by Samra Zafar
* * *
By spring 2008, the daycare and our daily routines were well established. Despite the house expenses, I had managed to save several thousand dollars. It had been two years since my father died, two years since I had truly realized that the only changes in my life would be those of my own making. I had looked at the university website from time to time, but now there was only one day left to apply for the fall term. I decided to fill in the form once again. This time, I didn’t ask Ahmed’s permission.
And then, in July, a treat: Saira and Bushra came to visit. Other than my mother, when she stayed with us at the condo, none of my family had come to see me. When I discovered that two of my sisters would be able to get away in the summer, I dug into my savings to buy them plane tickets.
Ahmed took two weeks off work, and the six of us—Ahmed, Aisha, Sonia, Saira, Bushra and I—hit all the tourist spots in the Toronto area. After visiting the CN Tower, the zoo and Niagara Falls, we piled into the minivan and drove east—to Ottawa, Montreal and Quebec City—all of us filling the car with song as we spun down the highway.
I was so glad to be again in the company of my sisters, but there was much more reason for happiness. Ahmed was his most charming, generous self. He chauffeured us everywhere without complaint, cracked jokes and bought dinners. He entertained Aisha and Sonia and listened patiently while my sisters and I chatted and reminisced. And then, one night in our hotel room in Ottawa, he looked at me with such love and affection that I felt my heart stir.
“I know I haven’t been a good husband to you, Samra,” he said. “It’s just that I love you so much that I can’t stand it if I think you are disrespecting me in any way. I’m going to try harder. I promise.”
A few days later, the six of us were sitting on folding chairs in front of Montmorency Falls, outside of Quebec City. The velvety night sky was being painted again and again with the iridescence of fireworks. It was as happy a moment as I had ever had.
It was impossible not to hope that this joy would last, that Ahmed and I had turned a corner.
The rest of my sisters’ visit flew by. Driving home after dropping them at the airport, I felt as if I had spent the days in some bigger, brighter universe. Yet I could sense the weight of life in the salmon-coloured house hovering in the distance. As I walked through the front door, it began to descend. And then my eye caught sight of something.
On the hall table, on top of a stack of mail, an official-looking letter with my name on it. As I picked it up, I noticed the University of Toronto logo and address. I kicked off my shoes and went downstairs to my bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I ripped open the envelope. It was an offer of admission.
As tears began to rise, so did another sensation—a cool, steely feeling. Resolution. This time, no one was going to stop me.
CHAPTER 12
SCHOOL AT LAST
There was no time to waste. I had applied late and so my university acceptance had come just three weeks before classes were to start. The day after the letter arrived, I got in the minivan and drove to the Mississauga campus of the University of Toronto. I didn’t need to look at a map to get to UTM. I knew exactly where it was. I smiled as I passed the blue-and-white graduation-hat signs, one after another. They were finally leading the way.
I parked in the lot nearest the registration office. I got out quickly, but then stood by my car, unmoving. Looking all around me, I was awestruck. The campus lawns were the dusty green of late summer, the trees heavy with leaves. In front of me I could see a sweep of modern buildings—expanses of glass, steel, concrete—everything new and full of purpose. It might have looked pedestrian to just about everyone else. But to me, it was a magical scene.
A few people were walking along the paths, backpacks slung over their shoulders. I shivered. In just a few days, I was going to be one of them. None of it felt real.
I gave myself a little shake and looked down at the letter I had brought with me. I needed to get to the office and sign up for my courses.
A few minutes later, I was settled in a vinyl chair in a tiny, businesslike office. I had been accepted into the Bachelor of Business Administration program, but when the academic counsellor checked her computer for the courses I needed to take, she discovered that both Economics and Introduction to Management were already full. I knew I could take only two courses to start as I still had to operate the daycare, and I needed to get those required courses started.
“You applied so late,” she said, shaking her head. “All the other offers and acceptances for your program were finalized months ago. Now there are long waitlists for those courses.”
I had no idea what to say. Panic was rising in my chest.
“Do you have your high school transcript with you?” she asked.
I dug in my bag and handed her the paper. The counsellor scanned through my marks. “Well, I can see why they made you an offer—even with your late application. And who are we to stop you?”
With that, she got back on her computer and bypassed the waitlists, enrolling me in both courses.
A few minutes later, I was walking back to my car, my tuition paid in full and a shiny student card in my hand. I knew I was grinning like an idiot, but I couldn’t stop myself. By the time I got into the van, my smile had given way to tears of joy. I cried all the way home.
Before I left the house, I had told Ahmed about my acceptance. He had congratulated me and then asked how I would pay for it all. But he had not challenged me.
Once I was home and announcing my plans to Amma and Abba as well as Ahmed, however, the real questions started. But I had been thinking about how I would manage everything ever since I applied in the spring. I had enrolled in one night course. The other course took place one afternoon a week—at about the time the daycare kids would be napping. I offered to pay Amma for her time on duty alone. And if that didn’t work, I would find other solutions. I was not going to back away from school.
