Honour and Shame: Breaking the Silence

By Jamileh Abu-Duhou

Lena an Australian Palestinian young woman got caught t in a cultural web of honour and shame, imprisoned in a violent marriage, when she tried to escape, she suffered further abuse by the legal system.
The thought of being abused scared me. I said to myself, No, I am not abused. Sami is just in a bad mood. He drank too much which affected his ability to perform and that must have upset him, thereby injuring his manhood
From that day on, slapping became a ritual and routine for him. I was slapped for lots or no sugar in the coffee, the breakfast ten seconds late or two seconds earlier than expected, and for the food being too warm or too cold.
All of a sudden, I had a sharp pain in my chest, and I felt hard to breathe. Samis image threatening me passed in front of my eyes. I swallowed my words. I could not bring myself to say anymore.
Fearing for my life, I had to tell Dad the truth. I told him what exactly happened right from the start, starting with the honeymoon and how Sami couldnt perform, how he threatened to expose me as not being a virgin, what his mother did to me, and how he used my menstrual blood to prove that he was a stud. The fact is that I am still a virgin,

We arrived at the house where I would spend the next six months of my life as Samis prisoner
Leila was my strong rock.. Every year, she would say, I am sure you will come back with me to Australia next year. There was always a next year for Leila: next year you will come to Australia; next year we will be together forever; next year you will start university; next year . . .. However, Leilas next year never came.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jul 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483664637

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I woke up on that December summer day, looked around, and felt strange. Yes, I was in my home in Melbourne, yet I felt so weird, like I was in a daze. Finally, I was free! I could choose not to get up, not to take a shower, or dress. I could roam the house in my pyjamas. I took a long deep breath and felt the crispy and fresh air. I knew now I had to learn how to breathe freely and enjoy the sunshine. I made myself a cup of coffee and took to the terrace. Memories began flowing in my head like a hurricane. Memories of my childhood flashed before my eyes. One minute I was sitting here on the terrace at home in Melbourne and the next I was back in Jeffna, a village in Palestine, gasping for air.

I finished drinking the cup of coffee and walked back inside the house. As soon as I stepped indoor, I started gasping for air and rushed to open the front door and all the windows and outside doors in the house. Even though I was in my home, a feeling of uneasiness engulfed me. I moved to the living room. A family photo of my mother, father, Leila, and myself was on the mantel. I took a long look at the photo and was reminded of my mum’s last Christmas. On that Christmas morning, I woke very early and ran to my parents’ room and jumped into their bed.

‘Wake up, Dad. Wake up, Mum, Santa has been to our house. He drank the milk and ate the cookies.’ Dad shrugged his shoulders and turned over and went back to sleep. Mum hugged me and said, ‘Honey, it’s still early. Go back to sleep.’ Being a feisty child wanting to open her presents, I pushed Mum away, ran to the living room, and sat under the tree playing with a doll representing baby Jesus.

Leila, my sister, woke up and asked, ‘Did Santa come?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘but Mum and Dad are still asleep.’

‘Let’s wake them up,’ Leila insisted. We ran to my parents’ room hoping this time they would get up. We jumped on the bed, and I took hold of Mum and started to shake her. ‘Mum, come on, wake up, wake up!’ Meanwhile Leila shook my dad. When all failed, we started to scream in one voice, ‘Please, please get up!’

Finally, my parents woke up, and we all rushed to the living room. Time to open the presents! I got what I wished for: Barbie Doll, a complete set with all the make-up and three outfits. I could not be happier. Leila opened her present. She got a microscope and some books. She was very happy. Little did we know it would be the last Christmas we would celebrate a festive season with our mother.

*     *     *

The phone rang, bringing me back to reality. I hesitated before picking up and heard Leila’s voice. ‘Lena, you are still asleep, lazy woman! Get up and smell the roses,’ she was insisting. Before she had finished, I yelled into the receiver, ‘I am not lazy. I just had coffee and am about to start the housework. I will cook dinner. Everything will be done before you arrive home.’

‘Wow, stop being defensive. I was just kidding you, and who said you need to clean the house and cook dinner? I do not expect you to do that. I only want you to make yourself comfortable at home.’

