Parisa

Prepared ground

And He has made from one blood every nation of men to dwell on all the face of the earth, and has determined their preappointed times and the boundaries of their dwellings, so that they should seek the Lord, in the hope that they might grope for Him and find Him, though He is not far from each one of us; for in Him we live and move and have our being…

Acts 17:26-28 NKJV

            I grew up with my parents, my brother and my sisters in the city of Shiraz. My father, while not being very spiritually in tune with his religion, nevertheless strictly applied the cultural rules of Islam within his family. He was always concerned about our outward appearance before society. We girls had to do things like covering our hair in the proper way, and being careful about how we wore make-up. My mother, on the other hand, was more genuinely connected to her religion, having a wide knowledge of the various prophets of Islam and their families, the stories and the history. At the same time, she was far less concerned with rules and appearances, and was open to discussion of spirituality. In this sense, she was really not a typical Muslim housewife. It was my mother’s approach and attitude that influenced me most growing up.

            School was another matter. There is a clear determination within the education system in Iran to brainwash all children from a young age, and to engineer obedience to the cultural and religious norms of Islamic society. We were taught Islamic history, religious rules and practices, and moral behaviour. I cannot explain why, but even as a small child, something in my heart could not accept anything that I was taught concerning religion. It seemed to me to be only a plan of the government and the religious leaders for control of people’s lives. Everything was formal and empty. Something profoundly significant seemed to be missing. No one could know from my outward obedience and good behaviour that deep down, in the most intimate parts of my heart and mind, I could not even believe that there was a God. Despite all my teachers and relatives and the incessant television propaganda, nothing moved me to consider that there really was a being beyond this world that we could know, or even some distant creator God. In my mind, there was only the oppressive religion of Islam and Allah, or no God at all, and I preferred the idea of no God.

            While still very young, I began to open up and to discuss my feelings with my mother. I told her that if we studied science, we could see clearly that there is no God, though I do not know where I got this idea from. Despite her efforts, I was just not happy to accept what I was told, and struggled with the idea of believing in any God.

            We had no way to go and study other religions, or talk to people of other faiths. An inquiring mind like mine was something forbidden. In school, I had a classmate from a Baha’i family, but our teachers more or less encouraged us to ostracise her. If I ever tried to talk to her or be kind to her even in a small way, I felt that my other friends were looking at me with disapproval, and I was afraid that I would end up as an outsider too. Teachers always subtly implied that she was different, and that we had to be careful not to become friends with her. This attitude made me turn away from my religion even more. I saw only negativity and prohibition.

            As I was approaching my teenage years, my mother got to know a young driver, who frequently turned up at our home whenever we called for a taxi. My mother was always very sociable and welcoming to everyone, whereas I felt shy and embarrassed at her warm-hearted exuberance. I was always telling her not to talk to people so much because I knew that it would end with lots of social calls and what seemed to me to be endless empty chatter. I was also far too young to have any thoughts of love or marriage, but my mother was always looking to the future with plans for her children’s happiness and well-being. This is how we got to know my future husband. Some time after befriending this young driver, he began to ask my mother about the possibility of becoming engaged to me. I was only around thirteen or fourteen years old, and he was around twenty. I had no particular objection to him, though I was too young to think seriously about my future. In time, we got to know each other better, and I did come to love him as I got older. When I was fifteen, we formally registered our marriage, but we did not have a wedding ceremony or live together until I was nearly eighteen.

            My relationship with my husband was a good one. In terms of our attitudes towards religion and culture, we were very like-minded. Like me, he never bothered to pray as he should have done, and neither of us fasted during Ramadan. When we met with his parents during that season, we would pretend to be fasting, but would then go back to our own home and carry on as normal. From time to time, we would drink alcohol with friends on special occasions. In almost every way, we thought alike, and overall, my marriage gave me more freedom than I’d had at home with my parents.

            I remained generally quite reticent and unsociable. When my father-in-law passed away, our home became very busy for a few weeks, with a constant stream of visitors arriving to comfort us. People would sit around for hours gossiping, and it was just the kind of situation that I hated. I took the opportunity at that time to start reading through the Quran in Farsi as it is supposed to be a good thing to do for the sake of the one who has died. Everyone praised me for my reading and saw it as a wonderful thing, and a sign of genuine affection for my father-in-law. In reality, it was just a way for me to escape from any need to participate in the trivial chatter going on around me. I had never read the Quran for myself before that time, and my eyes were opened to its contents. Sometimes, in my discussions with my mother, I found I was unable to explain just what I disagreed with, because I really did not know the book well. If it had not been for the circumstances of my father-in-law’s passing, I think I really would never have bothered to look into it. Reading it left me feeling even more than before that Islam was an empty religion.

            I had trained as an accountant, and while I enjoyed the profession, my boss was a very strict Muslim. He insisted that all the women wore their hijabs correctly, with no hair showing, and that we wore our make-up in the ‘right’ way while at work. He imposed many other rules, creating an environment that left me feeling choked and stifled. I saw one day that construction was beginning on a modern luxury hotel very close to our home. I calculated that the hotel would be ready to open in about five years’ time, and I made the decision to start taking English classes. I knew that English speakers would be wanted to work in the hotel, and I planned to work hard to be ready to apply for a job. This gave me something to aim for – a future escape plan from my present work situation. I did not know then, of course, how useful and important my English skills would be.

