Courage to Say No

by Raana Mahmood

  Mansoor sounded sympathetic to what I’d been through at Sui Gas, yet I had come out unscathed. Many women like Mukhtar had horrible experiences. He thought I was courageous, and I shouldn’t have been forced to resign. He offered again to help me get my job back. He boasted of all the things he would do for me.

  I listened, but in my mind, the past was past. But I did want him to speak to Dr. Amna Buttar since she an activist, physician and geriatrician like myself. It would be useful to compare notes and learn from her. When nothing came of his offer to reach out to her, I realized he was just trying to impress me. Did he even care about my work with the elderly? I couldn’t say at this point. My problem, looking back, was that I often did want to believe the best of people.

  Mansoor had met my son during his visit to my father in 2003. He often spoke of Taimoor, how handsome and intelligent he was. He wanted to match up my son with his daughter, who was much older than my son, who was only a teenager at the time.

  Mansoor kept insisting that I talk to Taimoor about the opportunity. His daughter was a US citizen, and Taimoor could become one also. Then I could become a citizen too. I had no inclination to move away from Pakistan, and the age difference was too much for me to consider such a match appropriate. Taimoor was young, a happy student, and just on the verge of his adult life. He had no interest in marriage.

  Mansoor became increasingly demanding. He expected me to be at home to answer his phone calls. I told him that was impossible. I had a clinic to run. He kept telling me since we were going to get married, that he would take care of me, and I didn’t need to work. I listened, but I didn’t like to expect and accept anything from him before we were married. So how was I to live if I quit everything? He didn’t say anything. Besides, I had worked hard to be independent, and I didn’t plan to give it up for another man’s whims. The clinic, my TV program, article writing, organizing seminars and workshops, and raising Taimoor kept me very busy. I had no intention of just dropping it all because he wanted me to.

  On one call, he said that other women listened to him, and did what he wanted.

  “What other women?”

  “I have a few women, one in Lahore and another in Islamabad. They quit their jobs for me and sit home and wait.”

  “Are you joking?”

  “Why would I joke about what I want?”

  I couldn’t believe what he was saying. He was utterly shameless about what he was putting these women through. “How long have they been waiting?”

  “I haven’t lived in Pakistan for almost ten years, so at least that long.”

  “Do you intend to marry them?”

  “No, I don’t really care for them. I want to marry you.”

  He wasn’t the caring and thoughtful person I imagined. I had built up this romantic picture of him when I was a young student, and I had kept that image of him in my mind. But in reality, he just used women. I asked why he hadn’t told them not to wait any longer so they could find suitable husbands, have children, and enjoy a happy home.

  “I’ve trapped them. They can never leave. I enjoy having them wait.”

  My God, what a cruel man. Did I truly know this man whom I was so attracted to?

  Once he called from New York and asked me for permission.

  “For what?”

  “Tonight I’m going to a friend’s house, and there will be several couples and single women there.” He started explaining and elaborating what will be going on. It would be some kind of orgy.

  I stopped him short. “You need to ask your wife, not me.”

  “She is too conservative. She will never allow me.”

  “I am more conservative. I don’t even want to hear about what you’re doing.”

  Something was not right with this man. I didn’t know if he was testing me, to see what I would agree to, or if he was actually going to attend this party. He was sweet talker, but he had an immoral agenda that I wouldn’t have anything to do with. He was handsome, charming, brilliant, and utterly perverse.

  The next few phone calls were cryptic conversations about journalists pursuing an investigation into his sexual activities with women. He seemed afraid, as if he feared that if a scandal broke, then his fun would come to an end. He talked about returning soon to Pakistan, and then he could find a good man for his daughter. And we would get married.

  I must have been crazy because I did have feelings for this man, but he was another womanizer. He was married. He had mistresses in different cities, and he engaged in group sex parties. What did I see in him?

  I continued on with my busy schedule. Mansoor began to get very specific in his telephone conversations. He wanted me to sell my apartment and move to the US. He kept insisting I come to New York so we could marry. I asked him about his plans for Taimoor. He had no answer. I refused to leave my son in Pakistan.

  In 2006, Mansoor returned to Islamabad as the Director General, External Publicity, Government of Pakistan, Ministry of Information & Broadcasting. He called me from Islamabad and said he was coming to Karachi, and that it was time for our marriage. I was happy, but still unsure of what his true intentions were. He invited me to join him at a fashion show held in Mohatta Palace in Karachi, an elaborate historical building and elegant venue for a fashion show.

  The show was fabulous. Mansoor was popular amongst the attendees, and senior officials and celebrities greeted him respectfully. A talkative man, he had charming things to say to everyone he met.

  Many of the local TV channels had crews at the show and interviewed the guests. Every time the camera panned to him, and I was next to him, he turned his face away. His behavior was odd in that instance, as he normally was someone so openly gregarious and popular. Appearing on TV was something he expected and usually did not shy away from. It seemed to me he didn’t want to be seen publicly either with me or in Karachi or both. If we married, would he behave in the same way, afraid to be seen openly with me? Or would I be one of his many secrets? I knew his family lived in Lahore and Islamabad, and it would also be difficult to live openly there, even after his divorce was final.

