| Asif was extremely jealous, obsessively
so. When he would meet brothers whom I had attended college
with, it would infuriate him that they had seen me before
I was veiling. One day, Asif met a brother who had attended
my old college. He innocently asked Asif: “How is your wife,
bruv? I remember her taking shahadah (accepting Islam) at
our college. Is she okay? Please give her my salaam.” Asif
coldly answered “My wife is fine.” and rushed home.
Upon arriving home, he told me whom he had met at the masjid.
He then began accusing me of having dated this brother, before
he had started practicing. I told my husband the truth that
I had hardly known him. It made no difference; he was convinced
I was lying and flew into a rage.
“He remembers you from college! It’s
embarrassing for me that brothers like him see you veiled
with gloves on when they know what you look like in jeans
and a t-shirt!”
Trying to explain that I never walked around in miniskirts
and strappy tops etc was pointless; it was all the same thing
to him. I wisely refrained from pointing out that his own
sisters wore clothes far more revealing that I had —
and they were from a Pakistani Muslim family.
“He asked about you on purpose, just to humiliate me in
front of my friends!” He lunged forward and slapped me
across the face. I was stunned and unprepared this, or for
the blows that followed. I was married to someone well-respected
in the community and never imagined that he would be violent
or oppressive. He would do the Jumuah Khutbah (sermon) at
universities about being a good Muslim.
Thus began many months of physical beating
and psychological intimidation. Sometimes he would suffocate
me, but most often it was my arm twisted behind my back or
a few punches. I was never hit in the face, as that would
have alerted others. My injuries were on my upper body or
my leg. Quite often he would drag me to the top of the stairs
(I would have my back to them) and threaten to throw me down
from the top. He would hold onto me and half-push me forward,
but pull me back at the last moment. Sometimes I would half-heartedly
hope that he would succeed, desperate to escape his madness.
He would lock me inside the house "just in case you try
to escape". We lived in a block of flats, so he wasn't
worried about me jumping out of a window, especially not when
clad in a burqah and veil, heh.
What I feared most was ending up crippled
and trapped. One thing I noticed was that he would get a kick
out of seeing me cry. He would continue to hit me until I
would scream or cry. I would try to resist giving him that
satisfaction, but he would twist my arm so mercilessly that
I would be forced to relent.
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