by Shyima Hall
I believe that the only way I kept any dignity or sense of self was during the few hours I had to myself in the middle of the night. That was my time, and I could finally let down my guard and be me. During the day I had to be subservient, keep my eyes lowered, and smile—even though I was often seething inside. That was not me. By nature I am a person who speaks her mind. I have definite thoughts and opinions, and before I had gone to live with my captors, I had regularly shared my feelings with the people around me.
Now, in the middle of the night, I thought mostly about my younger brothers and sisters. I had managed to hold on to the photo of my family that my mother had packed in my suitcase in Egypt, and at night I often held it and brushed my fingers across the faces of my younger siblings. Where were they now? What were they doing? I hated that I was missing out on their lives. Even though I had been in charge of them, that had been my fun time, my “kid” time. With them I’d had the freedom to move around our neighborhood, the freedom to play games, to make choices. Now all of that was gone.
These nighttime hours were the only time I had to take care of my needs, bathing, washing my clothes, et cetera. I wasn’t allowed to use the washer and dryer in the house. That was for the family’s clothes. And besides, not too long after I had arrived, The Mom had said, “Stupid, your clothes are too dirty for our machines.” That was why at night I washed my shirt, pants, and underwear in a bucket in the garage. Then I squeezed them out and hung them up to dry on a clothesline in the night darkness of the backyard.
When I outgrew my clothes, I was given hand-me-downs from one of the daughters. This worked okay until I was ten and began to develop. At first I didn’t have a bra, but then someone must have noticed my changing body, and The Mom gave me an old bra that no longer fit her girls. It didn’t fit me, either. It was way too tight and pinched me everywhere.
One day when I was ten I got my period. I was doing my chores when I felt a sharp pain and then some wetness. No one had ever spoken to me about the birds and the bees, but I had figured out a lot from the cleaning I did in the daughters’ rooms. While I had expected my period to come at some point, I was not prepared for the excruciating pain that came with it. I had horrible bloating and cramps, but as with the flu, I was not allowed any kind of medication to relieve the symptoms.
As soon as The Mom got up, I looked at the floor and asked, “Ma’am, may I please have a pad?” I had heard the girls ask The Mom for pads when their periods came, and I figured I would be given some too. She did give me some, but these weren’t the same pads that she and her girls used. My pads were a much cheaper brand that didn’t hold up. Once, The Mom accused me of stealing her good pads. I hadn’t, of course. I was far too frightened of her to do that. In the middle of her rant about how useless I was, I heard her say, “You don’t deserve good pads.”
Really? What had I done, other than be a good girl, to not deserve decent sanitary pads? I was beside myself with anger and began to ask God why my life was the way it was. I understood that many people in Egypt and in other parts of the world lived a life like mine. But I knew it was wrong and vowed that someday I would do what I could to change that. No one, not a single person, ever deserves to have their life, their freedom, stolen.
• • •
Here in the United States I was not allowed to answer the door. Anyone could be on the other side. But one day either a friend or a cousin of The Dad came to visit. He brought his family . . . and a girl like me, a slave. This family actually came several times, and over the course of the visits the girl told me she was planning to run away.
“I know where they keep my passport,” she said.
I knew where my passport was kept too, but I dared not leave. The heavy threat of harm to my family weighed on me. Even though I was conflicted about my feelings for my parents and what they had allowed to happen to me, I didn’t want any harm to come to them. I was especially concerned about my younger siblings.
Besides, where would I go? I didn’t read any English and spoke only a word or two. Saying “hi” out on the street wouldn’t bring me much safety or describe my plight to anyone. I had no knowledge of the culture here. I thought I might even be sent back to my captors. Then life would have been far worse than it was now. I thought I might be sent to a horrible prison where I would be beaten daily. No, I could not leave. Not now. Not ever.
