“Why I risked my life to convert to Zoroastrianism”
Corinne Redfern ("Stylist," July 26, 2017)
Some days, when Duya Ahmed Gadir wakes up, she lies in bed a little longer
than usual. Against the buzz of an air conditioning pump outside her
window, the 27-year-old whispers a quiet mantra – a promise to think good
thoughts, say good words and complete good deeds. She doesn’t do it every day
–
most of the time she oversleeps; tumbling out of her room, gulping down a
cup of sweetened tea and flying out the door to the library to while away
her day studying English as a hobby. But when she does remember, it calms
her. As a Zoroastrian, this three-pillared promise is her only prayer.
“I was raised Muslim, but I converted to Zoroastrianism last year,” Duya
explains, sitting cross-legged on a mattress in jeans and scuffed platform
sandals at her home in Kalar, a small city in the autonomous Iraqi region
of Kurdistan, three hours north of Baghdad.
“I could see how Isis were acting in the name of ‘Islam’. For three
years, they’ve been violently imposing extremist, conservative laws. They’re
marrying girls as young as 10, forcing women to cover their hands and faces
and killing or raping everyone who gets in their way. Three million people
are homeless because of them. I didn’t want anything to do with their
version of Islam any more.”
As Duya herself accepts, her country’s chequered history and current
social and economic turmoil has led to an interpretation of Islam that the
majority of Muslims wouldn’t recognise as being true to what they practice – a
result of overzealous leaders using religion in the wrong way. On a global
level, this misrepresentation is part of the reason the hashtag
#notinmyname has become so prevalent worldwide.
Nevertheless, Duya is one of more than 100 Kurdish women who have risked
their lives to officially convert to Zoroastrianism over the past 18 months,
after reading about the inherently feminist, liberal religion on Facebook.
She tracked down Kurdistan’s only official ‘Atashgah’ (the Zoroastrian
centre of worship) in the city of Sulaymaniyah, 85 miles to the north. Once
there, it seemed like a semi-utopia, to be suddenly surrounded by women of
all ages and backgrounds, wearing long, traditional dresses teamed with
bright, spiked heels.
“Anyone is welcome here,” explains the religion’s female spiritual
leader, Peerq Ashna Abdulqadr Raza, 47. “It’s a place where women can do and
say
what they want. There aren’t many places like that in this country.”
In search of equality
While local theologists are noting a sudden surge in Zoroastrianism’s
popularity among both men and women (it’s open to all, but does have a strong
female presence in this region due to its focus on gender equality), it’s a
trend they’re attributing to both the Isis-inspired backlash and a growing
awareness of gender politics.
But the religion itself isn’t new – originating in Persia over 3,500
years ago, the monotheistic belief system [they worship a single God] predates
Christianity, Islam and Judaism, and is founded on the poetry and songs of
a prophet called Zoroaster.
Millennia-old scripture purporting to echo his words remains in existence
but it’s studied lightly – unlike many religious groups, Zoroastrians take
pride in updating their faith in accordance with the times.
“As a result, these days men and women within our community are given
equal authority, counteracting climate change is a priority and the overriding
sentiment is that however you choose to live your life is OK – as long as
you’re not hurting anybody else in the process,” explains academic Farhad
Abdulhamid Mohamad, 72, who has studied Zoroastrianism for 35 years.
“We don’t believe that there are bad people in the world, only bad
actions.”
“Each week, there are more and more Muslim men and women asking to convert,
” adds Peerq Ashna. “What Isis is doing across Iraq and Syria makes me
feel sick. And we all know that it’s not how the majority of Muslims
interpret their religion.
“But when your house has been bombed, your daughter kidnapped or your
family massacred, people don’t want to be associated with the thing that
supposedly enabled that. They’re asking questions – and because atheism
doesn’t
come naturally to many people here, they’re often finding that
Zoroastrianism is the answer.”
The pervading oppression certainly informed Duya’s decision to covert. “I
feel like a second-class citizen everywhere I go,” she explains, because
of how Islam is interpreted, regardless of Isis’ influence.
Even in Kalar – a city heavily protected from Isis – things are bad. Men
refuse to shake her hand, she has to eat in a curtained-off area in
restaurants, and isn’t allowed to leave the house without her parents’
permission.
“As a woman, you’re treated like an animal – a donkey to be bought and
owned and beaten by men as they please. I see European and American women on
YouTube and think, ‘You don’t even know how free you are.’”
Men are also turning up at the Sulaymaniyah Atashgah. After a five-hour
drive from the Iranian border, one Iranian 32-year-old, who wants to remain
anonymous, explains he sought out Zoroastrianism simply because he’s
desperate to date ‘normally’.
“I just want to be with someone who loves me,” he says. “Not someone who
has been bought for me by my parents.” His friends feel the same way, he
adds. “But they’re too scared to do anything about it.”
He now visits once every two months for spiritual guidance and
reassurance. He leaves 30 minutes after his arrival, pulling a baseball cap
low over
his forehead. Leaving Islam is illegal in Iran. If anyone finds out he was
here, he’ll be imprisoned.
