On 11 April 1992, Uncle Azam died of complications from gastroenteritis. He was always kind and generous towards me, and his death was a terrible shock. Although he was married and we knew his family, without ever being told about it, I knew there was “something” going on between Azam and my mum. I hadn’t been raised to ask questions, so there was no way I would have ever challenged Mum on what she was doing. I had no idea of the horrific reality that lay behind that “something”.
Everything changed with Azam’s sudden death. Before long, strange rumours began to circulate within the community about Azam, Mum and the relationship between them. I had no idea, and wouldn’t know for years, that Mum was in a coercive, abusive relationship with him. Much more shocking were the terrible rumours swirling that Azam had behaved badly towards me – and Mum had killed him.
In accordance with Muslim practice, Azam was buried the day after his death, and his family and the community mourned. But Azam’s wife had told the coroner’s office she believed he had been poisoned and had kept a sample of his vomit to be tested. A few days later, the results came back, confirming that arsenic was present in the sample. Shortly after, the police arrived at our home, asking who had cooked the meal we had shared with Azam on the night of his death. When I told them I had prepared the curry and Mum had made the samosas and Azam’s dessert, we were both arrested on suspicion of murder.
Nothing could have prepared me or Mum for what followed. To be accused of such a serious crime when I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that we were innocent, was horrific. At the same time, the accusation seemed so crazy to me, so laughable, that I was quite light-hearted with the officers down at the police station. I remember joking with them and them calling me “petal” and even giving me magazines to read. It all seemed like a strange dream, a mad mistake I’d be able to laugh about with my friends once the police realised it was all nonsense.
I didn’t know that their levity was calculated. Murder is a serious offence to be charged with, and with that comes the risk of suicide – that’s why they were being so nice. I had interpreted their care as a tacit acknowledgment that a grave mistake had been made. As far as I was concerned, my beloved uncle had just died, my siblings and I were grieving, and the police were wasting their time with this rubbish.
The next day, Mum and I were released pending investigations, and that’s when the reality of our situation struck. We were on the front page of the local newspapers: Mother and daughter arrested on suspicion of murdering local man. The community rumour mill went into overdrive.
Raised with the absolute conviction that the British justice system was the best in the world, with mistakes rarely made and the law on the side of the good, I felt baffled and betrayed by the police. It was the consensus of our relatives in Pakistan that we were privileged to live in Britain. A photo of the Queen held pride of place in our sitting room; we were very grateful to the UK and heartily agreed we were living in the best country in the world. It was obvious this was a catastrophic miscarriage of justice and that very soon, it would be corrected.
But the chaos of our lives was overwhelming. In a moment of desperation, I went to the bathroom cupboard, found a couple of boxes of painkillers, scooped all the pills into my hand and guzzled them down. I’d had enough. I was out of here.
I wasn’t thinking about anyone else in that moment. The rumours, the arrests, the mayhem – I couldn’t see another way out. You might think my faith would have offered me some guidance at this point, but God didn’t come into the equation. If my faith had been stronger or if I’d understood it the way I do today, I would have trusted that God tests those He loves. But I was raised to fear God, not love Him. Heaven and hell were our daily lessons, and my cultural understanding of Islam didn’t extend beyond the missive to keep God happy and not risk His wrath. It wouldn’t have crossed my mind to turn to Him during the nightmare we found ourselves in.
Despite the attempt, it turned out I wasn’t out of here. I ended up having my stomach pumped, a horrible but lifesaving procedure. I felt utterly adrift and alone, and Mum was distraught. How could you do this? she asked over and over. How could you think of leaving us? I know she was hurt, scared and bewildered, but it felt like I was being reprimanded.
Mum and I never once talked about the rumours, accusations or details of her relationship with Azam. We didn’t have a modern parent-child relationship – certain subjects were off the table, including my reasons for attempting suicide.
Mum and I were arrested and then released again.
Her constant reassurances that everything would sort itself out did little to stem the rising chaos of this period and we waded through these days taking each as it came. That was how it went until 27 July, when we were hit with what felt like a bolt of thunder.
The third time the police came to our house, Mum alone was arrested. It was made clear I was no longer under suspicion. Forensics had revealed arsenic in the gajrela, a dessert made of carrots that Mum had prepared for Azam only. There was no arsenic in the curry I had cooked. I had supplied fingernail scrapings and strands of hair, and the results showed that I, too, had ingested some traces of arsenic but probably as cross-contamination from the dessert.
Mum was formally charged with the murder of Azam and remanded.
Her case was heard at Leeds crown court in November 1993. The day Mum was found guilty, I believed I’d witnessed a monumental miscarriage of justice. It was a mistake, and I would fix it. I had no idea how, but I knew I would. Not in my wildest dreams did I understand the implications – the severity – of what that “guilty of murder” verdict really meant. But as I stood there in shock, watching my mother diminish in front of my eyes, I believed this was the most disastrous thing that had ever happened to me and my family. During the course of the next few years, I was to learn otherwise.