Hidden Girl_The True Story of a Modern-Day Child Slave Read online

  My therapist was a nice woman and wanted my foster family to come in for a few sessions, but my foster dad wouldn’t allow it. Instead Manjit laughed at me and called me crazy. I knew I wasn’t, but I was disappointed that he was closed-minded about the sessions.

  My social worker and counselor encouraged me to again talk to my family in Egypt. Because I understood much more about people then, I agreed to give it another try, even though I was not happy about it. The only thing that was different this time around was that my foster dad was able to have several conversations with my biological father. My dad asked my foster family if they could send pictures of me, so I reluctantly dressed in my head scarf and went to a studio my foster family knew and had the pictures taken.

  I had a lot of questions for my biological family, but none of them were ever answered. In fact, I never had the opportunity to ask. On the phone I was either being yelled at or was listening to my mom tell me how much she missed me. Something I wondered about was if any of my other siblings had been sold into slavery. I wanted to know if any new brothers or sisters had been born since I had left. And I worried about my mom’s health, even though I was furious with her for agreeing to sell me into slavery.

  • • •

  ICE agent Mark Abend had always been there in the background, but he became more active in my life when I was with my second foster family. As time had gone on, some things had changed in the case against my former captors, and he now wanted to see where I was emotionally. Without my cooperation his case would not be as strong, and Mark was definite that he wanted to make these people pay for what they’d done to me. I was fortunate to have him on my side, because few other people would have pursued my former captors with as strong a determination as he did.

  Mark flew up from Orange County, and the first time he came, we could actually have a conversation! Before, I had always spoken to Mark through an interpreter, but now we could talk face-to-face. Once that happened, some of my ingrained fear of men fell away, and I realized what a good guy Mark was.

  By this time it was May 2004, and I think my strong new personality shocked Mark. Before I had been cowed and depressed whenever I’d been in his presence. Now, several years away from captivity and lots of therapy later, I was in the beginning stages of becoming a capable young woman.

  Mark filled me in on the latest events and asked if I wanted to pursue the case. I was just angry enough—and strong enough—to say yes. At that point in my life there was nothing I wanted more than for him to put those people in jail, and to make them responsible for how they’d treated me. My therapist was right: There was nothing right about slavery.

  After that I saw and spoke to Mark every few months. He brought two lawyers on board, Robert Keenan and Andrew Kline, along with several members of his Homeland Security team. Together they began the process of bringing justice to me, and to the couple I had thought of for a long time as The Mom and The Dad.

  • • •

  I was thrilled that the case was moving again, but Rachel and Manjit did not share in my joy. In fact, they encouraged me to drop it and move on with my life. Manjit even asked me to lie about events that had happened when I was in captivity. That pushed me to my limit. I wished he could have lived like I had for years on end. Then we would see if he’d want to “drop it.”

  Discussion of my participation in the case brought an entirely new round of arguments to my foster home, which led to fights about religious freedom, and many other things. One night at about nine p.m., after an intense argument, my foster dad kicked me out of the house.

  “Put on your shoes,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  I was not allowed to pack any of my things. He dropped me off at a group home, and it took a week before my social worker could straighten things out. I was heartbroken that I never got to say good-bye to my foster brother and sisters, for I had grown to love them.

  In the group home I reverted to my old, quiet self and didn’t say much to anyone. All I could think was, Here we go again, but at least I was thinking it in English! I wondered why I couldn’t find a permanent home, a family who would love me no matter what.

  My social worker eventually flew up to get me, and on the plane ride back to Orange County, and ultimately back to Orangewood, I said, “I do not want to be placed in another Muslim home. I am done with that.” I didn’t realize then that people of other faiths could be mean too, but I didn’t want any part of another domineering Muslim man in my life.

  While I wanted to be with the right family, I was fine living at Orangewood until that happened. My friend Autumn was there again too, and this time I could even talk with her some in English. Her “wild side” kept her in trouble, but I found her to be an interesting person who had repeated placements with the same foster parents.

  Orangewood is well run, and I easily fit back into life there. One reason I think their system runs as smoothly as it does is their point system. If you behaved well, you earned points. If you earned enough points, you got a reward. Some of the rewards included bowling or shopping, but during the time I was there one reward was to go to an Anaheim Angels baseball game. We had our own special area for seating, and while I didn’t understand the game, why we cheered when we did, or anything about what was going on, I loved every second of it. That game turned me into a lifelong Angels fan, and I still love going to their games.

  On the placement side, while I wanted a family, I knew I had several strikes against me. The older a child gets, the harder he or she is to place. I was fifteen now but still far behind socially and in school. I prepared to wait, but I hoped with everything I had that I would find a real home and a loving family.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I didn’t have to wait too long before I got my wish. Not too long after I turned fifteen, I was placed in the home of a family in Orange, about sixty-five miles from Orangewood’s location.

