Yahya Ekhou on Human Rights Activism and Islam

Author(s): Scott Douglas Jacobsen

Publication (Outlet/Website): The Good Men Project

Publication Date (yyyy/mm/dd): 2024/10/02

 Yahya Ekhou is an author, human rights activist, and political campaigner from Mauritania. He holds a master’s degree in NGO Management. He is the founder and President of the Network of Liberals in Mauritania. Among his notable achievements is the 2017 Arab Youth Excellence Award, presented in Cairo, Egypt, by the League of Arab States and the Arab Youth Council. He frequently participates in international conferences.

His autobiography, *Freie Menschen kann man nicht zähmen* (Free People Cannot Be Tamed), was published in German on December 1, 2022.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: What came first for you: the atheism or the need to freely express yourself?

Ekhou: As an author and human rights defender, my journey towards atheism and the need to express myself freely has been intertwined yet distinct in their origins and development.

The need to freely express myself came first. From a young age, I recognized the power of words and the importance of sharing my thoughts, experiences, and perspectives without fear of repression. Growing up, I saw how suppressing ideas and voices led to stagnation and injustice. This realization ignited a passion for defending the fundamental human right of freedom of expression. I believed, and still believe, that everyone should be free to voice their beliefs and challenge the status quo without facing persecution.

Atheism came later, after deep reflection and a quest for understanding. As I explored various religious beliefs and philosophies, I gravitated towards skepticism and a reliance on reason and empirical evidence. My commitment to human rights and freedom of expression further reinforced my atheism, as I encountered instances where dogmatic beliefs were used to justify the suppression of dissent and the violation of individual rights.

Thus, while the need to express myself freely was the initial spark, it was through this freedom that I came to embrace atheism. Both elements are now integral to my identity and work, reinforcing the other in my pursuit of a more just and open society.

Jacobsen: Is the idea of atheism as a mental deformity common in your upbringing?

Ekhou: I grew up in a society where the dominant narrative was tightly controlled, especially concerning matters of belief. Atheism was rarely spoken of openly, and when it was, it was often in the hushed tones of fear or derision. In the world of my childhood, atheism was framed not as a legitimate worldview but as a dangerous heresy, a “mental deformity,” as you put it. This wasn’t simply the view of religious authorities but embedded in the fabric of the state and society itself.

To challenge belief was seen as a challenge to the very order of things. People who questioned the existence of God were branded as broken, misguided, or even treasonous, as if doubt itself were a contagion to be stamped out. It wasn’t until much later when I had access to broader perspectives and was no longer under the yoke of authoritarian control, that I could reflect on the idea of atheism and, indeed, on faith itself as something deeply personal and complex, not simply a deformity of the mind.

In my case, atheism became a symbol of rebellion. In prison, stripped of my citizenship and my right to belong, I realized that the rejection of imposed belief was also the rejection of imposed identity. So, no, atheism was not common in my upbringing, but it became an expression of rebellion and freedom of thought.

Jacobsen: When you call atheism an instinct, do you mean it’s the default at birth and then religion imposes a theistic concept on it?

Ekhou: When I refer to atheism as an instinct, I am speaking less about it as a philosophical stance and more about a fundamental state of being an absence of belief, a natural default, if you will. Yes, at birth, before language and dogma mould us, we begin with curiosity, a sense of wonder at the world, and a complete lack of imposed narratives.

Only later, through the hands of family, society, and institutions, we are shaped into believers. Like all beliefs, theistic concepts require instruction and ritual to take root. They require repetition, reinforcement, sometimes fear and often love. Without this, I believe we remain in a state of openness, not yet grasping for the answers religion provides.

In this way, atheism or, perhaps more accurately, non-theism, feels like the default setting of human consciousness. It’s not a rejection but an unformed question, an instinctual skepticism that exists before the imposition of structured belief. Religion, while offering answers, can often smother that original curiosity under layers of doctrine.

In exile, I’ve had the chance to reflect on what we are born with versus what we are taught. Religion is powerful, no doubt, but it must be fed constantly. It must be nurtured by the systems that propagate it. Without those systems, the instinct of atheism of questioning, of not knowing, quickly returns.

Jacobsen: What was the overwhelming bad that influenced the decision to leave it?

