Читать книгу Trapped in Iran - Samieh Hezari - Страница 9

The long road to the coffee shop, to that fateful decision, began when I set out many years ago to become educated and see the world. My father had drilled the value of learning into us from a young age. “You must educate yourself,” he would say. “Success in life comes from education.” Like many young Iranian students, I was desperate to go to college. Higher education meant I could travel, and I dreamed of settling in a country like England or America where I could live without the restrictions that were part and parcel of life in Iran.

At the age of eighteen I packed a suitcase and boarded a bus with my father for a twelve-hour journey to Ilam, a small city in the northwest of Iran, on its border with Iraq. I was going to study nursing at the Medical University of Ilam. Leaving my beautiful hometown of Rasht for the first time, I was nervous.

On that September afternoon in 1990, seated next to me as the bus idled in the station, my father sensed my fear and said it was not too late to change my mind. I had also been accepted to a college about twenty-five miles away from Rasht, the Azad University of Lahijan (Azad universities in Iran are private universities), to study for a degree in microbiology, but it was a private college and I knew my father lacked the funds to send me there. He insisted that he would find the money somehow, but I could not and would not place that financial burden on him.

“No,” I told my father as the bus pulled out of the terminal. “I will go to Ilam.”

The bus first headed toward the city of Qazvin, about two and a half hours from Rasht and for me the most enjoyable part of our journey. The bending roads climbed high up into the Alborz Mountains through lush green scenery. We passed the little town of Rudbar, famous for its olive oils and pomegranate paste, which Iranians use to make curry dishes, and then on to the windmill town of Manjil. At Qazvin we came to a junction where the road diverged. One way was the road to Iran’s capital city, Tehran, and the other road, which we took, led to Ilam.

I occupied my mind with the same thoughts as every first-year college student. Will I like the courses? Will people like me? Will I be able to cope with the workload?

I soon discovered that I should have also asked myself, Will I make it to Ilam alive?

Continuing farther up the Alborz mountain range, my father remarked that the area we were approaching was notable for its bitter winds, even in the summer. That observation did not particularly interest me, but my father’s next words did.

“These roads are sometimes closed,” he grunted, cocking his head to the right and trying to see ahead. “Heavy stones fall down from those mountains.” Satisfied we were safe for now, he nodded and settled back into his seat.

Thanks a lot, Dad. Now terrified, I kept my eyes fixed on the mountains, scanning for boulders that might be hurtling toward us, praying to God to keep us safe.

Once we had safely passed the Alborz mountain range, the magnificent Zagros Mountains came into view. The roads over these mountains, nearly three miles at their highest peaks, weave up and down and around very dangerous bends. On one side of the road loomed an awesome mountain range; on the other, a dangerous, dizzying chasm. Any minute, I thought, our bus would topple over the edge and we would hurl to our deaths.

I decided on that journey that once I was safely in Ilam, I would not be visiting my family often.

I had never been to Ilam but had heard a great deal about it growing up. The city had been a regular feature on the nightly news, as it had come under intense bombing during the Iran-Iraq War. The government in Iraq, seeking to take advantage of the volatile and unstable political situation after the revolution in Iran, had attacked on September 22, 1980. Saddam Hussein had hoped for an easy victory over a disorganized and fragmented enemy, but that proved not to be the case. The war lasted eight years and resulted in staggering losses on both sides.

It was an incredibly frightening time, and at age nine I was fully aware of what was happening. I saw the bodies of dead soldiers being brought home to grieving families, whose anguished faces and wails I will never forget. I thanked God I was the eldest and did not have older brothers. Every day I left my house to go to school, not sure if I would return. Although Rasht was not in the direct line of fire, I could hear the air-raid sirens. If they sounded when I was at school, our teacher would lead us to an underground bunker where we would huddle together and pray until the alarms stopped. Sometimes when word came that Iraqi war planes had been spotted on radar, the teachers would allow us to run home as fast as we could, into the safe arms of frightened parents. During the evening, all electricity was turned off in the cities and homework had to be done by candlelight. Many times I sat outside in the pitch dark on my own, looking up in wonder and fear, wondering what the night sky might reveal.

