Every time, he answered no, that I must be the one who compromised.
I counted the days. During those three months, I began looking for a job that provided a residence. I didn’t have any money to rent a house. Also, If I rented a place, I knew Erfun would find me and have me thrown out, forcing me to return to his house. But many hospitals provided residences for doctors on staff who had to work nights. These physicians would serve as the on-call physician after hours. I found such an opportunity at Naseerabad Hospital, a women’s hospital, near the Nine Zero. At that time, I wasn’t aware that it was the home turf of MQM; I would not ordinarily live in such a place, marked by violence and protests. But in those days I was just focusing on finding any place, which would be better than living with Erfun. Our situation at home was very dangerous. Whenever Erfun snatched my son for a few days, his physical and psychological health began deteriorating day by day; he looked scared all the time, especially when he saw Erfun.
After interviewing with Dr. Soofia, the hospital director, she hired me and offered me an apartment on the top floor of the residences. I looked over the place, and it was more than suitable. The hospital had childcare available, so everything I needed was right here. I set the date to begin work.
Now, I just had to tell Erfun I was leaving.
CHAPTER 8
Seeking Khula
I WAS A MARRIED WOMAN LEAVING my husband in a country that despised women who defied their men. Nevertheless, I had made up my mind: I was committed and focused on raising my son on my own and having a life full of love and peace. The turmoil roiling my mind and heart for the last four years had subsided once I made the decision and began packing. Erfun was rarely around, allowing me to work undisturbed. Even then, I couldn’t shake the chronic depression I had fallen into.
The day I had set to leave, Erfun came home a transformed man. He was the charming, kind, sweet-talking man I thought I had married. He begged me not to go, making outlandish comments, complimenting my beauty and my intelligence, saying that I would meet a decent man to marry right away. He said he could never live without me.
Then he got down on his knees and touched my feet, and said, “I love you. Please don’t leave me.”
My heart was an iceberg, my body frozen with tension at the touch of his fingers on my feet. “Since we left Murree, except for two weeks at home, you have not lived with me one day in love and kindness. Not one day!”
He stood, leaning back on one foot, he narrowed his eyes at me, a pent-up fury gathering behind his large brown eyes, and then he leaned toward me. “I will never let you go. If you leave, I will see that you’re never happily married.”
“I am not going to marry anyone. I hate men after your abuse. I am going to work, and live alone, and raise my son. I don’t need a man to live.”
“I will not allow you to keep a job. I will defame you to management, so that they will fire you. No one will give you a place to live.” He pointed a hostile finger at me. “You will come crawling back to me and beg for something to eat and a place to live.”
“Over my dead body.”
“You are like a child. You do not know the world is full of vultures. You are too innocent; you will not survive. At least let me arrange a house and a car so both of you can live comfortably. I will give you a good amount every month.”
“Every word that comes out of your mouth is empty. You still haven’t given my Haqq Mehar money, which as a Muslim husband, you have to give me at the time of Nikah. If I accept your offer, it will give you the satisfaction that you atoned. I want you to live with the guilt that you destroyed that woman whom you claim you loved, and she left you with empty hands.”
I saw an expression of humiliation on his face.
He stepped forward, held out his hands to take Taimoor. “Give me the boy, and I will pay you what you want.”
I held my son to me. “I will never allow you to take him to that woman. She will ruin him. I want him to be a confident and strong man. I will raise him myself.”
I moved around him to the door. He didn’t try to stop me. With Taimoor in my arms, I slammed the door behind me and made my way downstairs to a waiting cab.
Settling in the back seat, I felt as if I had just been released from prison. But was I clever enough to deal with the vultures?
I moved into an apartment on the top floor of the Naseerabad Hospital near Nine Zero. The district was named after the house of the leader of the MQM, Altaf Hussain, who lived here, and the area was the hub for terrorist activities. I worked in the Obstetrics and Pediatric Unit in the evening shift and on-call night duty. Despite my unresolved marital situation, I felt happy to be back at work, and safe inside the hospital.
Out the window of my apartment, I watched the party members of the local MQM as they gathered every night on the roof of the apartment building across the street. The roof was at the same level as my apartment, and I could see them meeting as they planned their night’s raids. The men brandished their weapons and shouted slogans before riding off on their motorbikes to beat, rape, kidnap, rob, and kill those who opposed them in their own torture cells.
This neighborhood wasn’t safe for us. I could not allow my son to run outside and play, but this job had saved my sanity, so I had to make do. The years I was caged in Erfun’s house, I had been cut off from the world. I hadn’t been aware of the havoc the MQM was sowing in the district, and across Karachi, and seeing it firsthand came as a bit of shock.
When Taimoor turned four, I organized a birthday party for him. He invited his friends from the neighborhood. I had never seen my son happier. I invited Erfun, but he didn’t show up.
Neither did he wait long to act on his threats. Visiting Dr. Soofia, he tried to smear me, claiming I was a woman of bad character and should not have a job. She demanded that he leave her office immediately and never return. If he did, she would have him arrested. Her brother was the Deputy Superintendent of Police. She sought me out and told me about her meeting, that he was drunk when he came to see her. She was disgusted with the man’s drunken behavior. She advised me that the best thing I could do for myself was to divorce him.
