The severity of the stigma attached to  being a homosexual within the Asian community has resulted in an increased number of emails and calls to the Forced Marriage Unit (FMU). This equates to an average increase rate of 65% - linking directly to the questionable sexuality of the male.

These statistics prove the controversy surrounded with being a gay man within the Asian community and the immediate plans made for an arranged marriage usually ‘back home’ as a quick fix. In my next blog I aim to share with you an experience of a naïve and innocent young woman who I had the pleasure of working with. She has been a true heroine, in a world wind of emotional blackmail, violence, and verbal abuse. She gave up everything she knew; her country, her family and her career, for a British male that lived a very secret lifestyle. She has been my main inspiration for writing this blog post. Additionally, I have been influenced by a range of various content, from novels I have read, both ‘Shame Travels’ by Jasvinder Sanghera the co founder of Karma Nirvana  and gay writings from ‘Yaraana” by Hoshang Merchant.

Lastly, the murder of Anni Dewani, and the horrendous scandal formulated by her cunning partner Shrien Dewani has proved to be an issue that has affected many Asian households across the nation. Conspiracies reveal that Shrien Dewani was in fact a bisexual and has made parents reconsider arranged marriages altogether.  

I have chosen to raise awareness of this topic in the hope that I can influence younger and older generations into realising the importance of being true to oneself. The fact of the matter is, we do not choose to be who we are; homosexuality is not a lifestyle choice, nor is it a fashion statement. It is and will continue to be inhibited within you; like the blood that runs through your veins - It could never be entirely withdrawn.

Amaani

I used to wonder, why is he waxing his eyebrows?  Is it normal for British men to wear make up? Where is it that he seems to disappear to every Saturday night?

My name is Amaani, and I will begin to share with you my story. I have never shared this with anyone but I have decided it is time now I try to understand this mysteriously forbidden part of my life. With the help of many people, I have been able to build a new life for myself. I have had ongoing support from charities, women’s projects whilst also participating in therapeutic counselling that subsequently helped me.

I was just 25 when I met him for the first time. I had just completed my Pharmacy degree and I was just about to embark onto the next chapter of my adult life. I had been accepted at one of the most prestigious medical centres in Delhi and my grandparents were so proud of me. Seven years of education had leaded me to this very point and I was filled with immense pride.

February 2013

My belly was rumbling with the thought of devouring my mother’s fish curry. I increased my pace, in order to reach home in good time – a mothers cooking can do that to you. Walking in the autumn sun, a cool Delhi breeze flowed through my velvety black hair. With my acceptance letter from the medical centre in one hand, I opened the gate of the driveway, heading steadily towards the front door of our family home, ready to announce my good news.

As soon as I entered the dim lit living room, I could sense tension in the air. All eyes seemed to be on me and I stood there; frozen like an unloved rose, left abandoned in the wilderness. I glanced at my mother, hoping that she may be able to shed some light on the current family affair.

“Okay, so we will be in touch, the wedding will take place in England and arrangements will be made for Amaani to live with us thereafter” said a fair skinned, elderly woman. She immediately arose from her seat, nudging her husband upwards. He took his last sip of chai from mum’s best porcelain tea set and both vacated the room abruptly.

After 30 minutes of pleading, my tears had struck a sense of guilt in my parents. I quickly learnt that my parents were making arrangements for my wedding; without my consultation. The shock was in explainable, the anger I felt resonated throughout my entire body, my heart pounded. How can they do this to me? Why would they not tell me?

Apparently, my father had been approached by a woman from the Mandir whose uncle’s son was looking for a well educated young woman to join their prosperous family. Somehow my name had been the topic of numerous conversations.

Whilst I listened to my father confidently express my suitor’s sparkling good character; the immediate anger I initially felt, faded. “Betah, he is an educated man, with a BA Honours degree in marketing, he has his own house, and even owns his own business in London! A chance like this will not come again soon, my child.”

How could I argue with that?  A daughter could never defy her father’s word.

I composed my thoughts - father was right; this is a rare chance. Not only for me to marry such an auspicious man, but to finally get the chance to visit England. My frown soon turned into immeasurable optimism; I looked forward to what the future held and immediately began to prepare for my trip.

Three months later

It had been a few days, and I had not seen my ‘husband’; I use the term lightly as we have not even shared the same bed whilst we have been married.  My thoughts were working over time, trying to grasp some of what has happened. Was there something wrong with me? Why does he look so displeased to see me? Is this what married life is like?

