Tribute to Katia Bengana, murdered on 28 February at the age of 17 by Muslim activists for refusing to wear the Islamic veil.
By M.M
She had barely turned 17 when the dark wrath of the inhabitants of the cave of evil, ignorance and religious obscurantism, decided mercilessly, coldly, without remorse and without any qualms to extinguish her sluggishness and take her life, on a certain 28 February 1994.
It is always an exercise in unbearable harshness and profound sadness to speak of the past of Katia Bengana and so many other stars snatched by force and at the cost of soul, flesh and blood by the fundamentalist-Islamist nebula, for having resisted it head-on, courageously, relentlessly and with dignity.
She left for good, because she was convinced and determined to be herself, what she wanted to be and not what her murderers, the kidnappers of her dreams, those bloodthirsty cowards, wanted her to become. Prisoner to their diktat.
On this subject, she frankly admitted to her parents that if I had to wear a daily outfit based on the veil that the Islamists were tending to impose on all women, I’d only wear a Kabyle dress.
Katia Bengana, may your struggle and your sacrifice continue to enlighten and illuminate all the women of Kabylia, North Africa and the whole world, and all the succeeding generations.
Katia Bengana, a shining star in the skies over Kabylia
A magnificent text by Taous Ait Mesghat
“Since revealing my legs causes earthquakes and my hair cyclones and cold winds.
Since the tip of my throat causes the sea to rise and land to slide at the sound of my voice.
Because my nursing breast causes famine and misery, and my bare arms warm the climate.
Since my smile destabilizes the universe and awakens all base instincts.
Since I’m behind all natural disasters, then fear me.
For I am a divine force and you are the wretched mortal.
The veil of death.
She was beautiful! She was a rebel!
On her way to school, a young girl was on the rampage.
Her classmates, the most beautiful, recognised that they were nothing but pale copies. They envied her. They congratulated her. She was the queen of beauty!
The young girl was a natural beauty. Tall, slender and slender, she walked in time to the rhythm of a melody. She looked beautiful. Her body movements followed the contours of her figure. Her white skin glistened, reflecting the light of day and the darkness of night: the sunbeam of the day, the moonlight of the night.
The fine features of her face, the gentle movements of her hands, the posture of her body, the piercing gaze of her big eyes, her long hair… all made me think of a Hollywood actress.
And yet she was so young, a schoolgirl, carefree, innocent, vulnerable…
Katia, my little Katia, I’m sorry I didn’t know you, I’m sorry I didn’t meet you, I’m still hungry, the end of your life cut short.
To get an idea of the kind of girl you were, I ask my imagination to bring you back to life so that I can reconstruct your person through images, writings and words…
So I describe you in my head and I see you with my eyes as if I knew you. Now I know you, I can see your beautiful long hair teasing the collar of your soft blue satin dress.
The veil of charm and the veil of the weapon!
You were wearing a beautiful dress that suited you perfectly, and your beautiful body gave it a beautiful look, unlike the woman who covers her body with a beautiful dress.
Your dress was so beautiful, your figure was so beautiful, your look was so beautiful. Your walk was so beautiful.
From a distance, and especially up close, you walked on legs whose curves made hearts beat faster and lifted you to the pedestal of feminine beauty, the racy beauty of the Kabyle woman so much sung and so enchanting.
You please because you stick to your own ideas, you detach yourself from other people’s ideas, which are unsuited to your line of conduct, to the line of your dress.
You like it because you plan to live free of your face without the slightest veil, the slightest false veil that only reveals the frustration of those men who like a bit of hessian.
You didn’t want to hide your face because you wanted to lift the veil on the daily reality of life within your social group, respecting the tradition of the Kabyle woman who wears the veil of modesty.
You appeal to freedom, dignity, and pride! Likewise, you like women, just like your mother and grandmother, because in your village you saw women move around freely, just as in your town you wanted to see women move around freely!
In Meftaf, you had the key that opened the door to freedom, the door to life!
You had the key that gave you the right to women’s rights, just as men have the right to human rights! You had the key that opened the door, the great door of free expression with respect!
Katia Bengana went to school like all the other girls in the town, seeking knowledge. She loved learning, because she understood the importance of education for girls and women.
Her parents supported her in this.
She quickly stood out from her fellow pupils because she knew what she wanted. She had character and didn’t let anyone push her around, while respecting the rules of life and relationships. She was a well-behaved girl. Thanks to her parents. Peace to her mother’s soul. Hail to her living father.
Intelligent, diligent, she had forged a conduct and behaviour that she could explain despite the hostile context.
She had the courage to bring her ideas and thoughts to life and to respond to other people’s questions, whether appropriate or inappropriate, while keeping to the rules of life within her social group, articulating tradition and modernity.
Was she precocious enough to be able to respond firmly to the malevolent adult?
Was she just brave?
Did she want to assert the woman’s voice against the evil man?
Katia, my little Katia, you were murdered on the altar of sacrifice for women’s freedom. You disappeared wrongly, swept away by the hand of the evil man. In a stream, a current of air behind which runs that obscure, obscuring, obscurantist man veiling his face, wearing the veil of shame.
Dead after resisting, Katia, you are the symbol of the resistance of Kabyle women.
For my part, your courage leads me to consider you as a member of the resistance, a descendant of the lineage of Kabyle women: you are therefore the daughter of Fadhma Nsoumer!
As a hero, you stood up to the virulent pressure of the bloodthirsty threat, but unfortunately, as an empty-handed teenager, you were unable to resist the violent repression of the “witch-hunt”!