            Things changed for us when my husband started to get involved in politics. As the presidential elections of 2009 approached, he and a friend began to canvass for an opposition candidate, and they participated in the production of banners and leaflets. Of course, when Ahmadinejad was reelected and protests began all over Iran, my husband was amongst the many who were arrested and interrogated over their pre-election activities. We had been totally unprepared for the events that took place at that time in our country. At previous elections, people had not asked why their votes had not been counted. Everyone knew that the president was pre-elected and that the whole process was just an illusion and a show for the outside world. But with the advent of social media, young people had begun to realise that there were ways to make the social and political systems in Iran known to the international community. As young people took to the streets in protest, and were beaten and arrested by police, scenes of brutality were recorded and videos were posted on social media. The response of the authorities was even more arrests, brutality and censorship. This was the turmoil we had become caught up in.

            Shortly following my husband’s arrest and subsequent release, we had reason to suspect that a friend had given his name as the main instigator and organiser of their campaign in order to secure his own freedom from detention. We were sure that there would be another arrest before long, and I was afraid even for myself. As his wife, it would be assumed that I had also been involved, and I knew that even if I was able to prove my innocence, it would be many months or even years before I would regain my freedom if I was once imprisoned. I might even be hanged for some other false charge during the process. And so we made the quick decision to flee the country, not expecting that we were leaving forever. We thought that there would be some time in the not-too-distant future when the situation would be calmer and we would be able to return to our home. We left with nothing but the clothes we were wearing, really not understanding how momentous a step we were taking. When I think now of the irreplaceable things that we left behind, particularly the albums of photographs of my family and friends, I am glad that I did not know at that time just what we were about to do.

            Our only option for a quick exit from the country was to pay a trafficker and to leave with fake passports and identification documents. For the next stage of the journey, we were put into the back of a lorry along with five or six other travellers, having no idea where we would end up, and with a driver unaware of our presence. Although I had a small handbag with me, our traffickers forced us to leave everything behind, including all our real documents and identification. Although we had paid a lot of money to these men, they were not our friends. They had guns, and we knew that they would have no qualms about using them. The lorry turned out to be a refrigeration vehicle, so our journey was extremely uncomfortable. After around twelve hours, we were really suffering from the effects of the freezing conditions. One of the other travellers was able to use his phone to check our location, and he saw that we were somewhere near Bedford in England. We decided that it was time to call the police, and to let the driver know that we were there by banging on the sides of the lorry. When he stopped the lorry, the driver called the police himself, and finally they arrived and the doors were opened for us.

            When I look back on our decision to leave Iran and on that journey, I am thankful for so many things, and I can see God’s hand on me and His working in my life before I even knew it. I cannot imagine how much more difficult things would have been if we had already had children at that time. I think of how I had developed that determination to learn English as well, having no clue how much I would really need and appreciate those language skills.

            The first place we were taken to was Yarl’s Wood Immigration Removal Centre near Milton Ernest in Bedfordshire. We were told that it was a place where we would be interviewed and investigated over a few days to check our stories and backgrounds, possible links to terrorism, and so on. We found, however, that there were some refugees, including Iranians like us, who had been housed there for several months, so we did not know how long we might need to stay. My husband and I were separated, even though there were family quarters, and we were not able to communicate with each other during our stay. I was sent to the women’s quarter, and he to the men’s. Even though our stay was relatively short, my bewilderment and loneliness made the time pass very slowly. I had an Iranian roommate who told me that she had been stuck there for two months. I began to feel that I had fled the possibility of imprisonment in Iran only to be imprisoned in the UK, and I sank quickly into a severe depression.

            One of the other Iranian women at Yarl’s Wood introduced me to her African American roommate. This woman was a Christian. She had been at the centre for a very long time, having been caught working illegally after coming to join her son in the UK. She saw that I was very unhappy, and missing my husband, and she invited me to go to church with her. I went with her, and was totally shocked at what I saw. The room was very big, and most of the women were African and were praying and dancing and singing. This was so unlike my only experience of religion up until now. In the mosque, there would be stillness, and praying in Arabic, without understanding the words, without any feeling or emotion, and without any real connection to God. Something stirred in my heart as I watched the worship in that church. For the first time, I saw that religion could be about a real relationship with God. These people behaved in a way that I had never witnessed before in religion. I thought to myself, “I know there is no God, but if there is, I would ask Him to set me free from this place.” It was hardly a prayer of faith. It was hardly even a prayer, but something had moved in my heart and caused me to hope for the first time in my life that it might just be worth trying to get some help from a spiritual source.

            When I returned to my room after the church service had ended, there was a letter waiting for me. It stated that in two days’ time, we would be free to leave. When I told the Christian lady about my prayer in the church, she told me that Jesus had heard me and answered me. That was the start of something new for me. I cannot say that I believed and was saved at that time. In fact, I almost immediately forgot about the experience. But I now know that God had begun to open and to soften my heart.