Two years after the war ended, my father and I arrived in Ilam. Traces of conflict were still everywhere, with many buildings in ruin. Although heavy construction was under way to build it up again, Ilam was still very much broken. As we drove into the city center, my father pointed out bullet holes in houses. It shocked me to see how close the war had come to the people of Ilam, literally exploding on their doorsteps. Stacked-up sandbags, which had served as life-saving barriers when Iraqi planes strafed from the sky, still littered the city. Looking at those sandbags, I could not help but think of the men, women, and children taking refuge under them, and I wondered where they were now.

Ilam was very different from Rasht, and living there became a major turning point in my life. For the first time, I was exposed to people from across the country. I met students from Tehran, who spoke in posh Persian accents, and others from Iran’s famous ancient city of Isfahan. There were students from Ahvaz, Abadan, and Khorramshahr, in the south of Iran, and a girl from Mashhad, the most religious city in Iran, which every year attracts millions of pilgrims.

I stayed in the college hostel, where my designated roommate was a beautiful and kind girl from Tehran named Haleh. Within six months of starting college, I secured a position as a trainee nurse at Taleghani Hospital in Ilam. I no longer needed my father’s money. I was the most independent that I had ever been in my life—and I loved it.

Jabbar Qureshi was one of a group of young doctors who had traveled to Iran from Pakistan to work at Taleghani Hospital with trauma patients. Short in stature, Jabbar had thick black hair and bright eyes. He also had a sweet smile. Even before I got to know him, I knew by his smile that he was a kind man. Jabbar’s skin was a lot darker than that of most Iranians, and looking at him I was reminded of the prohibited romantic Indian movies I had watched as a teenage girl. I liked him as a person immediately, especially upon seeing how respectful he was to the patients and staff.

One evening when I was working on the wards with him, Jabbar started asking me questions about a particular patient. I rattled off the answers with ease.

“You have a good grasp of this patient’s medical history,” he said, nodding at the old man lying on the hospital bed between us. “It is as good as any young doctor would have.”

He asked me why I had not studied medicine, remarking that I was a bright girl and that my interests seemed to lie more in medicine than nursing.

“I did want to study medicine,” I told Jabbar. I liked that an older and respected doctor thought I was bright. And it was true that it was medicine that had originally interested me. “Unfortunately I did not get the marks needed for medicine,” I admitted as we moved on to the next patient. Jabbar smiled and nodded his head sympathetically.

When I next saw Jabbar several days later, he asked if I would mind going to a book fair that was being held at my college and buying a couple of medical books that he wanted. He claimed he was being run off his feet at the hospital and would not have time to go himself, as the book fair was being held for only a few days. I agreed. The following evening after finishing my shift at the hospital, I set off to give the books to Jabbar. Such a bitterly cold evening; I carried those expensive, heavy books through the hospital grounds as if holding a newborn baby.

To my great surprise, the next day Jabbar gave me a gift to show his gratitude and to say thank you.

“There was no need for you to give me a present,” I said shyly. “I didn’t mind doing you a favor.” This was the first time a man outside my family had given me a gift—and a generous one, too. It was an expensive bottle of perfume that I could not afford on my student nurse salary, and it caused quite a stir when I brought it back to my room at the college hostel that evening.

“That’s nice perfume,” commented my roommate, Haleh. “Where did you get that from?”

“Dr. Qureshi gave it to me,” I replied, holding up the bottle and examining it.

“That is expensive. He must love you to give you a present like that,” she said, now very serious.

“Don’t be silly,” I laughed. “This was just his way of saying thank you, because I did him a favor.”

Haleh shook her head. She had been secretly going out with a young doctor from the hospital for a year, and he had not bought her a single present in that time, even though he owned a pharmacy. She scrunched up her face. “Actually, I’m the one buying presents from his pharmacy for myself so that he stays interested in me,” she admitted ruefully.

Taking the bottle of perfume from my hands, she studied it closely. “Trust me,” she finally declared. “That Dr. Qureshi is definitely in love with you.”

I had not thought of Jabbar as anything more than a kind colleague, but after he gave me the perfume I noticed his eyes constantly on me whenever our paths crossed. I began to wonder if maybe Haleh was right and he really did have feelings for me.

