Authors: Cathy Glass
‘Your father and uncle threatened to burn you?’ Adrian said, horrified.
Zeena nodded.
‘They want locking up,’ Lucy said, meaning they should go to prison.
Hopefully they will be, I thought. I also thought it was good that Zeena was able to share this with us. It was far healthier than keeping it bottled up, and it also boded well for when Norma arrived to take Zeena’s statement. Hopefully she’d be able to continue talking about what had happened and give Norma the details she needed. Zeena also said that it wasn’t unheard of in rural Bangladesh – where her parents originated from – for a woman to be set on fire if she dishonoured her family, husband or her husband’s family.
‘It happens in Pakistan and parts of India as well,’ Zeena said. Which left the rest of us shocked.
At half past six, as we sat at the table talking, the front doorbell rang.
‘I expect that’s Norma,’ I said, and I left the table to answer it.
‘How is she?’ Norma asked as she came in.
‘Calmer now,’ I said. ‘And talking about what happened.’
‘Good. Hopefully she can talk to me then. Are we in the living room?’
‘Yes. Straight through.’
Having heard Norma’s voice Zeena came into the hall.
‘How are you?’ Norma asked her.
‘OK now,’ Zeena said quietly.
‘Let’s get that statement written, then.’ Turning to me, she said, ‘Can you be present, please?’
‘Yes, of course.’
I called through to Adrian, Lucy and Paula that I’d be in the living room, and went in with Norma and Zeena, and closed the door. Norma was carrying a bag-style briefcase and set it down beside her chair. She then took out some blank forms and a pen. However, even before Norma asked her first question, I knew Zeena was having second thoughts.
‘What will happen if I make a statement?’ Zeena asked quietly, having sat in the chair furthest away from Norma.
‘It there’s enough evidence, I should be able to prosecute,’ Norma said.
‘Will they be put in prison?’ Zeena asked.
‘I can’t promise they’ll get a custodial sentence,’ Norma said. ‘But I can try. It will depend on the evidence, and how much of a threat the judge or magistrates consider them to be.’
Zeena looked thoughtful. ‘And before then, will they be free?’
‘Based on what I know so far I think it’s unlikely that they’ll be refused bail, so yes, they could be free until the court case – assuming I have enough evidence to take this to court.’ With her pen ready to write, Norma looked at Zeena and waited.
I looked at Zeena and waited too. She was staring down at her hands.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last. ‘I can’t.’
‘But you told me you trusted Norma,’ I said. ‘And she’s come here especially to take your statement.’
Zeena had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘I do trust you,’ she said, looking at Norma. ‘But I can’t. Really. I’m too scared of what they might do.’ Her eyes immediately filled and I felt very sorry for her.
‘I could move you out of the area to a safe house,’ Norma said. ‘I made the offer before and it’s still there.’
‘They’d find me,’ Zeena said. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.’
And so once again Norma left the house without the evidence she needed to prosecute.
After Norma had left I didn’t try to persuade Zeena to change her mind and make a statement. Zeena had said she was too scared and she knew she could telephone Norma at any time if she changed her mind. I didn’t mention the matter but concentrated on making the evening as normal as possible, so that Zeena had the time and space she needed. Zeena didn’t mention it either and spent some time in her bedroom doing her homework, and then she joined me in the living room. Outwardly she appeared reasonably relaxed, although of course I’d no idea what turmoil was going on inside her.
When at 9.30 p.m. she stood and said she was going to bed, I said something that had been on my mind all evening.
‘Zeena, I’m going to take you to school tomorrow in the car, and collect you. I know you’re concerned that my car might be traced, but after what happened today it seems sensible.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, without any argument, and kissed me goodnight. Which rather showed just how much she had been frightened and intimidated by her father’s and uncle’s vicious threats and, like me, was worried that they might appear again.
I didn’t know if Norma would be visiting Zeena’s father and uncle to warn them as she had done before, but I thought it was likely. Norma seemed to be doing everything she could to help and protect Zeena. It was a pity that Zeena was too scared to help Norma and give her the evidence she needed.
The following morning when I left the house with Zeena to take her to school I automatically checked the street for strangers, but it was clear. When we arrived at Zeena’s school I did the same, and then waited in the car until I saw her go into the building. I stopped off at the supermarket on the way home and then the rest of the day sped by. Once home I unpacked the groceries and then took a sandwich lunch to the computer, where I answered emails and worked on the Skills to Foster course I was involved in. I texted Zeena once in the early afternoon:
R u OK? X.
