Trapped in Iran. Samieh Hezari

our daughter’s birth drove us further apart. Jabbar loved and doted openly on his little girl, but soon I realized that he no longer wanted to spend time with me. From the moment he would come home from work, he would pick Saba up in his arms and that is where his attention would stay for the rest of the evening.

      If I thought a baby would repair our marriage, I was wrong. Jabbar and I had become two people at opposite poles. I did not enjoy the movies he liked, and he dismissed the music I listened to, so we did not enjoy those things together as most couples do. I loved the idea of immersing myself in a new culture, but Jabbar did not. I was not as religious as Jabbar and never would be. He attended the mosque to pray, but I preferred to pray in the privacy of our home.

      I had arrived in Ireland full of dreams of becoming a doctor, but they had not materialized. I had hoped to express myself freely and wear clothes that I wanted, but life was not working out that way. More and more it seemed as if my husband was trying to control me. Now an anesthetic registrar at Connolly Hospital Blanchardstown, Jabbar leveled the same complaints over and over. “Your top is too low-cut, Sami.” “Everyone can see the shape of your backside in that dress.” I never wore anything revealing, so I struggled to see his problem with the way I dressed. I looked like every other respectable woman in Ireland who took pride in her appearance. A couple of times Jabbar suggested I wear the traditional Pakistani dress, but that request was always met with stony silence. When I suggested in 2002 that we go see Iran play Ireland live in a World Cup qualifier in Dublin, he refused without explanation. He also forbade me from watching the match at a local pub with Iranian people I knew.

      I was falling out of love with him—enough of playing the obedient wife. I had been a spirited young woman before getting married, and a part of that person still thrived inside. I fought back in my own way, a woman on a mission, applying for and securing a job as an accountant in a small firm. Saba was put in playschool—much to Jabbar’s dissatisfaction—but I was entitled to a career, too, and I was going to have it. I may have been only a trainee accountant in his eyes, but that job was important to me. When Jabbar began repeatedly telephoning me at work to check on Saba in playschool or to ask me to pick her up early, it was clear that he didn’t respect my job, my choice. I was in no position to be leaving work early to collect our child. No other employee took such liberties. I knew Jabbar wanted me to be with Saba all the time, but much as I loved my daughter, it was not going to happen.

      His unceasing domineering attitude was the final straw, and one day I told him I could take no more of it. Our marriage was over; we filed for divorce. At the start of our separation, bitter words were exchanged on both sides. I soon realized that the hostility was not going to get either of us anywhere and was hurting Saba. We finally managed to accept that we were just two very different people.

      Word spread quickly of our separation in the Pakistani and Iranian communities in Dublin. Numerous women asked how I could leave such a good and successful man. True, Jabbar was a good man and becoming successful, but I was not the sort of woman who stayed with a man for money. I wanted to be successful in my own right.

      Moving out and into my own place with Saba was incredibly liberating. No one told me what to wear or forbid me to go places I wanted to go. I never got tired of walking through the door to my home, closing it behind me, and shutting out the rest of the world. I was finally free to do whatever I pleased, and even began a new relationship with an Irish man, but my new happiness was short-lived.

      I was shunned by the Pakistani and Iranian communities in Dublin for leaving my husband. I did not anticipate the backlash from Jabbar’s Muslim friends over my new relationship. Leaving my husband was bad enough, but daring to start a relationship with another man was something so sinful that I was to be punished for it.

      After the separation I had no contact with Jabbar’s friends, which was not surprising. Most of the Muslims I had met through Jabbar were more acquaintances than friends, but there were a few I did want to stay in touch with. One was an older Iranian woman who lived near me and had always been kind and welcoming. Passing by her home one afternoon, I decided to stop by and say hello. I knocked on the door and her husband answered. When he saw me, he let out a gasp and ran to the back of the house, leaving me standing bewildered on the doorstep.

      I could hear some sort of argument in process in the back room, but I could not make out what was being said. Should I stay or go? I stood in front of the open door, waiting. Moments later my friend appeared, her head bowed. I could not see her eyes.

      “I cannot understand why you left your husband,” she said sadly. “My husband is very angry at you and does not want me to see you anymore. I must obey my husband.”

      “But I—”

      She closed the door firmly.

      I stood there for a few seconds, unable to comprehend that a woman I had considered a friend had just ended our friendship without letting me explain my version of events. Mouth still open in shock, I walked back to my car and got in. What had Jabbar told these people? As I pulled out of their driveway, my tears began to fall. I had never been treated like that by a friend and it hurt deeply.

      By the time I got home, however, I had become furious. Who were these people to judge me for leaving my marriage? They did not know what had gone on behind closed doors. And it wasn’t exactly as if they were pillars of society. I knew that my so-called friend’s husband was collecting his dole every week and supplementing this money illegally by working on a cash-only basis in a restaurant. They were obviously fine with cheating the Irish taxpayer, but it was not suitable for me to leave an unhappy marriage and meet someone else.

      If this was the reaction of someone I considered a friend, I wondered what everyone else must be thinking of me. I soon found out.

      One evening I was in the kitchen putting away groceries when the phone rang. The caller ID showed it was a young Iranian woman whom I had always gotten along well with but had not heard from in some time.

      “Hello, stranger,” I said, happy to hear from her.

      I almost didn’t recognize the voice, which was full of venom. “You are nothing but a prostitute for leaving your husband for another man. You should be ashamed of yourself, you cheap slut.” The line went dead.

      I had not left my husband for another man. I had left my husband because we could no longer live together. I sat down as Saba played happily around me without a care in the world. Too shocked to even cry, and not wanting to upset Saba, I sat in silence for a long time.

      Things did not improve. Anytime I saw Jabbar’s friends at the shopping center, they would roll their eyes or turn their faces from me in disgust. I tried to be strong, but it was hard not to feel ashamed, and I cried myself to sleep many nights.

      If the shunning wasn’t hard enough, my new relationship began showing signs of strain. I came to understand with a heavy heart that those cultural qualities about me that my partner had once found cute and endearing had become a reason for judgment and ridicule. Then the day came when I learned that he was cheating on me. When I spotted him walking hand in hand with another woman, it was over.

      I felt so lost, so different from everyone else. Not traditional enough for Jabbar and too much so for my former Irish partner, I wondered if I would ever fit in anywhere. For almost a year I tried to rebuild my life, but having fallen into a deep depression, I just couldn’t.

      I finally made my way back to Iran, seeking refuge with my family and childhood home. Still adrift and unsure, unable to gaze at the reflection of the woman I had become, one day I washed up on shore at a coffee shop, drinking coffee with Farzad.