A few days later Jabbar and I exchanged numbers, and over the following weeks we started to get to know each other better. We mainly talked over the phone. I did not want to be seen with a man in public, since that is how rumors spread—and rumors always cause big problems in Iran. As I have said, Iran is exceptionally strict about relationships between unmarried men and women. If I had been seen with Jabbar outside of the hospital, I would likely be thrown out of college and Jabbar would lose his job, or we would have been forced to marry. It was way too risky, so we got to know each other on the phone and whenever we were working together.

I soon learned through our conversations that Jabbar was thirteen years older than me and especially close to his family. Never having spent so much time with a foreigner before, I found it funny how he pronounced some Persian words. Of course I didn’t say anything that might hurt his feelings, but I did find his efforts at pronunciation cute and would try to stifle my giggles.

One day I asked him something that I had been curious about for some time: why had he come to work in Iran?

“Iran pays a good salary to foreign doctors, so I can save money,” he replied.

“What are you saving for?”

“I want to go to England and study there, and I need money to do that and to support my family in Pakistan.”

The doctor had a plan. I had read about England in books and thought his future sounded exciting. I could only dream of living and working in a European country. Despite my love for Iran, I was increasingly interested in living in a country where women could have more freedom. It was a hope cherished by many young women I knew in Iran, but for most it would never happen.

“Would you like to come to England and study medicine with me there, Sami?” he asked me one afternoon as casually as he would ask for a patient’s file.

I was so stunned at his request, it took me a few seconds to be able to respond.

“As far as I know, young women need their husband’s or father’s permission to leave the country,” I said slowly, looking at Jabbar with some confusion. “My father does not have the money for me to go to study abroad.”

“Then marry me, Sami,” he said without a moment’s hesitation.

We were standing in what was known as the “Doctors’ room,” a small room that doctors used for talking to patients and deciding whether or not they needed to be hospitalized. Not the most romantic of settings for a proposal, but not the worst either.

I was dumbfounded, not even sure if he was serious, but it turned out he was. I was just twenty years old, and marriage hadn’t seemed imminent in my future. But Jabbar was a good man, and the idea of leaving Iran and living abroad was enticing. So was the idea that I could go to a Western university and pursue my long-held dream of becoming a doctor.

“I will need time to think about this and talk to my parents,” I told Jabbar, my calm demeanor not betraying the surge of excitement inside.

“Take all the time you need,” he said, smiling.

I did not want to rush my decision. As young girls, my friends and I often fantasized about what our future husbands would be like. Tall, dark hair, and devilishly handsome were obvious prerequisites, followed by kind, intelligent, funny, and easy to get along with. I also knew that my husband and I would be so madly in love with each other that we would never be apart. Ardent love between Jabbar and me? Perhaps not at this point, but he was indeed kind and career-minded, and the opportunity for me was irresistible. I accepted.

I was fairly certain my parents would not want me to leave Iran—or to marry a man from Pakistan. I knew that many Iranian people believed they were superior to Pakistanis, so I was going to have to do a bit of gentle coaxing.

First, my mother. “Imagine if your daughter was a great doctor from a London university? Just think about how that would be, Mum,” I said.

She wasn’t convinced. “We don’t know anything about him or where he is from, Sami.”

“Come on, Mum,” I pleaded. “I work with him and I know what he is like. Just meet him once, and if you don’t approve, I will not marry him.”

She nodded her head and I knew the marriage was sealed, because everyone liked Jabbar.

The day Jabbar came to meet my parents, my grandmother, who was also living with my parents at that time, made sure she was there. I knew she wanted to get a good look at the man I was hoping to marry and leave Iran with.

Sina and I set off to pick up Jabbar at a designated landmark—in front of the Ordibehesht Hotel in the famous Shahrdari Square. I was suddenly anxious for Jabbar and myself—so much weighed on this meeting—but I needn’t have been. As we pulled up, I spotted Jabbar, dressed smartly in a suit, smiling and looking much at ease. Once in the car, I introduced him to Sina. My future husband then promptly informed us that he had just been ripped off by a taxi driver! I was so mortified. Jabbar had hailed a taxi and asked to be dropped off at the entrance of the Ordibehesht Hotel. The taxi driver, realizing he was talking with a man who was not familiar with the city, had eagerly told Jabbar to hop in. As Jabbar sat in the car, the driver had driven very slowly around Shahrdari Square and then pulled up in the exact spot where he had initially picked up Jabbar. He had then pointed with one hand and said, “There is the entrance to the Ordibehesht Hotel,” holding out the other hand for the fare.

