Wednesday, June 9, 2010. Before sunset, I had arrived at Sheikhupura detention center, where I was to spend three years before changing prisons the way one moves to a new house. I hadn’t been tried yet, but I was already guilty in everyone’s eyes. I remember that day as though it were yesterday, and when I close my eyes, I relive every moment of it.

My wrists were on fire, and I struggled to breathe. My neck, which my youngest child loved to wrap her arms around, was squeezed into an iron collar that the guard could tighten at will with a huge locknut. A long chain dragged across the filthy floor, connecting my throat to the wrist of the guard, who pulled me along like a dog on a leash. Deep down inside of me, a gnawing fear pulled me into the depths of darkness. A nagging fear that would never leave me. At precisely that moment, I wanted to escape the harshness of this world.

Leather cuffs strapped my ankles, and a taut, narrow chain connected them. I nearly fell with each step. Between standing and stooping, I struggled to move forward. I shuffled in my sandals, which were made by the kind cobbler in my village. My loose hair bothered me. I had lost my headscarf when the police threw me like a sack of potatoes out of the police vehicle that brought me to the prison. I felt naked and bare without my scarf. My untied hair hid part of my grimy, sweaty face. I must have looked like a lady of the night. I grimaced in pain. The guard failed to notice because he refused to turn around and look at me out of fear of “dirtying” himself. Suddenly, his pace quickened, and he pulled abruptly on the chain tied to my neck. I fell flat on my face onto the ground, but he didn’t slow down. The collar started to suffocate me, so I quickly scrambled back onto my feet and in step behind him.

In the distance, I heard dishes clanging against one another. I looked down the endless corridor one way and then the other, but all I saw were closed wooden doors. I jumped at a woman’s sudden cry: “Death!”

Other women took up a chant: “Hang her! Hang her! Hang her!”

I realized the prisoners, who were penned in here like livestock, were shouting their hatred for me. Full of fear, and to escape those dark cries, I hummed to myself through a clenched jaw to drown out their words, but the effort was in vain. I stared at a large fly resting on one of the filthy neon lights in the long, pallid hallway. In successive waves, the prisoners beat their dishes together in step: “The rope!” Clack, clack…“The rope!” Clack, clack…

The guard stopped short in front of the last cell in the corridor and turned around for the first time. His eyes bulged with satisfaction. From under his navy-blue beret, sweat streamed down his body. Big wet rings seeped out of his armpits. He pulled a dirty old rag out of his pocket.

I could hear new jeers: “Death to the blasphemer! Blasphemy, blasphemy! Put her to death!”

“Shut up,” the guard shouted. “Shut up, you filthy bunch of females!”

Everyone went quiet. The silence made me want to throw up. The guard unscrewed my iron collar with the disgusting rag, careful not to come into direct contact with my hair or skin. I grimaced in pain, lowered my eyes, then lifted my hand to my bruise-covered neck.

With a look of revulsion on his face, he spit at me, “You’re worse than a pig! I have to dirty myself by touching you and putting up with your rottenness, but hopefully that won’t last for long. Allah Akkbar!”

He kicked his boot into my kneecap, and I collapsed. I soon learned that this guard, with whom I would end up spending three years, was named Khalil. Khalil stooped over me to remove the cuffs that bound my feet. Cradling my knee with both hands, I held the pain inside and looked upon him fearfully.

While freeing my ankles, he cackled, “The death penalty! That’s right. Death for insulting our Prophet! Who did you think you were?”

I said nothing.

While Khalil opened the creaking door to the cramped space that would become my home, I struggled to get up and then to stand on one foot to avoid putting pressure on my throbbing knee.

Laughing heartily, Khalil asked, “Did you hear your girlfriends? The next time I open this door, it will be to dangle you from a rope, inshallah!”

He pushed me, and I fell into the cell. He scraped his boots off on me as I lay there. The door slammed behind his sneering laugh. Sprawled out on the earthy ground of this hopeless cell, I stared at the door, thinking that perhaps God sent this hardship.

Chapter 2

I’LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING

The test of courage isn’t dying but living.

VITTORIO ALFIERI,ORESTE

For a long time, I thought I was going to die because of a glass of water. It was a close call. I was condemned to hang and lost years of precious time because I was thirsty and drank out of the same cup as Muslim women on a day when temperatures reached over one hundred degrees. Because I, a Christian, served the water, my field companions judged it impure and accused me of blasphemy.

In Pakistan, blasphemy is the greatest crime of all. At the mere accusation of it, the mullahs, who lead mosques, refuse to leave you in peace. I didn’t commit blasphemy; I was never blasphemous. But when faced with my village’s mullah, who later filed an official complaint against me, I refused to renounce my faith in exchange for immediate liberation. I was subsequently imprisoned in 2009 and sentenced to hang in 2010.

Of course, the accusation against me was only a pretext to get rid of me. I have no proof, but I find the justification of my accusers rather dubious. My conviction condemned my entire family, who had always been happy in Pakistan. We are Christian, and even though we couldn’t openly express our joy at being so, we respected Islam. Being a Christian in my country may not be advantageous, and fortunately, not all Christians are accused of blasphemy. Even Muslims aren’t immune to such accusations. What I have come to understand is that all prejudices are fair game when it comes to getting rid of others and subjecting them to your personal will.

