Feature

25 years on: one woman’s story

In the year that the 1967 Abortion Act marks its twenty-fifth anniversary, a young Muslim woman turns to the NHS for an abortion. Here, she tells her story to Philippa Cooper

Beyond the polarity of those for and against abortion, there lies a largely unexamined area: how does the experience affect the Asian woman? For not only does she have to contend with the dilemma facing many women seeking termination of pregnancy, but also issues surrounding race and religion. It is certainly not only Western religion which is, in the main, anti-abortion.

A close friend of mine since primary school, Shenaz (not her real name) found herself in one of the worst positions a young, single, Muslim girl can: being pregnant. This is her story.

’I went to the doctor and she told me I was pregnant. She made me an appointment to go and see a gynaecologist and felt pretty sure that he would be sympathetic towards me obtaining an abortion on the NHS considering my circumstances, religion and background. I knew that, dreadful though it was, I had no choice, I had to have an abortion. But when I went to hospital for my appointment it was a complete nightmare.

I’d never had a smear test or anything like that before, I was just waiting for the doctor to come and see me in this little room. It was terrifying, lying there in a weird gown. When he arrived he just started prodding me like a piece of meat. I was really nervous and scared and he didn’t even tell me what he was going to do to me.

The next minute he was pushing a metal thing up me which really hurt, no words of reassurance or anything. He took it out and did it again, it was just so painful. He was doing a smear but hadn’t inserted it properly the first time. It was awful, I’d never gone through anything like that before in my whole life.

e then said something like, ‘why do you want an abortion then?’ So I told him it was because of my background, religion and family and that there was no way I could have a baby. As an unmarried Muslim girl, I simply couldn’t go through with the pregnancy. Not only would it break up the family but I could be disowned, in fact anything could happen to me. I also told him I was at college, and living at home with only a small grant.

I asked him if I would be able to have an abortion done on the NHS. That’s when he told me in a nasty tone that abortion was totally against his religion and he was here to save lives, and not to take them away. He said that I would have to come back in a couple of weeks, as he was going on holiday.

I was left in the room without any explanation, in a state of total shock. I was hurting so much inside. How could another human being, especially a doctor, treat another like that? He had been physically and mentally brutal to me. I got dressed unable to hold back my tears any longer and was paraded through a room full of doctors who seemed to stare at me. I was told that I now had to see a social worker.

I felt as if everything was against me. Ramadan was coming up shortly and there would be no way I could have the operation done then. I told the social worker about my religion and what it meant being pregnant and an unmarried Muslim girl, and how quickly I had to have the operation done. She kept quoting fees and I just couldn’t understand the whole set up; she told me that while some of the doctors might be against me having the operation done under the NHS, she was sure that I could be considered to go privately.

I couldn’t understand that although my GP had been so sure I was a ‘worthy’ case to have the operation done on the NHS, the specific gynaecologist she had referred me to had responded the way he had done. I felt so choked up by now I was unable to challenge the situation. I just felt like a piece of dirt. When I came out of seeing the social worker I realised what sheer hell it all was. I had so hoped for all this to be over and done with but there was no way I would be able to get the operation done within the NHS.

I had to ring a private clinic the same day and make an appointment for the week after, as they couldn’t see me before. All in all it was going to cost about £200 and I now had to arrange for an overdraft to get the money together.

Throughout this time my then boyfriend was like a stranger. I really needed his support but got none. He didn’t come to the private clinic with me, or help me with transport to the nursing home where they performed the operation. He just gave me half the money and that was that. I had no-one to confide in really. The worst thing was coming home and being with my parents, knowing that something was living inside me. It was worse at night, when I had time to think clearly and hurt and feel guilty about what was going to happen. I was about to kill my child. It was terrible to feel like that and keep it all to myself.

I had no counselling throughout my consultation. I just paid the money, and said why I wanted an abortion, nothing else. I wasn’t really challenged in any way. There were no moral issues this time, but that was because I was paying. The whole attitude towards me at the private clinic was obvious, I could sense them thinking: ‘Well, why has she got herself into this position anyway? It’s totally against her religion’.

What got me as well was the fact that some of the doctors working there were Muslims. That really shocked me. Why is it that doctors probably think it’s their moral right to decide whether or not women should have an abortion and yet, at the end of the day, money seems to be the deciding factor? I had to sign a form which seemed to protect them, rather than me, in the event of anything going wrong.

I was the only black woman in the nursing home, and after the operation I wasn’t allowed to stay on the ward as the nurses were busy getting the beds ready for the next lot of women. I was so hungry after the operation, having starved since the night before and was brought a pathetic plate of soggy, white toast and coffee, before being allowed to go home. Although we’d all paid money to have the abortions we were treated like second class citizens.

I never thought I’d be in the position I was; looking back I feel so cynical. In order to keep the production line of pregnant women passing through these nursing homes it really is money and not morals which keeps them running.’