by Samra Zafar
“Thank you, thank you for coming,” I whispered between weepy hiccups, now grateful for my father’s financial extravagance.
“What’s the matter, beta?” my father said.
“Did you come to take me home?” I asked. I knew that couldn’t be true, but I couldn’t help hoping.
“We’ve come to see you off,” said my father.
I was too happy to be with them in that moment to be disappointed. After a week of feeling invisible, I was suddenly strong again, both seen and loved.
“Please, come in.” I heard Amma’s voice call to my parents. She didn’t sound pleased.
“No, thank you,” said my father. “We are just here to take Samra out shopping for the day.”
I turned to Ahmed. “Is that okay?” I didn’t ask him if he wanted to join us.
His expression was hard to read, but his words surprised me. “Don’t ask me. Ask Amma.”
His mother was standing in the middle of the room, a sour look on her face. “Of course,” she said tightly. “Why would I stop her?”
I knew that she was incensed, but I was past caring. As I turned to leave, Ahmed pressed a few bills into my hand. My father took them from me and handed them back to Ahmed. “No, she doesn’t need that.”
And then we were out the door.
* * *
In the car, my mother and father wanted to know why I had asked to go home with them. I explained that I hadn’t been allowed to leave Amma’s side, that Ahmed, despite his kindness when we were alone, paid no attention to me when we were with his family.
“He seems like a very nice man, Samra,” my mother said. “He is only acting this way because he is feeling pressure from his family.”
“Yes,” my father assured me. “When you get to Canada, everything will be different.”
At the shopping mall, I was overcome by a giddy sense of freedom. I had been shopping almost every day with Ahmed’s mother, but that had always seemed like some kind of forced march. Now I was able to roam wherever I wanted and look at anything that interested me. This must be what it’s like to get out of jail, I thought.
My parents suggested that I pick up some things for the plane ride. After several hours, I left the mall with a bag of snacks and several of my favourite types of books.
When we got back to the hotel, it was already time to drive to the airport. I told Ahmed I wanted to go in the same car as my parents. I made sure there was nothing of a question in my statement.
* * *
The drive was not a long one, but it seemed to be over with uncanny speed. I sat next to my mother, holding her hand and hugging her between short bursts of weeping. Try as I might to think about my love for Ahmed, the impending separation from my family was a heartache I could not beat back.
Once in the airport terminal, I hung on tight to both of my parents. Eventually, Ahmed took my arm and led me into the security lineup. But when I looked back and saw my parents waving at me, I bolted out of the line and ran back into their arms. By the third or fourth time, Ahmed was understandably losing patience.
“Come on, Samra. We’re going to miss our flight,” he said as he took my arm again. “We have to go.”
Tears continued to course down my cheeks as we found our way to the gate and then boarded the plane. By the time we had settled into our seats, however, I was finally wrung dry. Ahmed put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me to him.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I understand. But just think, no more shopping trips with Amma!” His laughter and good humour made me feel better. He took my hand, and I leaned into him. I closed my eyes.
After all my nerves and tears, all my worries and sleepless nights, I was at last with my husband, a man who truly loved me. And I was on my way to a bright future. At my feet was my school knapsack stuffed with presents from my parents—chocolate bars and Nancy Drew mysteries.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 5
SAMRA-BEGUM
Wake up. Come see!”
Ahmed’s voice broke through my deep blanket of sleep. I wanted to drift away again, but his tone was urgent—and excited. I stumbled out of bed, pulling a housecoat around my shoulders. The bedroom was cold, colder than I would have thought possible before I moved to Canada. Ahmed was at the window, pointing out. As I moved towards him, I was startled by the light coming from outside. And then I saw it. A dazzling white world spread out below our condo window. Snow.
Ahmed and I stood side by side, staring out—Ahmed chuckling at my slack-jawed amazement. Then he gave my arm a pat.
“Go on, get dressed. Let’s go outside.”
I put on as many layers as I could, and we went out onto the lawns around the condo. Ahmed showed me how to scoop up the snow in my hands and pack it into a snowball. He was surprised at what a good arm I had. All my cricket playing had paid off.
After receiving a few hits, Ahmed decided we should switch activities—making a snowman and then a snow angel. Finally, cold and wet and thoroughly delighted, we returned to the warmth of the apartment.
After changing into dry clothes, I stationed myself once more in front of the windows, with a cup of steaming tea. My cheeks stung pleasantly from the cold. My future was not quite following the path I had expected, but I was married to a man I loved. And I was excited and hopeful about everything that lay before me. If someone had told me this happiness could melt away as quickly as a November snow, I wouldn’t have believed them.
* * *
We had arrived in Canada in the last weeks of August. Abu Dhabi had sent us off under waves of heat reaching 50 degrees Celsius. Getting out of the cab in front of the condo building in Mississauga, I took a deep breath of the fresh air. The skies were blue, the sun was shining and the air was deliciously warm instead of blazingly hot. My new home was delightful, too. The lobby, with its sparkling marble and gleaming glass, looked like a palace. Ahmed proudly showed me through the condo unit. I was almost skipping as I walked, thrilled with the big windows, the soft-carpeted floors, the spacious master bedroom with its brightly tiled en suite bathroom. I knew we wouldn’t be living here long—as soon as Ahmed’s parents moved to Canada, we would find an apartment of our own—but for now I revelled in the modern elegance of the place.
