Stereotypical thoughts surfaced in my head: What did you expect?
You married a man from a country where some believe that
beating is acceptable.
Hidden out of the public eye on a safe, quiet, tree-lined street outside of Seattle proper, an attractive woman, middle aged and very inviting, greeted my daughter and me at the side entrance to the shelter. It was a small, plain white home, like most of the homes in that neighborhood. There were four shared bedrooms and a nice private backyard where I got the needed fresh air from a suffocating life that I was losing control of.
The women’s shelter had an open living room and kitchen area that was shared. At the desk, in an out-of-the-way corner of the living room, I signed an agreement to stay there and was taken to our room for that night. My daughter, now one and half years old, adapted effortlessly and seemed to sense my predicament. She was already acclimated to the nontraditional lifestyle we lived. Again I wondered, Are our lives decided by destiny? I had reached the point of no return. I was now fearful of what lay ahead, scared by the unknown of my future, feeling that I wasn’t in control.
An obligation of staying at the shelter was to participate in a group support session. Each woman had to share why she was there. After I heard horrendous stories from other women, it was my turn to talk. I had listened to the stories of women with broken bones, bruised faces, and stitches from knife wounds. Nervous, anxious, and embarrassed to talk in front of others, I felt vulnerable. My voice squeaked out that my “stuff” seemed so insignificant compared to what everyone else had shared. I remarked meekly, “I’ve only gotten hit and threatened a few times.”
I will never forget the strong, firm words out of the confident facilitator’s mouth, “Don’t you for one second think this way. It is not all right for anyone to hit you, no matter what the reason. You have sought help early, before more can happen.” I hung my head in shame. I was educated about the phases and cycles of abuse: physical, sexual, verbal, and mental. That it can be an addictive roller coaster, even more complicated when a child is involved. The final phase was hardest: leaving an abusive relationship.
Most people would not have imagined my being in a relationship that was verbally and physically abusive, being the free-willed, assertive, spirited, independent woman I was. With my strong German build, one would have thought I might have been able to overpower Abdul’s more petite frame. This is where my adrenaline could have been tested, the fight-or-flight theory. I could not believe that I was in this type of relationship.
More stereotypical thoughts surfaced in my head. What did you expect? You married a man from a country where some believe that beating is acceptable. Still, I had known American women married to Saudis who had “normal” lives. The bottom line was this: abuse happens in every country. Still, my naïveté amazed me. Why did I marry a man from a different culture and religion? We had been told that our “challenges” were not about culture and religion; they were about the difficulties of two people relating peacefully in a new marriage, with a child, and things had not gone as expected. Many couples went through this—or so we had been told.
Aisha started at another day care that I was able to find for her and enroll her in secretly. During certain times of the day, I avoided locations we had used before. Any possible contact with Abdul did not feel safe.
I was able to get a lawyer through the women’s shelter; and by the order of a judge, I got permission to return to our home, while Abdul would live with his brother. Later, a restraining order was needed to keep him away from us, and my employer obtained one to keep Abdul from harassing me at work. Divorce proceedings began.
Abdul hired a lawyer, as well. He was granted supervised visitation rights a couple of times a week at a neighbor’s house across the street. He was also ordered to leave his and Aisha’s passports with the court. Abdul made a big deal out of my neglecting to grab the passports when I left the house before going to the shelter. Safety had been first on my mind, however—not the passports. Abdul was strongly advised to take an anger management class to see if he could improve his temperament. It was the end of May 1986. My spirit was shattered, and my head was spinning in circles. I needed old friends who knew me; they could help me see. My world had become a fog.