I had not spoken to my parents since I moved to the UK; I missed them dearly. My mother in law does not like it when I call home too much and I have not seen my father in law since the wedding. I can only speak to my parents with his permission. I can only go out, with his permission. I can only…

The front door flung open; the immediate smell of cheap alcohol and rancid cigarettes contaminated the room. Disorientated, he walked towards me, dressed in skin tight leather jeans, neon yellow vest top and sparkly gold shoes; not an inch of hair covered his tiny body. “All British guys wax, Amaani, its normal” I remember him saying.

I had not seen a lot of the outside world; therefore I could never know what was normal or even British. I was perplexed as I watched him run away into his sanctuary in the loft room, leaving me sleeping alone in our unconsummated bed. I closed my eyes, hopeful that tomorrow might just be the day that he initiates a conversation with me. I contemplated what it would feel like to exchange eye contact again, to hold his hand. I doubtfully closed my eyes and settled into a light sleep; naively unaware of the deceit imprisoning my very life.

Seven months

I hid in the toilet downstairs, his mobile phone stuffed into the sleeve of my salwar kameez hidden in an abundance of floral prints. I quickly typed the international code for India 009 and dialled my parent’s home number; sweat oozing from my forehead from the sheer significance of the call. I waited anxiously.

Dial tone.

 “Hello Ma?!”

“Amaani? Tu aap hain?! Tuse? Is that you?”

All of a sudden, the door of the toilet barged open. I jumped, the mobile phone dropped to the floor; my body quivered. I was surprised that a man of his petite frame could unleash so much strength and yet so effortlessly. His eyes were transfixed on me, bloodshot with anger.

“What do you think you are doing, you dirty little freshi? Who said you can use my phone? What have I said to you about minding your f*cking business! No wonder your family wanted to get rid you, such a nosey cow aren’t you!”

I fell to the floor and hurdled up in to a tiny ball, tears streaming down my face whilst he continued to torment me with his destructive words, slapping me across my head. All I could think about was my mother’s voice, for those two seconds were worth the pain I was enduring; Just hearing her say my name after so long had brought back a sequence of memories. It was now more than ever I felt the need to go back home.

The morning after he was nowhere to be seen; recently he had been sneaking out in the early hours of the morning. I sought this as an opportunity to speak to my mother in law; an elder’s wisdom always guides you onto the correct path.

I prepared some chai, and anticipated her arrival.

We talked for hours, as she listened to my grievances with her son humming and haring every now and then, as if someone was finally responding to my plea for help. Towards the end, I plucked up the courage and said, “Saas, I think it is in everyone best interest, if I could go home to visit my parents; I am very home sick and I am sure once I speak to them I will feel a lot better. Can you please talk to him, and make him see sense?”

She gracefully stood up, wrapped her shawl around her a little tighter, raised her hand and struck me across the face. Her gold rings leaving an indent on my cheek as it tingled with immense pain.

It was at that point it clicked – this was all a sham.

One year

I tried many times to approach others for help but wherever I went my mother in law had an allegiance of aunties watching my every move. At the community centre, at the temple, in the market; I was even escorted to my doctor’s appointments.

She always found a reason to come with me, “I need to pick up my prescriptions, or I need to speak Dr Sharma about my diabetes”. There was never a moment where I was left unaccompanied; where I could open up about the difficulties I was facing at home. I was trapped, and they were working together to make sure I continued to live in this façade of playing happy families.

Over the last six months I managed to gather a small accumulation of money; somehow managing to scrimp and save anywhere I could. I had hidden every unaccounted penny in old handbag, concealed at the back of my wardrobe; along with a basic mobile phone that has been my ally in communicating with my parents. I was mentally and physically preparing for my escape; waiting for the opportune moment to part from this bleak existence.

Three day after

I increased my pace as my paranoia escalated higher and higher; I did not dare to look back, in the fear that someone might just recognise me. Feeling weak with nausea my hands trembled as I clutched my suitcase, lugging it hastily behind me. With every last droplet of hope I headed towards the bus stop and waited for the 239 to take me towards Victoria Coach Station.

Having arrived at Victoria Coach Station, I lingered around the waiting area, trying to conceal my face from any Asian man that passed by. Unexpectedly, my mobile rang, blaring through the bus terminal as it captured the attention of awaiting passengers. With great hesitancy I pulled the phone out of my pocket. Trying to avert the sudden spotlight, I answered the call.

“Hello?” I said apprehensively. The little voice in my head was working overtime - it’s him isn't it. He’s found me. What am I going to do now? It’s over.

 “Han beti tum kaise ho? Hi my child, how are you?” It was my mom.

*All passengers for the 8.59 departure to Birmingham, Digbeth, please have your tickets ready to board now*

I smiled, snivelling as tears filled my eyes. “Don’t worry mum, I'm safe now”

The tribe can be easily identified; usually roles can be recognised through outfit or body art. For example, farmers will wrap colourful cloths above their knees; mine were always red symbolizing strength and determination. Others will wear a full length Jalabia or heavily printed shirts.