CHAPTER SIX
Even though I could not risk an escape attempt, opportunities did come about a few times. On several occasions my captors went on family trips, and when they did, they took me with them. Once they went camping at Big Bear Lake. Big Bear is a popular vacation spot in the San Bernardino National Forest about ninety miles northeast of Irvine, where we lived. Because there was no seat for me in the family’s SUV, I rode in the tiny space behind the backseat, with the luggage. Well, with everyone else’s luggage. I didn’t have any, nor did I bring anything with me other than the shirt and pair of pants that I wore.
As you might imagine, it was quite cramped and uncomfortable back there. Plus, the ride seemed to take forever, and the summer sun beat down on me through the windows. Even though the SUV had air-conditioning, with the many bags and me packed into such a small space, there was little air circulation.
The way I sat on the floor of the vehicle, I was not visible to other drivers. Even if I had been seen through the vehicle’s heavily tinted windows, I doubt that anyone would have called the police. It was illegal for me to be riding back there, but just as many states have laws that prohibit people from riding in the back of a moving pickup truck, it’s not a law that is often enforced. Today I shudder to think what might have happened to me if we had gotten into an accident. If our SUV had been rear-ended, or if someone had hit the back panel near where I was sitting, I would not have stood much of a chance.
However, I could see out the windows. This was the first time I had ever seen mountains or woods, and I was greatly impressed, especially with the tall peaks. I think that’s why this trip is clearly imprinted in my mind, because I was so impressed with the scenery. I had time to think during the drive, and I understood that the family was going on a vacation, but I didn’t know where, or for how long. I had become accustomed to not knowing the bigger picture of things and had learned to let life’s events unfold around me. What other choice did I have? There was nothing, absolutely nothing, in my life that I could control.
Eventually we pulled up to a huge cabin, and as the family’s excitement grew, I unloaded the luggage and brought it inside. The kids ran from room to room while I struggled to match each suitcase with the right person and the right bed. The cabin was big, with two bedrooms: a room for The Mom and The Dad and the twins, and one for the girls. There was a bed for everyone—except me. I slept on the floor of the girls’ room with only a blanket to cover me.
Friends of the family arrived later, and when everyone went out to explore during the ensuing days, I stayed in the cabin. Every day I sat on a chair in the kitchen. There was nothing to eat, nothing to watch, nothing to wash, fold, cook, or clean. I didn’t want to fall asleep, because I knew The Dad would slap me if he came home to find me sleeping. Instead I sat, not knowing if they would come tumbling through the front door in an hour or later that evening.
When the family did come back, everyone wanted something at once, and I rushed to accommodate everyone. Once or twice, though, I got to walk in the woods with the twins, and I appreciated that experience. I loved the quiet, the peacefulness of the tall, tall trees, and I wished I could stay forever.
Another time the family went to Disneyland. Our house in Irvine was not far from there, but the drive to and from made it an extra long, busy day. My job while we were at the theme park was to watch the twins, give them their snacks when they were hungry, and wait with them in line for various rides. I didn’t ride on anything, of course. I tried to become invisible. I was afraid that someone would ask why I was not going on the rides with the other kids, afraid they’d ask where my pa
rents were. I was about eleven by this time, but I was small and looked much younger. And while the boys had been fluent in English even back in Egypt, I still didn’t read, speak, or understand it.
The boys were excited to be at Disneyland, but I didn’t know what to think about it. There was nothing like it back home in Egypt—at least that I had been aware of. In truth I thought Disneyland was weird. Everyone acted silly there, and I didn’t understand the purpose of it. I held the boys’ backpacks and waited. For me, Disneyland was just another place. You’d think I would have had some interest in the activities that were going on, but it says a lot about my state of mind and how much my captors had beaten down my spirit that I didn’t.
While Disneyland didn’t stir up my interest, a trip to SeaWorld did. There I got to sit in the audience and watch the shows, and I adored every second of the entertainment. I loved the water, the animals, and the people. This was the first time that I had ever been to any kind of entertainment or show. I had never even been to a movie—or to a concert or a play. I think that’s why I was enamored of SeaWorld. I hadn’t realized anything like that could exist.
