Reham Khan

365 Pages·2018·4.06 MB·English

by  Reham Khan

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EHAM
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HAN
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Copyright © Reham Khan 2018
The Author asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work.
ISBN 978-191641-52-01
Printed and bound in Great Britain.
Published by SK Publishing Ltd 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior
permission of the author.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired
out or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the
subsequent purchaser.
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Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Preface
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12 k
Chapter 13
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Chapter 14
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Chapter 15
Chapter 16 n
Chapter 17
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Chapter 18
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Chapter 19
Chapter 20 r
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Chapter 21
Chapter 22 f
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Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Appendices
Photographs
Acknowledgements
I t is strange to write an acknowledgements section when there is hardly anyone to acknowledge. The
sad fact is that this was a mountain that I had to climb largely on my own. No one wanted to tell my
story. Everyone who took an interest was in it for other reasons. Eventually, even those who wanted to
help found that they could not. There were too many complications. There were obstacles and
opponents at every turn. This was too much and too scary for just about everyone. With so many things
working against me, I probably should have just given up. But I did not. And I only needed one source
of help.
This book would never have been completed had it not been for Sahir, my son. I would never have
managed to organise it all by myself. We worked on it together, compiling passage after passage, chapter
after chapter. It was a mammoth task. But we did it.
In bringing this book to you, Sahir was my only support. He kept me motivated and forced me to
work harder. We would often stay up all night to get the job done. Sahir became an expert in editing,
publishing, designing and countless other things. He single-handedly achieved what huge teams cannot.
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He displayed utter professionalism, and his tolerance of my totally unreasonable panic attacks was
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legendary.
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Even Sahir’s friends were supportive. Instead of complaining that he had no time to hang out, they
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got involved and gave us valuable feedback. These people offered more support than most people in my
life ever have. I will not forget that. a
Despite everything, this book was written. Myq story is ready to be told.
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Preface
T his is said to be ‘the much-awaited book’. Awaited by those who fear what it will expose. Awaited
by those who think it might just help their own political careers.
There will be many in the media who pick up this book simply to get some juicy content for their
shows. But that is not why I write it.
Why do I write this book? Is it for revenge against certain people I have known? Is it to set the
record straight? Is it to prove my innocence and incriminate others?
It is none of the above. It is the account of a public figure who also happens to be a human being,
something the world seems to overlook.
This is the account of a mother who is responsible for three children of her own, as well as
thousands of children who have no mother at all (another fact people seem keen to forget).
This is the account of a young girl who grew up very quickly. This is a story for my two daughters; a
story that will tell them that the happiness they are looking for is within them. You are responsible for
the smile on your face.
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This is a story for my son: If you love a woman, she will give you her life. But if you hurt a woman,
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she will leave you for a much better life.
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This is a story for those out there who think that there is no point going on anymore. To you I say
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this: You will see that there is every reason to get up, no matter how many times someone pushes you to
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Prologue
The pine door burst open.
A tall man barged in. He saw the mother with the young child clinging to her under the crisp white
linens. The thin, cruel lips were pursed tightly together on his long face. He stripped the duvet from the
bed and grabbed the woman’s thin wrists. In one swift movement, he dragged her to the floor. She fell
to her knees. The little child cried out in terror. As the woman got up, she heard the familiar barrage of
abusive words. But she realized that she was not afraid anymore.
The man did what he usually did, moving forward to punch her in the chest repeatedly. She heard
herself scream for the first time in years. The man stepped back, as if surprised by any form of
retaliation. The woman regained her bearings and stood in front of him. She threatened to call the
police if he hit her again, but it had been twelve years and she had never reported him. She heard his
laugh and screamed again, this time for her son.
“Sahir!!!”
As the man advanced towards her again, she warned him that she would call 999.
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“Oh really! Let’s see you do it then,” he jeered.
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He knew her inside out. He thought she did not have the courage to go through with it. He had her
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right where he wanted her. His wife had thought about leaving him every day for over twelve years. She
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would be certain by Friday. But as he left for work on Monday, she’d talk herself out of it. After all, it
wasn’t the sort of thing ladies did. How would her moather face society? What would people say?
She didn’t look like a victim. Her lipstick waqs always in place. Her smile was always ready. She was
young, confident and full of life. She had everrything a woman could want. She lived in a five-bedroom
house with en-suite bathrooms, a central stuaircase, four reception rooms, and a large conservatory. Not
to mention the two luxury cars parked foutside, one with her name on it. It was the perfect everything.
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She looked perfect. The house looked perfect. Her children looked perfect. They looked perfect
together. But the reality was anything but perfect.
That night had hardly been the first time. There had been many times when a scene from a cheap
soap opera was enacted in the country home. But something was different tonight. This woman was not
the young teenager he had married long ago. This woman had changed. She ran out of the room and he
chased her across the house and into her daughter’s room. With the phone in her hand and adrenaline
coursing through her, the woman made her move. She didn’t even notice the toys on the floor digging
into her feet as she dialled the number she had wanted to call for so long.
