Warning: Explicit sexual violence.
Victim of Muslim sexual exploitation and violence tells of her experiences at MARIAS Conference.
More from the Conference:
I admit I’ve followed you for awhile but was afraid to publicly show my support when I was dating my ex, but found the strength to break away and I’m dating a wonderful American guy. I’d like to share my story with you, but anonymously because my ex & I used to work together and share some common friends.
I wasn’t groomed or raped, but rather it was a combination of emotional manipulation and fear of being seen as an Islamophobe. I had dated a Muslim guy in the past, but he was a Muslim only in name and only participated in holidays.
I grew up without a strong male role model and without a clear self-identity (I’m half Brazilian & European American). I also lacked self esteem and it was easy for him to use me.
A 16 year old Muslim Apostate sends MARIAS her story
How would you expect a normal dad to react? Congratulate his daughter on reaching this milestone in her life? See her happiness and smile? Be thrilled at the prospect of future children, marriage, albeit slightly far ahead? Be nervous and hope it works out, wanting to protect her from heartache?
That’s what normal fathers do. I do not have a normal father.
I hinted during his numerous attempts to harass me I was dating by texting “I’ve met someone”. A fairly ambiguous statement. Not explicit. I was shaking, my breaths coming fast. I was more nervous than I was telling him this than my apostasy, which is saying something.
This was the dad who loved to see his daughter obscure her body in a black solid mass, eyes, hands and all. Who pressured her to wear the hijab and abaya. Who threw a tantrum if a strand of hair was out of place, who constantly kept tabs on my movements in case I was at a boy’s house. Who smashed a vase against the wall because I had a male friend at school, who was gay. He knew that. Yet he still persecuted me. When I was a chaste virgin, and totally innocent.
I had my heart in my mouth as I clicked “sent”. Straightaway he was on the phone, demanding answers, calling me a whore, asking me who I was with, when did I meet him, was I still ‘pure’, what religion he was. He ended up slamming the phone down in pure rage and physically shaking, he told me.
He called later and questioned me to the point I gave him the answer he was looking for. ‘I mean, I met a friend’. He asked if I was sure. I said yes. I didn’t trust my virginity obsessed dad to not hurt me. His relief was palpable in his voice. He cried out thank god!
I didn’t expect anything better. What is it about your daughters that threaten you so much? Why must we be subjected to how we ruined your honour, and let the family down, for simply falling in love and being in love with life and the world?
I realised my father, despite his proclamations of acceptance of my apostasy, critical nature of Islam, and atheism, was merely born out of a desire to repair his tattered honour and reputation, convert me back and marry me off. He let slip when he said ‘I know Islam is still in your heart, I will make you see it’.
It’s not. I don’t want Islam.
I don’t want to be married. I want to fall in love and love my life.
I don’t want to subscribe to your tribal ancient notions of family honour. I am a separate entity, I’m my own person. You respect me, or I leave. Too long I’ve cowered to men’s demands and kept myself away from potential partners.
I’m not the Muslim niqabi girl I was anymore. I don’t want an expensive arranged marriage at 17 to my first cousin you chose, dad. I don’t want to bear the children you wanted me to, and I don’t want the names you picked out for them.
I want to spend my life living on my own terms, falling in love, getting my heart broken and finding something akin to the One.
I’m not your slave anymore.
Wake up and realise. I am beautiful, I am bold, I am brave. I broke my shackles you placed on me. I am free.
(Warning: This letter contains violent and sexually explicit references)
I was very young when it started.
I have a very fuzzy memory of the very beginning. My childhood friend remembers me being picked up from a primary school by an older man and being given ketamine, coming home completely out of it, with lots of new underwear, so it began earlier than I remember. My parents worked a lot, so they weren’t really around to notice anything. My friend did at some point tell my parents, but I’m not sure when she did that.
We ended up moving areas, but not too far, now my earliest clear memory starts at around 13/14. We had moved house and I was waiting to be accepted into a school, from what I remember. This man, the very same man picking me up from primary school came to my parents’ home while they were out working, and while my brother was at his school. It was a morning. His name was Jason, I don’t know if he was a Muslim. He was 28 or in his early 30s.
I was quite naive. He had come to take photos of me for a modelling portfolio — at least that’s what he said. They ended up being pictures in my underwear. Eventually he said we needed a different environment and asked if there was a bedroom we could use. I took him to my parents’ bedroom. I thought nothing of it, I didn’t realise it would get worse.
He took more pictures. Then he told me to take everything off and gave me some stockings to put on. I remember the feeling of my stomach turning over, I was really scared. But I did as I was told.
(Warning: This article contains explicit descriptions of violence and sexual abuse.)
My story begins at the age of ten. I had been sexually abused by a lorry driver, and although the police were involved, I was too young to give evidence and so the man walked free from court.
