Scattered Pearls Read online

  On the evening of Friday, 10 January 1986, I arrived home from my last day at work exhausted. I fell into a chair. I was nine months pregnant and due any day. I felt crushed, like ‘saffron in a mortar and pestle’. Reza could not understand how I could be tired. Hadn’t I been sitting all day at the computer? He told me I must type some letters for him.

  ‘I have typed so many letters already this week,’ I said.

  ‘But there are two more to do,’ he said. ‘One for the marketing, and one for registration of the patent. Get the typewriter from my bedroom.’

  Sighing, I asked him to bring the typewriter. It was only a small machine, but it was still heavy and my back ached.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘That is your job. It is your job, your work. I tell you, and you type.’

  I resisted again but with little energy to argue I eventually gave up. ‘I will write the letters then go to bed.’

  I collected the typewriter and put it on our small coffee table. I worked until midnight typing out what Reza told me to type out, then returned the typewriter to the other room. As I put it down again, I felt a sharp pain in my back – a pain that stayed with me over the whole weekend.

  Ten days later, in the early hours of Monday, 20 January, my waters broke and I went to the Frankston Hospital.

  Our second child, a daughter, was born at 6.56 am that day. With pale skin, beautiful eyes and perfectly shaped eyebrows, she was a beauty from the time she was born. As with Ali, Reza had no interest in the baby’s name, so I called her Shirin. It was a name I loved and I knew my mother loved too.

  Of course, Shirin’s arrival changed nothing in Reza. His exercise of power over me was made stronger by the fact that I was now at home again full time, having taken a year’s maternity leave from the Wool Corporation (from which I would not return as Reza refused to do anything to care for either Ali or Shirin). If anything, my husband became more brutal. With his ‘Exerciser’ project his sense of self- importance increased; he now saw himself as a businessman and entrepreneur. Soon, in his mind, I would be kissing his feet. In the meantime, this ‘businessman’ continued to sleep until noon, then again from four in the afternoon. The slightest noise from me or the children would cause him to storm out of his bedroom, swear at me, and beat me about the head or pull my hair. All of this would take place in front of the children, and while he did not hit them he would shout at Ali to shut up. And all of this would take place almost every day: babies and preschoolers make noise, no matter how much you urge them not to.

  We lived in a prison-like atmosphere where everyone is permanently on edge. Reza controlled everything. Ali and Shirin could not watch cartoons as Reza chose the TV channel and no one was allowed to change it – even as he spent long periods sitting on the toilet. I was allowed to shower only after the children had gone to bed, so that Reza did not have to take responsibility to watch them.

  ‘You are the mother of these children and responsible for their safety. I am the man of the house, the boss. I am the man, you are the donkey.’

  As for the Exerciser, Reza eventually found two partners willing to buy into the business. Reza, myself and the two partners each took 25 per cent shares. Not that we were selling anything yet. At one point the partners helped fund the purchase of close to a tonne of bulk plasticine with a view to hand-making an initial batch of the product. The huge supply of plasticine was delivered to our unit in 150 cardboard boxes. The large delivery truck squeezing up our narrow driveway had all our neighbours staring in amazement. Once unloaded, the boxes filled one side of Reza’s bedroom from floor to ceiling. We bought 500 small zip-lock bags and had labels printed featuring a black-and-white sketch of Reza’s forearm against a light-blue background. The illustration showed Reza’s fist closed around the Exerciser, under which was the slogan, ‘Your Health is in your Hand’. Reza would break 50 grams of plasticine off a block, mould it into a cylinder and enclose it in a bag with a label. The whole process was very slow. The partners then tried to use these prototypes to garner interest from potential retailers, the idea being that, if successful, they would find a way to produce the product on a commercial scale. However, a year later most of the boxes of plasticine were still stacked high in Reza’s room. Very few would ever be sold.

  ~

  My diary has only a few entries for 1986 and 1987. Why document the same fights and assaults over and over? It was enough to live these things; I didn’t need to relive them. And I was chronically tired.

