As I punched and shouted, I knew I didn’t have to be demure, delicate or diplomatic. I could be as fierce as I wanted. Those three minutes set me free
O
n meeting me, you would never guess that I used to be an angry person. I’m talkative, sociable and self-possessed – but for nearly 20 years I lived with a quiet fury. It started with my parents, whose strict conservatism restricted everything in my life: what I ate, what I wore, where I went, what I thought. As immigrants from Bangladesh, they believed that control was the best way to protect their daughters, but it suffocated me.
I had to fight to go to university – for all the things that men in my community were given as a right. At first, my anger felt ambient – mild and ever-present – but it became something harder, more bitter, when I was pressured into an arranged marriage at the age of 24.
The marriage lasted days, but the fallout lasted decades. I remember researching a magazine feature years later and speaking to a relationship expert who referenced my “forced marriage”. I was quick to jump in and say: “It was arranged; not forced.” She tilted her head gently and said, “An arranged marriage you did not want?” It was the first time I realised how angry I was.
