I attended many events, lectures, and speeches at the UN. One day I sat in on a talk in the Security Council conference hall, given by Mr. Manjeev Singh Puri. He was a senior member of India’s Security Council team during his country’s tenure on the Security Council. During his remarks, he stated that Pakistan was involved in 9/11. I couldn’t believe the blunder. I waited for someone from the Pakistan Mission to speak up, but no one did. They were all there in the front row. But not one of them said anything. I couldn’t help myself, I stood up.
“Sir, Pakistan was not involved in 9/11.”
He stopped speaking, a look of surprise on his face. “I didn’t say Pakistan. I mean to say another country.”
“Then you should clarify what you meant, because you did say Pakistan.”
A few others in the audience spoke up, confirming he did indeed say Pakistan. He admitted his mistake, but still, I was surprised no one in the audience from Pakistan dared to speak up. After finishing that conference, I was outside the hall, when the Indian official called to me, “Miss, are you from the Pakistan Embassy?”
“No sir, I am a Pakistani doctor here for a conference.”
We spoke for a while about India, and I told him about my one visit to his country and the wonderful people I met. Mr. Singh invited me to the Indian embassy to further our discussion. I was very interested, but I wasn’t sure where I would live after the conference.
Near the end of my first month in the US, I finally met up with Beth at a UN event. I asked for her help and she promised to pick me up the next day. When her car pulled up at the curb the following afternoon, I stood on the sidewalk with my luggage. Because she was dealing with some personal issues at the time, she had arranged for me to stay with her friend, Rebekah, for two weeks.
Beth also told me about an organization, Scholars at Risk, and counseled me to contact them as soon as I could. They would know how to help me. A few days later, after I settled into my new place, I visited Scholars at Risk. When I told a staff member my story, she advised me to apply for asylum.
I had no idea how asylum worked, but the kind representative explained the process to me. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t be authorized to work until my case was approved.
After I understood the process, I agreed to apply for asylum. Scholars at Risk referred me to an organization, that would appoint an attorney and assist me in the process of applying. I wanted to meet with the attorney, but I was forced to move again as my two-week stay expired.
Beth contacted the Pakistani Embassy in New York. She informed them that a Pakistani female doctor needed help. The officer referred me to the ICNA, a women’s support center.
After much turmoil, I arrived at the ICNA. The director, Mr. Siddiqi, greeted me warmly. I had moved five times before finally reaching this center. At last, a safe place to stay in America. God was watching over me.
I finally met with Aleks, the attorney referred to me by Scholars at Risk. Aleks was very helpful, and he explained what I would need to do to apply for asylum. He thought my case had a very high chance of being approved.
Shortly after I moved in, the woman who ran the daily operations left the center. Mr. Siddiqi appointed me as the Supervisor of the Women’s Support Center. I was very proud and pleased. Living at ICNA was an excellent opportunity for me to meet interesting and influential people. Senators and politicians regularly visited the center. I met Lord Nazir from the UK when he visited the center. I escorted him on a tour, and we were followed by film crews from the BBC and CNN. Reporters came to the center and interviewed us about the work of the center. I didn’t think of the consequences at the time, but the articles were published in local papers along with my photo.
The most satisfying part of living at the center were the women who left. They went on to independent and productive lives. It was enjoyable work, and I loved speaking about what we accomplished.
One day Malik visited the center with his wife, and I pretended I didn’t know him. After a brief tour, he left with neither of us exchanging a word.
Raja Khalid contacted me on the landline number of ICNA. I was surprised to hear from him. He said that he had seen my photo in the papers. As we talked, he seemed concerned for my situation, that I missed my son and hoped to bring him to the US. He wanted to know about my involvement at the center. I told him about the center and how we helped women from all over the world integrate into life in America.
He was curious about the women at the center, and wanted to know details about them. That alarmed me.
“I can’t tell you those things. That would violate their privacy.”
“I understand,” he said, calmly, and changed the subject. “I’d like to meet you, take you for dinner. Once we get to know each other, then we can talk again of marriage.”
I sighed under my breath at the audacity of this man.
“For two years you promised to come to Karachi and meet my father. Yet you never have done what you said you would do. If you couldn’t meet me for two years, there’s no reason to meet now. I have to go.”
I hung up, a little worried that he now knew where I lived. My life was very busy at the center, organizing and settling women as they entered the program. I was surprised by his second call a few days later.
This time he pleaded with me to understand that he was a very busy man with many business interests, and he had intended all along to meet me in Karachi, but the circumstances of his busy schedule never permitted. He apologized, and I again fell into the trap of extending forgiveness where none was warranted. Only time would prove that to me.
I agreed to meet him, but was clear: I would never marry in America—only in Pakistan in front of my family. He backed off marriage, and we agreed to meet.
I went to meet him in Ronkonkoma on Long Island. When he picked me up at the train station, he showed me to his car. A woman sat in the front seat—another surprise—and he opened the rear door, so I could slip inside. For the first time in more than two years, I now studied this mysterious man. In the car, he watched me in his rearview mirror as I watched him. He introduced the woman next to him as his secretary, Tuntana. Instead of his home, he drove to a hotel. Inside the room, I took a seat. In my naivety, I had no idea what we were doing here.