* * *
During the next three weeks, a brittle uneasiness descended on the house. Abba was largely silent, but his gloomy expression radiated disapproval. Amma muttered and grumbled continually.
“You’re a married woman. Why aren’t you happy with what you’ve got at home?” she asked me over and over again.
Ahmed’s early acquiescence gave way to bitter displeasure as well. “Don’t talk to other students,” he warned. “Don’t try to make friends. Canadian people are so corrupt. They will try to make you un-Muslim.”
Not only was all social interaction to be avoided but classroom participation was also out of the question. “Never raise your hand in class,” Ahmed instructed. “Don’t answer questions. Don’t draw attention to yourself.”
He wanted me to be a ghostlike presence on campus—invisible and unrecognized.
I tried to ignore the clouds that Ahmed and Amma were casting. It wasn’t difficult. My excitement and nervousness had me floating through my household duties and daily interactions, my mind racing ahead to my suddenly bright future. Whenever I could, I got online—memorizing the course outlines, reading the bios of my two professors and checking a dozen times a day for messages on my university portal in-box. I also treated myself to a shopping trip to Staples, where I loaded up on precious luxuries: new pens, crisp notebooks and colourful binders.
* * *
Finally my first day of university arrived. My economics class was from 7:00 to 9:00 on Monday night. I said goodbye to my last daycare toddler, fed Aisha and Sonia, and changed into a fresh kurti, jeans and hijab. Then I was out the door.
I arrived at the lecture hall at about 6:30. The cavernous room was empty. I walked down the aisle until I was in the centre of the banked seats and then slid into the centre row. Sitting in the very middle of the room, I looked down at the lectern and chalkboard. I had never been in a classroom this big before. Grand and imposing, the very room seemed to hold a potent promise.
I could not quite believe I was here. Eight years after leav
ing high school in Pakistan, eight years of disappointments and struggles, of dashed hopes and bitter setbacks, I was finally at university. I was, at twenty-six, finally realizing my dream. I let my tears flow freely, a big, goofy grin on my face. I did it.
After a few minutes, I could hear footsteps. The other students were beginning to arrive. I stood up quickly, checking my hijab and straightening my kurti. Then I scuttled out of the middle row. Head down, I made my way to the back corner. As much as I had tried to ignore Ahmed, his words dug their way into my thoughts. These young people were all strangers. I was nervous that they would notice how much older I was and how different, and would treat me with disdain. But I was frightened, too, that they might try to engage me and that Ahmed would find out. I could not let them put my schooling in jeopardy.
Once the professor walked in and started to talk, I forgot all about the other students. While the first class was essentially only a review of the course outline, which I knew by heart, I couldn’t stop myself from taking notes furiously. I was so anxious to get started. The two hours flew by.
On the way home in the car, happiness flooded through me. A Backstreet Boys song was playing on the radio. I cranked up the volume, tapping out the beat on the steering wheel, dancing in my seat. The street lights sparkled along with me. The entire drive felt like a celebration.
My management course started a few days later. I put Sonia and all the daycare kids down for their naps before I left the house. When I got to the lecture hall, I stationed myself in the back corner again and got my notebook and pen ready. Like economics, the first class was just an introduction, but the professor, a man named James Appleyard, was so witty and entertaining I found myself laughing all the way through.
My spirits were high as I walked back through the door of the house several hours later. The kids were all up from their naps. Sonia was toddling over to me. I picked her up. As soon as my arms wrapped around her, I could feel liquid leaking through the seat of her romper. Her diaper was soaked through, so wet and heavy it seemed about to give way. I had no doubt that she hadn’t been changed since I left. I looked over at Amma, but she only shrugged and turned away. My cheerfulness evaporated. She couldn’t stop me from leaving the house, but she wasn’t going to reward my selfishness by making it easy for me.
* * *
It happened again and again as the weeks passed. I would come home to find the daycare children fed, changed and happy, but something amiss with Sonia.
I wasn’t paying Amma to look after my baby, but I suspected compensating her financially wouldn’t make much difference—she wanted to give me a reason to abandon school. And even if payment did get Sonia a bit more attention, I would still be in Amma’s debt for the care she was providing. It just wasn’t worth it.
The next Monday, I made sure that Sonia didn’t have an afternoon nap, so I could put her to bed before I left the house in the evening. Then, later in the week, I signed her up at a daycare near the university. It wasn’t easy leaving her that first day. Her face crumpled at the unfamiliar surroundings, and I could hear her wail as I left for my class. I had a hard time focusing on Professor Appleyard’s lecture. But after a few days, Sonia began to enjoy herself at the daycare. When I picked her up she chattered away happily in the back seat of the car, telling me about the other children and the games they had played together. If chicken nuggets were served at lunch, she was especially pleased with her day.
Although she needed to be at the centre for only a little more than an hour, two afternoons a week, she had such a good time I decided put her in for two whole afternoons. Amma’s small act of sabotage had done both Sonia and me a favour.