‘Sorry, I guess I still need time to overcome fear and get used to being free.’

‘Honey, you are far away from Jeffna. Lena, you are here in Melbourne to live freely.’

‘Thank you, Leila. I will try to make myself comfortable in the house.’

‘It’s our house. I’ll leave you to it now and will see you in the evening.’

I walked around the house searching for reminiscences of my past time. In the hallway closet, I found a family photo album, made another cup of coffee, and sat down and began flipping through the pages. There were my parents at their wedding. They were so happy.

Both of my parents, Ibrahim and Linda, are from Jeffna, a small Christian village to the north-east of Ramallah in Palestine. My mother’s parents migrated to Australia in the early 1950s, while my father migrated to Australia in the early 1980s, looking for opportunities. He met my mother at a relative’s wedding. No love story or fairy tales but an arranged Palestinian-Australian marriage. My father was a perfect suitor for any woman; he was handsome, young, and full of energy. My mother was a young woman of eighteen years of age, just out of high school and with no dreams other than becoming a mother. The minute my father showed an interest in her, every relative, especially the women, volunteered to be the marriage envoy to my grandparents. An entourage of my father’s relatives went to ask for my mother’s hand in marriage. It took only two hours of pleasantries, and behold, the two young people later to become my parents were engaged. There was no engagement party since none of my father’s immediate family was in Australia. My parents were engaged only for a few weeks during which they were allowed to go out unchaperoned. I guess my father did love my mother on first sight. My mother was a stay-at-home wife while my father was working as a mechanic. He was doing very well, and we lived a suburban comfortable life.

Flipping through the family album brought tears to my eyes. I sat there alone and lonely. I missed my mother, and I needed her to be there to hug and tell me everything was going to be OK. I thought, if my mother was still alive, she would have protected me and would not have allowed anyone to hurt me. I could have been spared all the pain and agony of the last ten years of my life. I still remember the day we lost our mother. That day our lives changed forever. As soon as we buried our mother, we were uprooted and our dreams were crushed. The day my mother passed away was 1 April, a day etched in my memory.

We woke up and got ready for school and sat for breakfast. Suddenly, Mum complained of chest pains and Dad went to get aspirin from the medicine cabinet. Before he returned with the aspirin, my mum had collapsed. He reached for the phone and called for an ambulance. Ten minutes later the ambulance arrived and took Mum. We, Leila and I, were left standing in the kitchen. I was only ten years of age and Leila fourteen, unable to comprehend what had happened yet scared of the unknown. That was the last time we saw our mother alive. She was dead on arrival at the hospital. Suddenly, without any warning, life as I knew it was shattered.

A few days later, we found ourselves dressed in black, walking to church behind a large box with my mother lying there motionless. I remember people old and young, strange men and women, kissing and hugging me and Leila saying they were sorry and it would be OK. I remember wondering then, why are all these people sorry and for what? Why are they all saying it’s going to be OK? I remember screaming, ‘No, no it’s not OK. My mother just died.’ But, apparently, they never heard me. For days, people continued to come to the house and say sorry and then disappear into the daylight or the night.

Leila was quick to assume the role of mother. She cared for me, read me bedtime stories, and cuddled me to sleep. I guess this was not enough for my dad. One day at the end of May, my father summoned us to the living room and delivered the devastating news that we must say goodbye to our friends as we were to leave and go to live with grandmother in our hometown Jeffna, back in Palestine. He said this and ordered us to start packing because we were to head back to Palestine as early as the following week.

I guess Dad thought it would be better for us to live with his mother and his spinster sister. This way we would have proper female influence in our lives. We had no say in the matter. We were not allowed to voice any objection, and we did as we were told. We started to pack our precious possessions. I made sure to pack my Barbie set. The set stayed with me for years afterwards, and I would take it out and play with it whenever I missed Mum. It would comfort me and would bring me closer to Mum, and that brought me joy.

With no further warnings, we were uprooted from our home and our school and transferred to Jeffna. How did the days pass? I can’t remember events of that week except for Dad telling us we were leaving. In no time, we left our warm comfortable house, leaving all our memories of Mother behind, and boarded a taxi to the airport. And in no time, we were among strange yet related people, living in a new town and a house that was my Grandma Yasmine’s house.