My brother and I expected some indication of annoyance from Jabbar, but it never came. He just burst into laughter and Sina and I both joined in. It was a great icebreaker, and as we drove back to my parents’ house, any little fears I had quickly disappeared. Looking at Jabbar animatedly taking in his new surroundings, I felt a sudden flush of pride.

Back at the house, excitement was paramount. Everyone was fussing around Jabbar and chattering away. Jabbar, obviously struggling to keep up, remained quiet.

Unlike my parents, who immediately fell for Jabbar’s quiet charm, my grandmother was not as easily convinced. Fastening her eyes on him, she eventually looked over to me and whispered, “Can he speak?”

“Of course he can speak, Grandma,” I laughed. “He speaks three languages—English, Farsi, and his own language.”

Grandma nodded her head slowly. I still have a bit of work to do here, I thought.

Kissing her sweet, wrinkled face, I casually mentioned, “Did you know Jabbar is a doctor?”

“Oh, is he, now?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

Here we go. “Yes, Grandma, he can answer all your questions about your blood pressure and heart disease. He knows about all the latest medicines and treatments for your conditions.”

I winked at my mum, but she couldn’t hold back and started laughing. She knew as well as I did that my grandmother loved talking about her illnesses to anyone who would listen.

As my mother and I expected, Grandmother had a sudden change of heart and embraced the idea of her granddaughter marrying a doctor from Pakistan and leaving Iran to pursue her studies.

I was going to be leaving Ilam before completing my nursing degree, but since I was planning on studying medicine abroad, I wouldn’t need to complete my degree anyway. Other thrilling prospects beckoned.

Jabbar and I were married in a small ceremony in Rasht in the autumn of 1993. My father had difficulty finding a hall to rent, because it is illegal to hold events in Iran where men and women are allowed to mix. The only way it would be allowed was if the women wore Islamic dress—all dark clothing, including a dark scarf—but I did not want my wedding photos looking like we were all at a funeral! Fortunately my father found a man who agreed to rent us his hall, and after a Revolutionary Guard was paid off to keep quiet, my wedding and reception went ahead. It was not the sort of lavish wedding many young girls dream of, but my family and I decorated the hall with flowers, and even though it was a very simple and low-key affair, I knew that my father had done his best for his only daughter.

A few months later Jabbar went on to England to pursue his fellowship—an exam doctors take when they want to qualify to work in a particular medical specialty. He relocated to Ireland from the United Kingdom after six months, and I applied for an Irish visa so that I could join him there. During the early 1990s there were not many foreigners in Ireland and the visa requirements were incredibly strict. It took over a year for my visa application to be processed and approved. Good news finally came at the start of 1995 when my visa was sanctioned, and in April of that year I flew to Dublin to live with my husband.

From the moment I landed in Ireland, I fell in love with it and knew I could happily spend the rest of my life there. So much smaller than Iran and easier to travel around, Ireland is also cleaner and better organized than my homeland. Something I noticed immediately is that people stop at red traffic lights in Ireland. This was very odd to me, as no one would bat an eyelid if someone went through a red light in Iran. And free. Irish citizens live their lives seemingly however they wish, in a world of choices that has never stopped intoxicating me. It took me a while to be able to look police officers in the eye. Old habits die hard, and I was constantly worried I would be questioned for something or another, but it never happened. How wonderful it was to know that the Gardai, the national police force in Ireland, were there to protect people, not control them!

I soon felt like a child who had been told she could have any toy she wanted but with so many choices available was then prevented from selecting. I wanted to sample everything from the wide variety of European foods, but Jabbar was religious and I did not want to offend or upset him by eating meat that had not been prepared in the Halal way. This ruled out fast-food restaurants, but no harm could come from smelling what they served up. And my God, it smelled so good.