I was the youngest child and not very close with my siblings. This event caused me to be even more awkward and withdrawn. I felt increasingly isolated and as though I had no one to turn to.
Dad’s best friend
My Dad had a best friend and I used to call him ‘Uncle’. He seemed to know that I felt out of place and different. If I got in trouble he’d invite me to come and sit on his knee. He’d take all of us for rides on his motorbike and he’d let me sit in front of him on the seat, protected, in between his legs and his arms. All other passengers had to sit behind him. This made me feel special.
At age fifteen, I began acting out at home. I was being bullied at school and I was miserable. My parents never knew about this because I didn’t confide in them. One night, after being sent to bed early for fighting with a sibling, Uncle B, who was in our house at the time, told my Dad that he’d take me over to his house and I could spend the night there. He was my Dad’s best mate and he had a wife and kids of his own. What could go wrong? I was excited to have someone looking out for me and taking an interest in my emotional well-being.
Gang raped by non-Muslim “friends” of family
At ‘Uncle B’s’ house, I found four of his mates there, and all of them, including his wife and kids were drinking and taking drugs and smoking pot. They kept offering me some but I refused, saying instead that I’d like to go to bed. Bed, for me, was a mattress that was made all comfy and situated at the side of Uncle B’s bed. He told me that I should get into his bed and sleep, and that he’d move me on to the mattress when he and his wife came to bed. I climbed in and promptly fell asleep.
I don’t know what time it was but I remember trying to turn over and not being able to because my hands and arms were bound. I quickly realised I couldn’t move my feet either. I opened my eyes to see a large knife slicing its way up the front of my nightgown, and I looked around the room in utter panic.
I saw the faces of Uncle B, his four mates and his wife all looking at me. Then there was a sudden surge of pain as I felt something being pushed deep inside me. It was his wife who was pushing the handle of a screwdriver into me. I screamed and I cried and I shouted “NO. NO. NO. PLEASE STOP.”
They laughed at me, and I was so confused. All I could do was to beg them to stop. But Uncle climbed on top of me instead and forced himself inside me. At the same time, someone else pulled my face to the side and forced his penis into my mouth. I was squirming the whole time, unable to free myself. Uncle finished and another man climbed on top of me. One after another after another of them.
They wore smiles on their faces as I cried and begged and pleaded with them. I promised I’d say nothing to anyone. Instead, they just kept climbing on top of me. The ropes tied around my wrists and ankles were so tight and my skin burned as I tried to resist my tormentors.
Scared into staying silent
Between breaks, I was shown photographs; acts of violence they had carried out against people to ensure their silence. I was warned that if i told a soul then they would torture and kill my family. I was crying, and they enjoyed my tears.
That is only a fraction of the things they did to me that night. I was finally allowed to go home, but the weight of the fear I carried was unbearable.
Uncle B still visited our house and hung out with my Dad. My behaviour became out of control. I couldn’t bear the weight of the secret much longer.
I ran away …
… in a bid to protect my family, and I ended up homeless in London, sleeping rough on the streets. I had nowhere to go and had no one I could trust. It was a child’s thing to do, and bought with a child’s wisdom – thinking that the only way to keep my family safe was by abandoning them. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was denying my loved ones their outrage and grief. I was denying them their justice for the crimes committed against their child. All I could see were the photographs and all I could remember were the threats of violence promised against my family if I ever told them what had been done to me. I couldn’t stay in the family home and be around them and Uncle B and be expected to remain quiet.
Met 12 year old white girl pimped by Muslims
While I lived on the streets, I became friends with a girl who was only 12 years old. I had become quite adept at stealing food to feed us both. She had a drug habit and she was a prostitute. The reason she was on the streets is because Pakistani men had shown her kindness and pretended to love her. They’d given her a bed, alcohol and drugs when she needed a place to stay because her own father had been abusing her and she couldn’t go home.
One night she told me she had to get as many clients as possible in order to make her payment to her pimps. We were chatting about it when a car pulled up. Inside it sat a large and sleazy looking man. I told her not to go, that I’d get food for the next day, but she was adamant about getting her money and repaying her debt. She had to or else they’d beat her. He took her down an alleyway and I stood at the top of it.
12 year old girl beaten
Suddenly I heard her scream. I reacted, and I rushed down to the car. He was on top of her, fucking her and punching her and calling her names. I picked up a broken bottle from the ground and I stuck it into his back as hard as I could. He jumped up, clutching at his back, as I grabbed her out of the car. She spilled onto the ground and I dragged her along until she could stand and run on her own.
That night, I tucked her into the sleeping bag that we shared. I could feel her shaking, she was so little and slight. Her breathing was laboured and I decided to go to the police. They wanted to know my name and I was terrified to tell them. I didn’t want to be found by my family or my rapists, so I promised to tell them my name if they would accompany me to the sleeping bag. Once there, I pointed her out to them and then I ran as fast as I could. The priority for me still was to keep my family safe at any cost.