  September 9, 1986

  . . . I hate this man more every day. Between my last entry until now, we have argued more than a thousand times. I have been beaten often.

  He goes to the TAB, he does exercise with his grip strengthener, and he sleeps.

  A few weeks ago he was sick. I made his soup 10 minutes late and he upended the whole pot down the sink.

  When I think about the past I think I have cried 360/365 days. He constantly slaps me. I am tired. Again I have a fast from speaking. My lips are sealed. At least this way I am comfortable with myself.

  Ali and Shirin are asleep. I read at night. Who do I write this rubbish for? I write not to forget. Going out to the shops or kindergarten is the only break I get from this little man.

  I look at my diary from exactly one year ago. The truth is my situation is getting worse, from every angle.

  My rights are destroyed. But I will fight for them even with silence – it is my only weapon.

  Maybe there is no end to my dark nights. Anyway, not many nights left.

  One of the few rays of light in this period was both Reza and I being granted permanent residency in September of 1986. I made numerous trips to the immigration department to achieve this, and also to assist Fariba and Mansoor with extensions to their visitor visas. They, too, eventually received permanent residency. Mansoor also got married in this year, to a lady named Mary he had met a year or so earlier. Theirs was partly a marriage of convenience and they each retained their own apartments afterwards, but they also spent a lot of time together and Mary would become very much a part of our family.

  My next diary entry wasn’t made until April 1987 and records, briefly, perhaps the lowest point in my life. Shirin was now about 16 months old; Ali was five years of age and had just started school.

  I reached madness and I ran away from the house to commit suicide. I ran to the Kananook bridge which crosses the Frankston Freeway. I was going to throw myself from that bridge. Reza chased me. He grabbed me and threw me on the grass and started to ask me why I was so mad and I said, ‘Death has more value than this life’.

  [While this went on,] Ali and Shirin were left inside the house, then Ali came out after us while Shirin hid under her bed crying. Ali was also crying when I came home because he went the wrong way and couldn’t find us.

  Would I have jumped? No. Who would have looked after Ali and Shirin? Even though I was desperate – even though ending my life was the only source of relief I could imagine – I would not have jumped. And Reza knew it.

  Then news came that my parents would come to Australia at the end of the year for a visit. This was both a relief and a confrontation. As far as I knew they understood little of what had been going on in my life. I did not share much in letters or on the telephone; in truth I was ashamed. Now I might be able to have some support, but I would also need to confront some hard truths.

  11

  Scattered pearls

  About two months before Christmas in 1987 I was at the hospital having an ultrasound, three months into my third pregnancy. I was starting to feel concerned. It seemed to be taking much longer than in the past. After what felt like an hour, I asked the doctor whether everything was all right.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The foetuses are very well.’

  I sank backwards, let out a sigh and closed my eyes. After a few moments my eyes flashed open and I turned to the doctor. ‘Did you say “foetuses”?’

  ‘Yes, Sohila. Did you not know that you are having twins? You have
two very healthy babies in there.’

  I lay back again, this time in shock. It was a surreal moment. What a wonderful thing to be having twins – there was so much I loved about being a mother. But . . . what was I to do with four children, a useless husband and very little income? Once again I saw myself living out my mother’s imprisoned life.

  At home my news was greeted by indifference. Reza pecked me on the head and mumbled something inaudible.

  ~

  It is not widely understood that many Iranians celebrate Christmas. Many in the Western world think of Iranians as Muslims and Arabs, no doubt because of the fundamentalist nature of the post-revolution regimes of Ruhollah Khomeini and his successors. However, Iranians are predominantly Persian, not Arab, and Persians are traditionally very respectful of other cultures and beliefs. Persians love any chance for a feast, so when Iranian Christians – many of them ethnic Armenians – celebrate Christmas, most other Iranians are happy to join in. In the same vein, most Iranian immigrants to Australia are very enthusiastic about participating in the festivities of Christmas.