I told her Erfun would never grant me a divorce.
“Then you must seek a khula,” she said. “He doesn’t deserve you.”
I agreed with her wholeheartedly.
In Islam, there is a concept of khula that allows a woman to initiate a divorce for any reason. On a phone call, I told Erfun what I was planning if he didn’t grant me a divorce. He continued to threaten me, and he was adamant that he would never sign the khula papers. He even taunted me, “Where will you get the two witnesses to vouch for you?”
Before I could be granted a khula, two witnesses to my abuse must sign the documents.
I didn’t know how I could get him to sign it, but I knew I could find two witnesses, and I was determined to pursue the process.
On a day off, I took Taimoor and visited my parents. They knew my situation well, and during the visit, I announced that I had decided to seek a divorce. My father’s back stiffened; his square jaw seemed to become more pronounced.
“I need your help filing the papers.” I looked right at him, with a confident voice, just the way I had since my childhood.
He shook his head slowly, “I can’t allow you to defame the family honor by getting a divorce. No, Baby, I cannot help you.”
My mother pleaded with him. “Please help her. Our daughter has a very strong personality, she can never compromise. You know she will eventually get what she wants. So why not help her?”
He was silent.
“Look at her,” my mother said. “She doesn’t cry. She never smiles anymore. Always she was the liveliest girl. Now she has constant headaches and is always quiet and sad.”
“Who knows her better than me?” my father said. “She is my beloved daughter. But she has to face the consequences of her decision to marry Erfun.”
“Father, your daughter made a mistake. And now she�
��s falling apart. Won’t you hold her hand and help lift her out of her terrible situation. Will you leave me alone at the mercy of our culture that is cruel to women?”
“If you insist on a divorce, listen carefully, as I said earlier, the doors of this house are closed to you.”
I took a gulp and held my tongue. I would never dispute with my father. His sense of honor was unassailable. I understood that.
“Yes. I know. That’s why I am forced to live in Nine Zero, the most dangerous area in all of Pakistan. My son and I, our lives are in constant danger. But still, you refuse to allow me to live at home, which is traditional for a divorced woman.”
He didn’t say a word.
I left greatly disappointed, but even more determined to seek khula.
Divorce is a very serious business in Pakistan. Divorced women face pressure and humiliation from society and their family. That is why so many women cannot tolerate being divorced. It means more abuse from their family and society. Living alone is very difficult, even for an educated woman like myself. If I went through with the divorce, I would not have the protection of my father’s house, an additional measure of risk that I had to weigh. My son would be stigmatized as coming from a broken home. While I feared that, I knew I could overcome many problems if I protected him and saw to his education.
I sought out Dr. Soofia for advice. She was surprised to hear my father’s refusal to help. How could he abandon his daughter? Especially when he was a competent attorney and had expertise in these kinds of cases. She suggested I seek help through the Community Council. Each district has a Council that will help individuals with family matters. She offered to call the Council’s office in the neighborhood for an appointment, since they knew her well. She assured me the process would be quick, that I didn’t need to worry. She also offered to sign as a witness and support me in court if it became necessary.
Her encouragement gave me a new boost of hope. I visited the office and filed the paperwork.
My cousin and sister-in-law, Farah, who was my brother Rahat’s wife, also signed the khula papers as a witness of Erfun’s mistreatment. Once I had the approval of the Council and my two witnesses, I only had to have Erfun sign.
When I called him and told him the papers were ready for him to sign, he immediately asked me who had witnessed the papers. He grunted when I told him. He then stated emphatically he would never sign them because I was his property. No one else had the right to marry me.
“You will live your life alone.” Then he hung up the phone.
This stalemate went on for weeks. I thought he would eventually tire of me pestering him. I knew for sure that he had another mistress in addition to Shesta, and who knew how many others. So why was he hanging on to me, causing me so much pain? Every day became a chore to get beyond the anguish of my heart. This ignorant man had stomped on my dream of doing postgraduate work and living a productive and happy life. He had no reason, other than his inflated ego, to think that he owned me. I would never accept that.
One day I called and asked him to come and sign the papers. I tried to convince him. “Islam expects husbands to treat their women with kindness. When a couple has a dispute and feel divorce is inevitable, then you must divorce your wife respectfully and promptly so she can remarry if she wishes.”
“Who told you that?” he shouted.
“Read Sura Nisa in the Quran. You will learn that Islam gives women so many rights, too.”
“I will come very soon to give you the rights you deserve.” He slammed the phone down.
The next day, I was in a clinic with patients when Erfun walked in. He was bleary-eyed, and I knew he was drunk. Before I could run, he grabbed my hand and began pulling me to the outside gate.
“Come with me outside,” he repeated with a slurred voice, forcing me out of the ward.
Even in his condition, he was so strong I could not escape. “What are you doing?” I screamed.
“You are asking for khula and talking about your rights. I am taking you to the street, and I will tear your dress off in front of everyone.”
I felt a wave of anger, a burning fire race through me—I felt so much strength in me. I rescued my hand from his grip and I stared into his eyes and shouted in my rage. “Go and undress your sister and mother first in public. Both are women like me, then come to Taimoor’s mother.”