Muslim pimps try to prostitute me
Over the next few weeks, I tried to keep out of sight. But then, suddenly, two of her Pakistani muslim pimps grabbed me and punched me, telling me that her debt was now mine this was one of three occasions that I was attacked by these Pakistani men. I’d saved her and I’d fucked up their payments, and now I’d need to work off her debts by prostituting myself for them.
A homeless man, who knew both myself and my young friend, saw what the two men were doing to me on one of these occasions and he came running and screaming towards them like a man possessed. He called out to me ‘Run, for fuck sake, run.”
And so I ran as fast as I could for those next couple of weeks. I did whatever was needed to avoid the girl’s pimps. I finally managed to get myself off the streets, and I stand before you now as a survivor of rape. I’m thankful that those Pakistani Muslim men who wanted to force me into prostitution never got that chance. I now consider myself to be lucky to have escaped that grooming fate. The girls being targeted by Muslim grooming gangs today are not as lucky as I was.
MARIAS: Protecting girls from Muslim grooming gangs
No one is protecting these girls. No one is listening to them either. Nor is anyone telling them it’s okay to speak out.
I want those girls, and their families, to understand that “MARIAS” (Mothers Against Radical Islam & Sharia) is here to speak on their behalf.
We offer them a public and social platform any time that they want to speak out and be listened to. We want these girls to be heard by everybody.
Political correctness above girls’ lives?
We want our police, social services, and spineless governmental officials to know that they are complicit in the grooming and raping of these girls. They are, in part, responsible for the chaos and misery inflicted on an untold number of lives. They are responsible for the loss of innocence and childhood up and down the country because they allowed our girls to be sacrifices on the altar of Pakistani Muslim men’s deprave sexual urges.
For fear of being called a ‘racist’ or a ‘bigot’ for pointing out the obvious? Court records, social services records, and police records all show that this is a Pakistani Muslim problem.
I spoke to an ex police officer who informed me how they would be told to hush things up in order not to cause “Islamophobia” and that “Diversity and Equality” was daily shoved in the faces of police officers.
Girls’ lives matter more than sick, depraved perverts’ sexual needs matter.
It’s time to throw political correctness and fear out the window.
MARIAS at work
I made contact with one girl who has been a victim of Muslim grooming gangs — hundreds of Muslim men trafficked and raped her repeatedly. She has a counsellor, however only so many were available to her.
So between myself and another supporter we created a GoFundMe account to enable her to continue receiving the help she requires. She did ask her doctor to refer her for counselling, however they wanted to refer her to a Pakistani counsellor and for apparent reasons this would not be acceptable at all.
I have also spoken to a lady who remembers working in a care home for children and often saw Pakistani Muslim men picking young girls some as young as 13 and upwards to 16 from McDonald’s in their BMW cars. She explained how she attempted to get the police to act but they basically told her that these girls were to much trouble as they “chose” to go with these men.
Another case is a young man who was raped when he was 7 yrs old and who was also in a care home and a girl he knew there called Michelle would be picked up by Muslim men who were around 25 + and when returned (anything from a weekend to 10 day’s later) she would be bruised and battered.
I have taken in a Somalian Muslim girl who was in fear for her life when her family wished to use her for “people trafficking” by sending her out to Somalia and marry a man and bring him into the UK. Once done they would wait a while and then they would divorce and then send her out to marry another man etc., etc., etc .
She refused to do this and her cousin attacked her, pulling chunks of her hair out and blacking both her eye’s. She had nowhere to go and no one she could trust so I told her to make her way to the nearest train station to me and I went and picked her up and brought to my home where she stayed for approximately 2 weeks.
I contacted the police at Bedford and I started to make calls to refuges. I was horrified when I was repeatedly asked what nationality she was as I felt this was not relevant. However as soon as I said she was Somalian they informed me they only took in Pakistani Muslim women.
I was absolutely and rightly so furious over this. Eventually the police had to take her to a safe house somewhere and since I said goodbye for clear reasons I have not seen her since.
I have on other occasions helped Muslim women yet I am constantly referred to as “Racist” … “Bigot” … “Fascist” … and “Nazi” as well as “Islamophobe”.
I believe the government is not fully aware of the undercurrent of anger that is slowly and surely building within the general public — if these issues are not addressed promptly and fairly and the issue of racism is not dealt with in an equal and fair manner.
Racism is no longer a disease that lies at the feet of those who are white. It is something that exists across the board within all races of people. But right now, at this moment in time the worst racism is towards predominantly white girls who are being groomed and raped and trafficked up and down the lengths and breadths of the UK .
I hope this gives a small insight into why I created MARIAS.