The Child Bride (23 page)

I closed this website and opened the next, where I learned that girls as young as eleven and twelve were dying in childbirth in villages and some hospitals abroad. I could barely look at the photographs of the little girls in their wedding dresses, standing beside the adult males five or six times their ages who were to be their husbands. Reasons for child marriage included ensuring the girl was a virgin when she married, dowry payments, the value of a child bride and poverty – some families had to marry off their girl children in order to feed the rest of the family.

I read web page after web page on forced child marriages, and some included shocking statistics. In Yemen, for example, a quarter of the female population was married before the age of fifteen, with a similar figure for Pakistan. Niger, Chad, Mali, India, Guinea and Bangladesh ranked among the highest for forced child marriages, with a shocking 20 per cent of girls in Bangladesh married before their fifteenth birthday. Many were under twelve. Organizations around the world were campaigning to stop the practice of child marriage, and countries were gradually passing laws to make it illegal, but change was slow, especially in remote rural areas.

Yet while I’d learned a lot, and what I’d read was horrific, I hadn’t found information on cases specifically like Zeena’s; a British girl forced into marriage abroad. I now typed
underage forced marriage in Britain
into the search engine and within minutes I had my answer. Zeena wasn’t the only one. Cases like hers had happened before and were happening now. The websites said that while it wasn’t possible to quantify the exact numbers – because some girls simply disappeared or their marriage was kept secret – every year hundreds if not thousands of British teenage girls were forced into marriages abroad. Some, like Zeena, had been tricked into going – the promise of a holiday being a favourite, or to learn about their culture was another. Some of the girls had been emotionally blackmailed, some drugged to get them on the plane, while others had been beaten into submission or threatened with harm if they refused to marry. I read that hundreds of British teenage girls simply disappear from England each year and never return.

The cases that were well documented were those like Zeena’s; girls who had returned or escaped, some with the help of the British consulate abroad. Many of the girls told of being locked up until their wedding day or threatened with violence if they disobeyed. ‘Honour-based violence’, as it is known, seemed to go hand in hand with forced marriage, although I couldn’t begin to see where the honour lay in what these girls had been subjected to. I read that in Britain most of the girls who went missing did so in July, just before the schools broke up for the long summer holidays when their disappearance wouldn’t be noticed for at least six weeks. How could this be allowed to happen in Britain?

I read on and learned that there was help and support available for these girls. I found websites listing telephone helplines, charities and organizations that girls could contact if they feared they were about to be subjected to a forced marriage, or if they’d already been the victim of one. Also the British Government, now aware of the problem, had set up a website that gave information for professionals (teachers, social workers, etc.), including advice on how to spot the signs of a forced marriage. All the websites emphasized that if a girl was worried for her safety she should call the police on 999.

I was still at the computer when Paula arrived home, having been given a lift by her friend’s mother. She kissed me goodnight and went to bed. Then half an hour later Lucy arrived home, having been dropped off by her boyfriend. She, too, kissed me goodnight and went up to bed. Just before midnight I switched off the computer, shocked and saddened by what I’d read, but wholly convinced Zeena was telling the truth.

That night I couldn’t sleep. The stories of the child brides, their photographs and Zeena’s suffering plagued my waking hours. When Zeena awoke in the morning and came downstairs I gave her a reassuring hug. ‘I’m so pleased you’re staying with us,’ I said.

She smiled. ‘So am I,’ she said.

I knew I shouldn’t question her further about what she’d told me. I needed to leave that to Tara and Norma, who would know which questions to ask and how best to proceed. I thought I could help Zeena if I made the weekend as normal as possible, in what was an otherwise very abnormal situation: fostering a fourteen-year-old who was married was a first for me, as it would be for most carers.

