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Zusatztext "A fascinating story...not only one of horror but of great humanity." -- The New York Times Book Review "Told in Kassindja's voice! this memoir is also a precious lesson about cultures! women's human rights policy! and perhaps most important! faith in God and humanity. These elements! fluidly interwoven! create an incredible narrative." -- The Washington Post "Moving and powerful." -- Newsweek "An astonishing true story . . . A sprawling adventure . . . Full of good guys and bad guys! lush landscapes! barren prison cells! love! courage! despair! and cruelty." -- The Philadelphia Inquirer "A straightforward! gripping narrative! not easily forgotten." -- Essence Informationen zum Autor Fauziya Kassindja and Layli Miller Bashir Klappentext For Fauziya Kassindja, an idyllic childhood in Togo, West Africa, sheltered from the tribal practices of polygamy and genital mutilation, ended with her beloved father's sudden death. Forced into an arranged marriage at age seventeen, Fauziya was told to prepare for kakia, the ritual also known as female genital mutilation. It is a ritual no woman can refuse. But Fauziya dared to try. This is her story--told in her own words--of fleeing Africa just hours before the ritual kakia was to take place, of seeking asylum in America only to be locked up in U.S. prisons, and of meeting Layli Miller Bashir, a law student who became Fauziya's friend and advocate during her horrifying sixteen months behind bars. Layli enlisted help from Karen Musalo, an expert in refugee law and acting director of the American University International Human Rights Clinic. In addition to devoting her own considerable efforts to the case, Musalo assembled a team to fight with her on Fauziya's behalf. Ultimately, in a landmark decision in immigration history, Fauziya Kassindja was granted asylum on June 13, 1996. Do They Hear You When You Cry is her unforgettable chronicle of triumph. Prison I returned to my cell after lunch. It was time for the Salat adh-Dhuhr. I removed my shoes and washed my face, arms, feet and hands at the small sink. Then I carefully spread the bedsheet I used as a prayer rug on the cold concrete floor. I wrapped my head and neck in the veil we call a mayahfi, stepped on the sheet that faced East and began to pray. While I was kneeling on the sheet, clutching the ninety-nine beads of the tasbih... "Kasinga!" My neck jerked upward when I heard the sound of my name come crackling out through the prison intercom system. "Kasinga! Attorney visit!" So they were here. But I wanted to finish my prayers. Allau Akbar, Allau Akbar, Allau Akbar-- "Kasinga! Kasinga!" I stood up, unwrapped my mayahfi, slowly laced my sneakers, and stepped onto the ramp outside my cell. Upper tier in B pod, maximum security, York County Correctional Facility in Pennsylvania--this was where I lived. Down below me I could see the dayroom, a small, barren space with metal tables and stools bolted to the floor. Inmates in blue uniforms passed their time aimlessly, watching TV, playing cards, talking, and staring into space. I slowly made my way along the ramp to the stairway and down the stairs. The guard in the booth tried to hurry me along by shouting my name repeatedly over the loudspeaker, but I wouldn't be rushed. I was still reciting my prayers. I had learned that prayer was what kept me going, enabling me to see beyond the grim gray walls of this place I was forced to call home. By the time I reached the door to the hall, it had been opened from the control booth. A guard stood waiting in the doorway. She waved me through. "Let's go, let's go!" We turned right and walked a few paces to a doorway. "In here," she said, motioning me into a small meeting ro...