I also admired the wonderful array of choices in clothing shops. There, too, Jabbar’s religious conservatism soon became an issue, for he did not like me showing too much of my body. I had thought that once we were in Ireland I would be able to dress as I wanted, but I loved my husband, and if it made him happy for me to dress more conservatively, then that was the least I could do. After all, if it had not been for Jabbar, I would not have been in Ireland and enjoying all it had to offer at such a young age. I had known I would leave Iran eventually after completing my nursing degree, but through him I had found a much quicker access to my goal.

I enrolled in extra classes to learn English and had never been so studious. How proud my dad would have been if he could have seen me! I loved learning English and stayed up night after night practicing, often falling asleep with an open book in my lap.

Vastly conscious that I was a foreigner in another country, I tried to speak slowly in public, because I did not want the Irish people to think foreigners are ill-mannered. It was important to me that they would be proud to have me in their country.

However, not everything went according to plan. It turned out that studying medicine was incredibly expensive as a non–European Union student. Even on Jabbar’s salary, there was no way we could afford for me to continue my medical education. Jabbar could see my disappointment but convinced me that it would be better to work in an office and not a hospital. Reasoning that the long hours in a hospital would be too much of a strain when we started a family, Jabbar recommended I study business and work toward a bachelor’s degree in accounting and finance at Dublin Business College. The world of figures and calculations proved quite different from nursing, and my poor English made it extremely challenging, but I just had to work harder than most.

At first life seemed beautiful and blessed, but I was young, naïve, and a little too optimistic. Gradually, the differences between Jabbar and me, exacerbated by the new world of opportunity and choice we found ourselves in, could not be ignored.

Jabbar mingled with a large circle of Pakistani friends in Dublin, whom he got to know before I arrived. He insisted I visit his friends with him. At those meet-ups I felt I was traveling back in time—the men and women stayed in separate rooms. To my dismay, I did not have much in common with the wives of his friends. Much of their time together seemed to be spent quietly discussing how annoying their husbands were and how much they disliked their in-laws. I did not feel comfortable joining in and for the most part just sat quietly until Jabbar wanted to go home. My marriage was not perfect, but I did not like the idea of talking about my husband while he was enjoying time with his friends in the next room.

Worse yet, Jabbar frequently invited his friends, along with their wives and children, to our home for lunch on weekends. Having crammed all week at my studies, I was usually exhausted and just wanted to curl up with a movie or book. For me, who had been guided by my mother to not do housework but to focus instead on my education and my future, it was somewhat disheartening that I now became a cook for Pakistani people. As Jabbar’s wife it was my traditional duty to cook for them. And it wasn’t like I could just throw something together—his friends expected traditional Pakistani dishes like biryani, karahi fried chicken, and curried mutton that all took lengthy preparation time. Jabbar helped with the cooking, which I was grateful for, but it was still draining to constantly be cooking for a house full of people I barely knew. Once dinner was finished, I was expected to clean everything up on my own. No one ever offered to help carry plates to the sink or wash up. The women and men just sat there chatting away while I worked around them.

“It would be nice if someone helped me tidy up sometime,” I complained to Jabbar one evening after all the guests had finally gone home.

“Sami,” he explained patiently, “it is not traditional in Pakistan for the guest to help out in other people’s houses with the food preparation or the tidying up.”

What a great tradition. His friends could eat at our home and then sit and relax afterward. No wonder everyone was so willing to visit!

After one Saturday spent cooking and tidying up on my own, I could no longer hold my tongue. “I don’t understand why I have to cook every week for these people,” I snapped. “Why don’t they eat at their own houses on the weekend?”

“You are being unfair, Sami,” Jabbar replied, a little less patiently this time. “These people were very kind to me when I was here on my own waiting for you to come over. It is only right we repay the favor.” With that he turned and left the room, signaling to me that the subject was no longer open to discussion. I understood the sentiment, and I wanted his friends to see that I was a loving wife, but there was a big difference between cooking for one man and doing the same for a family of five or six. I didn’t like arguing, so I reluctantly went along with what he expected of me.

That time.

Jabbar had ambitions of being an orthopedic surgeon, but since there were few work opportunities in that field, he had settled on anesthesiology. When he failed the fellowship exams he had taken in England and Ireland, he was very disappointed. I was supportive—until he told me that he wanted us to move to Kuwait so that he could train at the Kuwait Institute for Medical Specialization and then get a job there.

