Khadiza Khatun:
Writing about society, patriarchy and other women’s struggles has always been easier than writing about my own life. But some experiences remain too painful to keep hidden.
I arrived in Denmark from Bangladesh on 20 February 2023. I was already married, although my husband and I had never met in person. We had married over the phone while he was studying in Sweden. Later, he moved to Italy, hoping to secure legal documents.
He came to Denmark to meet me. I still remember holding his hand for the first time, believing we were beginning a life together. I had lost both my parents. When I married, I hoped his family would become mine too. His parents treated me affectionately, and I trusted them.
While living in Denmark, I gave my father-in-law power of attorney over my bank account in Bangladesh so that I could access my savings when necessary. One day, he withdrew 205,000 taka and informed me afterwards. I understood that the money had been used for construction work on their building.
I was shocked but simply said, “Okay.” I did not want to create conflict in my new family.
Throughout our three years and eight months of marriage, nobody offered to return that money. Only after our separation did I begin to recognise how my trust had been taken for granted. My husband could not establish himself in Denmark and decided to return to Italy. I could have stayed, but I believed marriage meant facing difficulties together. So I followed him.
In Italy, he advised me to apply for asylum without mentioning him as my husband, saying it might improve my chances. I trusted him. It took more than ten months to receive permission to work. Before leaving Bangladesh, I had been a university lecturer with my own income and professional identity. Suddenly, I was dependent on someone who seemed to resent that dependence.
Then, for the first time, my husband called me a “zero.”
I was devastated. He knew how hard I had worked to build my career and support myself before marriage. Yet none of that seemed to matter because I was not earning money at that moment. He said he could not give me “princess treatment.” But I had never asked for luxury. I wanted respect, companionship and a shared future.
That word, “zero,” changed how I saw myself. Was a woman’s worth determined only by how much money she earned? Did the savings I had spent and the career I had sacrificed mean nothing? Eventually, I stopped asking him for anything. When I began earning through private tuition, his first response was that he would no longer need to pay my share of the rent.
In 2024, I received a temporary work permit and applied to international schools. Three invited me to interview, and one offered me a job. I returned to teaching and regained my financial independence.
But earning my own salary did not repair our marriage. I wanted a separate home, children if possible, and a clear plan for our future. He avoided these conversations. He said he did not want to raise children in Europe because of its religious environment, although he was willing to work here.
As a Muslim, I respect my faith. But I could not understand why religion was being used to dismiss my hopes for our marriage.
By May 2026, I had started counselling. I was experiencing anxiety and panic attacks. I was beginning to question why I had remained in a relationship where I felt so unheard.
During a trip to Sicily, I watched my husband laugh and talk freely with strangers. Yet with me, he barely discussed our relationship. I realised I was not asking for constant attention. I was asking for a partner. Eventually, I moved into a room near my school. He knew I was leaving but made no effort to stop me. After returning from work, he called repeatedly. I was too hurt and angry to answer. Yet secretly, I hoped those calls meant he wanted us to reconcile.
That first night, I cried until morning. The room felt unbearably empty. I kept imagining that somehow everything would be repaired. But his calls gradually decreased. After two days, they stopped.
He knew where I worked, but never came to speak with me. Soon afterwards, he blocked me and moved out of our former home. His family did not contact me either. Nearly two months later, I received an email containing a ‘talaq’ message. After almost four years of marriage, was this really how everything would end?
He later agreed to meet me in the presence of a religious scholar. I agreed, partly because I wanted clarity, but also because I still wanted to see the man I had loved. I cannot pretend that financial independence has made this easier. I have a job, a room and responsibilities. My students need me, and every morning I go to school.
But a salary can pay for a room. It cannot make that room feel less empty at night. Sometimes I think about the woman I was when I arrived in Denmark. I had dreams of a home, companionship and perhaps a child. I trusted someone enough to leave behind my professional life and follow him to another country.
Now I walk through Rome carrying memories that nobody around me can see. I do not regret wanting a family. I regret how little protection I gave myself while trying to preserve that dream. I am not ready to imagine another relationship. I am still grieving this one. For now, I continue teaching, paying my bills and trying to make sense of what happened.
I am simply trying to find my way back to myself.