Click on image to enlarge.
|
Infidel [Secure eReader (recommended)/Microsoft Reader]
eBook by Ayaan Hirsi Ali
| |
Regular |
|
 |
|
Club |
| You Pay: |
$11.99 |
|
|
|
$10.19 |
| Micropay Rebate: |
10% |
|
|
|
10% |
| Cost After Rebate: |
$10.79 |
|
|
|
$9.17 |
| You Save: |
10.01% |
|
|
|
23.52% |
eBook Category: People
eBook Description:  In this profoundly affecting memoir from the internationally renowned author of The Caged Virgin, Ayaan Hirsi Ali tells her astonishing life story, from her traditional Muslim childhood in Somalia, Saudi Arabia, and Kenya, to her intellectual awakening and activism in the Netherlands, and her current life under armed guard in the West. One of today's most admired and controversial political figures, Ayaan Hirsi Ali burst into international headlines following an Islamist's murder of her colleague, Theo van Gogh, with whom she made the movie Submission. Infidel is the eagerly awaited story of the coming of age of this elegant, distinguished--and sometimes reviled--political superstar and champion of free speech. With a gimlet eye and measured, often ironic, voice, Hirsi Ali recounts the evolution of her beliefs, her ironclad will, and her extraordinary resolve to fight injustice done in the name of religion. Raised in a strict Muslim family and extended clan, Hirsi Ali survived civil war, female mutilation, brutal beatings, adolescence as a devout believer during the rise of the Muslim Brotherhood, and life in four troubled, unstable countries largely ruled by despots. In her early twenties, she escaped from a forced marriage and sought asylum in the Netherlands, where she earned a college degree in political science, tried to help her tragically depressed sister adjust to the West, and fought for the rights of Muslim immigrant women and the reform of Islam as a member of Parliament. Even though she is under constant threat--demonized by reactionary Islamists and politicians, disowned by her father, and expelled from her family and clan--she refuses to be silenced. Ultimately a celebration of triumph over adversity, Hirsi Ali's story tells how a bright little girl evolved out of dutiful obedience to become an outspoken, pioneering freedom fighter. As Western governments struggle to balance democratic ideals with religious pressures, no story could be timelier or more significant.
eBook Publisher: Simon & Schuster, Inc./Free Press
Fictionwise Release Date: February 2007
8 Reader Ratings:
|
|
|
|
| Great |
Good |
OK |
Poor |
|
| |
Available eBook Formats [Secure eReader (recommended)/Microsoft Reader - What's this?]: SECURE MICROSOFT READER FORMAT [648 KB] - Requires Microsoft Reader 2.1.1 for PCs, or Microsoft Reader 2.2.2 on Pocket PC 2002 handheld devices. Some older Pocket PCs can be upgraded. Learn More., SECURE EREADER (RECOMMENDED) FORMAT [841 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [910 KB]
All formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED
Microsoft Reader ISBN, eReader (recommended) ISBN: 9781416538592
MobiPocket Reader ISBN: 1416538593
 
Chapter 1
Bloodlines "Who are you?" "I am Ayaan, the daughter of Hirsi, the son of Magan." I am sitting with my grandmother on a grass mat under the talal tree. Behind us is our house, and the branches of the talal tree are all that shields us from the sun blazing down on the white sand. "Go on," my grandmother says, glaring at me. "And Magan was the son of Isse." "And then?" "Isse was the son of Guleid, was the son of Ali. Was the son of Wai'ays. Was the son of Muhammad. Ali. Umar." I hesitate for a moment. "Osman. Mahamud." I catch my breath, proud of myself. "Bah?" asks my grandmother. "Which consort?" "Bah Ya'qub, Garab-Sare." I name the most powerful of Osman Mahamud's wives: daughter of Ya'qub, she of the highest shoulder. My grandmother nods, grudgingly. I have done well, for a five-year-old. I have managed to count my forefathers back for three hundred years—the part that is crucially important. Osman Mahamud is the name of my father's subclan, and thus my own. It is where I belong, who I am. Later, as I grow up, my grandmother will coax and even beat me to learn my father's ancestry eight hundred years back, to the beginning of the great clan of the Darod. I am a Darod, a Harti, a Macherten, an Osman Mahamud. I am of the consort called the Higher Shoulder. I am a Magan. "Get it right," my grandmother warns, shaking a switch at me. "The names will make you strong. They are your bloodline. If you honor them they will keep you alive. If you dishonor them you will be forsaken. You will be nothing. You will lead a wretched life and die alone. Do it again." * * * Somali children must memorize their lineage: this is more important than almost anything. Whenever a Somali meets a stranger, they ask each other, "Who are you?" They trace back their separate ancestries until they find a common forefather. If you share a grandfather, perhaps even an eighth great-grandfather, with a Somali, the two of you are bound together as cousins. You are members of the great family that forms a clan. You offer each other food and hospitality. Although a child belongs to the clan of his father, it may be useful to remember the details of your mother's bloodline, too, in case you travel and need a stranger's help. So, though the sweat pearled down our backs on those long afternoons, my big brother, Mahad, and I learned to chant, in unison, the names of both our lineages. Later, my grandmother began teaching my little sister, Haweya, to do the same, but she never got as far with her. Haweya was quick and bright, but she sat still even less often than Mahad and I. The truth is that this ancestral knowledge seemed pointless to us modern children, brought up in concrete houses, with hard roofs, behind fixed, fenced walls. Mostly we pranced off, dodging the sharp smacks my grandmother aimed at our legs with the switches that she broke off our tree. We would rather climb the tree and play in its branches. Above all, we loved listening to my grandmother's stories while my mother cooked over a charcoal brazier and we lay, on a mat, under our tree. These stories never came when we begged for them. They arrived by surprise. My grandmother would be weaving a mat, muttering to herself, and suddenly we would realize that the muttering had turned into a fairy tale. "There was once a young nomad who married a beautiful wife, and they had a son," my grandmother would begin. The three of us knew to settle down instantly and pretend to be occupied with something; the slightest interruption could break her mood, and she would growl at us and go back to weaving the thin strips of dried grass that she sewed night and day into large, elaborate matting. "The rains didn't come, so the nomad set out to walk across the desert, looking for pasture where he could settle with his family. Almost as soon as he began walking he came upon a patch of green young grass. On it was a hut made of strong branches, covered with freshly woven mats and swept clean. "The hut was empty. The man went back to his wife and told her that after just one day of walking, he had found the perfect place. But two days later, when he returned to the pasture with his wife and baby, they found a stranger standing in the doorway of the hut. This stranger was not tall, but he was thickly built, and he had very white teeth and smooth skin." Haweya would shiver with pleasure, and I with fear. "The stranger said, 'You have a wife and child. Take the house, you're welcome to it,' and he smiled. The young nomad thought this stranger was remarkably friendly, and thanked him; he invited the stranger to visit any time. But the wife felt uncomfortable around the stranger. The baby, too, cried as soon as he cast eyes on this man. Copyright © 2007 by Ayaan Hirsi Ali.
|
)