Ekhou: Leaving Islam was not a decision I made lightly. It was not born of a single moment of doubt but rather the accumulation of years of lived experiences, intellectual struggle, and, most of all, the overwhelming clash between the values I cherished and the oppressive interpretations of religion that dominated my society.

One of the most glaring influences on my decision was the way Islam, at least as it was practiced and enforced by those in power, became an instrument of control. I witnessed firsthand how religious authorities, often hand in hand with the state, used faith to justify repression. The language of morality and divine will was twisted to silence dissent, criminalize free thought, and dehumanize those who did not fit into their rigid mould. My imprisonment and eventual exile were not simply personal tragedies; they were manifestations of a broader system that wielded religion as a weapon against individual freedom.

Then, there was the treatment of women, minorities, and anyone who dared to live outside the bounds of prescribed norms. I could not reconcile the concept of a just, merciful God with the brutality I saw in the application of laws that relegated women to second-class status, marginalized those of different faiths or beliefs, and suppressed personal freedom in the name of religious purity. The Qur’an speaks of justice, yet in practice, the power structures seemed built on inequality, sanctioned by religious doctrine.

Another overwhelming influence was the intellectual stagnation I experienced within the religious framework. Questions about the nature of God, the contradictions in religious texts, and the moral complexities of the modern world were met not with open discussion but with dogma. The insistence on blind faith and the rejection of inquiry felt suffocating. I came to believe that Islam, at least as it was interpreted in my homeland, was not a space where genuine intellectual freedom could flourish. The more I questioned, the more I was punished, not just physically but socially, emotionally, and spiritually.

Finally, there was personal disillusionment with the idea that belief alone could provide meaning or salvation. The rituals, prayers, and obligations began to feel hollow when the core values of compassion, justice, and humanity were lost beneath layers of rigid dogma. Faith, in theory, is meant to elevate the human spirit. Still, in my experience, it became a cage, one I had to escape to preserve my own identity, my sense of self and my commitment to the values I hold dear.

Jacobsen: How were you asked not to ask questions about Islam?

Ekhou: I remember well the first time I was told not to ask questions about Islam. It wasn’t a moment of explanation or gentle guidance but a harsh rebuke, much like the one you describe. I had asked something seemingly innocent at the time: why, if God was all-merciful, were people condemned to eternal punishment in hell? It seemed a natural question to me, a child grappling with justice and mercy. But the response I received was far from reassuring. The Imam narrowed his eyes, his voice sharp as he told me, *”You are not to question the will of God. Just pray and follow the rules, or you will lose your way.”*

I was stunned, silenced, but not satisfied. At that moment, I realized that the space for questioning was unwelcome and forbidden. I was told that my role was to submit, not think. I began to sense that faith, in its standardized form, was more about obedience than understanding.

That was the beginning of my own search for answers. But instead of finding clarity in religious texts, I found contradictions. I wrestled with the very questions you raised. Does religion unite us or divide us? The Qur’an speaks of unity, of the brotherhood of believers, but this unity was contingent upon belief, upon submission. It became clear that this so-called unity came at the cost of excluding anyone who did not conform. For the non-believers and those who questioned, there was no place but literal or spiritual exile.

As I delved deeper, I found that the division between “believer” and “infidel” was not just a theoretical concept but a weapon. It justified the marginalization of those who did not fit the mould. It allowed the powerful to maintain control over the masses, using religion as a tool to divide the world into *us* and *them*. The idea that religion unites us felt like a hollow promise, one that rang false in the face of the real-world divisions I saw growing around me.

The more I searched for answers, the more I encountered resistance from religious authorities and the very structure of belief itself. In its institutional form, Islam demanded faith without question and loyalty without thought. And for someone like me, whose instinct was to ask, explore, and challenge, it became increasingly clear that I would never find peace in a system that punished curiosity.

I was not looking to reject faith outright; I was searching for meaning, for a truth that felt just. But every time I asked, I was met with fear of doubt, fear of uncertainty, fear of freedom. And so, like you, I embarked on a journey that led me away from the certainty of religion and into the vast unknown, where questions are not only allowed but necessary for growth.

Jacobsen: How did you find information in a context in which freedom of informational access

was it more limited?