She texted back:
Fine, thnks. C u l8ter. Z xxx.
At 2.45 I set off to collect Zeena from school and parked a little away from the main entrance. I got out and walked to the main gate that Zeena would come out of. Other parents were waiting in cars but none resembled Zeena’s father or uncle, and there was no old blue Ford Fiesta. Zeena was one of the first to come out and she was talking to her friend. She must have told her who I was for the girl looked at me and smiled before saying goodbye to Zeena. I smiled back.
‘Was that the friend you were telling me about?’ I asked Zeena as we turned to walk to the car.
‘Yes,’ Zeena said. ‘I guess you could say she’s my best friend.’
‘That’s nice. She seems very pleasant. It’s a pity she can’t come to our house for the evening.’
‘It’s a non-starter,’ Zeena said, with a small shrug.
‘So how was your day?’ I asked as we got into the car and closed the doors.
‘OK,’ she said.
‘Any plans for the weekend?’
‘Homework,’ Zeena said. ‘I’ve got loads.’
I smiled at her. ‘You work very hard. I’m sure you’ll do well in your exams next year.’
‘I hope so. I’d like to go to university, but my family would never let me.’
‘Why not?’
‘They think it’s a waste of time to educate girls – better to teach them to cook and clean so they can marry them off.’
Zeena knew my thoughts on this – she’d said similar before – but I felt the same niggle of anger that some girls were still restricted like this, even in Britain today. However, as it was now highly unlikely that Zeena would ever be returning to live with her family, it opened up the possibility that she could fulfil her wish and continue her education at university.
Once home, Zeena poured herself a glass of water and took it up to her room to start her homework. We were the only ones in so far; Paula – usually first in – had texted to say she was going swimming with a friend. I made a cup of tea and took it into the garden. It was a lovely warm afternoon, the air still and full of the scent of summer flowers and blossom. I sat on the bench on the patio, sipped my tea and counted my blessings. I find it’s on days like this that I feel truly glad to be alive and realize how much I have to be grateful for.
Zeena’s bedroom was at the rear of the house and overlooked the garden. Her bedroom window was slightly open and through it I could hear the distance murmur of her voice. She hadn’t started her homework yet but was talking on the phone. I had no worries about Zeena doing her homework; she was a conscientious student, unlike some teenagers I’d fostered who needed constant encouragement and rewards to achieve. Zeena already saw the reward in studying and doing well, even if her parents didn’t.
For a few minutes I could hear the hum of Zeena’s voice, but not what she was saying, then suddenly her voice rose and I heard her say clearly, ‘No! I’ve told you, I can’t. Do as you want. And don’t keep phoning me.’
It went quiet so I assumed she’d cut the call. I instinctively glanced up at her bedroom window but there was no sign of her. A few seconds later I heard her phone give a couple of rings and then it went quiet. She must have answered it, as a moment later I heard her voice again, this time much louder. ‘No. Never. If I came back you wouldn’t let me go. I’m sorry, I don’t love you. Why don’t you just get on with your life and find someone else. Please leave me alone.’ It went quiet and then I heard her crying.
It’s always difficult to know at what point to intervene in teenage relationship problems. To a certain extent they have to be left to sort out their own issues – it’s part of growing up. But on the other hand I would never leave a teenager (or anyone) alone when I knew they were crying. I set my half-drunk mug of tea on the little wrought-iron patio table and went inside. Upstairs, I knocked on Zeena’s bedroom door and her little voice replied ‘Yes?’
‘It’s Cathy. Can I come in, love?’
‘Yes.’
She was sitting on her bed with the older phone – the one dedicated to her boyfriend – in her lap. The call had finished and she had a tissue pressed to her face.
‘Is that boyfriend upsetting you again?’ I asked gently, going further into her room. ‘Perhaps we could have a chat? I know a bit about boyfriend problems, and it’s always good to talk.’
‘Oh Cathy,’ Zeena said, looking at me through tear-stained eyes. ‘He’s not my boyfriend.’
