by Sufiya Ahmed
I managed a slight nod as some of the fear trickled away.
Once we were in the car heading into the city, Tara told me she had organized a place for me in a refuge in Whitechapel, which was in East London. I repeated the name of the place in my head several times; it sounded familiar. Hey, wasn’t that where Jack the Ripper had killed all those women? I hadn’t realized I had voiced the question aloud until Tara burst out with a rich, heavy laugh.
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think you have to worry about him any more. He’s long dead … More importantly you will merge into the crowds and become anonymous. That’s what we want for now.’
The women-only hostel was a big three-storey Edwardian house. A total of twelve people lived there, including the on-site supervisor, Alice. There were another two Asian girls and the rest were all white.
Tara spent some time helping me to settle in. Before leaving, she hugged me tightly. ‘Be strong,’ she said, smiling down at me. ‘I will be back tomorrow. I’m leaving you in very safe and capable hands.’
I tried to look cheerful and confident, but inside my stomach was churning with nerves. Then I remembered Sehar, and why I was here, and immediately everything felt a little better.
I didn’t talk to anyone once she had gone. I felt like I was in a daze. Too much had happened. Locking the door of my new room, I crawled under the duvet fully clothed and stared at the ceiling. Was this going to be my life now? Was I going to have the courage to make it on my own?
I wanted to phone Susan, but thought better of it. Tara had warned me not to contact anyone from home – not for now anyway. She’d said it was too dangerous. I’d asked her if she thought men with guns would turn up to kidnap me. I’d meant it as a joke, but she’d taken me seriously.
‘Well, that has been known to happen in the past, but that’s not what I’m concerned about.’
Really? Is there anything worse than men with guns coming to kidnap me? I thought.
Apparently Tara had thought so. She told me the first forty-eight hours were crucial. Most girls who escaped were so overwhelmed by being alone in a strange place that they succumbed to that very fear and allowed themselves to be talked into returning home.
Feeling as I was feeling now, I could see Tara had been right to be concerned.
One of the Asian girls struck up a conversation with me over breakfast. Her name was Surjit and she was from the West Midlands. I glanced at her wrist and noticed a silver bracelet, a kara, which identified her as a Sikh. Surjit was a fifteen-year-old chatterbox with short hair and a gothic dress sense.
Her story was similar to mine. She was the youngest of four sisters who had all married men from the Punjab state of India. Surjit claimed none of her sisters were happy and that two were the constant victims of domestic violence. She didn’t want the same future as her siblings so she ran away from home as soon as a trip to India was announced. Although no wedding was ever mentioned by her parents, Surjit said she knew one had been arranged for her. ‘Girls who don’t learn from the mistakes of their older sisters are very foolish,’ she said confidently.
When Surjit asked me about my story, I told her the truth. Well, all of it except the part about Sehar. I found it too painful to talk about my dead friend. When I’d been in Pakistan, it had been Farhat who had been plagued with guilt. However, here, now, breathing in the air of the country both Sehar and I had pined for, a creeping guilt had started to overtake me. An escape to London was meant to have been the first steps to Sehar’s happy ending. It was supposed to have been her beginning, but it wasn’t, it was mine … and my friend’s body lay six feet under the ground of the country she had hated.
On the second day Surjit and I attended a counselling session in a small room next to the kitchen. Nasreen, the other Asian girl, joined us although she never spoke a word. She was a tall, big-boned girl with long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her face seemed permanently set in a sad expression and her nervous eyes darted continuously around her as if she was expecting to be attacked from any direction at anytime. I had tried speaking to her at breakfast – small talk about the weather – but she’d just looked at me vacantly and carried on eating her cereal. I couldn’t help wondering what trauma lay behind the silence.
The counselling session was something like the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings that featured in TV dramas, except that we were Forced Marriage Anonymous. There weren’t many of us, just us three girls and an Asian guy called Habib who looked about nineteen. He had a long, skinny body, a toothy grin and short, spiky hair. Although only women lived in the hostel, Alice had explained that occasionally young men attended some of the group sessions during the day.