The man stood in the doorway and stared. The kids stood petrified, looking from one adult to the
other. From the look on his face, it seemed he didn’t believe her. He seemed certain she was bluffing.
But then he heard her say, “Police. The Willows, South Street, North Kelsey”.
He turned on his heel and disappeared. She locked the door behind him and sat down on the fairy-
printed duvet of her daughter’s bed. Her three kids huddled around her. She felt her bony chest hurt
where he had punched her. Punching her straight in the chest was his style, almost a signature move.
She could always sense his cowardice; how he would aim like a little boy who was scared. It was almost
as if he expected a punch back. But she never retaliated. She barely even managed a whimper most of the
time.
She remembered how he’d pinned her before, as he had many times. He was laughing as he forced
himself on her.
“You are so pathetic!” he jeered. “Why don’t you call 999? You can’t even spit on me”.
A single tear slid from her eye as she turned her head to one side. The only noise in the room was the
banging of her head as it hit the headboard, over and over again. It was as if she was not human. She was
but a vessel with a pole being driven into her, repeatedly. She was detached in that moment, as if she
wasn’t even there. Her soul was numb. But tonight, she felt it. The punch. The insult. The helplessness.
She felt it all and she was shivering with anger and with fear.
She had always been a perfect prisoner. Why even bother retaliating? What was the point? Who
would hear her? Who would come to save her?
No one ever did.
§
It was a cold night in 2005. Christmas was only a few weeks away and I had finally taken the first
step. I had made the call. But I was shocked at what I’d done. The kids and I remained quiet until the
doorbell rang. I heard my husband’s footsteps on the wooden landing and then on the stairs. I looked
out and saw him walking towards the door. In the minutes after the phone call, he had changed out of
the denims that he lived in, put on a suit and combed his hair bkack neatly. He looked every bit the
consultant psychiatrist he was paid to be by the NHS. I stared ipn disbelief at this transformation. I saw
two police officers at the door. They asked him about the p_hone call. I slowly and awkwardly walked
down the stairs. One policeman took my husband to the main lounge while the other one took me to
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the smaller living room. He shut the door and started by asking me my name. I smiled. It probably
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wasn’t appropriate to the situation but it was what I always did. It’s what I’d done my whole life. As I
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smiled and joked I thought to myself, ‘Who is going to believe your story? You look fine. You don’t
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look abused’.
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But they believed me. They saw me shivering, despite my smile. The police officer’s eyes were kind.
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He asked me general questions. He a@sked if I had family and friends. The other officer joined us and
said that the doctor had insisted that he had only manhandled his wife, and not hit her. The doctor was
asked to leave the property with the police and stay away for 48 hours.
A few weeks later, the same officer, Martin, came over to check on me. He told me how they were
trained to pick up on subtle signs. He had noticed how Doctor Ijaz Rehman, my husband, had insisted
on bringing him a cup of coffee in a mug that said ‘World’s Greatest Dad’ on it. I smiled and told him
that it was actually a mug that had been left by a friend.
For a woman with no support, the greatest fear is the increase in risk after domestic violence is
reported. I was terrified of the consequences, and by the prospect of Ijaz returning to us. This was a
start; they had taken him away and told him not to return for 48 hours. But I resolved to never be
helpless again.
It had taken a month of special prayers (Istikhara) to build up this resolve and courage. People often
say to me, “But you are brave so it was easy for you”. But I remember how scared I was until that first
step. I guess it is easy to confuse cowardly acts taken with confidence and brave acts taken with fear. You
become brave by doing brave acts.
I was a 32-year-old mother to three young kids, with no money, friends, or family. I had no job
prospects and no man ready to step in and rescue me. But I had one thing which is far more important
than all of that. I had hope.
Chapter 1
Life started off in Libya. I remember Libya as a happy place, characterised by the smell of fresh-baked
baguettes, khubz, and huge Egyptian chapattis. This was a time when everyone had nothing but praise
for the rather charismatic and revered Muammar Gaddafi. He was considered quite a heartthrob by the
ladies (my mother’s diary would open to a photograph of him). He was known for throwing out
westerners on a whim, an action which would result in educated people like my mother filling in for
English teaching positions, and even English radio stations. There were frequent mentions of his erratic
temperament, but this was a man seen by most of those he was ruling as a strong leader; one who stood
up to bullying and had miraculously survived numerous assassination attempts.
My parents, like many of my mother’s family, left Pakistan in the late sixties. My dad was a young
ENT surgeon who chose to move to Libya. My mother, ever the perfectionist, had already completed
her family by then; she had a boy and a girl. But then…I happened. Perhaps being born in the Great
Sahara has something to do with my ability to persevere and survive hardship. My mother certainly
believed that I was a true Bedouin. I was born in the beautiful Mediterranean town of Ajdabia, in North
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Western Libya. We later moved to Benghazi. The society I recall was liberal. Women in traditional
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outfits walked side-by-side with ladies in skirts. In fact, the women had a very Parisian fashion sense,
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with face-nets, berets, and fishnet stockings all the rage.
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Home life was peaceful and happy. Mummy and Daddy were happy. She would sing while cooking.