‘Ex-boyfriend, then,’ I said, going over and sitting beside her on the bed. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘Yes,’ she said, in the same small voice. ‘But he’s not my boyfriend. He’s my husband.’
When confronted with something that seems utterly impossible or incomprehensible, my first reaction is to think I’ve misheard.
‘Sorry, love,’ I said, touching her arm reassuringly. ‘What do you mean?’
Zeena raised her head, drew the tissue across her eyes and then looked at me, absolutely wretched. ‘The man on the phone isn’t my boyfriend. He’s my husband. I’m married to him.’
‘No you’re not,’ I said. ‘You’re only fourteen. You can’t marry until you’re sixteen at least. It’s against the law.’
‘I was thirteen when I was married to him,’ Zeena said. ‘In Bangladesh. Many girls there are married at that age, but my husband wants me to live with him and I can’t. He’s fifty, older than my father, and I don’t love him. I want to stay here and go to school. I’ve brought shame on my whole family.’ She stopped and pressed the tissue to her eyes to stem the fresh tears.
My thoughts were spinning. Her tears were genuine enough, but how on earth could what she said be true? I remembered reading an article in a newspaper that had said in some countries young girls were still being married off by their families – often to much older men – but Zeena was British. She had been born in the UK and had a British passport. As far as I knew she’d never lived in Bangladesh. Was she making this up to cover a deeper, more serious problem? Did she think me gullible, or a fool?
‘Zeena, love,’ I said, touching her arm again, ‘I’m struggling to believe this. Why did you get married?’
‘My family forced me to,’ she said. ‘I didn’t have a choice. I’m damaged goods. I had to be married off to the first person who would have me.’ She burst into tears.
I looked at her and waited, with a mixture of incredulity and empathy for her obvious pain – fabricated or not, I didn’t know.
‘I realize I have to tell you,’ she said through her tears. ‘I have to tell you what happened so you understand. But please don’t hate me for it.’
‘I would never do that,’ I said. ‘But I think it’s good to tell me so that I can help you.’
‘No one can help me,’ she said.
Standing, she took a couple of tissues from the box on the shelf, blew her nose and then returned to sit beside me. She was silent for a few moments, looking down, as though collecting her thoughts and possibly steeling herself to begin. I looked down too, concentrating on the floor and wondering what she could possibly be about to tell me. The warmth of the summer afternoon drifted in through the open window, yet suddenly there was a chill in the room. I waited in silence until Zeena was ready to begin. After a few moments she took a deep breath and straightened slightly.
‘When I was nine years old,’ she began softly, ‘my parents took us all on a holiday to Bangladesh. I just had two brothers then; they were five and two. It was a very big occasion for us, as it was the first time my parents had been home since they’d left the country. My mother bought us new clothes and lots of presents to take with us for our relatives there. I remember there was a whole suitcase just full of presents for our aunts and uncles.’ The smallest smile flickered across her face at this happy recollection.
‘My father was very proud to be going home to show off his wife and family to all those in his village,’ Zeena continued. ‘He had done well for himself by their standards. He came from a very poor farming family, like many in the villages of Bangladesh. Only those in the towns seem to prosper. I was excited to be going, just as my parents and my brothers were. We’d never been on holiday before and I was looking forward to meeting my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins for the first time. I’d heard stories about them, but I’d never met them.
‘It was a very long journey, first on the plane, which was exciting, but then once in Bangladesh by train. I remember the train was packed full of people, standing, sitting, and even on the roof. I had to sit on the floor with my little brother on my lap the whole way and we were both very hot, and then I was sick. My mother told me off because I’d spoiled my new dress. But I was still looking forward to the holiday. When we got off the train it was better. My father had hired a car to take us to his village. My mother didn’t know. It was a surprise. He told her he wanted us to arrive at his village in style – to show them he’d made it in England.
‘We were in the car for a long time, but it was better than the train. The car had to go slowly as the roads were very bumpy with lots of holes, and often there was no road at all – just a dirt track. All I could see through the window was fields, huts and some people working in the fields. It was very hot, even with the windows down, and so different from England. I began to feel homesick and frightened. I was also very tired and hungry. I started crying and said I wanted to go home. This made my father angry and he stopped the car, got out and smacked me hard for being rude. He said this was home for him, this was where our roots were. I didn’t know what he meant, but I knew it wasn’t my home. My home was a proper house in England.