Ode to Fatima Elatik | Ruimte maken waar anderen grenzen zien

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A Dutch version of this ode is recorded, listen to it here.
 

Dear Faat,

To cover the full scope of this ode to you, I have to start at the beginning - and that means sharing some of my own story as well.

When I was three years old, my grandparents took me to the Netherlands from Morocco. My parents were divorced, and at the time it seemed like the best choice. I ended up in Amsterdam-Zuid, where I grew up with my mother's siblings. One of those sisters, my aunt, is your best friend. At the time, you lived with your parents around the corner from us and were a child at home at my grandparents' house. We saw you often, and even then I felt connected to you.

Once in Holland, my grandparents tried to get custody of me, but despite lawsuits, they did not succeed. In the end, I had to return to Morocco. But by now I was about seven years old, and I had already put down roots here. My grandparents kept me in the Netherlands, hoping for an appeal or a new settlement. I myself knew nothing about my situation until I was 11 years old. Only when I went to high school did the fear come. I remember how I entered the living room, everyone with serious faces, and then they told me: I was undocumented. “You shouldn't actually be here. Make sure you don't stand out."

I carried this secret with me for years. For example, I could never go on school trips abroad without being able to explain why. When I was nineteen, I received a phone call from you. “I talked to Job,” you said. Job Cohen, then mayor of Amsterdam, had listened to my story and he wanted to take my file to the secretary of state. And then suddenly I was allowed to be there. You had fought for me when I couldn't do it myself, without anyone asking you to.

If you met me today, you wouldn't look for this history behind me. Of course it has shaped me, but it does not define me. I have built a nice, big life; a career, fine people in my network, and I have my own magazine. I am more than this story. But I know I owe this in large part to the strong women who have always been around me. And especially to you, Faat. You showed me from a young age what is possible. You taught me that fighting for yourself and others, and making your dreams come true, doesn't have to be easy. “If it was easy, then everyone would have done it, right? This life I lead is not for weak souls” is how I hear you say it.

You also taught me what having power really means. You use your network and your position to move others forward. Because that's who you are: a woman who makes space where others see limits. Unconditional. You are always willing to risk everything if it means you can help someone. You sometimes jokingly say that you wanted to save the world, but I think that's what you're really doing. Just by being Faat, showing how high the bar can be set.

Your struggle has never been yours alone. It is the struggle of those who feel lost in a city that should be their home. The struggle of people like me who feel unrepresented, unheard.

When I went to work for the Amsterdam municipality myself at the beginning of this year, it felt like it had come full circle. It cannot be a coincidence that I am now walking through the corridors where it was once decided that I no longer needed to be invisible. And I owe it all to you, Faat, and to your courage.

Selma