But even in Kurdistan – a diverse region harbouring Christian and Yazidi
communities – the dangers of converting are terrifying. Earlier this year,
an extremist fatwa was announced declaring anyone leaving Islam could be
killed if they refused to return to their faith after three days. A few weeks
later, Peerq Ashna was shot at by a gang of men as she left her house. She
ran back inside, shaking “with rage, not fear”.
“I’ve been threatened by the Islamic State so many times now,” she says. “
And just before Ramadan, a group of Salafis [an extremist division of
Sunni Islam] came at me with a knife saying they would throw acid in my face
unless I stopped speaking out about Zoroastrianism and equal rights. The
local government gave me a security guard, but really, what can he do?”
Duya, too, worries about the repercussions of leaving Islam. “But every
day I feel a little braver,” she says. “I couldn’t bear the alternative any
longer. I only have one life, and I’d rather be shot for trying to live it
freely than carry on living like a prisoner. Just because I was born in
Kurdistan rather than London, people seem to think it’s OK that I should have
less rights and opportunities.”
Before finding Zoroastrianism, Duya constantly thought about killing
herself. She did consider atheism as an option, but she likes to believe in a
higher power. It stops her from feeling completely alone.
It was this desperation which, 18 months ago, drove Duya to sneak out of
her family home at dawn and travel to Sulaymaniyah. Standing in the Atashgah
before a shrine of lanterns and cellophane flames (representing God’s
light), she repeated an oath promising to save the environment, protect all
animals and remain careful of her actions. A gold scarf was wrapped around her
waist and ceremoniously knotted three times at the back. Apricots were
served from silver trays, and a man tapped a rhythm on a hand-painted drum.
The whole thing lasted 15 minutes but for Duya, it was life-changing. “I
felt reborn,” she remembers. “Like I was finally free to do whatever I
wanted to do – and nobody could stop me just because I was born a girl.”
But after returning home that night, the glow quickly wore off. “
Converting doesn’t solve everything. I still can’t get a job, or rent a flat,
or go
to a cafe with my friends. I’m 27 but I’m still forced socially and
financially to live at home and abide by my family’s rules.
“Even though I know my rights, I can’t access them without being cut off
by everyone I care about. The only thing that’s different is now I have a
network of other women who feel the same way.”
Peerq Ashna was the first Kurdish woman to publicly participate in the
conversion ceremony in 2015. Skip forward two years, and Ashna makes a point
of supporting younger women like Duya – establishing a sisterhood, making
herself available over social media day and night for when the cultural
oppression feels too much.
And she’s implementing her own feminist changes too: during conversion
ceremonies, she asks new members to recite both their father’s and mother’s
names now.
Changing religion
It’s support like Ashna’s that gave Duya the strength to tell her
parents. “I was so scared about telling my family I’d converted,” she says.
“My
mother taught me and my six sisters to wear the hijab, and pray five times
a day. Ramadan was this big family affair.
“When it came to admitting I didn’t want to do that any more, I just didn’
t want to see the disappointment on her face.”
In the end, urgency forced her hand. Entering her late 20s meant her
parents might arrange a marriage for her any day, and ‘coming out’ as
Zoroastrian was a means of preventing that.
“All my friends are married now – every single one. But I believe you
should live with someone beforehand, otherwise you’ll never know how well
suited you are. In Islam, that’s not allowed – but Zoroastrians say that
nothing is forbidden.”
When she did tell her parents she’d left Islam, they were angry,
forbidding her to leave the house alone. “But they can’t make me fast and they
can’
t make me pray,” she says. “I’m a prisoner but at least I’m free to
believe what I want.”
But Duya’s desire to live freely is placing her in danger. Even in Kalar,
Isis extremists often slip past the army checkpoints designed to keep them
at bay. But in a society where women are raised to cover their faces and
stay inside, Duya says she and her Zoroastrian friends are sick of going
unseen.
Shiny Faravahar emblems swing from their necks – medals of honour in the
shape of a three-winged man, representing the three Zoroastrian tenets of
good thoughts, words and deeds. The gold-plated equivalent of a secret
handshake, their jewellery enables them to identify other Zoroastrians; to
exchange a nod or knowing smile.
Both Duya and Ashna speak out on social media because of their passionate
belief of free speech and religious freedom, amassing a feminist following
of thousands – Ashna over Snapchat, Duya hosting Facebook Live Q&As she
broadcasts from her bedroom to 18,000 people at a time. Although she doesn’t
know how to respond to the torrent of abuse that inevitably follows.
“I tell myself I don’t care, but sometimes it hurts me,” says Duya. “I
have to remind myself that living a lie would hurt too. It is scary to think
everyone knows who I am, and that so many people seem to hate what I’m
saying. But I’m not frightened any more.
“I just want to tell every woman: be Muslim, be Christian, be Zoroastrian,
whatever – just know you’re worth the same as any man.”
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