Women always covered themselves with an elaborate display of beads and jewellery. It is common for women to pierce thier lips and ears, the elders traditionally take thier front two teeth out as a sign of wisdom and age.

We are a colourful, vibrant tribe, that takes pride in exhibiting our culture and traditions. This is something I still try to express, now that I am in the UK; my yellow trousers and red shoes are my homage to Nuba tribe.

My story is a result of the South and North division of Sudan, that has been an ongoing dispute for years. Non-Arab communities like the Nuba Tribe are consistently pushed at the forefront of discrimination, racism and inequality.

I have chosen to publicize my experience, in the hope that my children, and my childrens' children can one day live a peaceful; undisturbed life.

And so this is my story. 

It was October 2001, and the first drops of water had begun to pour from the sky. The days had become increasingly colder, and dusk was just setting over the Nuba Mountains. There was a lively atmosphere in the village, and the luminosity of the fire lit our murky faces with an intensity of oranges, reds and ambers. I glanced at my wife, and the large bump holding my precious baby. I could not wait for the day to hold her in my arms.

Suddenly, I hear screaming coming from the distance, men and women scattered into their huts, and children ran quickly to the sweeping arms of their mothers. I glanced towards the entrance of the tribe and noticed a gang of government workers, armed heavily with lethal weapons and guns. They were heading straight for me! I stood in shock, yet instinctively urging my wife to hide in the bushes behind me, insisting that she keep quiet.

The leader shoved a K-50 firearm to my tip of my forehead and commanded me to kneel to the floor...obedience was the only option.

 

I shuddered, my knees hitting the floor; my hands violently entrapped in handcuffs behind my back and my eyes were immediately masked with blindfolds.

The village was silent.
I was driven to Khartoum and kept locked up in a cell for 15 days, tortured on a daily basis. I was given food and water once a day, just enough to keep me alive. At the time, I did not know whether that was a miracle or a curse.

I was blindfolded once again, and dragged into the back of a car. I did not know where I was going; all I knew is that we had been driving for a long time. After nearly passing out due to the intense heat and lack of oxygen in the confinements of the trunk, I was kicked out whilst the car accelerated.

My body hit the floor like a dead carcass being fed to hyenas.

I laid there, lifelessly, on an unbeaten track where Sudan meets the Egypt border; knowing exactly what they meant by this unspoken act of brutality.

I walked from the Egyptian border, to the closest mosque and prayed Faj. “Ya Allah, Subhanahu Wa Ta'ala, shower your mercy upon this weak soul of mine and guide me towards the path of righteousness”.

I left Sudan and headed towards Turkey. From Turkey I travelled by boat to Greece and sought refuge there for three months. I had my photographs and fingerprints taken and provided with an ID card that I had to get renewed every month.

I then headed to an island called Crete where I met other Sudanese refugees. This was the first time after eight long months that I had met a fellow Sudanese. It felt truly heartbreaking, speaking in my native tongue with my new Sudanese friends; yet what came with this narrative were harsh flashback of fear, sorrow and longing.

For many years I worked on an olive farm with my friends, harvesting the grapes. This was by far the happiest I had felt in a long time; the loyalty that had previously been misplaced, was slowly forming a protective bubble around me. The significance of being amongst my own people was in comprehensible; finally I felt love again.

Five years has passed, and I had left Greece. Foreigners had been racially abusing us, and we could no longer bear the prejudice any longer. The Police were discriminatory towards us, and our witness statements were nonexistent.

We decided to leave Crete, and headed towards Athens, where we travelled by lorry to Italy.

After a short stay, we left Italy and travelled to the Calais port.

I arrived to the UK by coach; I was not sitting in the back of a coach, or hiding amongst the cargo of the lorry. I was hanging beneath it, inches away from the tarmac and nervously gripping the exhaust pipes.

Even though I am in the UK, my heart still yearns to be back in the scenic mountains of Nuba. I live now with the despair, knowing that I could never go back to Sudan, back to the Nuba Mountains or back to the vibrancy of my tribe.

It is without doubt, as soon as my battered feet hit Sudanese soil, I will be arrested, detained and killed; absolutely certain that I will not get a fair trail nor protection from the authorities.

And for my daughter, she is probably fourteen now; born from an act of God yet it is only in Jannah that we will ever meet my dear.

These are the reasons why I am seeking protection in the UK, and this is why I can never return.

