My Story(Aminah) This is My story

A true account of a woman’s battle with cultural and family traditions and values.


I grew up in a fairly liberal Pakistani Muslim family. Being one of the youngest siblings I was a little spoilt too. I clearly remember the carefree, fun and enjoyable childhood I had.

I have three elder brothers and one younger sister. My brothers and father were very protective over me. I spent most of my time with my mother whose strength and wisdom always inspired me.

I did well at school and my dream was to study law and become a lawyer. At the age of 16 I successfully gained 9 GCSE’s with top grades. I remember the day so well, my mother was so happy for me and shared my happiness. As was my father and brothers but the happiness I saw in my mother’s eye just seemed so magical. I didn’t understand it at that time, I didn't understand it until years later.

Following my results my family had planned to go abroad to Pakistan to visit family. It was an exciting time, as I had never been before, all the hustle and bustle of arrangements of the whole family going, buying presents for people I had never met and being on a plane in a country my parents had originated from, seemed so much fun.

The day arrived to fly out. The plane flight was something I had never experienced before and as a family I think this was the first time we had actually all been out together. Everyone was so happy. I loved the happiness that surrounded us all.

As we landed early in the morning I could see the beautiful greenery and sun shining on the hills and mountains of Pakistan. It looked amazing, so tranquil, peaceful, and so warm.

My initial impression as we arrived at the airport was something a little difficult to describe in words. The excitement was still there, however moments of fright also crept in too. To be in an environment full of Pakistanis, being in a place where there seemed to be no rules or procedures, threw me back a little. People pushing and shoving, shouting at each other, even a few heated arguments was a lot to take in.

As we walked out of the exit I saw a huge crowd of people behind a fence, some shouting the names of people they had come to collect, others with name placards and some in their own little conversations.

The things I remember the most is the smell and a strange smoky atmosphere. Everyone seemed so much darker too and a little abrupt. Our family had arrived and greeted us all and we finally made our way to the car. A small van, which held around 6 people but there must have been at least 12 of us, but we managed to squeeze in somehow.

The drive to the village was crazy! I really have no idea how we managed to make it in one piece. It seemed the Highway Code not been introduced in Pakistan, or a speed limit? And why did we have to stop every now and again to pay someone who stood in a booth on the side of the street stopping cars going through? They were definitely not the Police, just ordinary people, it was very strange.

We finally arrived. My father’s home in the village was beautiful; there was so much land, open spaces, balconies. This was something completely new to me and something I could only dream about.

What happened in the next few days shattered everything, all my dreams, my hopes, my ambitions, everything!

Within 48 hours of arriving arrangements were being made for a wedding, my wedding. Without any discussion with me, I was told I was getting married to my cousin who I had been promised to from a young age.

In the build up to the wedding I had little or no contact with my brothers or sister. I was kept in a room, told it was tradition for a bride not to be seen by anyone until after the nikah.

On the day of the nikah my mother came to see me. She sat next to me and broke down. Continuously apologising and telling me how she wished she could have made things different for me but she didn't have the courage to speak up. I sat listening, numb, lifeless. The mother who I had looked up to all my life as a strong woman was suddenly this passive weak person who I didn’t recognise.

Jee, my answer to the imam reading my nikah. Within a minute, with that one word my whole life changed.

I sat in the bed elaborately decorated with flowers; the smell was so intense that my head began to spin. I was left to sit waiting for my husband whom I still had not met or seen. I sat, my heart beating and frightened. I could feel my shaking and my breathing was getting heavier and heavier.

He finally arrived; I heard the door bang behind him and him locking the door. The next thing I knew I felt a hand across my face, then my body, and then he forced himself upon me. I struggled trying to push him away but he was much stronger than me. He tore my clothes off. I could feel him on top of me and then……

He kept stopping and starting all through the night, by the morning I could not move my legs, I was covered in blood and my legs were numb.

This carried on everyday for a month until the day came when we were due to fly back out to the UK. Once we arrived arrangements were made for my husband to come over, all the paperwork was in place and everything sent across for his visa.

I was stopped from continuing my education and was told to focus on learning household duties as this was what my husband would expect. I conformed to everything that was requested of me. I had been stripped of who I was, the person I was. I was a walking corpse, lifeless, having become someone even I did not recognise.

