I was 20 when I met him. Young with already a few turbulences already in my life. My dad passed away a few years before and my mother was sick with stage 5 breast cancer. I had just turned a new leaf, giving up the vices I had succumbed to and trying to be productive. I turned back to my religion, Islam. I was vulnerable.
He wasn't the best looking or anything and I thought him having a lower self esteem he would be gentle with my lack thereof. After meeting him, he seemed to be nice and generous, I felt safe, and he convinced me to leave the desolate Saskatchewan I was in and be his wife in Toronto. I left everything behind.
Everything was good. I met all his friends and they treated me like gold, all because he was so respected. I had no reason to worry, and my mother was happy I was progressing. I had joined a school that was just starting. They were desperate for voluntary teachers and I was excited.
We had workshops, so we could become certified teachers. The first workshop was the first day I saw the real him.
I got ready to go and was waiting for my friend to pick me up and take me. He knew about it. He knew who I was going with. I told him that she was on her way, and he flipped. He said I wasn't going. I protested, and he got even more mad. I don't remember much except he had me laying on the ground. He was choking me. He went to grab a knife and held it to my throat. Each time I protested he got even more crazy. He grabbed my phone and called my mother, trying to get me to admit to her what a bitch I was. I heard her hellos and I choked back my hysterics to tell her I had called accidently and that I would call her back.
As soon as it happened, it ended. He said go. And I fixed my face and went. I'll never forget that, and I never told my mother what happened when I spoke to her later. I didn't want to have her worry about me, when her health was not in good condition, she had other problems to worry about. I was broken and I felt alone.
I wasn't comfortable enough to talk to anyone and everyone held him in such high standing. I saw who he was and I saw the facade he displayed for everyone.
I planned my escape, until I found I was pregnant. I was even more in the deep and things with him escalated. My mother passed away when I was three and a half months pregnant. I was in a very dark place and my only solace was the light in my belly and the time I had at the school.
I was putting on my own facade. That everything was fine and that I was happy. My pregnant hormones made me even more bold. Whenever we fought I fought back and made it worse. He was bigger than me, had a good 180 pounds on me. But I still fought him. I wasn't going to be pushed around like that. Islam doesn't condone hitting your wife. But his culture of Pakistan did. He didn't just slap me around, he went to town, leaving welts from my hair straightener plug and bruises on my face.
I stuck it out, I still had my daughter. She was my everything. I changed. I was becoming more independent and I was growing bigger balls by the day. I could take a beating without blinking. And save my crying for when I was alone. I was alone. My daughter became my rock and I started fearing for her. If he could do it to me, why not her? The thought made my blood boil. I waited, calculating my next moves, but I had none.
He wasn't a citizen, his previous card past its expiration date. We weren't officially married either, by Canadian laws. Just a Nikkah, which is an Islamic contract of marriage. Our request for marriage licences were always sent back. For odd reasons, too, and I took those as a sign. I started smoking again, and eventually smoking weed. My old vices came back. My coping mechanisms.
I started to tell him that's it. I was done. And one fight I said if this happens again I'm gone. It happened again at night. And reminded him of my oath. I stayed in the room cradling my daughter, thinking of what to pack and where to go.
I got up the next morning, to eat and wait for him to leave for work so I could pack.
I found him crying. He told me his mother and older brother were sick and in the hospital. I was worried for them, but I had no remorse for him. I encouraged him to go. Using the fact that I was not around for my mother's own passing. He tried to use his lack of Canadian status as an excuse, but I brushed it off, saying figure it out later. His friends encouraged him to go as well and two days later I saw him last as he boarded the plane.
His friend and wife drove us, and there were tears, for them. I couldn't even fake crying. I was happy. So happy.
When he was better emotionally, and the health of his family more stable, I reminded him of my oath, and that I was done. Everyone in the community knew, and couldn't understand why. I wasted my breath explaining that it was all just a facade. And being small minded Pakistanis, they didn't grasp what I went through. I had only a few surprised friends who were there for me and were supportive.
I hated Brampton now. He was gone but his aura and friends, who became spies, we're still here. After much thinking I decided to jump to Hamilton. Knowing nobody and nothing I went. I got a great job I loved, found a great babysitter and a kind of crappy studio apartment for myself and my daughter. I ignored him and his calls and I moved on from that experience.
How? A little bit of faith, a little bit of luck, barely any support, and lots of crying. I cried it out until I could weep no more tears. The only thing I regret from that time, 3 years of hell, was not telling my mother or anyone when it first happened. On the brighter side had I not gone through that I wouldn't have my daughter, spitting image of me, everything I've longed for, so happy and imaginative and loving. I named her Maymunah, which means blessed. Because I was blessed with her.