He stopped with a shocked look. He stared at me for some time, but didn’t let me go. I had no idea what he was thinking. Was he going to kill me on the spot? After a while, he let me go and left.
I couldn’t sleep after that episode. I kept turning over in my mind the same question: How could he even think to do this to me? I was his wife, and the mother of his child. He had no respect for anyone, not even the mother of his child. That feeling caused me extreme pain as if he had stuck a knife right through my heart, and blood drops were oozing from that wound. I didn’t feel this would ever heal. I carried it with me every moment for so long.
I lived in a state of limbo, fearing to go outside because of Erfun’s desire to harm me and the presence of the MQM across the way, which made even walking in the neighborhood treacherous.
In the face of this opposition, I turned to my faith. I had been reciting the Quran since I was a child. I said a verse every day, several times a day, with so much faith until it became a prayer in my heart.
After three weeks, Erfun came to the hospital and signed the papers. He was calm, quiet, and uncharacteristically sober. I already left my dowry when I left his house, and I never received Haqq Mehar, so I didn’t have anything to return to him after the khula was completed.
I felt free from his prison.
Soon after that, Gezala came to the hospital and asked to meet with me. She apologized for her behavior. She sought my forgiveness. She had remarried and suffered a stillbirth. Her grief was so intense, she began to think of all the wrong she had done to me and regretted it. I forgave her readily. But the memory of her mistreatment of my newborn son and me is with me to this day. I told her, “You are one of the main reasons for my divorce. I never want to see you again.”
Sequestered in the hospital and free from Erfun and his family, I was at peace for the first time in nearly five years. My life settled into a calm routine of seeing patients and caring for my son.
A few weeks later, I was in the back of a taxi on my way back to the hospital, when it stopped at a stoplight. I was lost in my thoughts; I spotted Erfun in the car next to us. My window was open, right across from his. His window was only a few feet away from me. He raised his hand, at first I thought he was waving at me, but I felt an instant alarm. My body tensed. Did he have a gun or a knife? He made a throwing motion toward me. At first, I couldn’t imagine what he was doing. At the moment I realized his intention, I ducked, and a few drops of liquid glanced off my left arm. The acid sizzled on the back of the seat instead of my face. My left deltoid was on fire, but luckily, my face was saved.
I yelled at the driver to get me to the hospital—fast. The putrid chemical smell quickly permeated the car. I refused to weep over this man’s actions, but instead I took deep breaths to stave off the burning. The taxi driver drove like a madman, up on the sidewalk, honking at bicyclists and jitney drivers, speeding to get me to the hospital. Eventually, my wounds healed, but to this day I still have a ragged scar on my arm. These type of attacks happen quite often in remote areas of Pakistan, mostly by uneducated men. I never imagined I would be the victim of an acid attack one day.
Erfun had warned me many times that he would kill me, or throw acid on me to disfigure me, so no one would ever love me. So I was prepared mentally for more torture. But when it came, I was still surprised. However, his abuse and threats wouldn’t stop my struggle to live a dignified life. His injured ego was too fragile to watch me becoming stronger and independent. With this act Erfun showed his true self. He was jealous, angry, and violent, not the gentle and loving man he had pretended to be so convincingly for two years before we
were married.
I enrolled my son in preschool at St. John’s, a school not too far from the hospital. The challenge was getting back and forth to get him there safely, as the MQM terrorists were becoming more violent and brazen. The police were afraid of the MQM and allowed them to run the district the way they wanted. Rangers had to take over from time to time to protect innocent citizens from harm.
One day my nurse on the ward, Meher, informed me someone wanted to talk to me over the phone. When I took the call, someone said in an ominous sounding voice that he was calling from Nine Zero, and he would kidnap me very soon. I didn’t want to show my fear. I replied, “No, you can’t kidnap me. You don’t have enough courage.”
“How can you say that? Tell me, who is at your back?”
“The strongest and superior one is at my back,” I said, confident that God would keep me strong.
“Oh, Altaf Bhai, okay. Okay.” (He thought only MQM leader Altaf Hussain is the most superior one.)
He hung up. I thanked God.
The government had announced a curfew to control the terrorist activities of the MQM thugs. Their terror had become intolerable to everyone so that the Rangers had to take over. Taimoor became very sick during those days from jaundice and a high fever. He couldn’t eat anything but liquids, but there was nothing for him. Everything, including the milk in the fridge, had spoiled because of load shedding that went on for most of the day. I promised him that I would find him some food. In the meanwhile, Taimoor became very weak and drowsy and I feared he would faint, or worse. I carried him on my shoulder and went outside.
On the empty streets, I walked up and down the dark, narrow boulevards with only the moonlight to show me the way. Not one shop or store was open. Gunshots echoed in the distance. I became tired and hungry, and fear began to set in. Out of nowhere, a boy on a bicycle stopped near me.
“Dr. Raana! Why are you outside? Don’t you know there’s a curfew? If the terrorists or the Rangers find you, they will shoot you.” I recognized the voice right away. He was the son of my nurse, Meher.
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