One day I asked him something that I had been curious about for some time: why had he come to work in Iran?
“Iran pays a good salary to foreign doctors, so I can save money,” he replied.
“What are you saving for?”
“I want to go to England and study there, and I need money to do that and to support my family in Pakistan.”
The doctor had a plan. I had read about England in books and thought his future sounded exciting. I could only dream of living and working in a European country. Despite my love for Iran, I was increasingly interested in living in a country where women could have more freedom. It was a hope cherished by many young women I knew in Iran, but for most it would never happen.
“Would you like to come to England and study medicine with me there, Sami?” he asked me one afternoon as casually as he would ask for a patient’s file.
I was so stunned at his request, it took me a few seconds to be able to respond.
“As far as I know, young women need their husband’s or father’s permission to leave the country,” I said slowly, looking at Jabbar with some confusion. “My father does not have the money for me to go to study abroad.”
“Then marry me, Sami,” he said without a moment’s hesitation.
We were standing in what was known as the “Doctors’ room,” a small room that doctors used for talking to patients and deciding whether or not they needed to be hospitalized. Not the most romantic of settings for a proposal, but not the worst either.
I was dumbfounded, not even sure if he was serious, but it turned out he was. I was just twenty years old, and marriage hadn’t seemed imminent in my future. But Jabbar was a good man, and the idea of leaving Iran and living abroad was enticing. So was the idea that I could go to a Western university and pursue my long-held dream of becoming a doctor.
“I will need time to think about this and talk to my parents,” I told Jabbar, my calm demeanor not betraying the surge of excitement inside.
“Take all the time you need,” he said, smiling.
I did not want to rush my decision. As young girls, my friends and I often fantasized about what our future husbands would be like. Tall, dark hair, and devilishly handsome were obvious prerequisites, followed by kind, intelligent, funny, and easy to get along with. I also knew that my husband and I would be so madly in love with each other that we would never be apart. Ardent love between Jabbar and me? Perhaps not at this point, but he was indeed kind and career-minded, and the opportunity for me was irresistible. I accepted.
I was fairly certain my parents would not want me to leave Iran—or to marry a man from Pakistan. I knew that many Iranian people believed they were superior to Pakistanis, so I was going to have to do a bit of gentle coaxing.
First, my mother. “Imagine if your daughter was a great doctor from a London university? Just think about how that would be, Mum,” I said.
She wasn’t convinced. “We don’t know anything about him or where he is from, Sami.”
“Come on, Mum,” I pleaded. “I work with him and I know what he is like. Just meet him once, and if you don’t approve, I will not marry him.”
She nodded her head and I knew the marriage was sealed, because everyone liked Jabbar.
The day Jabbar came to meet my parents, my grandmother, who was also living with my parents at that time, made sure she was there. I knew she wanted to get a good look at the man I was hoping to marry and leave Iran with.
Sina and I set off to pick up Jabbar at a designated landmark—in front of the Ordibehesht Hotel in the famous Shahrdari Square. I was suddenly anxious for Jabbar and myself—so much weighed on this meeting—but I needn’t have been. As we pulled up, I spotted Jabbar, dressed smartly in a suit, smiling and looking much at ease. Once in the car, I introduced him to Sina. My future husband then promptly informed us that he had just been ripped off by a taxi driver! I was so mortified. Jabbar had hailed a taxi and asked to be dropped off at the entrance of the Ordibehesht Hotel. The taxi driver, realizing he was talking with a man who was not familiar with the city, had eagerly told Jabbar to hop in. As Jabbar sat in the car, the driver had driven very slowly around Shahrdari Square and then pulled up in the exact spot where he had initially picked up Jabbar. He had then pointed with one hand and said, “There is the entrance to the Ordibehesht Hotel,” holding out the other hand for the fare.
My brother and I expected some indication of annoyance from Jabbar, but it never came. He just burst into laughter and Sina and I both joined in. It was a great icebreaker, and as we drove back to my parents’ house, any little fears I had quickly disappeared. Looking at Jabbar animatedly taking in his new surroundings, I felt a sudden flush of pride.
Back at the house, excitement was paramount. Everyone was fussing around Jabbar and chattering away. Jabbar, obviously struggling to keep up, remained quiet.
Unlike my parents, who immediately fell for Jabbar’s quiet charm, my grandmother was not as easily convinced. Fastening her eyes on him, she eventually looked over to me and whispered, “Can he speak?”
“Of course he can speak, Grandma,” I laughed. “He speaks three languages—English, Farsi, and his own language.”
Grandma nodded her head slowly. I still have a bit of work to do here, I thought.
Kissing her sweet, wrinkled face, I casually mentioned, “Did you know Jabbar is a doctor?”
“Oh, is he, now?” she said, raising an eyebrow.
Here we go. “Yes, Grandma, he can answer all your questions about your blood pressure and heart disease. He knows about all the latest medicines and treatments for your conditions.”
I winked at my mum, but she couldn’t hold back and started laughing. She knew as well as I did that my grandmother loved talking about her illnesses to anyone who would listen.
As my mother and I expected, Grandmother had a sudden change of heart and embraced the idea of her granddaughter marrying a doctor from Pakistan and leaving Iran to pursue her studies.
I was going to be leaving Ilam before completing my nursing degree, but since I was planning on studying medicine abroad, I wouldn’t need to complete my degree anyway. Other thrilling prospects beckoned.
Jabbar and I were married in a small ceremony in Rasht in the autumn of 1993. My father had difficulty finding a hall to rent, because it is illegal to hold events in Iran where men and women are allowed to mix. The only way it would be allowed was if the women wore Islamic dress—all dark clothing, including a dark scarf—but I did not want my wedding photos looking like we were all at a funeral! Fortunately my father found a man who agreed to rent us his hall, and after a Revolutionary Guard was paid off to keep quiet, my wedding and reception went ahead. It was not the sort of lavish wedding many young girls dream of, but my family and I decorated the hall with flowers, and even though it was a very simple and low-key affair, I knew that my father had done his best for his only daughter.
A few months later Jabbar went on to England to pursue his fellowship—an exam doctors take when they want to qualify to work in a particular medical specialty. He relocated to Ireland from the United Kingdom after six months, and I applied for an Irish visa so that I could join him there. During the early 1990s there were not many foreigners in Ireland and the visa requirements were incredibly strict. It took over a year for my visa application to be processed and approved. Good news finally came at the start of 1995 when my visa was sanctioned, and in April of that year I flew to Dublin to live with my husband.
From the moment I landed in Ireland,