Zeena seemed to be coping quite well. We were mainly at home on Saturday; Zeena did her homework and then chatted with Paula and Lucy. Then on Sunday all five of us went to see my parents. I tried to visit them most weekends, even if it was just for a short visit. As usual they made a fuss of us, and their presence offered a reassuring stability compared to the uncertainty of the tragedy we were now having to deal with. I didn’t tell them what had happened to Zeena – it was confidential – and she didn’t tell them either, but she seemed relaxed and chatted to them about their garden, of which they were justly proud. Although neither Zeena nor I mentioned her situation again over the weekend, it was never far from my mind, as I’m sure it wasn’t from hers. I kept looking at her with great sadness as I struggled to equate the young-looking fourteen-year-old girl I saw with the marriageable woman her parents must have seen a year before. They’d been so eager to obliterate the past and build bridges between the families that they’d sacrificed their daughter to marriage and rape. It was an atrocity, and I couldn’t see it any other way.

On Monday I took Zeena to school in the car and, having watched her go in, I returned straight home. With my fostering folder open on my lap I sat on the sofa in the living room, picked up the phone and keyed in the number for Tara’s office. It was 9.15 a.m. and she answered straight away.

‘It’s Cathy, Zeena’s carer,’ I said. ‘Are you free? I need to talk to you. Zeena’s disclosed something horrendous.’

‘Go ahead. I’m not in a meeting until ten o’clock. What has she said?’

I began by telling Tara about the upsetting call Zeena had taken on her mobile on Friday from Farhad, which had led to her disclosure. Tara listened in silence as I told her of Zeena’s first trip to Bangladesh when, aged nine, she’d been brutally raped by a teenage cousin. I recounted how her parents and wider family had blamed and shunned her for what had happened, and the cruel treatment she’d received from her parents on returning home, including ignoring her birthdays and the life of servitude she’d had to lead. I then described Zeena’s second trip to Bangladesh where she’d been forced to marry Farhad, Hasan’s uncle, who was nearly fifty. Sometimes I used Zeena’s words and other times, where appropriate, I paraphrased what she’d told me. When I finished there was silence on the other end of the line, and then Tara let out a heartfelt sigh.

‘My God. The poor child,’ she said. ‘Norma thought there was a lot more going on than we knew about – although I doubt even she could have guessed this. I’ve heard of underage forced marriage, but I’ve never had to deal with a case. At least now Zeena’s told us I’ll be able to get her the help and support she needs. You say her second phone is only used for the husband?’

‘Yes. It would appear so.’

‘I’ll need to see Zeena as soon as possible,’ Tara said. ‘I’d like Norma to be with me. I’ll phone her and then get back to you with a day and time. You did well, Cathy. It’s positive that she’s been able to tell you.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, although I didn’t feel very positive.

An hour later Tara telephoned, having spoken to Norma, and said they would both visit us the following day at four o’clock. I made a note in my diary and continued with the housework. I checked in the medicine cabinet that Zeena had taken the last of her antibiotics, which had been due that morning, and then I threw away the empty packet. I went upstairs with the clean laundry and while I was on the landing I heard Zeena’s phone ringing from her bedroom. It was the phone dedicated to her husband; it had a different ringtone to the one she used for everyone else and took with her to school. It crossed my mind to go into her room, find the phone and answer it, but it felt like an invasion of her privacy. In the past I’d had to search the room of a missing teenager for any clue as to where she might have gone, and another time I’d been asked by a social worker to search a teenager’s room for drugs. Zeena’s husband’s telephone calls could be considered a threat to her safety and therefore grounds for checking her phone, but I wasn’t comfortable making that decision yet, so I let the phone ring. I would ask for Tara’s and Norma’s advice about the phone when I saw them the following day. However, when I mentioned the phone to Zeena that afternoon, having collected her from school in the car, I was surprised by her reaction.

‘You didn’t look at the phone, did you?’ she asked anxiously.

‘No, love,’ I said.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I didn’t even go into your room.’

‘Good. I must have forgotten to switch it off. And you didn’t look at the numbers?’

‘No, honestly.’

I had assumed that as the purpose of the phone was now known to me she would be comfortable with me mentioning it to her, so I didn’t understand why she was so worried about me seeing the phone, but I didn’t pursue it.

When we arrived home Zeena went straight upstairs to her bedroom, I assumed to check her phone. I appreciated why she felt it was necessary to speak to Farhad and placate him, although I wasn’t sure it was the best policy.