*     *     *

As I set reminiscing over the family album, I did not notice Leila come in. She walked into the living room and nudged me. I jumped.

‘Wow, did I scare you, Lena?’

‘No, I was just looking at the photos, and my mind must have wandered off.’

‘I hope the photos brought you joy.’

‘Yes and no. I miss Mother so much, I miss her now more than ever,’ I whispered and started to cry.

Leila gave me a hug, saying, ‘Stop it, I am here for you. You’ve had more than your share of heartaches and tears. No more tears now.’

I could not stop; I felt that I needed to cry away the pains of the past ten years. Leila tried very hard to get me to stop crying, and when I would not stop, she said, ‘I am starving. Is there anything to eat?’

I wiped away my tears and informed Leila, ‘No, I did not get a chance to make dinner.’

‘Then let’s order pizza, and I will take that,’ she said as she reached for the photo album and put it away. Leila ordered a pizza. When it was delivered, we sat down to eat.

‘By the way, I noticed you had the doors and the windows open.’

‘Yes. I felt awful earlier. I felt like I was going to suffocate. I felt like a prisoner in the house.’

‘Lena, this is your home. You are free now, free to do what you want. No one will hurt you or lock you up.’ She posed for a while, then smiling at me, said, ‘I have a good idea. Why don’t you write your story?’

‘You think that’s a good idea? I am not a writer as you know.’

‘You do not have to be a writer. You should just write as you remember it. I honestly believe that writing down how you feel will help you to get the sadness out of your system and will help you cope with your ordeal.’

‘Where shall I start—the loss of my mother, then being uprooted and moved to a strange place? Or should I start with my torment, being a prisoner in the bonds of marriage? Or my return back to Melbourne not knowing if I could cope with life’s challenges? Where shall I start?’

‘Do not think about the details or the starting point. Just write as it comes to you.’

I thought deep and hard about what Leila had said. I spent all night tossing and turning in bed, thinking what I should do. Was writing my life story a good idea? What will I say? I thought that if I were to write, then I would need to remember all the details of my miseries and miserable life in the past ten years. I fell asleep in the early hours of the morning, deciding against writing my story.

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CHAPTER TWO

I woke terrified, in a pool of sweat. I looked around the room and felt scared—was I at home in my room in Melbourne? Or was I locked up in my prison cell in Jeffna? It took me ten minutes to realise that I was at home in Melbourne, free to enjoy the sunshine and smell the roses. I got out of bed and made a cup of coffee, thinking I must relax and start reorganising my life. I tried hard to silence the nagging voices in my head, telling me I must write but with no success. My wounds were fresh and were still bleeding. I had been carrying my scars as a badge on my chest; no matter what I did, I could not shake the frightened feeling of being trapped inside. I resolved to write about happy memories of better times. Then I realised that my happy memories were lined with pain, dislocation, and displacement. I reached for a notebook and pen, and memories started bursting inside me, jumping onto the page.

*     *     *

I remember when we arrived in Jeffna, to what was to become my home for sixteen years. It was 25 May when we arrived in Jeffna—the new hometown, a beautiful, small hilly town. We arrived early afternoon to be greeted by a guard of honour. Apparently, the whole town knew of our imminent arrival, and all turned up to welcome us, or at least this was what I thought. It turned out that each group had their own motive for coming; some were there genuinely to welcome us and express their sorrow for our loss of our mother. Others were there only to check out the Australian children who had just lost their mother. Others wanted to check us out to determine if they could safely welcome us into their community.

Kisses and hugs welcomed us, as well as tears and more tears of sorrow with long hugs. Many people, I later realised, were all relatives, lined up in the street and on the steps of my grandma’s house. All wanted to shake our hands, hug, and kiss us. The men were first in line, followed by women, and then the children. We moved quickly through the men, since they only shook hands with the occasional quick hug and cheek kissing. Once we reached the women, the emotional drama started—big hugs, many kisses, tears of welcome, and more tears of sorrow, and all saying, ‘Haram’ (meaning, ‘Poor girls, your loss is great. Nothing can replace the mother’). Like a strike of lighting, my grandma’s house was transformed into a big restaurant for the whole town. They butchered and stuffed five lambs in our honour. The lambs were each served on a very big tray, and ten other similar-sized trays were filled with fragrant rice topped with mince meat and pine nuts complemented by a huge number of yogurts and salad bowls. My spinster aunt, Nawal, who I had just met, tried to force feed me, and I was amazed watching the people eating and talking over each other with their mouths full of food. They were all asking questions about Mother’s cause of death; all that I could hear was "‘haram’, poor woman, she died young leaving two daughters for the man." Others remarked that my father’s situation would have been better if he had boys. I could not understand why this would be so and thought to myself, ‘If I were to pay more attention, I might hear an explanation.’

