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'I lit the match' "What would Mohammed think? He would probably have chosen a wife from one of them." Nigerian journalist Isioma Daniel's words about the Miss World contestants provoked religious riots in her country that left more than 200 dead - and a fatwa calling for her execution. Now, for the first time, she explains the events that changed her life forever Isioma Daniel When it became
definite that Nigeria was going to host the Miss World beauty pageant,
slight grumbling could be heard from the part of the country governed
by sharia. Earlier in the year a woman called Amina Lawal had been
sentenced to death by stoning for adultery and a few of the pageant
contestants pulled out in protest. But the Miss World wagon kept
rolling. With all that money to make, no one was going to allow
religious sentiments to get in the way.
On Friday November 15 last year, my editor at the Nigerian
newspaper This Day rang me on my mobile. I was at the head office of
an orphanage collecting photographs for a feature that I wanted to run
in the following Saturday's edition. Thursday night had been
production night, so my eyes were red-rimmed with deferred sleep and
my brain sluggish. Nevertheless, I said yes to his request that I
write the introduction to a story on the Miss World competition to be
used on the cover.
Friday marks the final deadline for production. News pages are
edited and laid out, so it is a busy day. Editing was shared among
those reporters the editor considered reliable. I was one of them.
My editor briefed me on what he wanted. I struggled to write more
than 600 words. What was there to say? I wanted the tone of the
article to be light-hearted but questioning.
I remember feeling uneasy after completing the piece. It was breezy
and sarcastic. My recent time in Britain, studying journalism at the
University of Central Lancashire in Preston, had made me irreverent -
there are no sacred cows in the UK. The tabloids have finished them
off. I printed a copy and handed it to my editor. "Make sure you
read it," I said. A few minutes later I reminded him. "I
have sent the article to your computer, have you read it?" He
read a few lines. "It's fine," he said.
I felt nervous and wired, but I didn't know why. Over the weekend I
rested and forgot about the article.
Then on Sunday I got a call from my editor. He was furious.
"How could you have said that about Mohammed? How could you have
been so insensitive?" On and on. I was stupefied. I didn't say a
word. He hung up. I picked up a copy of the paper and read my article
again. What had I said wrong? I went to my father and told him. He
said he didn't see anything wrong with it, but that some Muslims might
find it offensive and that worse things have been said about Jesus.
His words did not comfort me.
Monday morning brought dread. I didn't rush to the office, but
tried to finish the orphanage article on the computer at home. A
phone-call from a mentor at the paper told me that I had been moved to
the business desk. That was when I knew it was serious. What I didn't
know was how bad it was going to get.
In the newsroom I tried to talk to my editor. But he cut me off.
His coldness hurt me more than anything else because it felt as if I
was being abandoned. I was guilty. I didn't need anyone to make me
feel worse. I tried to keep my head up and stay strong, but as the
hours trotted on I felt tired and emotionally drained. The office
phonelines were jammed with angry calls. All the editors were eating
humble pie as every ringing mobile heralded yet another angry Muslim.
That Monday, at the Saturday desk editorial meeting, I was stripped of
my responsibilities. Journalism is a vicious enterprise and I knew
there were quite a few people who gloated at what seemed like my
downfall. Editors who once smiled greetings at me ignored me. But not
all of them; trouble draws out your true friends and mine remained
faithful.
On Tuesday, I received a note saying that I should report to the
business desk. The paper carried an apology and a retraction on the
front page. I came late to the office and kept to myself. Holding back
tears is an exhausting experience and by the time I reached home I was
drained. My father handed me a Bible verse which, in paraphrase, said:
"I will take refuge in the shadow of your wings until this
disaster has passed."
On Wednesday, the paper's Kaduna office, in northern Nigeria, was
burned down. The bureau chief went into hiding. The fragile strength I
had built collapsed. My first instinct was to resign. I felt so
guilty. I phoned my father, sent a text to a friend whose
encouragement had been comforting, and typed out my resignation. It
was an impulse reaction and everyone knows that panicky decisions are
not the best ones. So I listened to a colleague's advice and decided
not to hand in the letter.
The managing editor and the chairman of the editorial board
instructed security not to let anyone know I was at work and insisted
that I went home. "It isn't safe for you to remain here. Lie low
until Ramadan is over. It is probably best that you stay with
relatives or friends, so no one knows where you are. Don't talk to
anyone, just go home. It is not safe for you to be here... " I
heard their words but I wasn't prepared to leave yet.