  When my prospective mom and her youngest daughter first came to Orangewood to meet me, I was jaded by my previous foster care experiences and did not hold out much hope that this situation would be any different. I did not want to be labeled as a “difficult child,” though, so I put on my happy face for the meeting. I was glad to realize, however, that my social worker had heard my words, because this family was not Muslim.

  The way foster parenting works is that the parents are paid by the state for every child they take in. Payment varies from state to state, and from each individual referring organization. I believe that foster parents of kids from Orangewood got paid a bit more than many others, because Orangewood was a good organization that tried hard to place kids in the right homes. Maybe the people who made such decisions thought the extra money would attract parents who might otherwise not be interested in fostering. In talking to other kids at Orangewood, I found that the sad reality was that this system brought in some prospective parents who were there only for the money. I sat in front of this woman and her daughter and hoped that was not the reason they were there. There was no way to know until I learned more, and the only way to do that was to spend a few days with them.

  My prospective foster mom and her youngest daughter picked me up, and I went to spend a weekend with their family. I learned that the family had had foster kids in the past—and that they were taking care of the dad’s nephew plus their three biological children. If I stayed, I would become the fifth child in the home, and the oldest. The nephew was ten, and then there was a boy of seven, followed by two girls who were six and four. They seemed nice, including the dad, but by I now realized what a huge decision this was. I had found that moving in with a new family could be the answer to my dreams. It could also become my worst nightmare.

  On Monday my social worker gathered my things from Orangewood and came out to the house. When she got there, she saw the indecision on my face and said, “You can either stay here or you can come back to Orangewood with me, but you have to make a decision now.”

  I went back to Orangewood. Part of my decision was
based on fear. What if this family turned out to be as bad as my previous ones? Another part of my choice was based on my gut feeling. My intuition told me that something was up with this family, but I could not put my finger on it. Not to mention that there were no kids near my age and I had hoped to find a family that had some kids I could bond with closely.

  My next few days were spent at Orangewood, but when a staff member said, “No other family is in sight for you,” I went back to this new family. My new foster mom and the youngest daughter again picked me up, and on the way back we stopped for lunch at an upscale family burger place. Then we went to my new home.

  I have to say that the house was beautiful. It was located in a wealthier area of town and had four bedrooms. My new foster mom and dad, Patty and Steve, shared the master bedroom. Steve was tall and had the looks of a television anchor. Patty was short, like me, but blond. The nephew and oldest son roomed together, the two girls were together, and there was a room for me. There was a large open area in the home that no one seemed to use, and a living room that opened to the kitchen, which was where everyone hung out.

  Not too long after I arrived another foster kid was brought into the family. This girl was two or three years younger than I was and was a deeply troubled child. In the years that I was with this family there were dozens of girls like her who were in and out of the house. Most stayed a matter of weeks, although several stayed a few months. All of them roomed with me. For these girls my family was a transition family to see if the girl was ready to go back to her real mom and dad, or if she needed to be put into permanent placement.

  Each girl was between the ages of eleven and thirteen, and each changed the family dynamic with her presence. This was a bit unsettling, especially when the new girl had serious behavior problems, as some did. But others were sweet. In either case the reality was that by the time I got to know a new foster sister, she was gone. This did nothing for my issues with trust, nor did it help me bond with others. In fact, the situation did the opposite. It got to the point where I didn’t even want to try to get to know any new girl. Because if I did and I liked her, then my heart would be ripped out when she left.

  My relationship with the nephew was challenging but in a different way. He seemed resentful of the time and attention Patty and Steve gave to me. If I did the smallest thing wrong, or if I forgot to do something, he was sure to tell his uncle and aunt. Very little got by this kid because he was always watching me.

  I liked the other kids, though, the seven-year-old boy and the four- and six-year-old girls. These younger siblings reminded me of the younger brothers and sisters I had left behind in Egypt. I missed them beyond words, but in the years since I had left the home of my captors, I had forgotten even more about my siblings. Now I found that I loved being a big sister again! These were good kids, and we had a lot of fun together.

  Steve was a good provider, and the love he showed to his kids made me revise my frosty opinion of the male species. Maybe, in addition to Mark Abend, there were good men in the world. My foster dad showed genuine concern for each kid who lived under his roof and often asked me if I was okay. He let me know I could always talk to him if I had a problem, and I appreciated that so much. Few other people had ever done that for me, and I often took him up on his offer.

  But he and my foster mom did not get along. That was the odd thing about this family that I had not been able to put my finger on at first. In my previous homes the dad had always been the aggressor. In this home it was my foster mom.

  Patty and Steve battled frequently, and it often got out of hand. I saw her chuck a bottle of hair spray at his face. She yelled a lot and had no friends that I knew about. And her spending habits were the cause of many of their arguments. The battles over money made me feel that my foster mom wanted me around only for the money. That was not a good feeling to have, so I withheld my feelings for her and enjoyed spending time with the three youngest members of the family.