I listened intently. A discussion began focusing on the fact that it was fine for a man to lose his wife because he could remarry, and names of eligible brides for my father were thrown into the conversation. I stood there amazed, not fully understanding the conversation—for one, I had limited Arabic comprehension and I did not understand the town accent, and secondly, because they were talking over each other. It sounded Dutch to me. At least I made out that they were talking about finding a bride for my father since he has only girls. Later that night, I told Leila what I heard and asked her to explain to me what that talk about Father having daughters and not sons meant, and why he had to find a bride. My sister tried hard to explain that since we lost our mother and because father loved us so much he might bring us a new mother.

‘Don’t worry! This would not be very soon. It might happen later, in a year or two,’ she said as she was trying to comfort me.

‘I think it is our fault that Father has to bring a new mother. If only we were boys, he would not need to.’

Leila almost yelled back at me, ‘Do not be silly, Lena! Father couldn’t love us more even if we were boys. Just go to sleep and do not think about it. I am sure Dad won’t do anything that would hurt us. Sweet dreams.’

The first week in Jeffna passed like a dream. I was suffering from jet lag. I was in a daze, sleeping long hours or wandering around the house. Visitors and well-wishers continued to wander in and out of the house all hours of the day and early hours of the night. Men were received in the formal lounge room, and the women gathered in the family living room. I kept wondering in and out of the formal lounge room, hoping that I could pick on the conversation and understand this business about Father not having boys. To my disappointment most of the conversation centred on Australia, on how one might migrate, and if there were working opportunities in Australia. I couldn’t keep up with all the conversation. Nawal, my aunt, kept a close watch on me. Every time I walked into the living room, she would rush and grab me by the hand and scold me. She kept saying, ‘Eib! Shame on you! Little nice girls do not wander around men.’ This was the first time I heard the word ‘Eib’, a new word added to my Arabic vocabulary. I discovered later that ‘Eib’ was an essential part of women psych. It was engraved in girls’ heads early on so they would become honourable women.

Once the formality of welcoming us settled down, there was a chance to start meeting our close relatives; more importantly, we were introduced to our cousins. They came to the house and behaved nicely to us. They took us to the shops and bought us chocolates and lollies. Every child in town wanted to play games with us and become our friend for we were the Australian kids. Leila and I basked in the newfound fame. Time seemed to pass quickly, and we were very happy.

This newfound happiness came to an end, when father summoned us again to the living room and told us the news. ‘Girls, you know that we came here leaving everything behind us. Now, you will be cared for by your grandmother and Aunt Nawal. I must go back to Australia to take care of my business so that it would not be closed down.’

I ran into his lap, crying, ‘No, Daddy. No, Daddy, please do not leave us here!’

He hugged me tight and assured me gently, ‘Don’t you like it here? Don’t you love your grandma? She surely loves you. Stop crying! I am only going for a few months. I promise I’ll be back before Christmas.’

Leila rushed, took me off my father’s lap, and gave me a big hug. She began to reassure Father, ‘Dad, we like it here. We love our grandma, but we need you to be here with us.’

Father reaffirmed, ‘Honey, you are both being silly. I left my business there, and I need to go to sort it out.’ He finished the sentence, got up, and left the room, putting an end to the discussion.

A week later we stood by the doorway to say goodbye to father. We were left alone, in what were then a strange country and a strange house. I had my doubts that my dad would come back for us, which made me sad. I bolted myself in the bedroom. Despite all my grandma’s pleas and my aunt’s threats, I refused to open the door. As night time was approaching, Leila knocked softly