It was midday and the newsroom was empty. Leaving felt a lot like
running off. I had caused some damage and I couldn't just walk away.
As the evening drew near and the newsroom began to fill up, I knew
that I wasn't strong enough to face the whispering and murmuring of
journalists once they heard. I completed my last article for the
paper. The orphanage story was finished. The page was laid out. I left
a handwritten apology for my editor. Then I went home.
I was in shock, so I slept for hours. My aunt flew into the house
waving an evening paper. The news about the burning was on the front
page and she had worried herself sick about my safety. The general
word in the house was that I should not worry, that it didn't matter
if I never worked again, that the Muslims were overreacting and it
would all blow over. We decided not to tell my mother. She was in
America visiting family friends and we knew she would grab the first
plane to Lagos once she heard.
I got a few calls that night from colleagues who just wanted me to
know that it would be all right. My editor finally broke his silence
in a text. I sent him the Bible verse that my dad gave me. I couldn't
pray. I conjured the verse up to suffocate my panic.
On Thursday I nearly went to the office. The suburb had another
indefinite power cut and I didn't know what was happening. My phone
rang. The voice said that riots had broken out in Kaduna and Muslims
were killing Christians. People were trying to find me and I shouldn't
leave the house. That night on national television the Sultan of
Sokoto appealed for calm and peace. On the flip side, the minister for
Abuja, Nigeria's glossy capital, broke down in front of the camera,
weeping that I had blasphemed the prophet.
Then on Friday, riots began in Abuja. We bought every newspaper. I
listened to a radio announcement claiming that all those involved with
the article would be brought to book. I turned off the radio. The need
for normality was what I clung to. I chatted to my brother and sister
as if nothing had happened. Yet I packed my bags because my father was
convinced I couldn't remain in Lagos. I got a call saying that state
security wanted to see me. It wasn't serious, just a routine check and
I wouldn't be arrested.
I didn't believe them. That evening I left Nigeria. Not for
America, as the press reported, but for the Republic of Benin. Urgency
was the driving force and I could get to Cotonou, Benin's capital, a
lot faster than I could pass through American bureaucracy.
It was on Friday that my guilt crystallised into anger. I felt a
wave of indignation and fury and I suspect that other Nigerians felt
it too. Nothing justified a religious group killing people simply
because they considered a remark offensive. Who did they think they
were? God? Surely God can fight his own battles.
On Monday I heard of the fatwa by email. I used one cyber-cafe but
later had to move to different places because there were too many
Nigerians and I was worried that someone might cotton on. When I
browsed through the Google news site I read the fatwa by the Zamfara
state government through their spokesperson, Mamuda Aliyu Shinkaf.
"Like Salman Rushdie, the blood of Isioma Daniel can be shed. It
is abiding on all Muslims wherever they are to consider the killing of
the writer as a religious duty." I felt calm. It was then I
realised that there was no going back to Nigeria. This was no longer a
lie-low-until-it-all-blows-over-then-you-can-come-back scenario. Two
hundred people dead; in the name of religion.
Was I scared? I didn't sleep too well that night.
The Committee to Protect Journalists and Amnesty International
guided me through the resettlement process. The United Nations High
Commission for Refugees swiftly processed my application and I left
Cotonou for Europe. I saw my parents for one last time at the airport.
My mother returned from America calm but remade. An experience like
this changes you. She was disappointed that my application to the US
wasn't processed quickly enough, but we resigned ourselves to the
strange place I was going to. We were grateful for their acceptance.
In this article I have tried to tell the story - one that I can
narrate forever - in just 2,000 words. I missed out the opinions and
editorials I read about the riots, one opinion by a female writer who
regretted that I went unhurt while people were killed. Well, my dear
lady, physical pain is not the worst kind of pain, so you are wrong. I
unknowingly lit the match. I haven't dropped it yet; it is still in my
hand.
The "irresponsible journalism" mantra lost ground. It
seemed evident that Islamic clerics and imams egged on the riots for
political reasons. They were keen to utilise the blind fervour of idle
youths.
Now I am trying to understand my new home. I wonder if I will be
able to write again. Nothing edgy and beautiful has come out of
African literature since the great days of Chinua Achebe, Cyprian
Ekwensi and Wole Soyinka. It is my dreams that tell me I have a
future. If I lose them, then I am a goner. |