The only real furniture in the condo, however, was a futon bed. Ahmed said we could scrape together a few things, but his parents were going to use the cargo permit that came along with my permanent residency status to ship extra furniture they didn’t need to set up the apartment for themselves. I was happy to make do.
Ahmed had arranged to take a few weeks of holiday upon his return to Canada so that we could spend some time together and he could show me around. He took me shopping for new clothes and out for dinner. We drove his ancient black Thunderbird up to Wasaga Beach, where we walked on the sand, ate ice cream and kissed on a park bench in the breezy sunshine. As he had promised all those months ago, Ahmed also took me to the Niagara Falls, where we stood in the mist and marvelled at the roar of the blue water.
But my favourite times were the quiet evenings at home. Ahmed and I would stand side by side at the kitchen counter, making homemade pizza or burgers for dinner. Then we would cuddle up in front of the TV to watch Who Wants to Be a Millionaire or old reruns of All in the Family as the light faded outside.
Once Ahmed went back to work, I spent my days in the condo, chatting with my family and friends on MSN Messenger and talking with Ahmed on the telephone. I went out for walks by myself a couple of times, but I found the landscape strange and intimidating. The huge mall nearby and other obvious landmarks did nothing to dispel my certainty that I would get lost. Despite my father’s encouragement, and my past intrepid solo journeys into Abu Dhabi, I was really a small-town girl. And here, in a foreign land, I felt I had no anchor to keep me from drifting off into dangerous territory.
At the end of August, before Ahmed returned to work, I had begun phoning universities to find out about the application process. I was s
omewhat deflated to learn that my completed grade twelve would not be sufficient to get me into an Ontario university. At the time, the province still had grade thirteen; I needed six credits at this level to be accepted.
Ahmed told me not to worry. There was a high school nearby that I could attend for the year. But before I could register, I ended up at the doctor’s office.
* * *
About two weeks into September, barely a month after arriving in Canada, I realized that I hadn’t gotten my period. I told Ahmed I was worried. Could this mean I was pregnant? He assured me I wasn’t. “We’ve been careful,” he reminded me.
Was that true? Despite Fatima’s advice that avoiding sex on days thirteen to seventeen of my cycle would prevent pregnancy, we had used condoms as well—but not consistently. Perhaps avoiding conception was trickier than I understood. After a few more days passed without the arrival of my period, Ahmed agreed that it would be a good idea for me to get checked out by a doctor.
The female doctor at the medical centre next to our building was kind and reassuring. Her first question, however, was how old I was. When I told her I was eighteen, a look of concern crossed her face, but she told me not to worry. “I’ll do a blood test, but it could just be the big changes and the move.”
A few days later Ahmed and I went back to her office to get the results. Ahmed wanted to go into the examination room with me. “No, no,” said the doctor. “I’d like to talk to Samra alone.”
Once I’d settled onto the chair, the doctor looked at me with sympathy. “Samra,” she said, “the results are positive. You’re pregnant.”
I felt as if the earth had dissolved beneath my feet. How could this be? I had been married such a short time. And I was starting school in a couple of weeks.
“Samra?” The doctor’s voice sounded as if it were coming from a great distance. I looked up at her. She seemed to be waiting for an answer. I hadn’t heard her question.
“I asked if you wanted to go through with the pregnancy.”
I had no idea what she was talking about. Slowly and patiently she explained my options. I had never heard of abortion before. She told me that it was my choice whether or not to stay pregnant. It was up to me.
Finally, I responded. “I don’t think that would be allowed in my religion.”
She nodded. “Well, you think about it. You can come back to me.”
I walked out of the office in shocked silence. When Ahmed asked what had happened, I said I would tell him once we got to the condo. I couldn’t bring myself to say the words in a public space—perhaps if I didn’t speak them out in the open they might be less real.
Back at home, I watched Ahmed’s face as I gave him the news. He smiled a small smile and said, “Congratulations,” but he looked as stunned as I felt.
I didn’t want his congratulations; I wanted answers. “How will I go to school?” I asked. “How will I go to university?”
At my panicked words, he put his arms around me and held me tight.
“Don’t worry about that, Samra. We’ll work it out.”
* * *
When I broke the news to my parents, they both sounded shocked. My mother tried to adopt a happy tone, but concern laced her words. My father was blunt.
“Don’t give up on school,” he insisted.
The call to Ahmed’s parents went quite differently. His mother was ecstatic. And much to my surprise, she was reassuring too. “Don’t worry about school,” she said. “We will be there soon, and I will take care of the baby for you.”
I hadn’t thought of that. Ahmed had already filed the paperwork to sponsor his parents. It was possible they would be in Canada even before the baby was born.
The support of the high school administration took a different direction. The principal was worried about bullying and recommended that I finish my high school requirements at an adult learning centre nearby and through correspondence courses.