No way. “If you think I will go to an Arabic country with you, you are wrong,” I told him sternly. Jabbar looked at me, clearly startled. This was a side of his wife he had not seen before.

“You know Arabs don’t like Iranian people,” I continued. “I am not leaving Ireland. If you want to go so badly, you can go on your own.”

Jabbar was not willing to let the matter go so easily. “They are paying very good money for doctors!” he said heatedly. “I can’t work here now that I failed my exam!”

“I don’t care,” I replied, my anger also rising. “I am not leaving Ireland.”

Jabbar stormed out of the room. Over the next few weeks, we had the same argument again and again, always ending with him stomping away, enraged, and refusing to speak to me for several days. His behavior made living under the same roof intolerable, and it was always me who gave in and apologized. He would accept my apology, but as soon as he mentioned our moving to Kuwait, I could not help but fight back.

Eventually the cycle of argument ended because Jabbar received news that he did not meet the requirements to go to the institute in Kuwait after all. He was understandably annoyed—and it was apparently my fault that he had not been accepted, because I had spread so much negative energy—but I felt nothing but relief.

Life settled down into a working accommodation between us. I finally graduated from college with honors and landed a job at Tallaght Hospital in Dublin as an accounts assistant.

With me working, Jabbar was able to study for his fellowship exam again. It had been difficult for him to study when he was working long hours, so in some ways losing his job prospects was a blessing in disguise, as he could finally dedicate the time needed to pass the exams.

When Jabbar got word he had passed the first part of his fellowship exam, it was a cause for great celebration. And the celebrations continued. Before long, after a difficult pregnancy, we were blessed with a beautiful daughter, Saba.

Sadly, our daughter’s birth drove us further apart. Jabbar loved and doted openly on his little girl, but soon I realized that he no longer wanted to spend time with me. From the moment he would come home from work, he would pick Saba up in his arms and that is where his attention would stay for the rest of the evening.

If I thought a baby would repair our marriage, I was wrong. Jabbar and I had become two people at opposite poles. I did not enjoy the movies he liked, and he dismissed the music I listened to, so we did not enjoy those things together as most couples do. I loved the idea of immersing myself in a new culture, but Jabbar did not. I was not as religious as Jabbar and never would be. He attended the mosque to pray, but I preferred to pray in the privacy of our home.

I had arrived in Ireland full of dreams of becoming a doctor, but they had not materialized. I had hoped to express myself freely and wear clothes that I wanted, but life was not working out that way. More and more it seemed as if my husband was trying to control me. Now an anesthetic registrar at Connolly Hospital Blanchardstown, Jabbar leveled the same complaints over and over. “Your top is too low-cut, Sami.” “Everyone can see the shape of your backside in that dress.” I never wore anything revealing, so I struggled to see his problem with the way I dressed. I looked like every other respectable woman in Ireland who took pride in her appearance. A couple of times Jabbar suggested I wear the traditional Pakistani dress, but that request was always met with stony silence. When I suggested in 2002 that we go see Iran play Ireland live in a World Cup qualifier in Dublin, he refused without explanation. He also forbade me from watching the match at a local pub with Iranian people I knew.

I was falling out of love with him—enough of playing the obedient wife. I had been a spirited young woman before getting married, and a part of that person still thrived inside. I fought back in my own way, a woman on a mission, applying for and securing a job as an accountant in a small firm. Saba was put in playschool—much to Jabbar’s dissatisfaction—but I was entitled to a career, too, and I was going to have it. I may have been only a trainee accountant in his eyes, but that job was important to me. When Jabbar began repeatedly telephoning me at work to check on Saba in playschool or to ask me to pick her up early, it was clear that he didn’t respect my job, my choice. I was in no position to be leaving work early to collect our child. No other employee took such liberties. I knew Jabbar wanted me to be with Saba all the time, but much as I loved my daughter, it was not going to happen.

His unceasing domineering attitude was the final straw, and one day I told him I could take no more of it. Our marriage was over; we filed for divorce. At the start of our separation, bitter words were exchanged on both sides. I soon realized that the hostility was not going to get either of us anywhere and was hurting Saba. We finally managed to accept that we were just two very different people.

