Letter from Domestic Abused Women in Libya

This letter has fallen into my hands and I feel compelled to get it out there as per the woman’s intentions. It was not what I expected but it moved me beyond words. It is from a Libyan woman, who describes herself as living in a tortured prison. She is the second wife and her husband’s children from his first wife, beat and threaten her and stop her from leaving her house which is adjacent to the first wife’s. She is five months pregnant but fears the beatings have killed the baby within her. She asked the person who gave me this letter to give her some paper and pen so she could write her life on a few pages as she feared death. This is that letter. I have changed the names and concealed the identities to protect this woman. Please help if you can.
Farah Abushwesha
Libyan-Irish Writer, Filmmaker, Activist for Women’s Rights, Women4Libya, WMCLibya
In the Name of God, Most Gracious, Most Merciful. Praise and peace on our prophet and his followers. I thank God for the person who gave me this paper and pen and always keep us close as loved ones. To any charity or organisation, from child protection to human rights, to the men of the country and to those I have placed my trust in, I am writing to you from the heart of the fearless fighters in the midst of war. My own personal war is different. I live it with my heart, my war is something I now make known – a woman’s war. This is what I know of life, my life, my world. For me it brings fear into my head, my mind and my heart. As a person, I feel alone in this world with my children. We are fighting with our tears and at the mercy of the person responsible for us. By God, I am at the end of my strength and I will continue to write my life as it is up today when I write.
I am Noora, from the mountains. I am the second wife to a man, who has thirteen children by his first marriage. We have four children together and I am now in the fifth month of pregnancy with my fifth child. His elder sons from his first marriage beat me, they insult me in a way which is torturous on a daily basis. Especially when I try to leave our [allocated] house, even to get water from the well. It begins with insults and threats, and ends with public beatings. They say this country has no law, so they can have me thrown out of the house. They hit my children. If my children try to leave the house their siblings attack them. They are all under four. My children have lived their childhood in a prison. I don’t even open the door for fear of what might happen.
There have been unfounded rumours that the child I carry is not my husband’s. This could not be further from the truth. My marriage was one of an alliance of two of the toughest tribes. Were I to speak out about the violence I endure at the hands of my husband and his sons, my family would retaliate with great force. As a result, I don’t go to see them and I remain indoors with my children. My husband no longer visits and he no longer gives us money for clothes or shoes or even food. They have taken away everything, they have broken the water system into our house so I have to travel far to get water combined with this heavy labour and the beatings, I fear I have lost the little soul within my belly. Even divorce is forbidden for me, my family would not take me back as a divorcee, I have nowhere to go. So I stay here in the house, my prison, and I endure the lies, the gossip between me and the first wife’s house.
On the 22nd day of Ramadan, one of the sons hit me so hard on the belly and my back that my body aches. I am five months pregnant and they threw stones at me and ripped my clothes as I went to get water. My children and I have been subjected to this treatment for five years now since my wedding day. They threaten us with iron bars, and to burn us. From the manner in which they threaten and their small-mindness I have no doubt they could carry out their threats. They deny me water, food and freedom. My husband doesn’t provide for us. My children and I sleep without mattresses and apparently we don’t even deserve a drop of water. We live in daily fear of the sons who stand with their weapons. They want to drive me from my home, knowing I have nowhere to go. I’m tired, and I’m tired of life. If this is for me the end, there is little to live for. So I leave for you the reader, this paper and my view of the world.
The Tortured Prisoner
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