‘So you’re the latest one to join us,’ he said, when I sat down next to him on a chair.
I nodded.
‘It’s a shame, innit,’ Habib said, shaking his head. ‘Our parents just don’t get us.’
I nodded again, surprised at his willingness to talk.
‘You’re shocked, innit?’ he said, grinning. ‘I can tell you’re thinking “what’s this bloke doing here with these girls”, ain’t you?’
‘No,’ I denied, although that was exactly what I was thinking.
‘I ain’t bothered if people think it’s weird for me to be here,’ he laughed. Only I know what I’ve been through is just the same as you girls. I know what’s it like when they try to force you to marry someone you don’t want.’
Now I really was surprised. This guy had been forced too? I thought it was only ever the girls. My face must have revealed what I was thinking because Habib was shaking his head.
‘Yeah, girl, it happens to us blokes as well. My mum was ill and she wanted me to marry her sister’s daughter in Kashmir. She nagged me and nagged me and nagged me, but I wasn’t having any of it. Her brother, my uncle, even threatened to have me beaten up. Can you believe it? That was it, man, when my mum sided with her brother, that’s when I left.’
I didn’t know what to say so I just stared at him.
‘It’s all right,’ Habib said, the grin back in its place. ‘I’m all right, you know. Getting by now and …’ He stopped talking as a middle-aged Asian woman walked in.
‘Hello, everyone,’ she greeted us before turning to look at me directly. ‘And you must be Zeba. I’m Aisha, the centre’s counsellor. Tara’s told me all about you.’
And so our session began. I didn’t really talk much about myself except to say that I was from the north. Habib needed no encouragement to launch into his life story when requested.
‘Well, I already told you about what was happening at home with my mum and her brother bullying me and the chick from Kashmir. Well, I weren’t having any of it so I ran away but I ended up on the streets. Man that was rough. The streets ain’t a fun place to be when you got no proper friends. I can’t even remember the last two years. It’s all a blur. But then I got saved by this charity. They said they could help me and I knew I couldn’t handle living on streets forever so I went with them. And now look at me. Been trying to get my life back together for over a year, but I ain’t been home to see my mum yet. I’m gonna find me a nice girl, marry her and then I’ll take her home as my bride.’
‘Habib, that was really good of you to share your story again for the benefit of Zeba,’ Aisha said, smiling broadly.
Habib gave another toothy grin and shrugged. ‘Happy to help, man.’
‘Well yes, it is important that you girls realize that young men go through the same kind of problem,’ Aisha continued. ‘We’re here to help you all. Now, Nasreen, how about we hear from you today.’
Nasreen stared at her hands.
‘Nas,’ Aisha coaxed, ‘talking helps us to deal with the issues we have locked inside. Why don’t you try and say a few words?’
The silence stretched.
‘Well, we want to hear Zeba’s story, but we can’t hear hers until we hea
r yours,’ Aisha said. ‘I am sure Zeba is very keen to tell us what happened to her, so we’ll think about both of those things for next time, shall we?’
I could see that Aisha was trying to coax Nasreen to talk, but that she didn’t want to push her. I was pleased that no one was being forced to do anything. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to tell my whole story, including the bit about Sehar, when my time came.
For the rest of the session Aisha talked to us about confidence, and how to think positively about our futures. Although I wasn’t at that stage yet, it was nice to imagine that I could have those thoughts one day.
Afterwards Surjit asked if I wanted to go for a walk. I wasn’t sure if it was allowed but Alice nodded her agreement. I wished she hadn’t. I really didn’t want to leave the security of the hostel. Despite its impersonal feel with its clinical white walls and odd plants placed here and there, I felt safe here. I knew my fear was irrational; nobody knew me here. How could they? I was a Yorkshire girl who had never visited London before. I had no relatives here or friends, but still I felt wary about stepping outside.