My husband arrived and within two months I became pregnant. My family seemed happy, it seemed everyone did. I had another two children, three girls. Life was passing me by and I carried on as normal. I eventually moved out of my parents in to a house with my husband. It was then that things began to get even worse. He became very violent. He would often hit me for trivial matters like not enough salt in the haandi or the chapattis not being thin enough. He once beat me pretty bad when I was expecting my third child. I begged him to stop but he carried on kicking me to the ground then continuously thumping me and calling me every name under the sun.

I never complained, never told anyone. Living within a community who portray themselves as caring, nurturing, religious and supportive were actually far from it. I remember I once mentioned something to a mother who I would meet daily at the school my daughters attended. The next day I saw and heard other mothers staring and talking about me, looking at me in a disgraceful manner like I had committed a crime.

However not everyone is the same. I had met a woman who understood and become a very good friend. We would meet when dropping our children off, it was a brief few minutes but it was my therapy. I remember once she gave me her number and said anytime I need to talk or need help to contact her.

As years passed by I continued to live the life that had been chosen for me. My children were growing up and became a means for me to live and survive the daily violence and torments that had become my life.

It was a cold wintry evening and my husband arrived in the early hours. As I rushed to arrange for something to eat for him I felt a huge force on the side of my face and was knocked against the wall. I was unconscious for a minute and as I came around I heard him shouting and screaming about local girls he had seen with boys. Nothing was sinking in until I heard him say ‘I am taking my daughters to Pakistan in a couple of days.’

Suddenly all the pain disappeared. The fear I had years ago returned like it was a fresh episode. My daughters, he was going to take my daughters and they were going to go through what I had. My daughters!!!

That night I didn’t sleep. All sorts of things were going through my head. There was no way I was going to let him take my daughters but I was confused and feeling helpless as to what I could do. There was no where I could go, my family would never listen or understand me. They didn’t have the courage to speak up for me so how would they for my daughters?

Think!! Think!!! Then suddenly I remembered how Sofia had given me her number and told me I could get in touch if ever I needed any help. The night seemed endless and as the morning came I woke and like a crazy woman began hunting down the phone number. Where had I put it? Please God help me, this was the only way I could help my daughters.

Hours later I finally found the number. The next day I woke up while my husband stayed asleep. He would get up late afternoon as he taxied throughout the night. I got my daughters ready for school, grabbed my bag and walked out.

It has been 2 years now. I never returned. The day I left to take the girls to school I didn’t go. Instead Sofia was waiting for me down the street. I got in the car and never looked back.

Today I live in hiding with a different name, my daughters have different names. We live in another city and don’t really integrate with the rest of the community in case our identities are disclosed.

I have a tutor to come teach my daughters. I believe education is important for their future and I want them to be successful independent women. Living in hiding is hard, probably even harder for my daughters, but you know something it feels good because for the first time in my life I actually feel free.

I will stay in hiding with the hope that one day life will change round but more importantly I have saved my daughters from the hell I went through and I will stay strong for them.

I hope by sharing my story, people will learn from my experience and begin to change their traditions and cultural behaviour which is ruining the lives of so many people, especially women.

I hope no woman has to go through what I did and if for some unforeseen reason she does, then I hope she can seek help and support from people who are out there that can change her life. I was lucky I had Sofia. without Sofia there would have been no way I could have escaped and saved my daughters.

We all may not have a Sofia in our lives but there are professionals and individuals who can be the support you need to take that first step to freedom.

I am a woman, I am learning to be strong, to be ambitious, confident and understand that what I have done is not wrong. My religion teaches me respect, independence, freedom and to have dependence on my Creator. Nothing else matters,

Aminah


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The name and locations have been changed in this story to protect the identity of Aminah.

Aminah's true story has been shared with permission of Jawad Ahmed, a young psychotherapist living in the UK who operates a page for mental health on Facebook, Mental Health- Speak UP Speak OUT, where Aminah's story of courage was first shared. You may find and comment on this story and others directly by going to:
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Mental-health-Speak-UP-Speak-OUT/233144326764233

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