* * *
Running the daycare had boosted my confidence. Being in school again, even in the early months, returned me to myself in an even bigger way. The past ten years had chipped away at my sense of who I was and left me feeling incompetent in so many fundamental ways—as a wife, a mother, a woman. But here, in the classroom, I felt capable and accomplished. I knew my worth. And I wasn’t afraid to claim it.
When I thought an assignment had been marked unfairly by a teaching assistant, I didn’t hesitate to make an appointment with the professor.
While he re-marked my paper, Professor Appleyard asked why I was taking so few courses. When I told him, he lifted his head and looked me in the eye. “Wow,” he said, “you’re doing an awful lot. But you might think about applying for scholarships—so you don’t have to work so hard to earn money for school.” He offered to be a reference for anything I applied for.
First, the academic counsellor in the registrar’s office had helped me. Now, a professor had offered to come to my aid. (He would continue to support and encourage me throughout my coming years at U of T.) When my father died, I had felt as if I were on my own. The university was proving that wasn’t necessarily true.
And then another affirmation. It was the end of October, and my economics professor was handing back our first mid-term test. Before he did, he made an announcement. A few students had scored 100 percent. He looked in my direction and congratulated me by name. I felt all eyes in the room turn towards me.
I had studied as if my life depended on this test, but I wasn’t able to enjoy the payoff. Instead, I wanted the ground to open and swallow me whole. I had done my best to slide in and out of class unnoticed, to follow Ahmed’s directives and protect my privacy. And now everyone in the class knew who I was.
And then something amazing happened. Despite the students’ clapping, despite the smile that was beginning to transform my face, despite the joy creeping into my heart, Ahmed did not appear in the lecture hall doorway to wipe it all away.
And when I got home, no one commented about the attention I’d garnered. I had been seen and acknowledged—and nothing bad had come of it. It was as if I had been holding my breath and finally exhaled. There was no reason for Ahmed to know what went on at school.
I knew then that I was going to go to class and participate. I was going to get involved and meet people. I wasn’t going to hide. And if Ahmed became aware of that, if he challenged me, I would push back.
* * *
By the time January arrived, I had fully embraced my academic routine. I had reduced my daycare hours to allow myself to pick up a third course for the second term. I was sitting in the middle rows of the lecture hall, answering questions and chatting with my classmates. Since Sonia was in campus daycare two full afternoons a week and I was paying Amma to run our daycare during those hours, I now spent a bit more time on campus. As well as going to class, sometimes I worked in the library, sometimes I attended study groups, occasionally I had a cup of coffee with a classmate.
On one of those afternoons on campus, on my way to the bookstore to pick up a textbook, I noticed a sandwich board outside the Student Health Centre:
Do you feel intimidated?
Are you living in fear?
Do you feel devalued and disrespected?
Do you feel you have lost your voice?
The sign stopped me in my tracks. I could answer yes to each one of those questions.
My university life was a source of excitement and happiness for me, but I couldn’t deny that my home life was as dismal as ever and sliding into darker terrain every day. Amma and Ahmed both resented the time I spent away from home, and the time I spent at home occupied by school work. The tiniest things now irritated Ahmed, and his voice was increasingly tinged with anger. The sound of slamming doors punctuated my days.
One night he had come down to my bedroom. “Why are you down here, ignoring Amma?” he demanded.
“I have a test tomorrow,” I said. I tapped the textbook that was lying open before me.
Ahmed snatched the book and my papers from off the desk and threw them across the room. He then went over to where the book had landed and began to stomp on it and kick it.
“Why are you doing this?” I sobbed.
“Because you don’t know how to be a good wife,�
�� Ahmed said. He drew his fist back and drove it through the drywall. Then he dusted off his hand and pounded up the stairs and out of the house.
Another time, he picked my laptop off the bed and dashed it to the floor.
And just the previous night, he had barged into my bedroom. “What were you doing after class?” Ahmed demanded. Amma had told him I was late coming home from school. I explained that I had spent some time in the library studying.
“Why would you study there and not at home?”
“I was going over questions with a classmate,” I said, almost immediately regretting my honesty.
“I told you not to make friends there, and now you are spending time with other people like a whore!” he shouted. “You should be staying home, instead of being selfish and neglecting your family.”
The conversation had left me upset but also confused. Maybe I was abusing my new freedom. I had always done well working on my own. Weren’t the group study sessions just an excuse to spend time with other people? An excuse for a little companionship outside the house?
I needed to talk with someone. And I wanted that someone to be as impartial as possible—someone outside my family and my culture.
* * *
I went to the health centre and made an appointment with a counsellor during my class time later that day. I would have to miss a lecture, but my prompt return home would avoid suspicion.
I was nervous when I entered the counsellor’s office a short time later. The room was dimly lit. There was a small couch with a table beside it. A candle glowed on the table, and a tiny fountain filled the room with the soothing sound of running water. In a chair opposite the couch sat a pleasant-looking middle-aged woman. She smiled at me warmly and gestured for me to sit down.
“What brings you by?” she said softly.