Surjit sensed my hesitation. ‘The fresh air will be good,’ she said.
I decided she was right. I had nothing to fear.
We wandered through the narrow back streets near the hostel until we emerged on to the high street. Looking around I was slightly unsettled by the immediate thought that I may as well be in Pakistan – or rather in Bangladesh. We were smack bang in the middle of the Bangladeshi community. Sari shops, kebab takeaways and travel agents lined the street and a small market crowded the same pavement. Stalls were piled high with hijab head coverings, Bollywood DVDs and fruit and vegetables. I watched a group of women crowd around the fishmonger’s stall impatient for their turn. Salmon, trout and cod lay with eyes and mouths wide open as women draped in saris and cardigans poked the scales to check for freshness.
‘Gross smell, ain’t it?’ Surjit said, leading us away from the fish stall.
I thought of Imran-chacha, my great uncle, the retired soldier. The Bangladeshis were another people he had been at war with. My dad had told me that when the British Empire had ended in 1947 and India was partitioned, Mohammad Ali Jinnah had carved out two pieces of land, which were named West Pakistan and East Pakistan, to form a new Muslim state. But the two areas were separated by 1,600 kilometres of Indian land in the middle. The Governor-General and former Viceroy of India, Lord Mountbatten, who had been given the task of handing the land back to its people, had warned Jinnah that a country divided could not succeed, but his advice was ignored. Whenever my dad told me the story of his country’s birth he would grudgingly concede that Mountbatten had been right when he’d predicted there would be disputes over resources and wealth that would tear the new Muslim nation apart.
In the 1970s, the East Pakistanis had demanded an independent state and fought for it. Imran-chacha had been one of the West Pakistan troops who had tried to quash the uprising, but failed. The East Pakistanis had won with the aid of India’s first female prime minister, Indira Gandhi, and renamed their land Bangladesh. My dad always referred to her as the woman who knew how to play political games.
‘That was one woman who knew that her enemy’s enemy was her friend,’ he would say.
I marvelled at how people were able to move on from war and destruction. Two decades ago my family and the relatives of these people had been killing each other, and yet here I was now living within this community, hidden in their numbers, accepted as a Muslim sister.
I looked across the road. An imposing, old-looking building stretched from one end of the street to the other.
‘That’s the Royal London Hospital,’ Surjit said, following my gaze. ‘Sam, the cleaner at the hostel … you ain’t met her yet, well, she says that’s where a lot of the dead and injured were taken after the July 7 bombings. Aldgate East station is just up the road near where a bomb went off. Do you want to go see?’
I mumbled no. I felt weary again. Surjit’s mention of bombs and death just reminded me of Asif and I didn’t want to think about him. I decided to change the subject.
‘So what’s up with that girl Nasreen?’ I asked.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, she’s like a … a … zombie,’ I said, unsure how else to describe it.
Surjit shrugged. ‘I don’t know really. I’ve been here about two months and she was here before me. She keeps herself to herself. I’ve never heard her speak. Everyone’s intrigued by her, but I’ve only heard some rumours from the other girls about what happened to her.’
I waited for Surjit to tell me but she became mesmerized by a shoe shop’s window display where fake diamonds glistened on a pair of pastel-coloured sandals. I glanced at Surjit. Surely the pretty footwear didn’t really appeal to her with her preference for black T-shirts, leggings and clunky boots?
‘Me mum used to love these shoes,’ she said in a small voice. ‘She kept buying me pairs when the sales were on after the summer wedding season. Said I should dress like a girl. You know every time I walk past this shop it reminds me of me mum.’
‘Do you miss her?’ I asked, firmly blocking out any thought of my own mum.
‘Yeah, course,’ Surjit said, nodding. ‘But not me dad though. He couldn’t bear looking at me most times ’cause I weren’t born a boy.’
I wasn’t sure what to say to that, but I didn’t want a gloomy silence to develop. ‘So you were telling me about Nasreen.’