I took a seat at the table. He stood over me.
“Your photos don’t do you justice. You are beautiful.”
Tuntana scoffed and slumped onto one of the beds. He spoke to her, bantering about her salary and other meaningless things I didn’t care about.
“You said you’d take me to your home to meet your family.”
Tuntana laughed so hard she almost howled.
“Next time, Baby. Not this time. Now we need to get to know each other.”
The air in the room drew suddenly close, uncomfortable. What was he talking about? Raja nodded, and Tuntana sauntered over to a table with glasses and liquor bottles. She poured three drinks and brought me one.
I waved the glass away. “I don’t drink.”
He looked startled. “I was told something different.”
“You have the wrong information about me from Mansoor.”
Tuntana held the glass in front of me as if I hadn’t told her the truth.
“Don’t bother her.”
She set the drink down on a side table and began to undress. Kahild held out his hand to me.
“Come, join us. This is your training,” he said, smiling.
I was so disgusted. This was the true Khalid. He and Mansoor were precisely the same men. All the phone calls with empty promises, the offers of marriage; they were nothing but an enticement into his games. I became heated inside, but I couldn’t move. He sensed my refusal, went to the phone, and spoke to a woman, calling her to join them.
In short order, another woman entered, didn’t hesitate to undress, and lay on the bed. At the same time a man entered. Raja greeted him and introduced him to me as Lucky Sing. He was surprised that I was sitting on the sofa, and not participa
ting in the group sex. Raja told him I didn’t want to party with them, and Mr. Sing became angry, telling him that I was part of the deal. Raja again ordered me to undress and join them, but I refused.
“I cannot force her,” he said to Mr. Sing. The man turned in a huff and left the room, slamming the door. Raja was upset, but Tuntana gave him another drink, and he settled down. The three of them began their orgy right in front of me.
For a moment, I thought I was dreaming. This couldn’t be happening to me. But these were flesh and blood people. Every motive of Khalid’s calls became crystal clear to me in that moment—he was a pervert like Mansoor. He didn’t want me as a wife, but as one of his playthings. In disgust, I rose and headed for the door. I swung it open, stepped into the hall, and it slammed behind me. I had been so stupid to listen to this man’s excuses and not my own sense. He proved he was a man who had no intention of keeping his promises. He had only wanted to deceive me from the beginning. How many vulnerable women had he forced into his scheme?
Alone in the cold hall, I crossed my arms in front of me to ward off my shivers. I thought of these women from Pakistan in the room, and the other women that no doubt were innocent village girls, brought here by this monster for his sex business. Was he a human trafficker? What about those people who whisked me off to an empty house and wanted to take my phone? They all were in some sordid business I knew nothing of and never suspected. I simmered at the treachery and evil of these men, as I waited, praying to God I would get out of here safely. I don’t know how long I stood there, waiting, before a fully clothed Khalid came out. I demanded he take me home. We drove to the train in icy silence. At the station, I told him not to ever contact me again.
He faced me. “I know where your son lives, remember that. You are alone in this country, and anything can happen.”
I wanted to claw his eye out, but I jumped out of his car instead. As he sped off into the night, I hoped that would be the last of him.
A few days later, he started calling, pleading with me for forgiveness. I told him I was shocked at his behavior. He could do whatever he wanted with his life. But that’s not the life I wanted; why did he keep bothering me since we had different lifestyles?
He began swearing by Allah that he would change his ways. He would sponsor my son to come to America. After we were married, he would go on hajj and live the rest of his life as a devout Muslim.
I had heard these same promises from another man, and I was in no mood for his lying. I told him that under no circumstances would I ever marry him, and that he should never call me again.
Before we hung up, he claimed I was jeopardizing my son’s future. He would never be able to come to the US because I had applied for asylum. I didn’t believe him. His only goal was to fill me with fear. The man was a fraud. I read one day in a Pakistani newspaper that circulated in my neighborhood, that Raja’s son, Nange Punge, was being openly ridiculed for marrying a nude dancer who at one time had dated Raja for several years. I saw it as a form of judgment by God that an infamous girl he once dated was now his daughter-in-law.
Seven months had passed since I had last seen Taimoor. We hadn’t talked much on the phone, but now was the time to act. He needed to come to America. I reached him at work, and he was excited to hear from me. We caught up, and I told him I had applied for asylum, and wouldn’t return home until it was approved. I told him that he should apply for a visa to come to America. If he applied for a tourist visa, we could be together much sooner.
The day of his interview at the US embassy, I lay awake the entire night. When he called with the sad news that he had been rejected, I tried not to cry until I was alone. Gaining permanent residency in America and having my son with me would have been a dream come true. Now I felt defeated in all of my dreams. I began complaining to God. Why was life so cruel to me? I grew bitter and skeptical. Maybe I should return to Pakistan and move secretly to another city.
I stopped answering Khalid’s calls. Then he began calling from a blocked number. Before I could hang up, he said, “If you want your son to be safe, you better listen to me. Do you know he is attending political rallies, and it would be easy for us to kill him?”
