A couple of evenings later Reza went to the toilet. As usual, with his haemorrhoids, I knew he would be in there a long time. Here was my chance to retrieve the documents. They were hidden among various books in the upper part of a cupboard, but the cupboard was in a narrow hallway – made narrower by my growing belly – and right opposite the toilet door. Terrified that Reza would finish and discover what I was doing, I worked quickly. But it was impossible to be silent.
‘What are you doing?’ my husband asked through the door of the toilet. ‘I can hear you with the books.’
I shivered and my heart pounded faster. ‘I’m just trying to find a book,’ I said.
‘Why is it taking you so long?’ he said a few minutes later.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Too many books here.’ I was sure he would be able to hear my heart beating.
Finally, I found all I wanted. I had both passports and the children’s birth certificates as well as Reza’s and my domestic Iranian identity papers. I had also found precious photos of the children and, for good measure, the pictures of Reza posing like a bodybuilder. I bundled everything up together and hid them in a storage unit in the carport outside, a few moments before Reza came out of the toilet.
~
The next day, Friday, was New Year’s Day and the day before Ali’s sixth birthday. I wanted to go out with Shirin to buy him a birthday present – and of course to remove my documents to the safety of Mansoor’s flat. As I was getting ready to go, Ali said he wanted to come too. He wanted to ride the bike he had got for Christmas.
Reza, once again sitting on the sofa, became suspicious.
‘Where do you want to go? To your parents, or to buy Ali’s present?’
‘Both,’ I said. ‘I will go to Mansoor’s and get the pusher I left there yesterday for my father to repair.’
Reza was adamant that Ali should not come. ‘It is too dangerous with his bike,’ he said.
I moved towards the door with Shirin, but Ali followed us. Reza sat still, watching our every movement as all three of us left the house.
Once outside, I went into the carport and retrieved the hidden documents, putting them into a plastic shopping bag. We started down the street, Ali riding his bike. When we reached the milk bar, I heard Reza calling from behind me again.
‘Buy me cigarettes,’ he yelled.
We paused. When he got closer I told him to buy the cigarettes himself. I held a ten dollar note towards him.
‘We will miss our train,’ I said.
‘Let’s go home,’ he said, but I refused. Then he took hold of Shirin’s arm. ‘I will take Shirin home.’
I told Ali to come with me and started walking. Reza walked in the opposite direction with Shirin in his arms.
I could hear Shirin crying as Ali and I crossed the street and headed towards the footbridge that crosses the railway line at Kananook station. Then I heard my husband again. Turning, I saw that he was coming towards me, having put Shirin down and left her behind; with her stumbling two-year-old gait Shirin started following her father, still crying. I couldn’t resist her crying. The suburban street was dead quiet, but I was nevertheless terrified that she would run on to the road so I stopped, then went back and took her hand.
‘Let’s go home,’ said Reza again.
I gave up. We turned back towards home. I was convinced that Reza had worked out what was in the plastic bag and, if he had, I was half dead.
But he hadn’t.
Once we reached home, he took the children to the bedroom they shared with me and told them to stay there. ‘Now, you can piss off. Go wherever you want,’ he said. ‘But you cannot take the children.’
I was still terrified about leaving the children but at least I had Reza’s passport. Even if he could read my thoughts, he would not be able to leave the country. I took my bag and left.
~
‘You know he doesn’t have the courage to keep the children,’ Fariba said when I finally got to Mansoor’s house. More than once she told me that if I went back to my husband I would no longer be her sister.
My brother said over and over that Reza was a buffoon and an idiot. And my father said that he had told me from the first, back in Iran, that he never trusted this man.
‘I didn’t like his way of walking. He never looked like a doctor to me. He never looked like anything. I could tell he was a charlatan.’
It was only the gratitude I had for my father’s support, and his apparently changed nature, that restrained me from saying what I was thinking. Had my father forgotten the swearing that had polluted my childhood, the lack of even acknowledging me for days at a time, the deprivation he had imposed on his wife, mother and children? Was it any wonder I had taken the first man who had come along, without pausing to think about who he might really be? Did Asghar really think that I would have listened to his opinion even if he had made it known to me?
At one point later in the afternoon my tears were flowing. My mother again questioned why I had put up with Reza all this time.
‘How did my fashionable Tehran daughter, who everyone wanted to see where she would go and what she would achieve, end up with this fate worse than my own?’
I burst out, shaking and screaming.
‘Because I was like you! Because I was doing as you did, putting up with all the insults and humiliation. Accepting these things as the way my life was going. Not questioning anything!’
‘Leave her alone,’ Asghar said gently to my mother.
Now Shahin cried too and we held each other for a long time.
It is the convention in Iran that if a couple wish to separate, the parents will step in and discuss the situation before things go to court. Before I left that evening, I asked my parents if they would come to our house for a discussion with Reza; they agreed to come in a week or so.