  After watching his act, I felt a dread in my heart. I could not go forward with this man. I had to have a frank conversation with him. I had to find a way to bring his secretive ways to light.

  He must have noticed that I grew suddenly serious.

  “What happened? Aren’t you enjoying the show?”

  “Yes, very much. I was just thinking about us. How we could make it work?”

  “Don’t worry about those things. Everything will be fine. I’m coming tomorrow to meet your father, and we’ll settle our marriage.”

  “No, tomorrow I want to go meet your brother, Amin.” Mansoor was staying at his brother’s home in Defense District. He looked confused, but then his face brightened. “Come for lunch. We have others coming over. It will be a nice time.”

  The next day, I met his brother. Mansoor introduced me as his special guest. I showed Amin the ring Mansoor gave me at the show.

  “We are going to marry in few days,” I said directly to him. “We will marry in front of you and my father.”

  He didn’t reply. I repeated my request that he attend. Still, he was quiet, pretending he wasn’t listening.

  Mansoor was busy in conversation with others, but when he saw me speaking to Amin, he came over.

  “What were you talking about?”

  “Your brother isn’t too interested in our marriage.”

  “You shouldn’t have told him.”

  “Why not?” I was growing angry, but I controlled my voice.

  “It’s complicated. We can marry in front of your father.”

  I wanted the truth. “Is your divorce finalized?”

  He had a pained expression on his face. “When I told Lubna I was going to marry you, and I wanted a divorce, she cried so hard I thought she would die. She is old now, and she would live the rest of her life alone.”

  “So your wife is not a mental patient. You are n
ot divorced. You don’t intend to get divorced.” That explained his brother’s reaction to me. “That’s why yesterday you were trying to stay away from me when the camera was around us. You have continuously lied to me for the last four years.” I was so angry, all of my shock poured out on him.

  “Please, please.” He tried to calm me and led me to a sofa. After the guests left he sat beside me. I rested my head in my hands, shaking.

  “I have loved you for since we first met. I want to marry you. I didn’t want to lose you. You know that in Islam I can marry you because I can afford two wives.”

  “You know that according to Islam, lying is forbidden. In Islam, you are to treat both wives equally. Where am I to live? What home have you arranged for me?”

  “Where you live now. I will live both places, Punjab and Karachi.”

  “I will never be able to visit Punjab, and we couldn’t live openly there because of your relatives and circle of friends.” I was certain now he had no intention of openly declaring me his second wife. “As a second wife, I would be in a weak position. If she cried to get what she wanted from you, you would do it.”

  He was furious, but controlled himself. “Your analysis is true, but I will take care of you, don’t worry. I will be at your side. I will not allow anyone to violate your rights.”

  He then said something that put me off. “You know, you are in a weak and vulnerable position. You don’t have a well-paying job. Financially you are weak and unstable. You live alone, which is dangerous for a woman. Still, you dare to say what you think is wrong. You have convictions. You are altogether different from other Pakistani women. You don’t complain, you aren’t materialistic, and you always thank God. You don’t shout, curse, or cry. I gave everything to my wife—children, money, good care, but she always complained, and cried every time something didn’t go her way. That’s the reason I’m in love with you.”

  Of course, his words made me feel good. But that was the power of his flattery; he could talk his way out of almost anything. I was fighting a civil war inside—my head said to run from this man. But in my heart, I wanted to marry. I had wanted to marry him since the first time I met him.

  “I always have tried to live up to what I believe a good Muslim does, to be true to our duties and responsibilities. But I have made many mistakes in my life because I’m human, like everyone else. But I have great fears.”

  “What do you fear? I will take care of you.”

  I didn’t want to laugh in his face, nor did I want to cry. I would never let a man put me through the torture that Erfrun did. I could never live in a relationship where I was in competition for the love of my husband.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to think this over.”

  “Look, I will divorce her in the future. But right now I’m searching for a husband for my daughter. Divorced parents make it harder to find a good family.”

  “If I married you without her knowing it, without her permission, it will create nothing but more lies in our marriage. It will end up torturing me. And I can’t do that.”

  Now that I knew the truth, that his wife was not mentally ill, I wouldn’t consider marrying him without her written permission. Mansoor’s true intentions now were clear to me: he wanted me as a secret second wife. I would never be able to live openly with him. Even though it was permitted by Islam and it was legal in Pakistan, I would never agree to play that game. I would have few rights, and I refused to set myself up for more emotional anguish. When I told him my feelings, he was openly hostile, rising to his feet and yelling at me that I was unreasonable.

  The next day, Mansoor met with my father and they talked for some time. But he never mentioned a marriage proposal. He left for Islamabad the next day. He kept calling, demanding that I curtail my social work, close my organization office, and geriatric clinic and day care center. His demands that I stay home and be a regular wife confused me. Who would pay for my son and me? He claimed he could use his influence to get me a well-paid medical job. But nothing ever came of his offers.

