My husband asked me to choose: Here's why I didn't pick him

"In 1998 my husband asked me a question. He wanted me to choose between him and my commitment to fight for women's rights.

You see, in 1994, after years of indifference and fear, I decided that I would actively call out my society's ills: that I would stand up for the rights of the girl child. Why? You may ask.

I am from the Somali community. In my culture, a girl is expected to listen more and talk less (or just shut up). She has no rights – not even over her own body.

When a boy is born in my culture, women ululate. A girl child on the other hand is born into stun silence. It is that same silence we girls are expected to adhere to. We are brought up to be meek: to follow the edicts that the men who run society spell out.

I grew up witnessing gross violations against us girls. Whether it was rape or forced marriage, female genital mutilation or wife battering.

As a young girl, I battled with what was happening – in my mind. I didn't understand it. I knew there was something deeply wrong with it.

Enter Islam: the religion that nearly all of us Somalis subscribe to. To the best of my understanding, Islam grants fairness to both men and women. It sets forth laws and guidelines which aren't steeped against women.

However, some men who subscribe to the faith want to perpetuate the myth that Islam, like the Somali culture, denies women rights.

So, in 1994, I told myself, it was time to change status quo. My voice was going to be heard – to all and sundry. I would speak at traditional forums and state in black and white that girls, as much as boys, have rights in the eyes of the creator and the same should apply to men. That women too have a brain and a mind of their own.

I have been called names (unprintable names) just because I have the knack to speak up. I have been threatened and told to shut up. But I have never stopped.

One day, in 2006, I was on my way back home from a traditional Somali dance at around 9pm, when out of nowhere, a group of young men descended on me with blows.

'Why do you want to change our culture?' they asked. 'Who sent you to talk about rights?' they kept saying. They accused me of being misused by western people.

I was stabbed with a knife on my forearm. A sharp edge of a broken glass bottle was shoved into my eye socket. I was bleeding profusely.

It turned out that I was attacked because of a case I had been following keenly of a girl who was raped and choked by the attacker, causing her grievous harm.

Traditionally, the case would have been solved in a Maslah setting – like we do in my community.

The perpetrator would have been ordered to pay up a certain number of camels or goats and he would be off the hook. The girl on the other hand would continue with life as a disgrace and no man would have wanted to marry her – except her rapist.

To be honest, I wouldn't want to experience the pain those young men inflicted on me again. But I also know that I can't stop addressing the elephant in the room: does a girl have the same rights as a boy in my culture?

As a small girl I underwent female genital mutilation. The pain was excruciating to say the least. But despite that experience, I like to think of the way I was brought up as relatively free compared to the average Somali girl in those days.

I was allowed by my parents to talk – even if I may not be granted that which I was asking for.

I went to Garissa Primary School and cleared Class Seven. I worked as a civil servant in the 80s. But I never furthered my education. A Somali girl is often encouraged to get married and not further her education.

In the last few years, I have been interested in studying for and attaining a KCSE certificate. Later this year, I will be sitting for those exams.

I have not received the kindest of treatments. But that is expected. I am aware that every time I go out of my house to say that women have rights too, I may be punished for it. It has also occurred to me that I may pay the ultimate prize. From where I sit, keeping my mouth shut is not an option. I will keep saying the truth.

The last two years I have suffered some form of arthritis that has left me in a wheel chair. I can't even pay for treatment. Activism, contrary to what many believe, has not brought me loads of money.

I have never been paid to speak out. I do what I do because I believe strongly in it.

Which brings me back to that 1998 question, which, if you think about it, was not a question but a directive.

That question took me aback. People had begun talking about me – in derogatory terms. The old men had started prodding my husband: they asked why he couldn't exercise authority on me.

He couldn't take the heat, I guess. And so, in an attempt to be tough on me, he asked me to choose between him and my penchant for saying that women too have rights.

Our marriage was based on love. It was not an arranged marriage. We genuinely loved each other. We had been married for many years. We had two children who are now both adults.

I didn't want to just leave my marriage but based on his convictions. I had no choice. I felt that it was better to divorce than to lose my voice.

I had to move on – with speaking up and asking that my society adopts better ways of treating the girl child."