From today, I will stand on my own two feet.
My brother Mansoor had arrived in Australia on 13 June that year and was also living with us. At 22, he was young and, like Fariba, hoped Australia could offer him a better future than anything he could have in Iran. I was so happy to have him with us, though it was getting cramped in our two-bedroom flat with Reza, Ali and myself sleeping in one bedroom, Fariba in the other and Mansoor sleeping in the living area on a mattress that had to be folded away every morning. Another male in Reza’s space added to the tension though this never amounted to more than a terse word or two between the two men.
My search for work had become more desperate in early 1984 as we started to fall behind with our rent and other bills. Despite pawning Fariba’s gold jewellery and even a necklace of Ali’s – a baby gift – we still owed money to the electricity company and on the television rental. The agent managing our property started calling on us more often chasing rent payments. Reza, on hearing the doorbell, would hide in the bedroom and send me to talk to him. Eventually the agent told me that he had no choice but to take us to the tenancy tribunal, which I attended on my own, and ultimately that led to us receiving an eviction notice.
July 8, 1984 – Seaford
There has been much crying this week. So much. I have no job, no money, soon no house. And much work. Reza says, ‘This is a comfortable life’.
Once again we had nothing. Our bond money was lost, and because Seaford had been furnished we had almost no furniture of our own either.
My job hunt became a house hunt. I spent days, from morning to night while Fariba cared for Ali, walking from agent to agent to agent looking for a house for which we could afford both bond and rent.
I couldn’t even find a caravan.
And then some luck. The judge at the tenancy hearing had suggested I approach the Housing Commission office in Frankston. When I did so, I was at first told that we would need to wait at least two or three years. But then they found reference to an application I had made for home finance assistance not long after we had arrived in Australia. While working at Integer two years earlier, when we were thinking of buying a house (this was the time when we first met Jack Sutton) someone had suggested I apply for the Home Finance Assistance Scheme. It was designed to help low income earners buy their own home rather than have to rely on public housing. We didn’t qualify at the time because we did not have the required deposit, but it turned out that my application had stayed in the queue all along and we now qualified for public housing instead. This was the case even though we were still temporary residents. I was offered a new two-bedroom unit in the new suburb of Kananook, near Frankston, for only $40 per week. The unit was the last of a number stretched along a concrete driveway, the same as thousands of similar estates you can find in most Australian cities. Light brown brick veneer, single- storey semi-detached homes with terracotta roofs, flyscreens over wind-out aluminium windows, mottled brown carpet, Laminex on every surface. It was plain in every sense – but it was perfect.
Almost jumping out of my skin I rushed home to share the news with Reza and Fariba. My sister shared my excitement, but Reza remained cool. ‘These houses are not good,’ he said. ‘You have not done the work of a hen under a rooster’. This was a highly demeaning Persian insult, and it tore at my soul. Inwardly I seethed. I desperately wanted to cry, but I said nothing. Fariba also said nothing, in keeping with the respect (at least outwardly) that she, and Mansoor, always showed their brother-in-law, in keeping with Persian tradition.
Fariba and I found a couch, beds and kitchenware at the local charity store. Mansoor paid the $200 bond with money from his own savings.
~
Finally, in September 1984 I got a job. Nearly three years after I had last worked, I was hired by CAS (Computer Accounting Services) in South Melbourne to do computer programming. After so long I was anxious about the work, but I was more anxious about leaving my beautiful, chatty 22-month-old son.
By now Mansoor had found some work at a takeaway food store and rented a small flat of his own in Frankston. He had also found a girlfriend, Christine, whom he often stayed with, so we didn’t see a lot of him. Reza was not going to let my being away from home disturb his routine. So I had to rely on Fariba. She was not yet working or studying so took on the role of child carer – something she had already been doing a lot while I had been looking for work and housing. She still laughs about the games she played trying to get her nephew to eat the breakfast I had prescribed of cereal with milk, honey, orange juice and fruit – all in the one bowl. My idea of a balanced meal.
On my first day at CAS I was given a desk near an older Australian man. When I asked him how he was, he replied, ‘I’ll be fine as long as you don’t disturb me.’
I dropped my eyes and turned away. Soon afterwards I heard him make the same comment to a young Australian woman who shot back a sharp retort at which they both laughed. I remember thinking that this would be a goal of mine: to be able to respond appropriately with the confidence of this woman.
The work at this company was difficult. I was creating flowcharts and diagrams that needed close concentration, yet my mind was constantly drawn to Ali – whether he was eating, what he was doing and whether his father was even awake.
One day, less than two months after I had started, I was working on a highly detailed chart about ten pages long. I worked on it all day to meet an important deadline. Then, right at the end of the day as I was about to deliver the finished document, I accidentally saved the original file over my new file, undoing my whole day’s work. The next day I was called in and told that unfortunately I did not have the level of ability they needed and would be ‘let go’. Mortified, I returned home. Fariba was sympathetic; Reza was indifferent, probably pleased to be relieved of having to care for his son.
