Courage to Say No

by Raana Mahmood

  Those men moved back, and I reached the young women, who cowered on the ground. The men jeered. They were grabbing her clothes, hair, and touching her body.

  “Take my hand,” I said. She eagerly grasped it. I pulled her to her feet. “Stick with me,” I whispered to her. The men were too stunned to move at first, but as we crossed the road, one of them yelled, “Get them both.”

  We ran to my car, climbed in. One of the men tried to open the door, but she forced him out, slammed the door, and locked it. A few of them stood in front of my car, trying to block me from leaving, while others jumped on the hood and began beating on the roof.

  I started my car, gunned the engine, and put it in gear. I shouted, “I will run over all of you if you don’t leave.” I feared I wouldn’t leave here without either killing someone or being killed myself.

  I shot forward, and the men dove out of the way. Those on top of my car rolled off by the time I turned onto the main road, where we broke free, and I sped down the road. They must have jumped in their car because one sped up behind me as if to ram us. Just then, I turned into the gate of the naval station, and the men’s car continued on up the road, away from us.

  We finally reached the Naval Colony gate and pulled up to the guard post. When I told the guard what happened, he wouldn’t let the girl onto the base since she wasn’t related to anyone stationed there. He wanted me to leave her there before I entered the base.

  I called a cab, gave her some fare, and my phone number to let me know she was all right. Later at my brother’s house, I received a phone call from the girl’s mother. She was very thankful for my help. “You saved her life.”

  Isn’t that my duty as a Muslim, to save a life, and not to allow mindless killing and abuse of our fellow human beings? I felt good for her but bad for those men who would treat a woman worse than they would treat their animals.

  Taimoor decided he wanted to study in America. I listened, but I didn’t have an answer for him. Not only did I not have the money, but also I didn’t even have a job. He must have seen the disappointment in my face.

  “I only need travel expenses and admission fees and my first year’s tuition. Then I will take care of myself. After I graduate, I will return here and help you.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t help you now, but I will find a way to make it happen.”

  And so, the time had come for me to return to work. Whether someone listened to my phone calls or not, I decided to apply for jobs in person or by email. I delivered my resume myself to Agha Khan Health Services. They needed doctors for the mountain areas in Northern Pakistan. I thought if I could hide out in the rugged north, I would be safe. I could save my money to send Taimoor to the US to study, then his future would be secure. During my interview with Dr. Rozina Mistry, she saw my resume and was pleased to see my expertise in geriatrics. She offered me a position creating a geriatric program at Agha Khan Health Services. And I could work from home in Karachi.

  It was an excellent opportunity for me to make a mark in the medical history of Pakistan. She said they had been looking for a competent doctor and researcher for a long time for this program. They had tried a few others, but none of them worked out. She hoped I was the person they had been looking for.

  I utilized what I had learned in my own NGO, along with the research I had done around the world, to create a program for Agha Khan Health Services. I collaborated with Professor Steve Albert of Pittsburgh University. I am proud that my contribution to geriatric care has significantly improved the lives of the citizens of Pakistan. I worked on this project for about a year, and successfully completed my work at Agha Khan Health Services in January 2011. It was one of the best experiences of my professional life.

  Later that year, an international NGO invited me to attend a conference in Europe for a few days. They paid all of my travel expenses. I renewed my passport, went to Islamabad, and applied for a Schengen visa (a blanket visa that would allow me to enter any EU country), but my application was denied. I was taken aback. I had never been denied a visa before, and I couldn’t figure out why now. I was extremely disappointed.

  When I came back to Karachi, Mansoor called me.

  “You were denied an EU visa. Too bad. You won’t be able to renew your US visa either. You will never travel abroad again.”

  My hand shook as I held the receiver. Why was this devil doing this to me? Was it because I wouldn’t join him in his sex games? Was he indeed this powerful? I slammed the handset down on the phone, and I must have stood there for an hour worrying, shaking, and thinking. I was not safe in Pakistan any longer. But I couldn’t leave Taimoor on his own.