Ekhou: Accessing information in a tightly controlled society is not just a challenge; it’s an act of resistance. When the state, religious authorities, and even cultural norms conspire to restrict your mind, every question becomes a rebellion, every book an escape route. Like you, I searched for answers in an environment that allowed only a narrow range of acceptable thoughts.

As much as it promised access to the world’s knowledge, the internet was heavily censored where I lived. Sites critical of religion were blocked, and even attempts to search for secular or alternative viewpoints could mark you as suspicious. Libraries, too, were curated to reflect a certain ideological purity. It often felt like I was surrounded by walls built to keep minds from wandering too far from the sanctioned path.

Yet, like you, I managed to find cracks in those walls. My discovery of the Mu’tazila — a rationalist school of thought in Islamic history — was a revelation. Their belief in reason, in the idea that God’s justice must be rational and understandable, starkly contrasted to the blind obedience demanded by the religious authorities around me. Tracking down their writings wasn’t easy. I found scraps and pieces of their philosophy in old texts or obscure online forums. It was as if these ideas, though buried and forgotten by mainstream Islam, had survived in the shadows, waiting for seekers like us to rediscover them.

The Mu’tazilah’s belief that humans have free will and that morality must be rooted in reason rather than fear resonated deeply with me. Their rejection of fatalism — of the idea that everything is predestined and unquestionable — was something I had long felt but had never been able to articulate. These were the first seeds of doubt that began to take root in my mind, and I knew then that there were other ways to approach faith, morality, and the world.

But it wasn’t until a friend studying abroad sent me a USB drive with a PDF of *The God Delusion* by Richard Dawkins that my intellectual world truly opened up. Dawkins’ work gave me language for my doubts, language that I hadn’t been able to find in my restricted environment. The idea that belief in God could be questioned scientifically, that religion wasn’t beyond critique, was both liberating and terrifying. In *The God Delusion*, I found answers and permission to ask questions I had been afraid to ask for so long.

That USB drive was a lifeline, a connection to a world of thought I had been cut off. It reminded me that, despite the censorship and restrictions, knowledge finds a way to flow. Friends studying abroad, underground networks, VPNs, and even whispers of forbidden books — all of these became part of my journey toward intellectual freedom.

Censorship can control access to information but cannot fully control the human desire for understanding. In the end, that desire drove me to seek out alternative ideas, to push past the walls that had been built around me. I found the tools I needed to free my mind in the writings of the Mu’tazila and in the works of thinkers like Dawkins. But more than that, I found a sense of community with those who, like us, dared to ask questions in societies that forbid them.

Jacobsen: Are there any moves to change Article 5 and Article 306 in the Mauritanian Penal Code?

Ekhou: As of now, any significant moves to change Article 5 and Article 306 in the Mauritanian Penal Code still need to be completed, though there are rumblings of discontent from civil society and human rights organizations. These articles are among the most controversial in the country, especially for those of us who have experienced firsthand the heavy hand of the state when it uses religion as a tool for punishment and control.

Article 306, in particular, which prescribes death for apostasy and harsh punishments for blasphemy, stands as a stark symbol of the fusion between religious doctrine and state power. I was imprisoned under the shadow of such laws, stripped of my citizenship for speaking out and questioning the very foundations of a system that criminalizes free thought and dissent. In a country where these laws are seen as immutable reflections of Sharia, any effort to reform or remove them is met with resistance not just from the government but from powerful religious authorities who guard their influence over the social and legal fabric of Mauritania.

Article 5, which solidifies Islam as the foundation of law in Mauritania, is another barrier to change. It is enshrined in the constitution, and any suggestion of altering it is treated as a direct attack on the nation’s identity. It’s important to understand that religion is more than a personal matter; it is deeply intertwined with the state’s legitimacy in Mauritania. Questioning Article 5 is questioning the very framework of governance.

Despite this, brave voices within the country and in the diaspora continue to push for reform. Human rights groups, both local and international, have highlighted how these laws are used to silence dissent, stifle freedom of expression, and persecute individuals for their beliefs or lack thereof. Cases like that of Mohamed Cheikh Ould Mkhaitir, a young Mauritanian blogger sentenced to death under Article 306 for alleged blasphemy, have drawn international attention to the harshness of these laws and the urgent need for change. His eventual release after years in prison showed that, with enough pressure, cracks can appear in the otherwise rigid legal system.

