Farida Sultana - Purple Dandelion: A Muslim Womans Struggle Against Violence and Oppression

Violence is perpetrated against women and girls in every corner of the globe. In a report to the General Assembly in 2006, the United Nations Secretary-General stated that at least one out of every three women around the world has been beaten, coerced into sex, or otherwise abused in her lifetime with the abuser usually someone known to her.

These shocking statistics represent an appalling reality for women in societies from the most affluent to the most impoverished in the world. Yet for so long little was done to rescue women from the wretchedness of domestic violence or even to acknowledge the problem. It was not until 1964 that the first womens refuge was established in California. But within ten years, as the womens movement gathered momentum, similar havens for battered women and their children had sprung up in most western countries.

In many parts of the world, however, the situation for women has not improved, and refuges do not exist for women trapped by economic dependency on husbands and fathers whose social domination is matched by superior physical strength.

It was into such an environment that Farida Sultana was born. Her upbringing, however, did not prepare her for the abuse she later suffered when her husband relocated the family to the United Kingdom. It was a womens refuge in Edinburgh which rescued her. That experience later inspired her to establish Shakti, the first refuge in New Zealand for abused immigrant women, after she settled there. During the past 15 years, Shakti has provided a safe haven for thousands of immigrant women in several cities in New Zealand and abroad.

I commend Faridas inspirational story of bravery and enterprise, and endorse her wish that refuges like Shakti be established in countries where women currently cannot easily escape abuse. Just as necessary is the education of both men and women in the futility of violence. Only mutual gender respect will create a safer world for future generations.

I owe a debt of gratitude to my co-author, Shila Nair. Because I am dyslexic, my story would have remained untold among countless others had it not been for Shilas skill with words. We have spent eight years writing this book and she has been an integral part of this very personal and emotional journey.

I also want to thank Adrienne Jansen, who spent hours with Shila and me restructuring the chapters and moulding the book into its final shape. She has been an inspiration to us and I thank her for her perseverance, which kept us going when our own sagged.

Thanks too to Barbara Else from TFS for assessing the manuscript, providing sound advice and letting us know that we need to keep our chins up.

I also acknowledge my mother and daughter for being supportive in my endeavours and my decision to write my story. I feel blessed to have them in my life.

This list would not be complete without mentioning Shakti and the women who have stood by me through bad times and good, some of whom have consented to be named in this book.

Christmas night, 2009. Just 48 hours ago, I had no idea we would be here. Maya and I walk through the snow from the hospital to the guesthouse. In the shimmer of the street lights, I can see a white blanket of snow stretching out in front of me, getting thicker by the minute. The pitch-black sky is empty of stars. Life is at a standstill.

The weather forecast for Lawrence, Kansas is more snow. It reminds me of our days in Iran, the first time I ever saw the snow. We were living in Shogan then. Akram had returned from his hospital rounds, excited. I heard over the radio, its going to snow tonight, he had said. I was thrilled to hear that and had tried to stay awake during the night. It did snow, but when we were fast asleep. The next morning, the ground outside was pristine white. It was an incredible sight! In Bangladesh, where we had grown up, it never snows. Akram had run to get Maya from the bedroom. She was only four months old, but he wanted to show her the snow. With Maya propped up on one arm, he had put his other arm around me. We were a newly married couple then.

Now here I was, back with him after 15 years of separation. I feel angry, sad and confused.

I had first met Akram Ali when I was 18. My father had chosen him to be my husband. As a nave young bride I had completely trusted him. And now, what had he done to himself? What had he done to Maya and me? The pain and the hurt he had caused me over the years came flooding back.

Of all men, why had Abba chosen Akram for me? I thought of the times when I had been happy and carefree. I thought of the mela and the charki.