Ms. M of Melbourne

The 42nd floor of the Regent Hotel in Melbourne gives a lovely view of the city. On my left are trees like furry balls of green. On the right stretches the long railway lines that connect Australia’s second-largest city to its suburbs. And in front of me stand the skyscrapers, canyons of concrete and steel.

I take the elevator down to the ground floor when M. calls to me from the lobby. M. looks like my sister, who is a nurse in LA. I tell her so, and she breaks into a smile, a smile. In the chill air of spring, while she tells me the story:

“Sunday. It was a sunlit morning three years ago when the phone rang in our house in Zamboanga. ‘Overseas call!’ my sister called out for me. John, my Australian suitor, was on the other end of the line.”

“After three years, my application to be with him was finally approved by the embassy. John promised me everything. He said to me that upon my arrival, we would immediately get married and return to Cyprus, his country of origin, for a short holiday. He also promised a world tour. I was very excited. In my mind ran images of my dreams: ‘Three beautiful kids, a loving husband, business trips around the world.

“I arrived in Melbourne in November last year. But John was not 49 years old, as he claimed he was. Instead, he was 72. He had sent me photos taken when he was much younger. I found out his real age only when Immigration sent me, six months before my fiancée visa was approved, a copy of the “assurance of support application” to fill up. I was already committed to him emotionally and financially. His age came as a shock to me, but I could no longer back out.

 “When we got married, I became a complete sex slave. He would fondle my breasts even in the presence of customers. If I told him to stop it, he would say, ‘It doesn’t matter now. You’re already my wife.’

 “I came to Melbourne in good faith to marry a man who would love and respect me, and to raise a wonderful family. My heart was full of dreams. But all of them were shattered.

 “I wish I were back home, working in my country, living with my family. In the Philippines, I worked as a laboratory assistant. My brothers and sisters were all working, except the youngest, who was still studying. My parents were both government employees. They know what has happened to me, and they support my every move.

 “Luckily, one of John’s neighbors is a frequent customer in our shop. She became my friend. This Maltese woman bought cigarettes, milk, and the papers so we could talk. She knew something was wrong, so she rang up the Philippines Embassy. She talked to the Filipino Grant-in-Aid worker, Bridget, who in turn talked to me. It felt good to hear a voice in a familiar language murmuring words of comfort and hope.

“From that time on, Bridget would often talk to me. A Filipino worker from the Immigrant Women’s Center Against Domestic Violence also monitored my case.

One afternoon, I was talking to Bridget when I heard a click at the other end of the line. John claimed he was just listening to Greek music. But I saw a recorder beside the phone’s mouthpiece. We scuffled for the tape. I had the tape in my hand, and he was holding me so tight I thought I could no longer breathe. When he noticed it, he finally let go and grabbed the tape from me.

“I ran out of the room, out of the house, and into my neighbor’s house. I rang up the police. But they would not come, saying there was no physical injury. I called up Bridget and asked if she could ring up the police for me. She said it would be better if I called up in my house because the police might not believe her. I asked my neighbor if she could call up the police for me. She did.

“Finally they came. They escorted me back to the house so I could get my things. They also confiscated John’s firearms. They brought me to the police station, where I called up the Women’s Refugee Referral Centre. They told me to wait for a taxi that would fetch me and bring me to an Emergency Accommodation. I spent the night there.

“I kept looking out the window at the darkness. I was sure there was nobody outside, but I felt there were shapes moving about. I could not sleep. The next morning, somebody fetched me at the Emergency Accommodation and brought me to the Women’s Refugee House. The gracious staff applied for a permanent resident visa on my behalf, because my husband had no intention of getting one for me.

“I stayed in this refugee house for five months. I was in pieces. I attempted to kill myself twice. I went into counseling for a month and a half.

 “After months of waiting, I was finally granted my permanent-resident status. I became eligible for special benefits. I transferred to Support Accommodation, a secret place in the suburbs, so I could rebuild my life. Now I am doing voluntary work at the Center and its staff has helped me a lot. I have a new home. They have helped me see myself in a heeling light. The cracks are beginning to disappear. Now, I am helping other Filipino women who went through the same trauma I did.

“Last month, I asked some staffers from the Center to accompany me to my husband’s house because I wanted to talk to him. He said he was just waiting for me to divorce him so he could go the Philippines — and look for another woman.”

All through this, M.’s voice is cool and even. It does not betray her sadness. But when she looks at you, the sadness is all there, in her eyes.

We return to Central Melbourne. I have to go back to my hotel. She will take the train and return to her anonymous house in the suburbs. We stand in the middle of the road, waiting for my tram.

The chilly wind of spring begins to blow. My tram arrives. I say goodbye quickly, kiss her on the cheek, and climb the steps. The tram begins to move. From my window I can see her small figure walking away, on the sidewalks of Melbourne, as dusk begins to fall.

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