  A few days later, Raja Khalid called me from New York and proposed marriage to me again. He had proposed a few weeks before, but when I refused him, he suggested not to reject him so quickly. He told me that I should take my time and think it over. At the time he first proposed, I was busy completing my program design for Agha Khan Health Services. I believed that my fees would be enough to take my son and myself to the US, where Taimoor could enroll in school.

  But now with the refusal of my EU visa, and with my US visa about to expire, I began to believe there was something more to Mansoor’s threats. What was his connection to Raja Khalid?

  The next time Khalid called I asked him, “Did you meet Mansoor in Islamabad?”

  “Yes, and he began talking rubbish about you, so I just ignored him.”

  “You know,” I said, “Pakistani men usually want to marry very young girls. Why do you want to marry me?”

  “Every time I speak with you, it’s not like speaking to other women. I’ve made inquiries about your family, and you and your father have an excellent reputation. Most importantly, you are not greedy for my money. You haven’t even asked me how rich I am. That’s usually the first question out of most women’s mouths.”

  He continued, “If you accept my marriage proposal, I will be the luckiest man in the world. I will take care of your son as a father, and I will arrange for his studies in New York.”

  These were comforting words at a tough time in my life. They melted all the defenses I’d built up around me. I remember thinking that Khalid was a very kind man. Though I had never met him, he seemed to care. He never used any offensive language like Mansoor, or even suggested he was involved in anything similar to Mansoor. That touched my heart in a way that opened me up to him.

  I needed help with Taimoor’s education, and I needed someone strong at my back. Living alone, and divorced, was an open invitation to the most perverse men of my culture. If I did marry him, we could leave Pakistan, and I would be free.

  I told him we could marry, but only in front of my father. So he would have to come to Karachi. I wanted to take him to my mother’s grave, too. He promised with an oath, Allah Ke Qasam, I swear to God.

  But he never came. In two years of his calling, proposing marriage, and swearing to God that he would keep his promises, he never kept even one. I finally told him not to call me anymore, and to leave me alone.

  Around that time, I was invited to Islamabad to speak at a conference on aging sponsored by a federal ministry. After I completed my keynote speech, Mansoor approached. He repeated his same old request: he wanted me to agree to marry him.

  I took him aside where I could speak privately. “Mansoor,” I said calmly, but thoroughly exhausted by his demands “I have no respect for you in my heart anymore. I can’t marry you, please try to understand.”

  “Don’t dream of marrying Khalid. I will never let it happen.”

  I had already decided in my heart that whoever this Khalid was, he was not the man for me. “Do you know what your problem is?” He gave me a blank stare. “You are a very educated man, a competent executive in the Pakistani establishment, and a renowned bureaucrat with a respectable reputation. But you are talking like an uneducated, stupid man.” I turned on my heel and strode away, but in my heart, I had to hold down my fear. He was all of the things I had just said to him,
but he was also a powerful manipulator who had friends in high places. He knew so much about me, and I feared he would not hesitate to use it to make my life miserable. He knew I lived alone and was vulnerable. He knew my passport had expired, and that I had applied for the renewal. He also knew my US visa was about to expire. I was in a difficult position.

  Despite my fears, I went about attending the conference sessions and collaborating with Ashoka. During one panel discussion, Mansoor walked into the room, striding right toward me. I stood up in a panic. He loomed over me, stared into my eyes, and raised his fisted right palm in front of my face, then opened it flat. He blew a white powder in my face. “My magic spell will chase you over the seven seas. You will never be happy without me.” He smiled devilishly and left the room. I could hardly talk, I was so afraid. I could not understand why he wouldn’t leave me alone.

  I returned home after the conference, shaken and disturbed. Why couldn’t this man take no for an answer? I sat on the sofa, my legs pulled under me, with the door and windows locked.

