By It has taken me more than one year to compose this post.
Graduating from a good university with a B.A. in Biology and on the Pre-Health track is a moment that I have not wholly internalized. Graduating from the institution that provided me a home, a family, stirs and swells my stomach with desperate frustration.
I have lost so much within the last three years alone, like water passing through my fingers- and I could not bear to imagine losing anymore than I already have.
I have lost so much within the last three years alone, like water passing through my fingers- and I could not bear to imagine losing anymore than I already have.
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I wake up each morning and see my face reflected in the bedroom mirror, and my eyes, heavy, say “You are alive.”
A year ago, I did not think that I would be alive to write this post. A year ago, I exited my two-year abusive relationship.
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I was in a fixed-term marriage (nikah mut’ah) with an Iranian student from 2014-2015. I was explicitly told that our marriage was “my choice” and that this contract defined my “rights as a woman.” After six months of dating, I consented to the nikah and recited the rites in Arabic: “I take thee to be my husband for the specified amount of time and for the specified dowry.”
After six months of dating, I consented to the nikah and recited the rites in Arabic: “I take thee to be my husband for the specified amount of time and for the specified dowry.”
At 20 years old, I did not know what I agreed to. One month after reciting our rites, I was raped in the month of Ramadan.
“What are you going to do? If you want this relationship to work, if you want us to work, you can’t hold this against me.”
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I was psychologically, emotionally, physically, and sexually abused by my ex-partner for two years. I fervently believed that this is what love was — that this is what love had to be. Threats, stalking, flashes of anger, fear, and covering bruise marks with pale powder.
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It was not until I was in Turkey that I had reflected on my most recent rape that occurred after my Physics final on May 15, 2015. My veins swelled with bile, and it became difficult to breathe. I did not want to go back.
I reluctantly returned to the city on July 9 with stones in my stomach.
One week later, I sat nervously in a leather chair and tried to control my breathing. “I was raped,” I said to the counselor. That was the first time that I said it. This was the first time that I believed it.
One week later, I sat nervously in a leather chair and tried to control my breathing. “I was raped,” I said to the counselor. That was the first time that I said it. This was the first time that I believed it.
Those three words grabbed me by the arms and pulled me into a whirlwind process of reporting to the police department and to the college where he attends. I agreed, but again, I did not know what I was agreeing to.
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The stones piled in my stomach as I submitted evidence to the Defense Attorney at the Special Victims Unit and to the Title IX Coordinator of his college. I desperately collected my medical records and my empty pill bottles. I firmly believed that the system would acknowledge, validate, and condemn the violence that I had experienced.
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“He was clearly abusive, but we cannot risk being sued. I’m sorry — I can’t help you. Please go to counseling.“
“Thank you,” I smiled. I walked out of Special Victims and sat on the steps overlooking the sidewalk. The stones were in my throat. I could not cry.
“He’s a fucking creep, but we don’t believe that he raped you.”
“But,” I protested, “Isn’t my evidence…”
“You did not submit early enough. I’m sorry. We can’t help you.”
I sat in front of the academic center that sweltering August afternoon. I had not eaten in thirty days.
—
After 63 days, both of my cases were dropped by the second week of September. I experienced my first suicide attempt shortly after the verdict was made by his college.
I had three more suicide attempts before I withdrew from the fall semester.
I had three more suicide attempts before I withdrew from the fall semester.
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I live every hour with mental illness. My body has aged over 10 years. I am tired. And yet, I have developed spiritually, in Islam, and grown as both a victim and a survivor of intimate partner violence.
I can say that I have reclaimed my identity, my God, my skin, my hair, my smile, my breath, and my choices. They are mine.
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I completed my undergraduate studies at my university three weeks ago. I attended Commencement, and I walked across the stage at Baccalaureate.
I finished.
I will be applying to medical school in the next one to two years.
Until then, I am determined to work with organizations that provide clinical and social services to Muslim survivors of intimate partner violence. I seek, with my sisters, to dismantle the systematic oppression that we, as Muslim women, confront in each facet of our lives.
We will reclaim our narratives, our memories, and ourselves. We will confront and dissolve our violence.
One step at a time.
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Written by Anonymous