That struck terror in my heart. I called Taimoor, and demanded to know why he was attending political rallies.
He was very reasonable with his answers. “Mom, if the young people of this country don’t think for Pakistan, then who will? Besides, I’m only out listening to Imran Khan.”
I understood his feelings. I could not ask him to become a hermit, but I did plead with him to move to his friend’s house for the time being.
From then on, I blocked Raja’s calls.
A few days later, the director of ICNA received a call on the office phone. When he came to me, he had a concerned look on his face.
“The call was from Pakistan, and it was for you.”
The caller threatened that if I didn’t return to Pakistan, my son would be kidnapped and my father would be jailed. I became very scared that this harassment would go on until something terrible happened.
One of the center’s directors said I should contact the police. Another director said it was an empty threat and I shouldn’t take it seriously. Besides, what would the police do if the caller was in Pakistan? I asked for the number of the caller, and after dialing it went to Khalid’s voice mail. It was his Pakistan number. Not only was he a sexual pervert, but he wasn’t any better than the terrorists who used violence and intimidation to get what they wanted. I called my attorney, Aleks.
He advised me that it wasn’t best for me to return. I wouldn’t be any safer and my chances of obtaining asylum would be over forever. I could never reapply. The threat against my father was most likely empty, and it would be best for my son to go into hiding. I agreed with his assessment.
After this episode, Taimoor applied again for a US visa, and was turned down. Evidently, with my asylum request, family members were barred from entering until my case was resolved. I didn’t know that beforehand. Alone in my room at night, I cried. I became angry at God. I stopped praying because I couldn’t focus during prayers. I felt God wasn’t my friend anymore. He wasn’t at my back.
The next time I spoke to Taimoor, he tried to console me.
“Mom, think of it like this. I feel God will give me a better reward, and the sooner you are granted asylum, the sonner you could travel to meet me in any country. Now you are in the safest place.”
As much as I was distressed to be apart from him, I had to agree with him. But when I had left home, I thought I would be away for a few months, things would quiet down, and then I could return. Now I was on a completely different path, one I could not step away from without jeopardizing my chances of a permanent residency in the US.
Finally, the day came for my asylum interview. Aleks had called me the day before to prepare me. He met me at the immigration office (USCIS), where the interview was to be conducted. I was agitated, and he tried to calm me. He wanted me to keep it simple in the interview, and not to seem more intelligent than the immigration officer. I answered everything truthfully about my situation, but still, the officer seemed suspicious. She said she’d have to forward my file to Washington, DC, for further investigation. My case should have only taken a few months to approve, but instead it took six more months.
Aleks told me that my case took so long because I was an educated woman from Pakistan. At the time of my interview, the US government was prosecuting a Pakistani scientist accused of involvement with the planning of terrorist activities related to 9/11. Dr. Aafia Siddiqui was an American-trained neuroscientist charged with aiding terrorists. It was a bad time for me, but it was also a bad time for Dr. Aafia and my country. Aleks said if I were an uneducated housewife, my application would have been approved quickly.
Eventually, my asylum was approved, and I thought that I could now sponsor Taimoor. When I told him, he was very excited that we would finally be together. When I asked Aleks about the process,
he laid out the steps. I had to first apply for a green card. After a waiting period, I could apply for citizenship. Then I could sponsor Taimoor to come to America. When he told me that the process could take another ten years or more, I was very disappointed. I didn’t tell Taimoor, but he is a brilliant young man. He did his own research, and told me it would take a long time for him to come to America.
Our separation was beginning to wear on him. I realized he was heartbroken. He knew for a fact that now he had to live alone for a long time, which was causing him pain. Citizenship seemed so far away, and so many obstacles seemed to stand in my way.
A wave of sadness came over me. I prayed to God that all of those who had played a hand in my leaving the country that I loved would leave me alone. I felt the pain of my son, of my father, of my brothers, and nieces and nephews. I didn’t know when I would see any of them again. My anguish became so real, I had to cover my mouth with my hand to stop from crying and cursing out loud.
With a work permit, I now could work like any other American. It was time to move out of the center and make it on my own. Walking the streets of New York, the reality hit me that I was now an immigrant, building a new life. It was time to start.
I found a room with Mumte, a Pakistani woman. I applied for a position in customer service at a CVS pharmacy. I was hired and began working weekends. Everything was so new and fast-paced that I felt excited. But this was my life now, and I decided to do my absolute best. A contact from ICNA referred me to Pakistani orthopedic doctor who hired me as a medical assistant.
With a new place to live and a weekend job, and working full-time during the week as a medical assistant, my life was busy. I hoped and prayed all of my troubles were behind me.
In my free time, I returned to attending meetings and conferences at the UN. Khalid kept calling my cell phone, but I refused his calls. I could hear his threating messages, saying I should go back to the center and shouldn’t continue jobs. This went on for a week or two, and then one day, the orthopedist told me he no longer wanted me to work for him. I was crushed. He didn’t give me a reason. He insisted that he no longer needed me.
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