I started my job search all over again and this time God was on my side. It was only a short time before I was successful in finding another job. It would be programming work again, this time with the prestigious Australian Wool Corporation. It was a long way from home – almost two hours each way to Parkville, on the northern side of the city – but the pay was even better than in the previous job.
While feeling the same anxieties as I had before, especially regarding leaving Ali with Fariba for even longer periods this time, I was determined not to lose this job. Thankfully I found it a welcoming environment and, while I kept mostly to myself, most of my colleagues, with one exception, were kind. The exception was an older man called Cameron who would ask pointed questions like, ‘Why don’t women in Iran have any personality?’ or ‘Why do women from your country always walk behind men?’
Just as in my previous workplace, I had no sharp comeback to these jibes; I simply averted my eyes and blushed.
His response was to slap me down with further generalisations. ‘Don’t be upset. I don’t have any bad intentions. This is just not your country. In all Middle Eastern countries, in the eyes of men, women are second-class citizens. You are very lucky to have come to a country that values civil rights.’
Again I said nothing.
Once, when our department went out for lunch, I ended up sitting opposite Cameron and he was talking again about Middle Eastern women walking behind men. I pointed out that Australian men on trains and trams generally did not offer their seat to a woman, even if she was pregnant. I was proud of myself for this response, but when he yet again claimed that women in Iran have no personality I was again stuck for words, and embarrassed. For me, the rest of that lunch became like ‘snake venom’, as the Persian saying goes.
~
If I thought having an income might improve matters at home, I was badly mistaken.
One of Reza’s favourite reasons for hitting me was being woken from his sleep. As he kept almost nocturnal hours, this made ordinary life with a three-year-old almost impossible. If Ali made a noise playing a game or watching television and Reza woke up, he would come out, swear at me, slap
me or pull my hair and return to his bed.
I spent much of my life tiptoeing around the house and endlessly whispering to Ali to keep quiet. In my mind, Reza still had all the power in our relationship. I had no familiarity with Australian law, certainly no understanding that I had some rights of my own. I thought simply that if he wanted to take Ali and leave me behind, he could do so, as would have been the case in Iran. Divorce in Khomeini’s Iran was nearly always initiated by the male, and nearly always resulted in the male being granted most of the possessions and custody of any children. This is what had happened to a sister-in-law of mine. Similarly I didn’t understand that Reza’s violence toward me was against the law. In Iran he could have done almost whatever he liked with me, short of murdering me, and he would always remain above the law. It had never occurred to me that the laws affecting family and relationships might be different in Australia. This may seem ridiculously naive but I had led a largely sheltered life in our three years in this country. I did not know a single person who could have explained the local laws and let me know what my rights were within those laws.
This was ultimately the reason why I continued to tiptoe around issues like Reza’s chronic inaction in trying to find any work for himself. If I raised the issue, which I did rarely, he would offer some excuse like ‘Any job I get will pay less than the unemployment benefit’. In reality I think he was too proud to do what he saw as menial work, such as labouring, yet that was all he was qualified to do. In any case, I would never press the point for fear of having him lose his temper or, worse, leaving me and taking Ali with him. Most of the time it was easier to keep my concerns to myself and maintain something close to a peaceful household.
Reza also became angry at Fariba about being woken when she was caring for Ali, but thankfully with her he restricted his complaints to just words. He protested more when, in early 1985, Fariba started studying English at a college in Frankston. This meant that he had no choice but to watch Ali for much of the day on his own. After often complaining to me about having my siblings staying with us, he now put pressure on Fariba to leave her study and stay at home. She stayed at school, but Reza continued to make it uncomfortable for her.
~
Despite my salary, our financial situation hardly improved. If I’d had the courage to open a separate bank account for myself, I might have saved some money. But I was still stuck to my thinking that my money was ‘our’ money – our family’s – so continued to use a joint account with Reza. Most of my pay disappeared into the betting shop.
In late January 1985, just a few weeks after Ali’s third birthday, I confronted Reza once again about his gambling and where all our money was going. His eyes widened and he threw himself at me, slapping me around the head and screaming.
‘Remember who brought you to Australia,’ he yelled into my face. ‘It was me. Not Fariba, and not Mansoor. Me. You are a woman and I am a man. You are the second sex! You are a donkey, you have no brain. I have a wife to put her down and screw her up. You are not human yet. You need to be bashed up more in your head so that you become a human. You are kos khol. You have not done anything.’
He moved away, then turned again. ‘It is time that I will take you to Iran and divorce you.’
This threat he had used before, and it frightened me. If not for Ali, divorce would have been the sweetest word to my ears, but I was terrified by the prospect of having my son taken away from me.
However, for some reason on this day I found the inner strength to call his bluff. I replied calmly, ‘Okay. I will go to Iran. I will be relieved.’
The next morning Reza was already awake when I got up to prepare for work.
‘You will not go to work today,’ he said. ‘We are going to the immigration department and I will tell them that we are going to go back to Iran. Then we will go to your work and you can resign.’