Ahmed thought she was right. And he pointed out that going to school full time might be too taxing for me while I was pregnant.
And so I enrolled in an English literature class at the centre and two math classes by correspondence. Everyone in my English class was a lot older than I was, but that didn’t stop me from engaging in the discussions. I loved many of the books on the reading list and always looked forward to Monday evenings, when I could share my thoughts.
Before Ahmed drove me over to the first class, however, he made a request. I was in our bedroom, packing up my school bag. “Samra, would you mind wearing a hijab to class?”
I was startled.
“It’s just that I don’t like other men looking at your hair,” Ahmed explained tenderly. “You don’t have to do this, but I hope you will—out of love for me.”
I hadn’t enjoyed my brief flirtation with the hijab in Karachi. I’d realized that even while I was getting to know people and making new friends, the hijab made me feel as if some essential part of myself were hidden. And even if this were not true, I was reluctant to undergo anymore changes now. After all, although it was still early in my pregnancy, the baby was already transforming me into someone new—from the inside out. In a hijab, the old me might disappear a little bit more.
I was also thinking about what this request from Ahmed implied. When he mentioned the hijab to me the first time, he had claimed that it would protect me and also make me look more beautiful to him. He was no longer talking about beauty, however, only about the attention I might receive from other men if my hair was visible.
A memory pushed itself into the light. Before I left Karachi, I had to have a full medical exam as part of my application to the Canadian immigration ministry. When I told Ahmed about the upcoming appointment, he asked the name of the doctor, becoming alarmed when he realized I would be seeing a male physician. He insisted that I call the embassy and demand a female replacement. I balked. “He’s a doctor, Ahmed,” I said over and over, trying to convince him that my modesty would not be imperilled. When this did not persuade him, I changed tack. “If I request a new doctor, it could really delay my application.”
In the end, Ahmed acquiesced. But he did look up the doctor on the Internet and read his reviews. He also insisted that my mother go into the examination room with me—and he gave me some instructions about what to allow and not allow during the examination.
The exchange had left me a little exasperated, but Ahmed’s kind and gentle words made me believe that the combination of love and distance had made him overprotective. I hadn’t given it another thought until now.
With this second hijab request, I was forced to recognize that Ahmed was not quite as comfortable with my independence as he had originally led me to believe. But did that matter? If he thought I was beautiful, wasn’t it natural that he would succumb to jealousy now and again? I should feel flattered by this, I thought. And besides, as young as I was, I recognized that marriage was about small compromises. I did love him. I could do this for him.
“Of course,” I said to Ahmed. “I’ll wear the hijab.”
* * *
When I arrived in my first English class, the teacher told me that since I was so young, missing out on a full-time high school experience was a mistake—and she suggested I switch back. But Ahmed had been right; daily attendance at school no longer seemed like a good idea. By October, I was experiencing terrible morning sickness that lasted all day. The nausea and vomiting were often accompanied by faintness. One day in early October, I collapsed in the checkout line at a grocery store. I came to with Ahmed bent over me, splashing water on my face and calling my name.
After that, my nervousness about being out alone intensified. What would I do if I got sick while I was out? I had no cellphone, no way to call Ahmed for help. I was much more comfortable staying at home during the day, working on my homework and on my correspondence courses. I still talked regularly with my parents in the afternoons, but I began to chat on MSN with friends in Ruwais and Karachi less often. While talking
to my family sometimes made me homesick, listening to my friends’ tales of life at school provoked not only homesickness but also a great longing for my former teenage social life.
Yet I was happy with Ahmed—I didn’t want that happiness dulled by envy.
* * *
As autumn folded into winter, our married life settled into a pleasing rhythm. Ahmed’s parents’ furniture arrived in December, and with it another layer of comfort. Because my pregnancy had me sleeping fitfully and I was often tired, Ahmed would get up quietly in the mornings so I could sleep in. Once up, I busied myself with school work. Sometimes Ahmed came home for lunch. But even if he didn’t, he would call several times a day to ask how I was doing and to find out what he might pick up for dinner, as my nausea made cooking difficult. As each afternoon progressed, I found myself excited by the growing darkness, knowing that it meant Ahmed would be walking through the door at any moment. In the evenings, once we were finished eating, we would curl up on the couch and watch TV or rented movies. Sometimes we talked dreamily about the future—the baby’s arrival, university for me, probably part time at first. We imagined our two-income lives, our family holidays and our future house, with a pretty backyard and plenty of space for our children.
On the weekends, we sometimes packed up the car and headed out on the road. We stayed three nights in Montreal one time; overnight in Niagara Falls another. We also received numerous dinner party invitations. Ahmed, of course, had a number of friends, some who were married as well. And his family had a network of old friends who had immigrated to the Toronto area. Many of these people hosted us from time to time. Before most parties, Ahmed’s mother would call to fill me in on everyone who might be there—and on how to dress appropriately for each occasion. Despite her insistent direction I enjoyed the chance to get out, although the evenings were never as easy as I would have liked. I was so much younger than most of the others, as well as being the only newcomer to their circle. I didn’t know the people they spoke of and could share none of their memories.