But make no mistake, these efforts are met with fierce opposition. Any attempt to reform or challenge the religious underpinnings of the law is labelled as an affront to Islam, an attack on national identity. The government, fearing backlash from conservative elements within society, often walks a tightrope between appeasing religious leaders and maintaining its international image.

It is frustrating and heartbreaking for those of us in exile to watch this slow, often stagnant process. Article 5 and Article 306 are not just legal provisions. They are symbols of a deeper struggle between modernity and tradition, between human rights and theocratic control.

Jacobsen: What was the script of the fatwa to kill you?

Ekhou: The fatwa calling for my death arrived like a hammer blow, though in many ways, I had long anticipated it. When you live in a society where dissent is met with fury and where the fusion of state and religion gives clerics the power to condemn with divine authority, you know that every word and every act of defiance brings you closer to that moment.

The script of the fatwa was chilling in its simplicity and finality. It was written in the language of religious law, but the intent was unmistakably political. It declared that I had “committed acts of apostasy” by questioning the divine law and “spreading ideas contrary to Islam,” which, in their eyes, amounted to nothing less than blasphemy. It stated that I had “publicly rejected the faith” and was guilty of promoting “ideas of atheism and secularism” that posed a threat to the moral fabric of the nation. My writings, they claimed, led people away from God, and for that, there was only one prescribed punishment: death.

The fatwa was not issued by a lone cleric. It bore the weight of religious authority, signed by multiple high-ranking figures in the country’s religious council. These men, many of whom I had once respected in my youth, now saw fit to mark me for death. The language was cold and calculated. I was stripped of my humanity in their eyes, reduced to a symbol of heresy, a danger to be eradicated.

What was most painful was not just the death sentence itself, though, of course, that was terrifying. It was the realization that I had been so thoroughly dehumanized that my execution was presented as a pious act, an obligation. I no longer had a family, story, or dreams. It was a problem to be solved.

The fatwa comes after demonstrations demanding my killing and accusations of blasphemy. My writings, activism, and insistence on questioning the fusion of religion and state had long made me a target. But seeing it written out in such stark, unambiguous terms that my life was forfeit, that my death was not only justified but necessary, was a moment of profound reckoning.

But here’s the thing: while that fatwa called for my silence, it did the opposite. It made me more determined than ever to keep speaking, writing, and fighting. They wanted to snuff out my voice, to erase my existence as if it would somehow preserve their fragile hold on power. But words, once spoken, cannot be taken back. And even under the threat of death, I will not let them have the last word.

Jacobsen: What was the feeling when your Mauritanian citizenship was revoked?

Ekhou: The day my Mauritanian citizenship was revoked, I felt a strange, suffocating mixture of anger and grief. It’s hard to describe the experience of being stripped of something fundamental to your identity, not just as a legal designation but as the place that shaped who you are. Citizenship is supposed to be a bond between you and your country, a recognition that no matter what, you belong. But in that moment, I realized the country I had fought for, the country I had hoped to help change, no longer considered me one of its own.

There was rage, too. Rage at the hypocrisy of a regime that claims to govern in the name of justice and faith but that punishes its own people for thinking, for questioning, for trying to bring about a better society. To revoke my citizenship wasn’t just a legal maneuver. It was an act of erasure. They wanted to make me invisible, to silence me not just physically but to erase my presence from the national consciousness. In their eyes, I was no longer Mauritanian, no longer entitled to the rights, protections, or even the recognition that comes with being part of a nation. They made it clear: I didn’t belong.

So, while it hurt deeply to lose my citizenship, it also marked the beginning of a new chapter in my life. No longer bound by the state that tried to control and silence me, I became freer in my activism and more resolute in my mission. They may have taken away my official identity as a Mauritanian. Still, they could not take away my voice, memories, or love for the people and the culture that remain deeply a part of who I am. In exile, I continue to speak out, to fight for the freedom of those who remain voiceless, because even without citizenship, I am still bound to the land and the people who shaped me.

Ultimately, they can revoke my citizenship, but they can never take away my identity. I will forever be the son of the desert.

Jacobsen: How can individuals or organizations contact you?

Ekhou: Individuals or organizations can contact me through my official email at: contact@yahyaekhou.com

Jacobsen: Again, thank you for the opportunity and time, Yahya.

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