You made it clear what you expected of me. You had set up a hierarchy with yourself at the top, using the tools of patriarchy to maintain your own position. That you fought racism in schools, walked around with your resignation letter in your pocket, and were unafraid to call things out.īut days after the wedding, I learned that the values you espoused did not apply to me. You told me you’d gone on hunger strike to convince your parents to let you go to university. You were vocal at the mosque, with friends and family, in a way that Pakistani women were reluctant to be publicly, fearing a backlash. You often talked about women’s rights to education, to work, to live how they choose. “He was raised by a feminist,” I thought. Seeing my reticence, your son told me things would be different if I agreed to the marriage, that if you and I ever disagreed, he would stand with me. I didn’t want to live in an extended family system my last marriage had ended because of my mother-in-law taking a dislike to me, and my husband not being able to stand up for me. I was taken in by your professed allyship. Smoke and mirrors were your stock and trade right from the start. I later learned that the GCSE Urdu textbook you’d written had never found a publisher, and it was self-published and self-circulated. Despite being a graduate herself, and teaching English as a second language, she rarely spoke of her achievements. You were a secondary school teacher, presenting as a forward-thinking, liberal woman. You sat on the sofa, looking out across the garden, sipping tea in a bone china cup, your husband beside you. I remember your visit to my parents’ house so vividly. You were presented as a saviour, the mother of a son who could erase a mistake. I wish I’d known how quickly time passes, and what a tiny fraction of a lifetime, that quarter of a year would prove to be, but I was trapped in a culture that celebrated virginity and despised divorce. My first marriage, though it lasted only three months, weighed heavy on me, and my family was eager for me to remarry. It was a time when nice British Pakistani girls were taught that if we compromised, and tolerated unkindness, people would grow kinder, and our lives easier. I’d ended a marriage a year earlier and was living with my parents. I was just 23 years old when you chose me to marry your son. You were my mother-in-law for just under three years, and though my short brush with you scarred me for life, it taught me to honour my feelings. But for a time, back in my 20s, that voice was paired with yours. It taught her to ignore her feelings, to minimise herself, becoming smaller and smaller until she was almost invisible.įor better or worse, my mother’s voice is the voice in my head. My mother’s concerns are steeped in the Pakistani culture she was raised in. But the silencing of women has been relied on by abusers for centuries. My mother thinks I shouldn’t write to you, that I should leave the past behind, what’s done is done, and nothing can change it. By the time I was 25, I’d left two husbands.
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