  Soon afterward, I received a letter of invitation from the United Nations NGO director, inviting me to visit and participate in meetings on aging. I went online and registered, and updated my information in the UN system. With a formal invitation to attend the UN, obtaining a new visa would be much easier. My passport renewal had finally been approved, and my visa only had a few weeks before it expired. Things were looking up.

  It was late in the evening on February 2, 2011, when my doorbell rang. I shouldn’t have opened it, but I did. Two men stood on the landing outside my door. I didn’t recognize either of them. One asked if I was Dr. Raana. I told them she was not at home right now, and I was not sure when she would return.

  He pulled a revolver from his pocket and brandished it. “Tell her Shahid Malik Awan from PTCL came with this,” he said. I slammed the door in their faces and ran to the kitchen. Standing by the sink, I caught my breath. They wanted to kill me. Why? Was this Mansoor’s doing, trying to convince me I was not safe living alone?

  The next morning as I crossed the parking lot to my car, a car drove by the gate. A man leaned out the window and fired a shot my way. I fell to the ground, breathing hard. My heart felt like a hammer against my ribs. As I crouched on the ground, with gravel soiling my knees, I decided to leave Pakistan that same night. I must leave for the US now, or I feared I would never be able to go.

  My US visa was set to expire in three days. With the letter of invitation from the UN, I had a good chance of getting through, even though my visa was days from expiring. I at least had to try. As much as I wanted to take Taimoor, his visa had already expired. I had been trying to get it renewed without any success. He would be okay by himself. He was an extremely responsible and competent young man. He had a grandfather and uncles who loved him, and he was a good student. He always told me he could take care of himself. Now he would have to.

  I used my neighbor’s phone and called my travel agent Imran at Bukhari Travels to arrange a ticket. He had scheduled all my travel for many years, so I asked him for a favor. Would he bring the ticket and meet me at a nearby shopping mall? He agreed.

  I sent an email to Beth Lamont. She had become a good friend during my previous visit to the UN. She had offered to help me when I visited the US again.

  I packed my suitcases in a panic. When my son came home that evening from college, he was surprised to see my bags packed.

  “Mom, where are you going so suddenly?”

  “I’m going to a UN conference. Then I will see if I can stay a little longer.” I rushed around, gathering things, and he didn’t ask any more questions. “I need you to take me to the airport.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, right now.”

  “Okay. I know you’re not happy here. But don’t worry about me. I’m a big boy. You can go and live anywhere you want, as long as you feel happy and safe.”

  I smiled and gave him a hug. He was such a joy to me, and to part so suddenly would be a shock to both of us. But it would be better to be alive in America than dead in Pakistan. I would be of no use to him then.

  He didn’t ask any questions during our ride to the airport. He didn’t ask me when I would return. Neither did he ask to go with me. I felt a crush of guilt. I knew he wanted to study abroad. He was young, so now was the time for him to travel and explore. As much as I wanted him to be on that plane to America with me, I had to go alone and find my way. Then I could bring him over.

  “Please take care of yourself. Go live with your grandfather, even if only for a while. He would love to have you. I know you will be okay.”

  He assured me he would be just fine.

  “If anyone asks where I am, tell them I went to the Northern Area to work with Agha Khan Hospital. Don’t tell them I went to the US.”

  At Karachi airport, when I said goodbye to Taimoor, I didn’t know we wouldn’t see each other for eight years. I thought after a few months when things settled down, I could return to Pakistan and quietly live in another city. But that wouldn’t be the case.

  I kissed his forehead, and closed my eyes and prayed to God, Please take care of my son, he is very innocent. We parted, but without tears.

  I checked in, received my boarding pass, and headed toward the boarding gate. I moved purposely through the terminal hall, toward my plane, when someone grabbed the sleeve of my coat from behind. I turned.

  A middle-aged woman in a business suit had her hand on my arm. “Dr. Raana, you can’t leave.”

  “Why not?” I demanded.

  “We have orders from a top-level government executive.”