With trepidation I travelled with Ali, in his pusher, and Reza into the central city, wondering all the time whether Reza was serious. We told the official at the immigration department that we wanted to return to Iran and they said that was no problem. Now I became more worried. I didn’t want to lose my new job, I didn’t want to go back to Iran, and I didn’t want to lose my son in a divorce. In my heart I still felt Reza was posturing, but all three of these possibilities suddenly looked real.
Without going to my workplace, we headed back to Flinders Street, Melbourne’s central railway station, to catch a train home. Reza went off to the men’s bathroom while Ali and I moved to the platform where our train was about to leave.
On the spur of the moment I decided to act.
Pushing Ali in front of me, I moved as quickly as I could along the platform towards the rear of the train. When the announcement came that the doors were about to close, I ducked onto the train and sat low in a corner seat as far from the door as I could. The doors closed and, as the train drew away, I caught a glimpse of Reza coming down the ramp onto the platform, scanning ahead to where he obviously expected to see me waiting for him.
As the train gathered speed, my immediate thought was one of relief. It was the same fundamental relief I felt any time there was distance between myself and Reza: the relief of knowing that I would not be struck at any moment. But this relief was twisted into a sense of urgency. Ali and I had to escape.
As we passed through Caulfield station, seven stations down the line, I made a decision. We stayed on the train at Kananook and travelled on to Frankston station. The take-away store where Mansoor worked was nearby so we went to see him. I explained to him what I had done and told him that I had decided to go to Canberra and hoped he and Fariba would come with me. In my mind, Canberra would put good distance between Reza and me, and I knew from my previous job hunting experiences that there was plenty of contract work in the national capital. Mansoor suggested that we could go to his new apartment – he was no longer with Christine but had very recently moved into a rented one- bedroom flat on his own. However Reza knew where that was. We had to go much further away.
To my surprise, Mansoor told me he had expected this time to come. He was pleased that finally I was doing something to break free from my violent husband. I would learn later that both he and Fariba deeply disliked Reza and knew he was mistreating me. From the outside it was obvious, whereas I was a powerless, abused woman who simply didn’t see reality for what it was. However, being younger than me they had not felt free to say or do anything. I was the older sister who advised them – not the other way around. They were probably right in thinking that I would not have listened to them anyway.
Mansoor went to Frankston TAFE to find Fariba, while Ali and I waited in the shopping centre. I had no documentation with me but my bank account savings book, and no personal belongings other than what we were wearing. But I did not dare go home.
When Mansoor and Fariba returned they both agreed to come with me to Canberra. My mind was all fog and it didn’t occur to me at the time how supportive they were by leaving, respectively, their work and study behind, with no warning whatsoever. All of us were soon on a train back into central Melbourne, where we learnt that due to a strike the overnight train to Canberra was not running. We would need to go by interstate bus in the morning. We took a room in a small hostel across the road from the bus station, where I wept all night.
As the four of us travelled north along the Hume Highway the next day, I was able to breathe more easily for the first time since my decision to escape Reza. I had a chance to think about what I had done. This was the birth of a new Sohila, I thought. A strong Sohila who would stand up for herself.
And it might have been, except that Canberra didn’t work.
Soon after we got there I rang the Wool Corporation and spoke to my boss, saying that I had had to travel urgently and would be back soon. Thankfully she was understanding, as I hadn’t thought to call before we left Melbourne. We then spent several days looking for work and somewhere to live, but our limited amount of money was soon almost
gone. As would have been obvious to anyone who was thinking logically, which I wasn’t, creating a new life from nothing in a completely new city was never going to happen in a week. We had no choice but to return to Melbourne where Mansoor and I at least had some work. My brother and sister promised to help me sort something out so I would not have to go back to Kananook and Reza. When we got back to Melbourne we found a room at the YWCA hostel in Elizabeth Street.
The YWCA was only a short distance away from the Wool Corporation, so it made sense to take a room there while we worked out what to do next. At least Reza wouldn’t find us there. It was bad enough that Reza knew where I worked, and I was shaking when I returned to the Wool Corporation the next day, leaving Ali with Fariba and Mansoor at the hostel.
After lunch on that first day back at work, I received the call from reception I had been dreading. My husband was here to see me.
Reza looked dark. The anger in his eyes was as deep as the fear in mine. He was shabby, unshaven and wearing a pair of stained, old beige pants and a worn brown t-shirt. He was also limping and using a cane, which he explained as being the result of being brushed by a car as he crossed a road. (I later thought that he must have made this up in an attempt to gain sympathy as his limp did not last long and he never mentioned the accident again.)
I took him into an empty office near reception.
‘So . . . you left me at the station and just went?’ His voice was unusually soft.
‘Yes,’ I said, head bowed.
‘Where is Ali? I want to see him.’ he said.
I was like a wren at the mercy of a snake. The ‘new’ Sohila evaporated in an instant. Worried that he would cause a scene at my workplace, I told him about the hostel and where it was. Without another word, he turned to leave. Drawn by the fear of Ali being taken from me, I followed. I asked the receptionist to tell my manager I would return soon, then walked out behind Reza. I could imagine Cameron watching from a window above and sneering at the scene as I shadowed my husband to the tram stop across the road.
Scattered Pearls Page 16