‘Oh yeah, well, there are so many rumours. Some say she was abused by her father then married off and then beaten by her husband.’
‘What?’ I gasped.
‘I don’t know if it’s true,’ Surjit said quickly. ‘There are other rumours too. She ran away from home to be with her white boyfriend. He tried to kill her so she had to escape him.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you know the truth at all?’
Surjit seemed to think about it. ‘I guess not. Anyway, whatever the truth is, she’s safe and secure and that’s what matters. That’s what Aisha and Alice keep telling us.’
I nodded.
‘What do you want to do tonight?’ Surjit asked. ‘Shall we get a DVD?’
‘Up to you,’ I said, looking around at the cars and buses thundering down the road. I didn’t tell her that what I really wanted to do, standing in the middle of this chaotic inner-city area, was return to my hometown. I missed the familiarity and tranquillity of my Yorkshire streets where people acknowledged each other with smiles. Everything I knew was there, and Susan and … perhaps my parents too by now. I wondered. Would I ever be able to call it home again?
Chapter 30
The first week passed slowly and my nights were filled with a combination of relief about the past and fear for the future.
Tara had arranged for me to receive some state benefit. It wasn’t much, but I managed to live on it. I bought a few clothes from the market and returned the items that had been loaned to me by Alice. I frugally saved the little money left over under my mattress.
Surjit’s company helped. She always had something to talk about and although sometimes her constant babble did not register in my head the sound of her voice was reassuring. It didn’t take long for the other women to welcome me into the fold. It was as if we were sisters in a special club. Surjit and I were the youngest there. Although none of us knew Nasreen’s exact age, we thought she was in her twenties. She looked older to me – maybe her traumatic experience had aged her.
The first time I actually felt comfortable with the others was on a Saturday night watching The X Factor. Together we laughed, cringed and hollered at the TV screen as contestant after contestant appeared. For the last two years I’d watched this show with Susan. I missed my best friend more than ever. In Pakistan I’d been so consumed with my escape I could think of little else, but now back in England I wanted to see her more than anything. I wanted to ask her what she’d thoug
ht when I didn’t return from my holiday, and if she’d got my email. I was desperate to know what my parents had told her. I doubted she would believe for one moment that I had decided to stay in Pakistan and marry a stranger.
I thought about getting in touch, but I was petrified that if I did my parents would be able to trace me. Everyone had told me in no uncertain terms not to contact anyone, and Alice had sat with me while I deleted all my emails without opening them, so no one could see I’d even had access. There were literally a hundred from Susan alone, which made me feel better even if I couldn’t read them. Surjit had told me she was sure a private detective had been hired to find her. She said all the women in the centre lived in fear of the past catching up with them. As I’d reluctantly pressed ‘delete’, I’d decided that for the moment my safety would have to come first.
A week later I decided to log on to my email again and delete any new messages. Just seeing that people had tried to get in touch was enough to make me feel better, even if I didn’t open them. I had been watching pop videos on YouTube, catching up with all the music I had missed in the last few months, and I felt happy and relaxed enough to do it. But as soon as I signed in to my account, one email caught my eye. It was from Nusrat-kala. Usually I would have deleted it, worried that someone was trying to pretend to be her, but in the subject line it simply said ‘I want the world for you’.
These were the words Nannyma used when she’d said farewell to Nusrat-kala when she moved to America. They were the words Nannyma had uttered to me when she had handed me over to the protection of strangers on the day of my henna ceremony. The words were like a secret code between me, Nannyma and Nusrat-kala, and my gut instinct told me that this email had to be genuine.
I opened the message with a pounding heart.
As salaam alaikum, my lovely Zeba,
Here’s hoping you are well, my girl. Mom and I have been worried sick about you but we knew you were in good hands. I’m still in Pakistan. I’m staying at cousin Bilal’s in Karachi at the moment and I just thought to email you about what’s been going on.