I didn’t see much of Zeena after dinner as she had a lot of homework, but later that evening Paula came to me, concerned. ‘Mum,’ she said, ‘did you know Zeena still has to talk to her husband on the phone? I heard her just now.’

‘Yes, I know, love. I’m going to discuss it with her social worker when she visits us tomorrow. Try not to worry. I’m sure she and Norma will know what to do for the best.’ My family cared for and worried about Zeena, and Lucy and Paula especially – as girls – empathized with her suffering, even though their life experiences had been very different.

The following day, after I’d collected Zeena from school in the car, we got home with five minutes to spare before Tara and Norma arrived. I made everyone a drink and then Norma asked Zeena if she wanted me to be present while they talked. Zeena said she did, so I went with them into the living room. Paula was in her bedroom listening to her music, and Adrian and Lucy weren’t home yet.

Tara had a notepad and pen ready on her lap, and Norma began by telling Zeena that she had done very well to disclose what had happened, and that she appreciated how difficult it was for her. Zeena was sitting beside me on the sofa and she immediately teared up – I think from the sympathetic acknowledgement of her pain, and also the relief that it was finally out in the open. I touched her arm reassuringly.

‘I know you’ve already told Cathy,’ Norma said. ‘But I do need to hear it from you. Can we start with your first visit to Bangladesh? I believe that was the first time you’d met your cousin and other relatives?’

‘Yes,’ Zeena said. ‘I was nine, although it seems as though it was only yesterday. It’s still so fresh in my mind.’ In a steady and low voice, Zeena began telling Norma and Tara everything that had happened to her, starting with that fateful first trip. From time to time Norma and Tara gently interrupted Zeena to confirm or clarify a point. Tara made some notes as Zeena gradually brought her story up to date, concluding with the incident near her siblings’ school when her father and uncle grabbed her and threatened to set her on fire.

‘So when they threatened you it was about fulfilling your marriage promise and having Farhad come to this country?’ Norma asked gently.

‘Yes,’ Zeena said. ‘And that I was causing them a lot of trouble.’

‘Your marriage isn’t recognized in the English courts,’ Norma said, explaining the legal position. ‘Although I appreciate Farhad, your parents and extended family view you as married. However, you are British and were underage at the time. The youngest anyone can marry in this country is sixteen. And even if you had been of age, and you’d been married in this country, the marriage could be annulled, as it was forced. You can’t force someone to marry here.’

Norma was clearly well informed, and Zeena, Tara and I were all listening carefully to what she was telling us.

‘Also, immigration laws have been tightened,’ Norma continued. ‘Based on what you’ve told me it’s highly unlikely Farhad would be allowed residency in this country, although I appreciate the pressure you’re being put under by your family to make this happen. But try not to worry – it won’t happen, especially once the authorities are made aware that it was an under-age forced marriage. He won’t be coming here. I’d like to see his nephew, Hasan, prosecuted for rape, but realistically I doubt there is anything we can do about that. Too much time has passed – any evidence will have been lost – and his village will protect him.’

‘I know,’ Zeena said sadly. ‘No one will tell what happened to me.’

‘I can organize some counselling for you,’ Tara said kindly. ‘Rape is a brutal attack at any age, heinous when perpetrated on a child. You’ve suffered a lot, but you don’t have to cope with it alone any more.’

‘Thank you,’ Zeena said.

‘I am still concerned about your safety,’ Norma now said. ‘Although I arrested your father and uncle, they are out on bail.’

‘You arrested them?’ Zeena asked incredulously.

‘Yes, and charged them. It’s against the law to imprison someone in a car and then threaten them. Whether we have enough evidence to prosecute remains to be seen, but I’ll take a statement from you later and do my best.’

Zeena nodded, and I sincerely hoped she would go through with it this time. Norma was doing so much to help her; surely Zeena could do this?

‘For your own safety,’ Norma continued, ‘I would like to move you out of the area and to a safe house.’

‘But I can’t,’ Zeena immediately protested, as she had before. ‘I won’t know anyone, and I’ll never see my brothers and sisters.’ Which had always been her response.