Hidden Girl: The True Story of a Modern-Day Child Slave (9 page)

In all those years I never saw a doctor or a dentist. I never went to a grocery store, a restaurant, or to the library. In fact, I always thought that every single thing that was purchased came from the same place. I thought there was a big store that had everything, like Walmart, but I never considered that there were other stores too.

I had no idea how long I had been held in bondage, but I had lost any hope that anything in my life would change. I was resigned to the fact that I would grow old with this family and in my lowly position in the home.

There were many moments when I hated God, even though I prayed every day. Who else was there for me to talk to? There were many times when I was angry, when I missed my family badly enough that I couldn’t sleep. Some days I wanted to kick and scream at my captors. I wanted to slap them across the face, like they slapped me. But I never did. I was too afraid.

In the back of my mind I knew that holding another person captive, as I was being held, was wrong. I knew that every family did not have someone like me who slept in the garage. Even though I couldn’t see how, or when, I hoped that someday I would be free of this family and my life could get better. I hoped with all I had that I would be able to see my younger brothers and sisters again. I recalled bits and pieces of them, and the place where we’d lived. Some nights I’d even dream of getting into a taxi that would carry me across the United States and the ocean, and back to our crowded two-room apartment in Egypt.

That never happened, never could happen. But something else did. Someone—a neighbor maybe, or a mom who had seen me at the park, or possibly someone who had seen me with the boys at the pool—someone, a wonderful someone, made a phone call.

This unknown person might have spotted me at midnight when I was hanging the clothes out to dry, or through the kitchen window at two in the morning when I was still washing dishes. However he or she learned about me, they questioned how I was being treated and did the right thing. They made a call. That call ended up in the hands of both the local office of Child Protective Services and the local police department. The local office of US Immigration and Customs Enforcement was also called. These are the people who deal with the realities of human trafficking, who rescue people like me. And they did.

The morning of April 9, 2002,
dawned like any other. It was a Tuesday, a school day, and The Mom and The Dad, along with the oldest daughter, were upstairs. As I always did, I had risen early to get the twins and the two younger daughters off to school.

I was downstairs when there was a knock on the door. It was a loud knock, the kind that you hear on television during a police show. I was not allowed to answer either the phone or the door, so I ignored the sound. But then the knock came again and it was loud enough to bring The Dad down the stairs. I had already served him and The Mom their morning coffee, and knew he was awake. He looked surprised as he rumbled down the stairs, and then he peeked through the peephole in the front door. Then he told me to go into his office. I went. I needed to clean that room anyway.

When he opened the door, there was a lot of yelling. It was in English, so I didn’t understand the words, but I did understand that The Dad was angry. The ruckus was enough to bring the older daughter out to the balcony that overlooked the foyer. The Mom was there too, except she stayed out of sight near the top of the stairs the entire time.

I was done in the office and was on my way to the kitchen, but I had to briefly go through the hall to get there. The Dad had told me to stay in the office, but I had a lot of work to do. If I got too far behind, then The Mom would yell at me. Like a lot of situations in that house, this was a no-win for me. No matter what I did, someone would be mad. I hoped I could avoid being slapped. I was more afraid of The Dad than The Mom, so I went back into the office.

Eventually I heard the door slam, and The Dad said in Arabic, “I didn’t have to let them in. They didn’t have a warrant.”

I didn’t yet understand that the authorities had come for me. The Dad had gotten into trouble in Egypt, and I thought it was more of that. Specifically what “that” was, I didn’t know. But I knew The Mom and The Dad thought it was bad. The Mom and The Dad talked for a few minutes. Then there was another loud knock on the door. Plus, this time the doorbell rang. I’ll never know why The Dad answered the door. He must have known who it was on the other side. He must have known they had gotten a warrant.

This time the officers were allowed into the house, and they were a lot madder than they’d been the first time. There was a lot more arguing and yelling, and then I was called to the door where a man physically put himself between The Dad and me. Then a woman took me by the hand and led me out of the house.

Before I was hustled out of the house, the Dad hissed into my ear, “Do not tell them anything. Say you do not work for me.” I was terrified. For many years my captors had told me stories about all of the bad things that would happen to me if the police ever found me. Now those stories were at the forefront of my mind. My life with The Mom and The Dad had been awful, but I had been told that life with the police would be much, much worse. I did what The Dad said.

“I do not work here,” I said in Arabic. “I do not work here.”

The woman was nice and tried to talk with me, but she did not understand Arabic. My English of words “hi,” “dolphin,” and “stepsister” wouldn’t go far here.

Before I knew it, I found myself in the front seat of a marked police car with a police officer. He handed me a phone, and I found a man who spoke Arabic on the other end. He was a translator, a person who knows two languages who helps people communicate with each other. This was exceptionally scary for me, and I wanted to cry. On top of my deep fear of authorities, everything in my Muslim culture forbade me to speak to a man who was not a member of my household. Plus, I had rarely spoken on the phone, as I had been forbidden to do so. Here I was breaking three taboos at once.

The man on the phone tried to reassure me that the people who had taken me out of my captors’ home were not bad people. “These are good people, people who are there to rescue you from your bondage,” he said. I was quite confused. I didn’t know who or what to believe. I had been brainwashed for years about many things in life, especially the roles of people. My distorted view of who men, women, slaves, and authority figures were—and how they should act—was hard for me to discount.

