Trigger warning – This piece reflects experiences of domestic abuse

I would like to thank my former colleagues; without their support and understanding , I would not have taken the step that I should have a long time ago.

The taste of being influential and having a voice made me want more. It has made me want to make people listen and join the battle to fight for social justice. Little did I know I had my own personal battle on the horizon.  

I made a choice to put myself forward in local government elections. I want to be the driving factor of real, positive change. As the co-founder of the voluntary organisation, Al Masaar, I am a community activist, where we tackle Islamophobia and the stereotypes of Muslim people. The name means a path to progression; this fits with our aim to create development within the Muslim community and bring together all ethnicities. My next step is to take this passion and progress onto a prominent platform through political activism.    

Looking back now, little did I realise that as I grew confident on the outside, inside anxiety and depression was manifesting. My marriage had been on the rocks for the past seven years. Seven years of mental, emotional and financial abuse. But of course, I had the supportive husband and he made sure I knew that. And he made sure that it was only him I listened to. I didn’t realise when my trust began to falter in my relationships and in myself. A new pattern began to emerge where bursts of incidents happened and after three days’ things settled down. He didn’t leave any marks, so I was told to move on, brush it under the carpet, and not to bat an eyelid when the tears fell. He dictated no negative emotions, only happy ones. Only happy thoughts. And happy moments. This was when I fell silent. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t think – I would freeze. He didn’t know about anxiety and its symptoms. He just thought I was being defiant and disregarding him. Subsequently, the behaviour became unpredictable, the looks became vengeful, the words became daggers, to the point where I believed him; maybe I deserved this. After all, he should know me by now. Maybe I am this bad, so what am I doing?  

Until one day, when the final incident occurred. His anger got the better of him and he choked me. Pure rage, bitterness and self-proclaimed innocence were radiant from him. I wish it stopped there. As the hours clocked by, words were shot like multiple bullets through every inch of me. And it wasn’t the first time. But could it be the last? This was where he snapped. And once reality caught up with me, I snapped. It is still vivid in my mind the fear that encapsulated me. I couldn’t go home, because he was there. So was my mum, but my trust in her weakened as well. She stayed silent when I disclosed that he threatened to rape me and sexually assaulted me. This was a woman who represented the traditional Pakistani wife, who must absorb the actions of her husband. Yet, her husband locked her out of her own house because she gave priority to her children. I needed help, and my colleagues knew that too, so I called the police. The officer came to my office and took my statement. After a rough twenty-four hours full of more drama and hatred, he was finally taken away.

Lo and behold! Amongst all this upheaval, the anticipated phone call came. Confirmation of my candidacy should have been welcome news – after all, I had spent the last six months training for it.  

Internal party vetting procedures prepared me mentally – a competency-based application form followed by an interview. Once approved by the party, I needed to be approved by my branch. Not only was I trying to create great first impressions externally, I was pushing barriers with my own self-confidence and self-esteem. I found myself lucky at the time to have such a supporting family; it was unheard of for a female member of Falkirk’s Muslim community to join the political movement. Breaking another stereotype.  

Although I was suffering the emotional cultural backlash as well as the severe depression I was enthralled in, ready to give up on life, somehow my strength prevailed, and I found a tangible reason to keep going. Through swollen eyes and a fake smile, I struggled through the first official photograph that was going to be made public. Feelings of despair and disgust plagued my heart. You’re selfish for putting him in a cell when he is ill. You are taking the boys away from their father. You should have had patience. You are dead to me. But the reassurance and energy of my colleagues helped find my passion. I realised then that things had to get better.   

The focus of campaign planning helped keep the evil thoughts at bay. The determination of fighting my injustice was growing as I met with various people in between leafleting and work. Support networks were in place. I was accused of being a selfish mother because my boys were crying every night yearning for me to let their dad back home. I was being slanted because the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. My resilience was being stretched to a capacity I never knew I had.  

In a way, I am glad about the series of unfortunate events, and no, it doesn’t stop there. I became numb to the harassment while campaigning and slandering comments from the now ex-husband because my motivation and focus were on my silver lining. I believe this was when my black cloud turned grey. Abusive messages and calls were drowned out by the support from the public, social media, my friends and family which maintained my motivation and determination to make life better. 

By the end of the six-week campaign, I was so sure I was going to win. No-one had the same high level of feminine empowerment and determination to break the stereotype as I did. And I showed it. I still remember sitting on the bench, during the count, surrounded by colleagues in groups. There was a real buzz in the atmosphere; there was excitement amongst the nervous, the successful reassuring the failed. Adrenaline was pumping through my veins as I was waiting for my turn. My heart raced as the results of the first stage were being announced. I realised then that my chances were nil, but by mistake, I looked at my phone to see six missed calls and five messages in the space of an hour. Tiredness hit me like a bag of bricks and I sat down. And wept. Not because of the results but because I still felt the compulsion to reply to this man that I was so desperate to run away from. He knew perfectly well what this day was, but he chose this day to further demean me, call me a neglectful mother and threatened me again with social services. I couldn’t fathom what type of human he was and at that point, I couldn’t care. Fortunately, my friend was there to keep me focused, as there was one last part of this process to play – and that was being a graceful loser. I arrived and left the stage with pride and encouragement, met my former colleagues and left as soon as I could.   

A shift in the favour of the right-wing meant that I was competing in a unionist versus nationalist electorate, and the effects of Brexit were still rippling. I lost out to the unionist vote, despite increasing the first preference vote for our Party. But I also fought for my rights. And I still am.  

Of course, now that I look back I could have done better – after all, we are our worst critics. But when I reflect and evaluate, I can say with pride, I did that, and I survived.