I left the passports and other documents with my father and Mansoor drove me home with the repaired pusher. We stopped at the milk bar and I bought some sweets for Ali’s birthday. I asked the milk bar lady to wrap them.
‘Where have you been?’ Reza snapped when I stepped into the living room. He stood up and faced me in his usual macho pose.
‘I told you where I was going. I had lunch with my parents and brother and sister.’
‘Where is my passport?’
The blood drained from my face. Trying hard not to stammer, I told him it was in the cupboard where it was normally kept.
‘It is not there.’ He pointed an accusing finger at me. ‘You are looking for trouble. Why did you take my passport?’
Out of nowhere I felt a strength growing inside me that I had not had for many years.
‘You are right. I have taken your passport and mine and left them with my father. I want to go back to Iran.’ Without really thinking what I was saying, I continued, ‘We cannot live together any more.’
Reza scoffed at me, then played the card he knew was a sure winner.
‘You are free to go anywhere you like. But you cannot have the children.’
I held his gaze, suppressing the storm inside me.
‘You are the father. You must decide about our children.’
Reza held his pose but I saw his eyes widen.
‘I will go back to my parents,’ I said. ‘They will come next week and we will discuss the situation.’
‘No one is allowed to come here,’ he said. ‘You go . . . and bring back the passports.’
My mind was a tangled mess as I left the house once again. I didn’t stop to see the children – I feared that if I did I would weaken. I left with such haste that I didn’t even take my handbag with me. I had nothing but the clothes I was wearing and two dollars.
When I arrived at Mansoor’s house, my father said, ‘From today – from right now – you can no longer be with this Reza. You will be free, without this “head of a donkey”.’
My mother and brother agreed.
When I had left home that morning with my children, I had fully inte
nded that I would still be living with Reza for the time being – at least until we could have the discussion with my parents. All I had wanted to do was remove our documents for safekeeping. Reza chasing me down the street and pulling the children away had changed that. Now, not twelve hours later, I had finally made the decision.
It was over. I would not return.
That night I should have slept like never before with the weight that had been removed from my life. But there was another weight in its place – a crushing anxiety about my children. I hardly slept at all.
~
For the next two days I was numb. I could do nothing but worry about Ali and Shirin and start to come to terms with my escape from Reza. Perhaps my feelings were something like those of a newly released prisoner: free, but having no idea what to do with that freedom.
By the Monday, however, with the encouragement of Mary and my family, my mind started to clear and I was able to turn my attention to the immediate future. Over the coming days I would start to learn of all the help that was available to me, and had always been available to me if only I had been aware of it and willing to call on it.
Reporting issues like mine to the authorities was not something many people did in Iran. To go to the police was to be looked down upon, even if you were the victim. It signalled an inability to work things out yourself (or put up with them). My parents prided themselves on never having set foot inside a police station for any reason. The story of my next two months taught me just how different things were in Australia as I drew assistance from numerous agencies and was amazed at times at how effective they all were at liaising with each other about my case.
I visited the social security office on that first day to advise them of my changed circumstances. I could not apply for the sole-parent pension because the children were not with me now, but I applied for the unemployment benefit in my own right. The next day I contacted community services (sometimes called protective services), told them about my situation and shared the anxiety I had for my children. They reported the circumstances to the community policing squad and promised to check on Ali and Shirin for me. I also went to the Frankston Magistrates’ Court to ask about taking action against Reza, but they redirected me to the local Legal Aid office. I contacted them and made an appointment for the following Monday. Finally, late in the day, community services visited me to report that Ali and Shirin were well and that there was food in the kitchen. To my surprise they also told me that Reza had been to the police himself and reported me missing on the evening of the day I left. They told him I was fine (which of course he already knew!).
My meeting with Legal Aid loosened the ropes around my heart. After sharing my story with one of their advisors, Gisela, I was reassured that I would more than likely be able to obtain custody of my children and that I also had the right to remove my personal belongings from the Kananook unit. I could seek the assistance of the police in this if need be. She also suggested that I file a complaint with the courts about Reza’s abuse of me and seek an intervention order against him.
That night I became sick with severe back and stomach pains soon after I got back to Mansoor’s apartment. Now I became worried about the health of my unborn children. Mansoor took me to the hospital where a check-up reassured me that the foetuses were fine. Eventually the pain diminished and we went home around midnight.
I returned to the Legal Aid office on the Thursday to discuss ongoing legal assistance. Gisela gave me an application form and advised me to visit the Kananook unit. I should discuss custody of the children with Reza and collect some of my belongings. If I met any resistance from him, I would then have grounds to seek Legal Aid support. If he would not let me in, I would also have the right to call on the police for assistance. Gisela also suggested that I contact the Family Court, which is a federal (as opposed to state) court, to start formal separation proceedings. An initial counselling session was set for mid-February at which Reza and I could discuss matters such as property distribution (not that we had much) and custody arrangements.