            There was so much to distract me in those first few weeks from any more thoughts of God or of my simple prayer. Every few days, there would be some letter to open and try to understand, and we would have no idea what was going to come next. There were constant appointments to attend; nothing was normal or routine.

            My husband and I were sent to a new city, and it seemed that by chance, one of the other Iranians who had been in the lorry with us, was also sent there. All three of us were accommodated in a hotel for refugees for the first month after our arrival. This other Iranian was not a Christian, but he found a church and attended one Sunday because he said he was interested to see how Christians pray and worship God. He came back from the service and told us that he had been really moved by what he saw. Like me, he saw how different a Christian worship service was from his experiences of Islam.

            The very next Sunday, a small bus arrived at the hotel to pick up some people who wanted to attend church. One of those on the bus was an Iranian, and when we greeted each other, we recognised each other’s accents and realised that we were from the very same city. He invited us to go to church with them, and having nothing much else to do, we decided to go. I would say that on that day, our main motivation was just to spend some time with other Iranians, and to relax a bit in our own language and culture.

            Despite that initial motivation, we have continued to attend that same church almost every Sunday since. My salvation did not happen in a rush. It was a slow, step-by-step process for me in coming to know the Lord. Each week I have learnt more and more from the Bible of what God did for me in sending His only Son to die on the cross to pay the price for my sins. An older Iranian from the church led us in our Bible study, and was able to show us also many things about the Quran – how many of the stories from the Old Testament and from Jewish traditions have been manipulated and altered to make a new religion with Mohammed as a new prophet and even a kind of saviour. Many of the stories in the Quran have Biblical origins, but there is no complete story, or even, in my opinion, any complete, meaningful sentence. Everything is jumbled up and confused. I remembered my feelings on reading the Quran in Farsi for the first time when my father-in-law passed away just two years before we came to the UK, and I saw what an incredible contrast there is in the Bible. It is a book with life and meaning on every page. Hebrews 4:12 says:

For the word of God is living and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the division of soul and spirit, and of joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.

Hebrews 4:12 NKJV

            A passage that has spoken to me in particular is the parable that Jesus told of the sower sowing seed on different types of soil. Some of the seed gets choked by weeds; some falls on stony ground and springs up for just a short time; some gets eaten by birds; finally, some of the seed falls on good soil and grows well. Good soil needs to be prepared. As I look back at all the details of my life, I can see how God was preparing me. He put in my heart that questioning skepticism that I had from childhood; he brought me to my marriage, to my reading of the Quran and my disappointment with it, to my decision to learn English, and to becoming a refugee in the UK. I can look at so many small details in my life and see that I was meant to be here at this time. God meant me to be here, and to go to church, and read the Bible, and learn about Him, and find salvation in His Son Jesus Christ. Jesus has always been in charge of my life. Even when I was denying His existence, He was drawing me to Himself. I think now with shame of how arrogant I was. I really believed I was so clever to think that there is no God or that it was either Islam or nothing. I was like a naughty child for so many years, but He never let go of me. He pointed me and turned me in the right direction towards knowing Him in the end.

            Over the past few years, we have had two children, and I am trying to bring them up to know Jesus. I bring them with me to church every week, and they can be distracting for me when I want to pay attention. My husband still does not know Jesus as his personal Saviour, but he has not opposed my faith, and usually attends church with me. I pray that I may be a faithful witness to him. He believes that there is a Creator God, but his background in Islam has led him to conclude that all religion is just a tool to enslave people. Because I was able to understand English from the beginning of our time attending church, I have had six years to sit under good gospel preaching. My husband’s English level was not as good as mine, and although he understands more now, he has not had the head start that I did, and the distraction of the children can make it difficult for us to listen attentively. Sometimes my husband seems really uninterested in the sermon, and spends most of the time looking at his phone, but I always persuade him to come with me. I tell him that it is too difficult for me to go alone and to keep the children under control. I just continue to pray and trust that God has a time for him too.

            So much of my time is taken up these days in looking after my children. I have always been used to either working or studying, so a lot has changed. I know that this is just a season, and friends are always telling me that the time when my children are small and need me so much will pass quickly, and then it will be over and I will wish the time back again. I know that God has much to teach us in all of the various seasons of our lives. I am learning patience! I can look back at the years before I had my children when I loved to study. Studying was in fact my sole purpose in life, and it had become like an idol to me. God has shown me that there are other, better purposes. I have a calm now, even with my children running noisily around me, that I did not have before. Giving attention to my children, attending to their needs, and being at home for much of my day has given me a different kind of focus on my walk with God.

            One of my sisters has become a Christian, and it has been a huge blessing that she has since joined me as a refugee in the UK, and now lives in the same city. It was very exciting to watch her come to faith, and a privilege for God to use me in her journey. She began to read the Bible while still in Iran. She was going through a very difficult time in her life, and I photographed pages from the New Testament Gospels, and sent them to her. Her story is told next!