Word spread quickly of our separation in the Pakistani and Iranian communities in Dublin. Numerous women asked how I could leave such a good and successful man. True, Jabbar was a good man and becoming successful, but I was not the sort of woman who stayed with a man for money. I wanted to be successful in my own right.

Moving out and into my own place with Saba was incredibly liberating. No one told me what to wear or forbid me to go places I wanted to go. I never got tired of walking through the door to my home, closing it behind me, and shutting out the rest of the world. I was finally free to do whatever I pleased, and even began a new relationship with an Irish man, but my new happiness was short-lived.

I was shunned by the Pakistani and Iranian communities in Dublin for leaving my husband. I did not anticipate the backlash from Jabbar’s Muslim friends over my new relationship. Leaving my husband was bad enough, but daring to start a relationship with another man was something so sinful that I was to be punished for it.

After the separation I had no contact with Jabbar’s friends, which was not surprising. Most of the Muslims I had met through Jabbar were more acquaintances than friends, but there were a few I did want to stay in touch with. One was an older Iranian woman who lived near me and had always been kind and welcoming. Passing by her home one afternoon, I decided to stop by and say hello. I knocked on the door and her husband answered. When he saw me, he let out a gasp and ran to the back of the house, leaving me standing bewildered on the doorstep.

I could hear some sort of argument in process in the back room, but I could not make out what was being said. Should I stay or go? I stood in front of the open door, waiting. Moments later my friend appeared, her head bowed. I could not see her eyes.

“I cannot understand why you left your husband,” she said sadly. “My husband is very angry at you and does not want me to see you anymore. I must obey my husband.”

“But I—”

She closed the door firmly.

I stood there for a few seconds, unable to comprehend that a woman I had considered a friend had just ended our friendship without letting me explain my version of events. Mouth still open in shock, I walked back to my car and got in. What had Jabbar told these people? As I pulled out of their driveway, my tears began to fall. I had never been treated like that by a friend and it hurt deeply.

By the time I got home, however, I had become furious. Who were these people to judge me for leaving my marriage? They did not know what had gone on behind closed doors. And it wasn’t exactly as if they were pillars of society. I knew that my so-called friend’s husband was collecting his dole every week and supplementing this money illegally by working on a cash-only basis in a restaurant. They were obviously fine with cheating the Irish taxpayer, but it was not suitable for me to leave an unhappy marriage and meet someone else.

If this was the reaction of someone I considered a friend, I wondered what everyone else must be thinking of me. I soon found out.

One evening I was in the kitchen putting away groceries when the phone rang. The caller ID showed it was a young Iranian woman whom I had always gotten along well with but had not heard from in some time.

“Hello, stranger,” I said, happy to hear from her.

I almost didn’t recognize the voice, which was full of venom. “You are nothing but a prostitute for leaving your husband for another man. You should be ashamed of yourself, you cheap slut.” The line went dead.

I had not left my husband for another man. I had left my husband because we could no longer live together. I sat down as Saba played happily around me without a care in the world. Too shocked to even cry, and not wanting to upset Saba, I sat in silence for a long time.

Things did not improve. Anytime I saw Jabbar’s friends at the shopping center, they would roll their eyes or turn their faces from me in disgust. I tried to be strong, but it was hard not to feel ashamed, and I cried myself to sleep many nights.

If the shunning wasn’t hard enough, my new relationship began showing signs of strain. I came to understand with a heavy heart that those cultural qualities about me that my partner had once found cute and endearing had become a reason for judgment and ridicule. Then the day came when I learned that he was cheating on me. When I spotted him walking hand in hand with another woman, it was over.

I felt so lost, so different from everyone else. Not traditional enough for Jabbar and too much so for my former Irish partner, I wondered if I would ever fit in anywhere. For almost a year I tried to rebuild my life, but having fallen into a deep depression, I just couldn’t.

I finally made my way back to Iran, seeking refuge with my family and childhood home. Still adrift and unsure, unable to gaze at the reflection of the woman I had become, one day I washed up on shore at a coffee shop, drinking coffee with Farzad.