I would help with the dishes. Surprisingly, I have a calear memory going back to when I was about four
years old, with some flashes from when I was evqen younger, boosted by family albums of happy and
prosperous times. Indians and Pakistanis ernjoyed well-paid positions and a vibrant social life. I
remember my mother being quite the fashiounista: whether it was Western suits or Indian sarees, she was
always beautifully elegant. She cut a strifking picture. My sister, although a teenager at the time, was also
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very fashion-conscious, from fake eyelashes to huge flappers. My father was very fond of taking
photographs of his beautiful wife and his daughters. I would never pose though. In every family
photograph, my head would be turned the other way. My defiant, free-spirited nature was always right
there.
My independent nature was something of a concern for my parents at times. As a two-year-old in
our flat in Ajdabia, I decided one day that I was old enough to have my privacy. I decided to lock the
bathroom door behind me, despite instructions not to do so. Unfortunately, locking the door for a
toddler is a lot easier than opening it. I must have spent an awfully long time in there as I remember an
abnormally long, black bathtub. However, I waited calmly, without even a whimper, while the family
panicked outside.
Apparently, I was an unusual baby in that I never cried. I find it hard to believe that but everyone
swears by it. I was apparently even taken to doctors to see if there was something wrong with me. I was
probably just a quieter baby than my older brother, who cried enough to wake the neighbours up. The
whole house would spend the evenings rocking and singing him to sleep. The favourite bedtime song
was ‘Munir Khan bunay ga sadr–i-Pakistan’ (Munir Khan will become President of Pakistan).
I stayed calm that day too, until eventually a young girl from next-door was recruited to climb in
through the skylight and open the door from the inside. My parents were relieved, and I wasn’t scolded.
In fact, I only remember my mother being angry at me on two occasions at most. She didn’t need to get
angry. She could simply give me or my brother the look, and we would not step out of line. Her weapon
of choice for getting us to behave was “I will not speak to you”. For me and my brother, that was like a
death sentence. It was the end of the world. It was an effective instrument of torture to get us to drink
endless glasses of milk or excel in school.
With my own children, I found that my sudden, quiet disappointment worked so much better than
persistent nagging or shouting, which generally falls on deaf ears. A talkative woman suddenly going
quiet is a very clear sign of danger. I developed this mechanism to avoid saying anything hurtful. By
simply allowing myself a few minutes to calm down, I would then be able to return and talk rationally
about almost any issue. The kids could immediately recognise and correct their behaviour. Ugly
arguments were never my style. Whether it was work issues or relationship issues, it was my style to get
into the car and drive away and get it out of my system alone, without witnesses.
My father was a gentle soul, and never even so much as looked at us sternly. I was very much daddy’s
girl. Throughout his lifetime, I was his partner-in-crime when it came to eating out. My mother always
insisted on very bland, healthy food at home, so Daddy and I would have lunch and ice-cream before
coming home, but would always be caught because of the telltale signs of ice-cream on my school
uniform. My father was popular in Libya too. I recall him being treated with utmost respect at work and
in general. There was generally a respect for doctors, and the mere mention of his profession would
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result in people at car repair shops refusing to take money.
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The Libyans were a loving lot, and fond of showering people with gifts. I remember several
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incidents where a reluctance to accept gifts was met with shock and genuinely hurt feelings. I remember
my mother being asked to fill in as a substitute teacher inn times when American or British teachers were
thrown out. Her students kept bringing expensive giafts that my mother would refuse, resulting in tears.
It wasn’t only materially that Libyans expressed tqheir love. Our landlords lived in the same compound
as our family and an Indian family. They were not only good landlords but treated us like family. On
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one occasion, my mum came home to finud my sister covered in hives and blisters. Apparently, the
landlady had been waxing her own dafughters with the traditional halawa wax (sugaring), and since
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Sweety was visiting, she got the works too.
Our other next-door neighbours were a Hindu family. The parents were both doctors and they had
two boys. An aya (nanny) had been brought from India to look after the boys. My independent streak
was once again visible as I refused to be kept locked away. One morning in an emergency, my parents
left me at home alone for less than half an hour. When Tony and Joy from next door came over to play,
they found me locked in the house. Not one to give up, I asked the younger one, Joy, who was about two
years old, to crawl under the Venetian style blinds a couple of times to prise them open enough for me
to slide out from underneath it. Mission accomplished, we went over to their home to play. We had not
intended to stay for very long but soon became so engrossed with the train sets and the Kiri cheese
sandwiches that we forgot to go back to my place. Meanwhile, my parents were having the scare of their
lives trying to find their missing child. They had checked everywhere except with the next-door
neighbours.
Although our Hindu neighbours were secular, I remember the aya taking our arti and applying tilak
after her prayers. In addition to teaching us the Quran herself, my mother had taught us about all world
religions. My own family were deeply religious Sunni Muslims. Both sides of my family were
descendants of Ghurgushtan, the third son of Qais Abdur Rashid, the legendary father of the Pashtuns
who brought Islam to our region. Qais is said to have travelled to Medina and been introduced by
General Khalid bin Waleed to the Prophet Mohammad (PBUH). The holy Prophet (PBUH) is