  I brushed her hand off my arm. We stood in the middle of the busy concourse. Darkness filled the tall windows. My flight left in a few minutes. I didn’t have time for these games.

  “Show me the orders. I want to see who signed it.”

  She hesitated. “I don’t have anything in writing. But you can’t travel.”

  Half a dozen men surrounded me.

  “Please step aside, Dr. Raana,” one of them requested. I followed them to the side of the concourse. They circled me and repeated what the woman had told me: I wasn’t allowed to leave. I pleaded with the men, but their faces were like stones. They would not budge. I began to cry, “Please let me go. This is my last chance.” I knew in my heart that if I were forced to stay, I would never be a free woman.

  I closed my eyes and cried silently to myself. Behind me, I heard over the loudspeaker that my plane was boarding. The men wouldn’t let me get past them. I stood in their midst, closed off to the world. Someone behind me said the plane was gone. I began to feel faint. I opened my eyes, and the waiting area was empty, the boarding ramp door closed. The flight had departed. I was standing alone.

  A man stood by me, “I’m sorry about this mess. I can see you fear for your life.”

  I nodded.

  “If you must leave, please return in the morning. Change your ticket to another airline and speak to the man in charge of the CAA (Civil Aviation Authority), Mr. Haider. He is here in the morning. He is a nice man, and different from the night staff. He will listen to you.”

  I thanked him, and he left. I decided that I wouldn’t return home. I would stay at the airport. I called my friend at the travel agency, and he changed my ticket to another airline. He gave me the itinerary and flight number.

  I was too worried to eat or sleep that night. In the morning, I freshened up, drank some tea, and went in search of Mr. Haider. He listened carefully to my story and why I feared staying in the country. He said I shouldn’t worry any longer. I was cleared to travel. “Don’t worry about the government executives. I will handle them.”

  He was indeed a saint for me.

  I left for the States, with several layovers in between. At Dubai airport, the staff stopped me because the expiration of my visa was so close. I explained to the officer at the counter that I was traveling to the United Nations on official business. I showed him my letter of invitat
ion.

  The officer scanned the letter and then said he must speak to his boss. He talked over the phone, and I could tell by his expression his boss would not allow me to pass through. I spoke very slowly and low, “Please allow me to go. This is my last chance to survive.”

  I could see him thinking behind his steely eyes, considering my words, trying to figure out if I was being truthful or putting on an act.

  Finally, he waved me through. “Go. Go. If you are courageous, no one can stop you.”

  I ran toward the gate, turned and waved to him and shouted: “Thank you!”

  When we debarked in New York, I held my breath as I stood in line. Since 9/11, American customs laws had become more stringent. I could be caught in limbo, stuck in this airport with no way to return home. My throat became dry as the line moved forward. I prayed to God not to send me back.

  When it was my turn, I placed my passport, UN identification, and my letter of invitation to the conference on the counter in front of the officer. The immigration officer glanced at my UN invitation letter, stamped my passport for six months and said, “Miss, your visa is expiring tonight. Whenever you get a chance, please renew it.” Because of the time difference between Pakistan and the US, it was still February 5 in New York. I thanked him very sincerely and praised God. When I was in the line to check my bags, that same immigration officer came by and told the staff they didn’t need to check my bags since I was with the UN.

  I beamed with pride that I was affiliated with the UN, and I was so thankful to be in America. Now, I had to figure out how to survive.

  CHAPTER 20

  Seeking Asylum

  WHEN I STEPPED OFF THE airplane at JFK, I had no idea what was in store for me. I didn’t know what to call myself—a refugee, an immigrant, or just a traveler, here for a time until things settled down at home. I had little clue what lay ahead.

  I received an invitation from my friend, Dr. Bill, to speak to his students at Lehigh University. I gladly accepted. I presented the struggle in Pakistan to organize efforts to reach geriatric patients. My visit with the students was invigorating for me and informative for the students, who appreciated the work I was doing.