After that meeting I felt a new level of confidence about the future. I was still deeply worried about Ali and Shirin, but at least I knew I had support in my plight from my family, the authorities and the law.
~
On the next day, Friday, 15 January and the day before my seventh wedding anniversary, it was decided that my father and I would visit Reza and collect some of my belongings. In the meantime I had been borrowing clothes from Mary and my sister. I put on a nice new dress of dark pink silk with small white flowers that my mother had brought from Iran, and the pearl necklace she had bought me. Looking good gave me a little more confidence. Mansoor drove me, my father and my mother to Kananook. As we drove towards my home, there was a stern and determined look on my father’s face. While he was now in his sixties, he still looked strong. For the first time in my life it felt like I had a real father.
When we arrived I could see Ali at the far end of the driveway, playing on his tricycle with some other kids from the block. He saw me but did not come towards us. Perhaps he sensed to stay away, or perhaps he was just happy with his friends. I restrained myself from approaching my beautiful six-year-old son, stopped myself from holding him and kissing him. I didn’t want Reza to see me from behind the window of the lounge room; I didn’t want him to see any sign of softening in me on account of the children. Mansoor and Shahin stayed in the car while Dad and I approached the unit and knocked on the door. Reza opened it. He was wearing his usual outfit of blue tracksuit pants and a gym singlet, his hair unbrushed.
He greeted my father, ‘Salam,’ then looked at me. ‘Where were you?’
‘You know where I was,’ I said.
Behind Reza, I could hear two-year-old Shirin singing along to something on the television. It took all my will not to run to her and hold her, but I knew that if I did so there was a good chance I would change my mind about leaving.
My father stepped into the room. ‘We have come to collect Sohila’s belongings. Next week a truck will come to pick up the larger things.’ He handed Reza a letter I had typed based on the advice of Legal Aid which prohibited him from damaging or selling any of my possessions.
Reza straightened. ‘You have no right. I don’t give you permission.’
My dad placed his hand on a small framed picture on the wall. It was an Iranian scene. ‘This is Sohila’s,’ he said.
‘No. I don’t give you permission,’ repeated my husband.
Dad stood his ground. ‘I know this is Sohila’s because I bought it. Now you will let us take it, and her other belongings.’
As my father lifted the picture from the wall, Reza put out his hand to stop him. Now I was worried for my father, who was no match for Reza physically. That Dad showed no fear was both a comfort and a surprise to me. Nevertheless, concerned that one of the men might hit the other I moved closer to my father, trying to get my small frame between the two of them. Now my husband turned towards me.
‘I don’t give permission,’ he said between his teeth. ‘You are my wife. You can’t go anywhere without my permission.’
Reza reached towards my neck. He grabbed my necklace and I instinctively backed away. As I did so, the strand broke, pearls spilling and scattering all over the carpet. Reza stood with the necklace string in his outstretched hand.
‘I don’t give permission,’ he glared.
And I don’t need it, I thought.
Now Reza and my father were standing face to face. Afraid that they would fight, I ran outside and shouted to Mansoor and Shahin to come. When Dad followed me out, Reza closed the door behind us. Now four of us were outside the door.
It was time to get help. We drove to the Frankston Police Station and, after explaining the situation, we were asked to return to the unit. A police car would follow in a few minutes. As we drove back we saw Reza walking to the milk bar with Shirin. My father waved to him and yelled, ‘The police are coming.’ Mansoor parked on the street
and he and my mother waited in the car again while my father and I greeted the police officers and walked the 50 metres up the driveway with them.
We discovered that Reza had left a back window partially open. It was not high, but the gap was narrow. The officers explained that they could not break in themselves but as this was my home there was no reason why I could not enter via the window myself. Luckily, despite my pregnancy, I was still small enough to do this with a lift from my father. I went inside – the bedroom was still crowded with boxes of Reza’s Exerciser plasticine – then opened the front door and invited the police officers and my father inside.
I started to gather up my clothes and other belongings into large bin bags. Before long Reza returned. He was alone – he must have left Shirin at the milk bar – and he was angry.
‘You cannot take anything!’ he yelled. Standing in his usual macho pose, he glared at the officers and said, ‘Who said you could come inside the house?’
He reached toward me and tried to pull a bag out of my hands, but one of the police stepped in and stopped him, pushing his chest to hold him back.
‘Shut up,’ said the officer. ‘I know you. You reported your wife missing to me when you knew exactly where she was.’
Reza went pale. I had never seen him look so drained. Reality, it seemed, had finally hit.
‘Now,’ the police officer said, ‘your wife can collect her personal belongings.’
I walked out of the house and handed the bags to Mansoor to put in the car. He and my mother had driven up to the unit but were still waiting outside. We thanked the police for their help while Reza, who seemed smaller, stood in the doorway glowering.
As we drove away, my mother turned back to look at Reza.
Scattered Pearls Page 19