Eventually I did start to cry, and when I started, I couldn’t stop. I never knew my body could produce that many tears. Many things were rushing through my brain, but most of all I was concerned about what would happen to me. My brain kept defaulting to what I had always been taught. Police were bad. If asked, I was to say I was a stepsister who was visiting.

Also, it had been a long time since anyone had treated me nicely and with respect, and I didn’t know how to react when the officers were kind to me. My captors’ home had been filled with fear, abuse, hatred—and constant physical, mental, and emotional battles. I could barely remember what a warm, loving, safe, nurturing environment was like.

After a while I settled down enough to tell the man on the phone my name. Then he asked what my dad’s name was, and I told him. He asked a few other questions, such as if I had ever been to school and how long I had been in the country. The first question was easy. No, I had never been to school. Not here in the United States and not back home in Egypt. How long I had been in the US was another story, though. I didn’t know. I later was startled to find that when I was rescued, I was six months shy of my thirteenth birthday. I had been in the United States for a little more than twenty months. It had seemed like forever.

•    •    •

I was taken by car from my captors’ house in the gated community in Irvine, California, to what was then called Orangewood Children’s Home. It has since been renamed the Orangewood Children and Family Center, but its services are basically the same. It is an emergency shelter for neglected and sexually, physically, or emotionally abused children, and is located in Santa Ana, California. Each year the home provides refuge for more than a thousand kids who have been removed from their caretakers and placed into protective custody.

It seemed like the ride took forever, although we couldn’t have traveled much more than fifteen miles. Then again, in California traffic fifteen miles
can
take forever. I had no idea where I was going or what was happening. I didn’t even understand that I had been rescued, that I would no longer have to serve The Mom and The Dad eighteen to twenty hours a day, or live in fear that he or she would slap me, or that their kids would yell at me. Instead, in the police car, I was so afraid of what might happen next that I shook throughout the entire ride.

When we arrived at Orangewood, I was first taken to the medical clinic, where I went through all sorts of tests. Then I was given a shot, and my hand, which had been hurting badly for a long time, was bandaged. Later a social worker named Hana Hana, a short, dark-haired Arab woman with a kind face, told me it was broken, although I have no remembrance of what could have caused that to happen.

By this time the kindness everyone had shown me allowed me to relax some. There was no rudeness from anyone, no accusations, and no hitting or slapping. Even though I could not understand the words, I was able to understand the tone of voice, and that made me give them the tiniest bit of my trust.

Someone then took me to the housing area and showed me around the facility and to my room. After that I was directed to a large bathroom that was used by everyone on the floor. I took a shower and couldn’t believe it when someone gave me a pair of pajamas. In all my life I had never worn pajamas. These pajamas had a black, gray, and white check pattern. They were so fresh and clean I couldn’t believe I would be allowed to wear them. Compared to the dirty castoffs that I usually wore to sleep in, these clothes were amazing. I treasured the pajamas then and now, and the fact that I still have them shows how much they mean to me.

My long hair was apparently matted, and another kind lady brushed it for me. I didn’t know when anyone had treated me as nicely, and here I was in a place where many people were wonderful. By this time I was overwhelmed and didn’t know what to think. I was still crying and could not begin to process what was happening. I didn’t understand that I was to stay there, didn’t realize I was never to go back to the home of my captors. It was too much, and I was grateful when someone told me I could take a nap.

Later that day I was taken to a small conference room and spoke in Arabic with Hana Hana, who explained to me that the people at Orangewood were nice people. “These people,” she said, “don’t like to see kids mistreated or taken advantage of. Instead they try to put kids in foster care with nice families or, even better, reunite the kids with their own families.”

Hearing her words, I had my first glimmer of hope. Would I get to go home and see my family? Would I finally be able to hug my younger brothers and sisters and see my mom? All the anger I had toward my parents for allowing me to be mistreated by my captors melted away. Maybe my prayers were finally being answered.

After my conversation with Hana, a small group of people came into the room. Hana translated my words as a man asked questions such as:

“Shyima, who lives in The Mom and The Dad’s house?”

I remained silent, and he tried again.

“What was your role there? What did you do?”

I was afraid to say anything, so I kept my mouth shut.

“What were your days like, Shyima? How did they treat you?”

I realized that the man was not going to give up. I had to say something. My captors had ingrained in me what I should say and do if a situation like this ever occurred, and I stayed close to their script. Even though I knew on some level that this was my chance to go home, I did what The Dad had told me to do and said, “Nothing was wrong in the house. The Mom and The Dad treated me like a daughter. Everything is fine.” That’s how terrified I still was of my captors.

The next day everyone came back and got my mom and dad on the phone. I couldn’t believe I was going to get to talk with them. I had missed them badly and could not wait to talk to them! But my excitement was not to last long. When a different social worker told my dad what was going on, my dad began to yell at me as she listened on another extension in the room.

“How could you leave those people who took such good care of you?” he shouted. “Those people treated you right. How can you listen to these people now? By leaving the home of these people, you have disrespected me. And you have caused your mother to have a heart attack. You must go back and behave yourself.”

As angry as he had often been when I was young, as angry as I had seen The Mom and The Dad, I had never heard such a hateful tone coming from another human being. My eyes welled, and tears soon streamed down my face. How could my dad say those things? How could he want me to go back to my captors, to live such a terrible life?