The sharpness of the sunbeams glazed the city like a spectacle of glistening stars and the smog from the motor cars filled the air with thick black murkiness. My heart pounded rambunctiously as the queue to vote casting grew shorter and shorter. The people of my country; farmers, labourers, factory workers and carpenters walked silently towards the ballot box, circled their choice of prime minister and sped back into the hidden sanctuaries of their business stalls. The armed officers stood besides us like valiant statues, reminding us of acclaimed Dictator Robert Mugabe and his auspicious duty to our Country. 

I was about to make the biggest decision of my life; I had grew tired of the unruly government that seemed to control my life, enough of the continuous corruption, the mismanagement of the economy, and the injustice of the poor. 

The life I was leading offered no opportunities to develop; I was forever sinking further into debt, and if not debt then surely, an undeserved punishment. It was those moments of infringement that lead me to making the decision of a lifetime.

As I advanced forward to the ballot table, I proceeded to pick up the paper and pen, without a moment of hesitancy and with the anger burning deep inside my gut. I slipped the paper into the opposing ballot box, knowing that my fate will be changed forever.

Without a second to spare, a number of officers rushed towards me; a sudden punch to the face and I was knocked to the floor; kicked, pushed and shoved until eventually I managed to curl into a ball; able to partially protect myself from the pain of the dreadful stabbing that sunk deep into my skin. I was dragged into the back of a white Jeep, a concoction of blood, sweat and tears exuded from my head into my rims of my mouth.

I squinted; the blur of my tears blocked my sight, the howling of my name “Amadi! Amadi!” faint-like in the distant unnerved me. A black figure wailed in the crowds. I blinked again in the hope that the debris would unmask my view.  I squinted once more. It was my mother. Our eyes locked together in an enchantment of childhood memories and I simply gazed into her tear filled eyes with fear and bewilderment. 

I was detained by the police and locked up in a filthy and unhygienic prison cell. I was systematically beaten by officers and tortured until I passed out; waking up in a pool of my own urine and blood. I was fed little or no food over the course of my imprisonment and left out in the darkness with only the silkiness of the moon's company. 

After what felt like months, I was transferred to another cell. I overheard that the officers could no longer stand the smell of my congealed blood. Soon they began to unravel the shackles around my feet and lead me to cell number 315.

Eleven days had passed when I was suddenly awoken with a bucket of cold water. I happened to become familiar with the nights, as the benevolent Moon and I became alliances during my time held as a captive. As the moon sparkled through the barricades of the prison window, I was approached by a menacing officer who stuck a bar of molten plastic into my limbs. One after the other, until eventually I passed out. 

The silkiness of the moon diminished and the sparkle of the stars that usually glowed had faded; begrudgingly the moon evaded into the corner of the world and daylight took over.

Lien-Hua 2012

My name is Lien-Hua and this is my story...

I will never forget that moment; it continues to haunt me every time I wake up in the morning. Each time I fall asleep, I look around my room, memorising my belongings, my mirror, my bedside lamp, my purple curtains, my tartan coat – my only coat. These are my trophies now, I gaze at them with love and hope, knowing that they are mine and this is my life now; it brings me the greatest sense of security and peace. These are my possessions, in this undersized room, in this peaceful house, on a strange street, in an unfamiliar city. 

My life in China seems like it was never a life of my own, could I have imagined it? My beautiful baby daughter. Her sweet scent, her silky raven hair dancing in the sunlight, her favorite cotton pajamas embracing her petite frame. Or was that all a chapter of a book that I am yet to finish reading, in this lost world?

I opened my eyes, my heart racing, my throat dry, my hands and feet clamped together. I do not recall where I was. As I observed my surroundings, I had no awareness of how I had got there.  All I knew was that the bitter cold possessed that room and the sparkle of the moon never dared to enter.



Men off all kind visited my room, took what they want from me and left. I was abused, raped, controlled, punished and threatened for two years of my life. I was not paid for my ‘work’ I was a puppet in their show, forced to accept my fate and told I should be grateful for all THEY had given me.  I bled most nights, I cried myself to sleep every night. I did not care if they heard me weep, it was uncontrollable anyhow. There were no luxuries in my life, not one single moment of happiness. Except for one.

He knocked before he entered, walked in and gracefully bowed before me. He stood there in the middle of the room and waited. I never looked at Them, not properly. I never stared into their eyes; I pictured them as a blur, a dark figure that haunted the room. I hesitated, could this be a test? 

Unlike the Others who had come before him; pushed me towards the bed and forced themselves painfully inside me. Instead, he extended his arms; hesitantly I leaned towards him, stepping closer until my head settled on his warm chest. He smelt of rich cinnamon, and his warmth was captivating. There we stood, perfectly locked together. He held me like I had never been held before, a simple pleasure. Pure bliss.

These treasured twenty minutes are all I have with me and the only belonging I have.