  For Christmas Day in 1987 I cooked a nice meal of fried fish and rice. Reza was not in a good mood and kept telling me to stop talking, even though I was only talking to Ali and Shirin, asking them if they were enjoying the meal. After we had finished I decided to take Ali and Shirin to the small park next to our block, where I enjoyed a break from Reza and the children enjoyed the swings and seesaw.

  ‘Kos khol khanum (Mrs Silly C_ _t). Where have you been?’ said Reza when we returned. ‘Who goes out on Christmas Day?’

  At the sound of that insult, my anger overflowed. ‘Are you mad? How dare you call me that, today of all days. I detest that word. If you ever call me that again I will say you are a mad idiot!’

  He moved towards me, his eyes burning. He slapped me twice on the face, then yanked my hair and pulled me close to his chest. I glared back until he released me.

  ‘How dare you destroy our Christmas Day for no reason,’ I said. ‘Wait until my mother comes. She will teach you a lesson.’

  Then I went to my room where I cried for the rest of the afternoon. How much was it possible to hate someone? That night I cooked, fed the children, then ate on my own. I left Reza’s meal on the table for him, without any care. Then I cried into the evening. I asked God to hold my hands and direct me forward.

  ~

  Two days after Christmas my parents arrived in Australia. It would be the first time I had seen them since our trip to Iran five years before, when Ali was a baby.

  Mansoor was able to borrow Mary’s car and he and Fariba went to meet Asghar and Shahin at the airport. They returned with them to his flat, where they would stay; I joined them with the children a little later.

  Oh, what a tsunami of emotions poured out of me when I saw Mum and Dad. I threw myself into my mother’s arms and cried and cried. We held each other for a long time. I hugged my father too, and was surprised when there seemed to be some real emotion in his hug back.

  ‘Sohila, you are so weak, so skinny,’ my mother said.

  I could see in her face that she knew exactly what had been going on, even though I had told her very little in my regular letters or on the few occasions that we had talked on the phone. I had always glossed over the challenges of my life. In part I had not wanted to worry her but, just as she had always done herself, I had also accepted all the abuse and poverty as unchangeable aspects of my life. Things to put up with. My lot.

  When my parents came to visit our unit in Kananook they were shocked at how impoverished my life had become. I was now 32 years old and Reza 42. We had two young children and twins on the way. We were both professionals (or so my parents believed). Shahin and Asghar could reasonably have expected that we would be reasonably well established by now.

  ‘You have so little,’ they said, surveying the sparse rooms, mismatched furniture and lack of decoration.

  Reza was out, probably at the betting shop, but still I avoided the subject of my marriage. I asked about friends and family in Iran, how the trip had been – the usual stuff. I didn’t want to talk negatively about my life because it wasn’t going to change. What was the point? As long as Reza held sway over my children’s future, he held sway over me. I wasn’t going anywhere. But of course, I didn’t need to tell them anything: they only had to look around, look at me, their once chic daughter, to know that things were not well. And they had talked to my siblings who, while not knowing everything, were old enough now (in their mid-twenties) to be able to read between the bruises and the poverty and have some idea of what I was going through. I would learn later that a letter from Mansoor saying they needed ‘to see the state of Sohila’ had been the catalyst for my parents coming to Australia in the first place.

  When Reza returned he greeted Shahin and Asghar with a cold smile.

  ‘Khanum (Missus), bring fruit,’ he said to me.

  ‘We don’t have any fruit,’ I said.

  Perhaps he sensed my parents’ unease at the poverty of our unit because at one point he said, ‘Things will get better . . . in light of Exerciser’.

  He lost patience after my parents left.

  ‘Piss off,’ he said to me. ‘Your mother and father have no right to come here.’

  ~

  The day after Mum and Dad arrived I took Ali and Shirin to Mansoor’s house for lunch. Fariba was also there, having come up from Warrnambool to see our parents. She was now halfway through her nursing studies.