If only I’d known that one day a simple cup of fresh water would prevent me from watching my children grow up! I rotted in prison for more than nine years—nine years of torture and humiliation. For a long time, I asked myself why God was imposing so much suffering on me and my family. I wondered why religious extremists used me to spread terror in my country and why they were hammering away at my case so hard. In my little windowless cell, I fought against the darkness of my dungeon. And throughout all of those years, I lost my carefree nature and hope for a future. It was the fight of my life, and I was not prepared for it.

The legal saga gave way to an acquittal in October 2018 that was confirmed at the start of 2019. But in the face of the political and popular pressure for my death, I had to remain detained for another seven months for my own safety, while doubt hovered above my future. During the last few months of my detainment, rumors circulated that I had come to Canada. And finally, at the beginning of the month of May, I indeed arrived in Canada. What a whirlwind in ten years!

From the depths of my prison, I did not understand how much the international community supported me. How could I, a simple peasant at the age of fifty-four, imagine that I would become the global symbol of the fight against religious extremism. Yet my family and lawyer had told me as much: “Thanks to the French journalist, the world has taken an interest in the fate of the little uneducated peasant woman. Some very important people have committed to saving you.”

That French journalist was Anne-Isabelle Tollet, who became my soul sister. For ten years, she moved heaven and earth, and thanks to her, my experience stirred the world. She gave me media exposure, which helped others support me, and I owe all of them my freedom today. It would take lifetimes for me to thank everyone who helped over the course of those years. I often wonder why they did so and what it is about me, among so many other suffering people, that could have interested them. God must have heard my prayers.

Two people in particular also played key roles in my exfiltration and have, until now, remained in the shadows. Without the help of Jan Figel, the European Union special correspondent for religious freedom, and Pakistani Muhammad Amanullah, my nickname for whom is Aman, I would still be under the watch of Pakistan’s guards and far from my children. This ordeal also forced Aman to leave his country to avoid being murdered by the Islamists for apostasy. From Australia, he continues to defend people accused of blasphemy and, like me, is unable to return to his country.

Before leaving Pakistan in 2018, Aman’s family was attacked by an angry mob, who seriously injured his sister and occupied his home. In 2014, my lawyer at the time had told me about a Pakistani Muslim who was simultaneously defending three Christian women accused of blasphemy. He had even passed himself off as the fiancé of one in order to obtain permission to visit her in jail. I called this man on the phone and asked if he could help me, and he did. He got in touch with lawyer Saif ul-Malook and convinced him to represent me before the Pakistan Supreme Court. Aman has never let me down, and even today, he acts as an interpreter when I want to talk to Anne-Isabelle. All three of us speak on the phone together, and we laugh a lot.

Now that I am free and living in a free country, I’m becoming increasingly aware that my story moved people and that rumors and false information about me have spread. This book is my chance to state a few truths. I wrote it with Anne-Isabelle, who is well-acquainted with my home country. She also helped me structure my thoughts and, of course, to write. It is not that I did not have the words; I simply did not know how to express them. I am illiterate and without formal education. I don’t speak English or any language other than Urdu. However, I am learning English, thanks to Aman, who sends me little lessons all the way from Australia. I listen to them on my phone every day.

My name is Asia Noreen. I am the daughter of Salamat Masih, and I was born in January of 1965 in the Nankana Sahib district in the Punjab region. On my Pakistani ID, it says that I have a beauty mark on my right cheek, and I still have it. People know me as Asia Bibi, but Bibi is actually a nickname that literally translates to “grandmother” in Urdu. Over time, it became an honorific title given to ladies who are respectful, pure, and pious. In a strange twist of fate, both of my accusers are also named Bibi, as are many women in Pakistan. These days, I have changed my identity and pray that the religious extremists cannot find me. I am a political exile living under a fake name in a country where it is cold.

I am married to Ashiq, the father of my two children. Like many Pakistani Christians, Ashiq bears the name Masih, and I recently learned that it means “the Messiah” in Arabic. My life in Pakistan might seem complicated to those who live in the West. For example, in Pakistan, many parents arrange marriages for their children, and this tradition creates problems and confusion for many couples who are not allowed to marry for love. I had such an experience, yet through the grace of God, I have found peace and love with my beloved Ashiq and two daughters.

My case showed that politicians and the judiciary system are aware of the ways in which the blasphemy law is abused and misused. Sadly, despite my release, the climate does not seem to have changed, and Christians can expect all sorts of reprisals. In fact, shortly after I was freed, my cell became home to a new Christian woman sentenced to death for blasphemy. Shagufta Kausar, a mother of four children ages five to thirteen, and her husband, Shafqat Masih, were sentenced by a Pakistani court for having sent blasphemous text messages. The imam, a Muslim worship leader, of a local mosque had filed the complaint against them. According to his complaint, Shafqat Masih, with his wife’s help, had sent text messages written in English that insulted the Prophet.

My lawyer, Saif ul-Malook, who returned to Pakistan after I was freed, is defending them. Despite threats, he wants to help the victims of the blasphemy law, which is exceptionally brave of him because he is a Muslim. With Saif as a lawyer, I think that Shagufta Kausar, the wife, will make it out alright. From what I know, both spouses are illiterate, so they couldn’t have sent text messages in Urdu, let alone in English. It is yet another absurd accusation of blasphemy, and if the law did not destroy the lives of people, it would almost be laughable.

Although I am certain Pakistan will never repeal the blasphemy law, I would like for people to stop abusing it. Nobody should be treated as guilty without concrete proof. I pray every day for Shagufta Kausar and Shafqat Masih and everyone else accused of blasphemy, and I continue to solemnly ask Pakistan to reexamine the blasphemy law that nearly cost me my life.