I was so engaged at SeaWorld, in fact, that I even learned a new word, “dolphin.” In addition to the fabulous shows, there was a section of the park where you could pay a fee to swim with the dolphins, and the girls signed right up. They disappeared into a small building, only to reappear a few minutes later in underwater suits. Then they went into one of the tanks and swam with the dolphins. My job was to videotape them while they were in the water. I had never used a video camera before, but The Dad turned it on and handed it to me. I then looked through the viewfinder and recorded the girls having a ton of fun.
Years later this video became one of the videos that was used in the legal case against my captors. While I was not seen on camera, my voice could be heard, and the video and audio clearly showed that I was not “part of the family.” My captors told authorities that I was.
Either The Mom or The Dad taped other events from that day too. In one shot I was sitting next to their kids, and I laughed along with them at the antics going on in the pool. My captors used that one single instance of me being a normal kid to try to persuade the United States government that the family had treated me well. Thank goodness authorities could see my captors for who and what they were.
The Mom and The Dad did not seem worried about my being out in public during these special family days. After all, I knew only three words: “hi,” “dolphin,” and “stepsister.” I didn’t even know the meaning of the last word. I had been taught how to say it in case anyone ever asked about me. What trouble, my captors must have thought, could I bring upon myself with those three words?
• • •
One of the many rules in my captors’ house was that only Arabic was spoken. I do not know if that was so the kids would have more of their own culture around them, if it was because The Mom and The Dad felt as if this little jaunt to the United States was going to be short and they’d soon head back to Egypt, or if it was to keep me from learning any English. In any case, I understood the twins well one day when they said in Arabic, “Mom, that stupid girl is being mean to us.” The result was that she slapped me hard across my face. This was one of several times when The Mom slapped me. Usually it was The Dad.
In this instance, though, my tone had been somewhat sharp with the twins, out of frustration. It was in the evening. I had gotten their toothbrushes out and had put the toothpaste on, as I always did, but when I said, “Boys, it’s time to brush your teeth,” they ignored me. One of my many responsibilities was to keep the twins on a schedule. Bedtime was at eight thirty every evening, and I knew The Mom and The Dad would be unhappy with me if the boys did not get to bed on time.
“Boys,” I said again. “Bedtime. Time to stop watching television and brush your teeth.” The third time I repeated the request, they told The Mom I was mean to them.
The slap hurt. The first thought that went through my head, however, was that I should have yelled at the boys as loud as I could. If I was going to get slapped that hard for trying to do my job, then the slap for letting my temper loose on the boys couldn’t have been that much harder.
Another time The Mom accused me of doing something with regard to the boys that I hadn’t done. When I tried to explain, she called me a liar, grabbed me by the shoulder, and pushed me. Hard. Slapping, pushing, and screaming were part of life in that house. Both The Mom and The Dad yelled at me constantly.
Whenever I didn’t get something done fast enough, or thoroughly enough, I’d hear, “This is your job! Who else gets up to do your job? This is not my job. It is your job, stupid girl!” This would usually be followed by a stream of derogatory words, such as, “You’re nothing, nobody. You’re stupid. You’re lucky to be here. No one else would want you.”
The Mom was a master at making many of the people around her feel like dirt. In fact, she addressed me in a yelling tone of voice more often than she spoke to me. Her kids were spared her temper, but they were often on the receiving end of The Dad’s anger. In fact, I was far more afraid of him than I was of her. Every day The Mom told him how unhappy she was with me, what a bad attitude I had. I tried to avoid him, but it wasn’t always possible. When she yelled, I could stand there and take it. When he yelled, I flinched and cowered. I couldn’t help it. My fear of him was that great. Once he slapped me so hard that my face tingled for days.
• • •
As the months wore on, I lost track of time. I had no idea how long I had been there, or even how old I was. I couldn’t even remember what day I was born. Certainly none of my birthdays were celebrated, although one day a daughter was a bit less hateful to me and told me it was because it was my birthday.
The oldest daughter eventually graduated from high school and began going to college, although she still lived at home. The middle daughter was well into her high school years, and the younger girl, the girl who was my age, was in middle school. The twins were finishing up elementary school.
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.
CHAPTER SEVEN
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.