  The discussion around the table turned to my situation. My mother said it would be better if I separated from Reza.

  ‘This man who only eats and sleeps, what good is he? I don’t know how you have put up with him with his vile mouth. You can’t continue this life of torture.’

  Tears ran down my cheeks but I didn’t – couldn’t – speak for some time.

  ‘But the children. He will take them back to Iran,’ I said eventually, the tears still flowing. ‘This is why I cannot leave him. What will become of Ali and Shirin?’

  ‘He is bluffing,’ said my mother. ‘He doesn’t want the children. You should call his bluff and leave them with him. He won’t last three days with two preschoolers.’

  My father nodded. ‘I never liked this man. It is time you left him behind.’

  ‘You will be able to keep the children, I am sure,’ added Fariba. ‘My friend at the hospital had an abusive husband and the courts gave her custody of her children. She is so much happier now.’

  On hearing this I brightened up just a little. I saw the smallest crack in the dark wall of my life. In all this time I had never really considered that Australian law would be very different to the laws of the Islamic regime, and that in this country it was possible for a wife to win custody. Why hadn’t I known this? How could I have been so ignorant? If I had known this, would it have changed things? Would I have found the courage to leave?

  The family conference continued through the afternoon. At one point the conversation turned to my unborn children. The consensus of my family was that I should abort them, that I was not ready or able to cope with the demands of two more children – not while living with Reza, nor if I ended up becoming a single mother. In my heart I could not agree with any of this and was determined to have my twins. The next week I would go to the Monash Medical Centre with my mother, father and Mansoor but thank God the doctor would tell me that an abortion was out of the question – at almost five months, I was much too far along in the pregnancy. This would be the best news I had had for a long time.

  When I got home that evening Reza confronted me.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘To Mansoor’s house. To see my mum and dad.’

  ‘You are always going there without telling me.’

  He reached out to slap me but I backed away, holding my head up. He approached again, but then stopped. He reminded me of a dog who wonders if it has met its match. His eyes narrowed a little, then his hand dropped to his side. />
  ‘What did your parents bring from Iran?’

  ‘They brought some wall hangings, some dresses for me, and a pearl necklace.’

  ‘Didn’t they bring any gold?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  He turned away without a word, picked up a packet of cigarettes from the kitchen counter and headed outside.

  ~

  The next day I decided to take the children to Mansoor’s house again. In the middle of the morning, before Reza woke, I organised the children as quietly as I could. With Shirin in her pusher, I took Ali’s hand and gently closed the door behind me. The three of us headed down the street for the short walk to Kananook station from where we could catch the train to Frankston.

  We had walked about a hundred metres down the road and were just passing the milk bar when a voice shouted from behind me.

  ‘Idiot! Kos khol khanum. Where are you going?’

  My shoulders slumped.

  When Reza caught up to us I told him, as calmly as I could, where I was planning to go.

  ‘No,’ he said. He took hold of the pusher and grabbed Ali’s hand. ‘Now you can go wherever you want. Piss off.’

  I was terrified, but I remembered my mother’s encouragement to stay strong. Call his bluff. Leave the children with him. It took all my inner strength to do so.

  I walked away.

  When I turned and looked back I saw him pushing the stroller away. It was the first time I could ever remember him pushing it. Ali was crying.

  That day we went for lunch at Arthur’s Seat, a place with wonderful views across Port Phillip Bay and back to Frankston. But my mind was elsewhere. Reza’s petty bullying, and the chance to spend time with my family without the children, led to another afternoon of discussion about my future. By the end of the day my family’s support had given me new courage. I agreed that I would think about leaving Reza – with my family’s support. My father encouraged me to secretly remove my passport and the children’s birth certificates from my house and bring them to Mansoor’s for safekeeping. Asghar said I should take Reza’s passport too – at least that way he could not easily steal the children away.