I soon felt like a child who had been told she could have any toy she wanted but with so many choices available was then prevented from selecting. I wanted to sample everything from the wide variety of European foods, but Jabbar was religious and I did not want to offend or upset him by eating meat that had not been prepared in the Halal way. This ruled out fast-food restaurants, but no harm could come from smelling what they served up. And my God, it smelled so good.
I also admired the wonderful array of choices in clothing shops. There, too, Jabbar’s religious conservatism soon became an issue, for he did not like me showing too much of my body. I had thought that once we were in Ireland I would be able to dress as I wanted, but I loved my husband, and if it made him happy for me to dress more conservatively, then that was the least I could do. After all, if it had not been for Jabbar, I would not have been in Ireland and enjoying all it had to offer at such a young age. I had known I would leave Iran eventually after completing my nursing degree, but through him I had found a much quicker access to my goal.
I enrolled in extra classes to learn English and had never been so studious. How proud my dad would have been if he could have seen me! I loved learning English and stayed up night after night practicing, often falling asleep with an open book in my lap.
Vastly conscious that I was a foreigner in another country, I tried to speak slowly in public, because I did not want the Irish people to think foreigners are ill-mannered. It was important to me that they would be proud to have me in their country.
However, not everything went according to plan. It turned out that studying medicine was incredibly expensive as a non–European Union student. Even on Jabbar’s salary, there was no way we could afford for me to continue my medical education. Jabbar could see my disappointment but convinced me that it would be better to work in an office and not a hospital. Reasoning that the long hours in a hospital would be too much of a strain when we started a family, Jabbar recommended I study business and work toward a bachelor’s degree in accounting and finance at Dublin Business College. The world of figures and calculations proved quite different from nursing, and my poor English made it extremely challenging, but I just had to work harder than most.
At first life seemed beautiful and blessed, but I was young, naïve, and a little too optimistic. Gradually, the differences between Jabbar and me, exacerbated by the new world of opportunity and choice we found ourselves in, could not be ignored.
Jabbar mingled with a large circle of Pakistani friends in Dublin, whom he got to know before I arrived. He insisted I visit his friends with him. At those meet-ups I felt I was traveling back in time—the men and women stayed in separate rooms. To my dismay, I did not have much in common with the wives of his friends. Much of their time together seemed to be spent quietly discussing how annoying their husbands were and how much they disliked their in-laws. I did not feel comfortable joining in and for the most part just sat quietly until Jabbar wanted to go home. My marriage was not perfect, but I did not like the idea of talking about my husband while he was enjoying time with his friends in the next room.
Worse yet, Jabbar frequently invited his friends, along with their wives and children, to our home for lunch on weekends. Having crammed all week at my studies, I was usually exhausted and just wanted to curl up with a movie or book. For me, who had been guided by my mother to not do housework but to focus instead on my education and my future, it was somewhat disheartening that I now became a cook for Pakistani people. As Jabbar’s wife it was my traditional duty to cook for them. And it wasn’t like I could just throw something together—his friends expected traditional Pakistani dishes like biryani, karahi fried chicken, and curried mutton that all took lengthy preparation time. Jabbar helped with the cooking, which I was grateful for, but it was still draining to constantly be cooking for a house full of people I barely knew. Once dinner was finished, I was expected to clean everything up on my own. No one ever offered to help carry plates to the sink or wash up. The women and men just sat there chatting away while I worked around them.
“It would be nice if someone helped me tidy up sometime,” I complained to Jabbar one evening after all the guests had finally gone home.
“Sami,” he explained patiently, “it is not traditional in Pakistan for the guest to help out in other people’s houses with the food preparation or the tidying up.”
What a great tradition. His friends could eat at our home and then sit and relax afterward. No wonder everyone was so willing to visit!
After one Saturday spent cooking and tidying up on my own, I could no longer hold my tongue. “I don’t understand why I have to cook every week for these people,” I snapped. “Why don’t they eat at their own houses on the weekend?”
“You are being unfair, Sami,” Jabbar replied, a little less patiently this time. “These people were very kind to me when I was here on my own waiting for you to come over. It is only right we repay the favor.” With that he turned and left the room, signaling to me that the subject was no longer open to discussion. I understood the sentiment, and I wanted his friends to see that I was a loving wife, but there was a big difference between cooking for one man and doing the same for a family of five or six. I didn’t like arguing, so I reluctantly went along with what he expected of me.
That time.
Jabbar had ambitions of being an orthopedic surgeon, but since there were few work opportunities in that field, he had settled on anesthesiology. When he failed the fellowship exams he had taken in England and Ireland, he was very disappointed. I was supportive—until he told me that he wanted us to move to Kuwait so that he could train at the Kuwait Institute for Medical Specialization and then get a job there.
No way. “If you think I will go to an Arabic country with you, you are wrong,” I told him sternly. Jabbar looked at me, clearly startled. This was a side of his wife he had not seen before.
“You know Arabs don’t like Iranian people,” I continued. “I am not leaving Ireland. If you want to go so badly, you can go on your own.”
Jabbar was not willing to let the matter go so easily. “They are paying very good money for doctors!” he said heatedly. “I can’t work here now that I failed my exam!”
“I don’t care,” I replied, my anger also rising. “I am not leaving Ireland.”
Jabbar stormed out of the room. Over the next few weeks, we had the same argument again and again, always ending with him stomping away, enraged, and refusing to speak to me for several days. His behavior made living under the same roof intolerable, and it was always me who gave in and apologized. He would accept my apology, but as soon as he mentioned our moving to Kuwait, I could not help but fight back.
Eventually the cycle of argument ended because Jabbar received news that he did not meet the requirements to go to the institute in Kuwait after all. He was understandably annoyed—and it was apparently my fault that he had not been accepted, because I had spread so much negative energy—but I felt nothing but relief.
Life settled down into a working accommodation between us. I finally graduated from college with honors and landed a job at Tallaght Hospital in Dublin as an accounts assistant.
With me working, Jabbar was able to study for his fellowship exam again. It had been difficult for him to study when he was working long hours, so in some ways losing his job prospects was a blessing in disguise, as he could finally dedicate the time needed to pass the exams.
When Jabbar got word he had passed the first part of his fellowship exam, it