Nadia Manzoor, writer and comedian from Hertfordshire, speaks to Sophie Wilkinson about the abuse she suffered at the hands of her ex-partner, and why, even as a support worker at a women’s shelter, the abuse was hard for her to recognise.
I was 20 years old and had just graduated when my mum died of cancer aged 42. I was living at home in Hertfordshire with my Pakistani Muslim family. I was told that my dating of an Irish man had caused my mother stress, and when a male family member found a photo of me in a bikini at the beach, he laid down the law: if I didn’t change my ways, I’d be dead to him.
To escape, I went to the US to stay with my cousin, who was doing her PhD there, while I did an internship. At first, I was deep in grief and depression, spending my days watching Roseanne re-runs and eating family-sized bags of Doritos with no family to feed but myself. Then I met him. Tall and charismatic, I couldn’t believe someone like him had paid attention to someone like me.
So, when he invited me over to watch Ali G and eat Chinese food, I turned up with unshaved legs, a parka and tracksuit bottoms, fully expecting to watch TV and hang out as friends. He had a very different agenda. It was consensual, but his energy was incredibly overpowering. I thought it was a one-night stand, so afterwards I got up to leave. Instead, he asked me to stay. We ended up together for four years.