  • • •

  Even though life in my first two foster homes, and to some extent at Orangewood, had been hard, I had learned a lot and made great strides. For example, now, for the first time, one of my social workers was a man. While I still worked with my social worker from Orangewood, I guess the new county I lived in felt I was far enough away from my Muslim upbringing to feel confident enough to talk with a man who did not live in my home. And you know what? They were right. I liked this guy. He knew my foster family from other foster kids who had been in the home, and he was an exceptionally nice person. He was a good advocate for me, and I greatly enjoyed our sessions.

  Unfortunately, I thought my new therapist was the worst ever. I was afraid that she was passing everything I said on to Patty, and I felt I could not talk about my feelings without fear that my words would come to slap me in the face. This was disappointing because my previous therapist had been quite helpful and I had been hoping for more of the same.

  Before too long I made the decision to stop therapy. Why waste time when something was not beneficial? Plus, I had become pretty good at talking about my feelings with people I felt close to, especially Mark and my social worker.

  • • •

  That fall, the fall I was sixteen, I entered high school as a sophomore. I was lucky, as this was an excellent school filled with talented, caring teachers. I had finally caught up enough in my studies to somewhat keep up with my classes, even though I was placed in a remedial English class. But I had a regular English class too. Progress!

  At home Steve and Patty’s fighting wore me down, and I tried to stay as far away from it as possible. When my social worker surprised me with my Social Security card and said, “Now that you have this card, you can get a job, and a driver’s license, too, if you want,” I thought of the perfect solution. If I had a license, I could drive. And if I could drive, I could get a job—a job that would keep me out of the house and away from my foster parents’ fights.

  I had been craving independence for what seemed like an eternity, and the freedom that came with driving could provide me with some of that. The written test, though, was difficult for me. In fact, I failed it three times. While I could read English pretty well by this time, the way this test was written, many of the questions did not make sense to me. Finally a lady at the testing station asked if English was my second language. When I said, “Yes, it is,” she said there was an option where someone could read the test to me. Wow, what a difference that made. The fourth time I took the test I got 100 percent.

  Patty and Steve had a huge, old white Honda that they let me drive. It drove like a truck, but I didn’t care. The next day I drove to the mall, walked around, and filled out job applications at several different places. I knew my choices would be limited. The job market was tough anyway, but without previous work experience I knew it would be nearly impossible for me to find employment. The way entry-level jobs were then—and possibly still are—college grads were taking many jobs that had previously been filled by high school students.

  But a few days later Godiva Chocolatier called me in for an interview. I was nervous about talking to a stranger who essentially held the keys to my future in her hands. I interviewed with a nice female manager, however, and several days later she called me to tell me I got the job! I couldn’t wait to get started.

  I now had wheels and a job. How cool was that? I soon began a new morning routine. On the way to class I’d stop at a gas station and pick up some Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and a Monster Energy drink that I bought with my own money that I had earned. Once in a while I’d add some cream cheese to dip the Cheetos in. Yum, that was my “healthy” breakfast. For lunch I’d buy some SunChips and a huge chocolate chip cookie at the school cafeteria that I’d munch on throughout the rest of day. A few months earlier I had decided to stop eating meat. For some reason it no longer appealed to me. But, even though I was a vegetarian, I wasn’t eating many vegetables.

  One thing I liked about high school was that several of my teachers
treated me just as they did everyone else. It seems like such a small thing, but to me it was huge. This kind of treatment had been a long time coming, and I can’t tell you how glad I was to be considered a regular student, rather than someone people didn’t know what to do with.

  My social skills had improved some, but there were still many things that I did not understand. I could not figure out why a lot of kids acted bratty and were disrespectful toward their teachers. Why did my fellow students not do their homework? Why did they complain about their mother dropping them off, as if it were the worst thing in the world? Didn’t they realize what a wonderful opportunity school was? Education is a gift that people here in the United States enjoy freely, but I know firsthand that the process of learning is not available to everyone in other parts of the world.

  Education opens doors to opportunities. No matter what your dream is, it will be easier to achieve if you have the foundation of knowledge. I have always considered school an opportunity to make myself a better person and have never understood why others do not see it that way too. That was and is one of my biggest adjustments to life since my rescue. Why do people not appreciate what they have? Why do they cheat themselves out of a better life by not doing their homework and learning the subject matter?

  Despite my thoughts about the other kids, I found I was developing a few friendships. Interestingly enough, my name helped make that possible. Shyima is an unusual name here in the United States, and it isn’t that common in Egypt, either. Shyima was the name of the sister of the prophet Muhammad, and out of respect, custom has it that only special babies can have the name, which means “strong-willed.” The uniqueness of my name made it easy for my teachers and the other students to know who I was.