‘She had fled from Iraq, along with her husband and newborn son, who she had swaddled in a cloth and carried on her back across the mountains. After seeking asylum in the Netherlands, she came to live in my neighbourhood in Rotterdam, where she then had two more sons. But her hard-won safety was undermined by the drama on the home front. She came to my office complaining of vague symptoms, and only after numerous appointments did I finally uncover the underlying cause – she was being abused and raped by her husband at home and felt a deep sense of shame.
She told me what happened whenever he demanded sex against her will: she would let him have his way, pulling her headcloth over her eyes so she didn’t have to look. She had fallen pregnant that way several times and had come to see me about an abortion without his knowledge. He became paranoid, convinced she was seeing someone else, and instructed his boys to keep watch on her all day long.
All the carers involved in her case were unanimous. You can’t go on like this, they said, you have to leave him. But in the back of her mind was the shocking memory of her Iraqi brother-in-law, who had murdered his wife in an honour killing. She feared the same fate. She had called her three brothers – two who lived in Germany and one who lived in Iraq – to talk about a divorce. Absolutely not, they said, unless she was prepared to move back to Iraq and leave her children behind. She was trapped.
Meanwhile, the pressure at home was rising. Her husband would casually tell his friends that she was a useless wife for refusing to spread her legs – in front of the children, no less, which added to her humiliation. She was also under pressure from other carers, who were threatening to take her children away due to the situation at home. All manner of organisations got involved with her family, and everybody thought they knew what was best for her. Even I put in my two cents. She was in my office on a weekly basis, and I urged her to take action, saying that there was no need to be afraid in the Netherlands. Her response was always the same: I can’t. I even called Mayor Aboutaleb personally to see if he could reason with her husband, but I got no further than the secretary. We were all so eager to do her thinking for her, but only from within our familiar Dutch bubble. I neglected to consider that perhaps she might know best what the consequences of a divorce would be.
She ultimately found her own resolution. She had her brothers come over from Germany and arranged a family meeting with her husband. Initially her brothers thought she should persevere with the marriage, but she eventually convinced them otherwise and they came around to her side. On behalf of the family, they gave her permission to divorce, which allowed her honour to remain intact. She now lives by herself with her sons in the Netherlands, and her husband comes to visit the children now and again. He has had no choice but to accept the situation.
Her story taught me that I shouldn’t think I can always solve other people’s problems. Who am I to decide what’s right for someone else? I work in a disadvantaged migrant area – what do I know of their culture and background? The strength of this woman astounded me: despite the incredible stress, pain and sheer exhaustion of her circumstances, she still somehow found the energy and courage to pull herself out of her misery. I hardly ever see her in my office anymore.’