  Mansoor kept calling me, but I refused his proposals. Once he started shouting at me, so I hung up the phone. He called back and spoke calmly. I told him I wasn’t his wife. He couldn’t treat me that way. But the more I pushed him away, the more he made promises. I knew now that he did not intend to keep any of them. He wanted me as a wife on his terms alone. He couldn’t believe that I refused to marry him.

  Around the same time, I began receiving calls from the contacts I’d made during my travels to the US. I began a new round of collaborations on articles, planning conferences, and my future travel plans. Several of the doctors I had met with called and informed me that they had received letters on official government letterhead saying that they shouldn’t be involved with me, that I wasn’t trustworthy. The letters stated I had been fired from a government job as a doctor and wasn’t competent to work in the field. My colleagues asked if I was safe, expressing concern that some high official would try to slander me like this. None of them believed the accusations, but what could they do? They had officially been asked not to collaborate with me.

  Slander and intimidation are not unheard of from the men in my country who feel they are going to be exposed because of their inflated egos.

  Mansoor would not give up. He called constantly, using every charming phrase in his well-worn playboy book of tricks. He now became bolder, inviting me to join him in his group sex sessions. He gave me an address in Lahore where I could meet him. I thought he was just trying to shock me. But after a while, I realized this was a common practice with him. When he became graphic, I hung up. He always called back quickly, shouting that I was disrespectful to hang up on him.

  “You must remember, you live alone. It’s very dangerous in your neighborhood for a single woman. You need powerful friends now more than ever.”

  I didn’t say anything. At this point, he could be capable of anything. He knew people in high places, and he was used to getting what he wanted. I tried to be pleasant, but I couldn’t let this go on. I didn’t want to answer the phone anymore, but I feared not doing so. Would he show up at my door? Would he send a spy to watch me, or worse?

  After many calls inviting me to Lahore, I suggested, as kindly as I could, that he take his wife. I tried to reason with him. I thought he would react to my comment, but instead, he was somewhat truthful.

  “She’s boring. No one would like her.”

  He was an absolutely shameless man.

  “Listen, Mansoor, I don’t want to shout or get angry. I don’t want to argue. I am not that kind of woman. I would never attend these parties. Please stop telling me about them.”

  Instead of honoring my dislike for the subject, he went on to tell me that the group has arranged to have some little girls there. My heart dropped at his words. I had heard of men who lured little girls, even small children, and exploited them sexually. It was one of the sickest parts of our culture, and here was a man openly admitting his depravity.

  I took a breath. I wanted to know what parents would allow this. Mansoor went on to tell me that men recruit these girls from poor families in the countryside. Sometimes they are the children of their servants. They give the parents small gifts as incentives to provide their children. If any of the children die, he pays off the parents with 100 or 200 rupees (200 rupees is less than $3).

  I realized I was on the phone with Satan.

  This man and his friends placed no value on human life. No religion endorsed or allowed this behavior. The pain those little girls must feel at being abused swirled through my heart. I had to get away from this man without putting myself in further danger.

  I demanded he stop calling me. His obnoxious talk gave me headaches, and I began feeling depressed. Memories of my days in Erfun’s house flashed through my mind. When I insisted that he stop his filthy conversations, he became threatening.

  My breath froze in my chest. He could pull strings. He could make anything happen. I remained quiet for a
moment then told him I needed to leave for work.

  When he called again, he started describing the bodies of his brother’s daughters, and daughters-in-law.

  “Shame on you. They are your daughters, like your own daughter.”

  He took a breath for a moment. Had I struck a nerve?

  “You need to find another woman. One that likes what you’re doing.”

  “I know plenty of women, but I love you, I want you.”

  “Please,” I pleaded. “Stop this. I have my life. You have yours. We are different. Accept that.”

  “You have to come to Lahore and join us. You will enjoy it.”

  This time I lost my fear. I didn’t care anymore about what he could do. My composure left. “You will stop this rubbish and obnoxious talk,” I yelled through the phone. “You are sick. You need to see a psychiatrist. If you call me again, I will go to the police. I will call your wife, and tell her everything. I’ll call your daughter, and tell her what you’re doing to little children. Don’t ever call me again.”

  After I hung up, I sent him an email, explaining in detail what I would do if he bothered me anymore. The next day his wife Lubna sent me an email. She must have read his email, but I ignored her request. I feared that if I created more conflict with his wife, he would retaliate violently. If he was willing to kill little children in his sex games, I knew he had the potential to hurt me because I had rejected him.

  He didn’t call me any longer.

  Later that year, I was in my clinic early one morning when several men with their faces covered and brandishing Kalashnikovs entered. They demanded that I pay a large monthly bribe, or they would kill me.

  “I treat seniors for free. I don’t earn enough money from what I’m doing to pay you.”

  The leader laughed. “Then we will kill you; get ready to die.”

  One of the men stood up for me. “Leave her alone. She is doing good. My mother watches her TV programs. She likes her and always prays for her.”