by Shyima Hall
At one point I might have jumped at this opportunity. I certainly had a lot to say to these two people who had taken everything from me. But now I wanted to get it over with. I despised my former captors with such a passion that I didn’t want to use up any energy on them. They simply were not worth my time. All I wanted was to sit in the audience and see for myself that The Mom and The Dad were finally going to get what was coming to them. That was enough for me.
• • •
On the big day I rode with Steve and Patty to the courthouse in Orange County. I was nervous and felt sick to my stomach. I hadn’t seen The Mom or The Dad in many years, and of all the people in the world, those were the two people I least wanted to see.
When we got to the courtroom, I could see The Mom and The Dad in the front on the right side of the room. Many of their friends, and members of their extended family, sat near them. In fact, the entire right side was filled with their supporters.
Mark, Robert, and Andrew sat up front on the left, and I sat with Steve and Patty in the middle of the room behind them. The only other people on our side were reporters. I have no idea how they knew to come, but there were a number of them there.
Even though The Mom and The Dad occasionally glanced around the room, as did many of their supporters, I do not think any of them recognized me. And why should they? Besides the fact that I was almost a high school graduate rather than an uneducated child, my entire demeanor had changed. Instead of a meek, browbeaten kid, I was an up-front young woman who could hold my own almost anywhere. But I would rather have been just about anywhere other than there. I wanted justice, but I knew the next minutes were going to be as emotionally tough as any I had ever experienced.
The Mom was the first to take the stand. I had been told that she had been taking English classes, but she still spoke through a translator. I remembered enough Arabic to understand her, though. I understood quite clearly the first hate-filled words out of her mouth. “I can’t believe you would hold this hearing on a holy day when I should be home with my children,” she spit.
The hearing did take place on a minor Muslim holy day, but what set me off was that I hadn’t seen my family in almost nine years, and The Mom was complaining that she wasn’t at home with her family for a day. How dare she!
Then The Mom said regarding me, “If I had asked her if she wanted to go home and she had said she did, that’s the first thing I would have done, but I never asked her.”
That statement sent me over the top. I had asked over and over to go home. She had been there when I’d been on the phone with my parents and had cried and begged to be allowed to return to my family. I began to stew and squirm, and before too long Mark noticed my distress and handed me a pen and a piece of paper. I slapped words onto that paper as fast as I could.
I almost jumped out of my seat when The Mom said, “I fed her, clothed her, and treated her as I did my own children.” Really? I never saw her biological children sleeping in the garage, washing their clothes in a bucket, or cooking, cleaning, or doing laundry. For goodness’ sake, I’d even had to put the toothpaste on her children’s toothbrushes. I was furious that The Mom took no responsibility for ruining my childhood. None.
The only time she showed any break in her outraged attitude was when she was asked why she had not put me in school. Then she wavered and offered a variety of excuses that didn’t make much sense to anyone.
The Dad didn’t say much when his turn came to take the stand. Except he did say, “I want to apologize to Shyima.” Mark and some others thought he showed a bit of compassion, but I thought the words were only delivered in the hopes of getting his sentence reduced. In the years I had lived in his house, I had gotten pretty good at reading his body language.
I had not planned to speak. Did not want to speak. But, after The Mom and The Dad were through, Mark turned to me with a questioning look on his face, and I jumped out of my chair and went to the front of the room. From the expressions on everyone’s faces, I think that was the first time anyone on my captors’ side knew that I was there.
“I can’t believe she said what she did about today being a holiday,” I shouted. “I haven’t seen my family in nine years because of her. You want to talk about stepping on people? Well, she steps. They never treated me as their daughter. Never. Where was their loving when it came to me? Wasn’t I a human being too? I slept in the garage without a light and waited on them hand and foot even when I was sick. I felt like I was nothing when I was with them. What they did to me will affect me for the rest of my life, and I am far, far better off without them.”
Then I began to cry. Andrew came to me and comforted me as he led me back to my seat. I hated that I had enough anger pent up inside me that I was crying. I hated that I had to be there on that day. I hated the arrogant, superior look in The Mom’s eyes. And I hated the act of human trafficking more than I could say. Slavery, by any word, is wrong.
Minutes later the judge revealed his decision. The Dad was sentenced to three years. The Mom got twenty-one months, which was equal to the time I’d been held against my will in their house here in the United States. On top of the sentences, they were ordered to pay me $76,137. This amount was equivalent to what they would have paid me if I’d earned minimum wage for the estimated number of hours that I “worked” for them after I came to the United States. I was excited about the money, as that was a sizable sum, but I was disappointed in the length of the sentences. I had hoped The Mom and The Dad would have to remain behind bars for a much longer time.
My disappointment did not last long, however, because Mark had a surprise in store for me. Before anyone could leave the courtroom, the doors were closed and locked. Then The Mom and The Dad were escorted out into the hallway. Soon after, Mark asked me to follow. I didn’t know what to expect and was confused, but I trusted that Mark would not let anything bad happen to me.
In the hall I found The Mom and The Dad surrounded by ICE agents. Mark had been with me as a friend, but he had called his colleagues from Immigration and Customs Enforcement because the temporary visas for The Mom and The Dad had long since expired. They were both here in the country illegally.
“I wanted you to see this,” said Mark as officials clamped handcuffs on The Mom and The Dad. The Dad just stood there, but The Mom began to scream.
And me? I had a huge smile on my face. This was the best scene ever! The horrified expressions on the faces of The Mom and The Dad were priceless. I even got to see them being patted down in a weapons search. The next thing I knew their twin boys were there. I didn’t recognize them at first; they had grown that much. Plus, it was hard to see what they looked like as they were crying and yelling as hard and as loud as The Mom and The Dad. Even the family’s lawyers were shouting. All in all it was quite a sight.
Mark and my attorneys were pumped. I was pumped! Our years and years of hard work had paid off, and my captors got what they deserved. The outcome did a lot to restore my faith in human decency. Everyone from the judge on down had seen what an injustice I had been dealt during my life with these people. Not only that, these kind officials had taken steps to correct it. That, in my book, was huge.
When we headed to the elevator, a reporter from the Los Angeles Times approached me to ask for an interview. “No, thank you,” I said. I had too many emotions rolling around inside me and couldn’t begin to focus on anything like that. But Patty insisted, so I agreed to meet the reporter at a small restaurant next to the courthouse. On the way to the elevator, though, attorneys for The Mom and The Dad pulled themselves together enough to try to stop us. “We only want to talk,” one of them said. “Maybe this was all a misunderstanding.”
Before I even knew what was happening, Mark, Robert, and Andrew shut them down. “You cannot come near her,” one of them said. “You cannot speak to her, and no, you cannot ride in the same elevator with her.”
I did the interview with the reporter even though I was mad that Patty insisted that I do it. I
wished that she had respected my wishes on this, of all days. I was especially upset because she seemed to revel in the attention, rather than letting me have my day.
Later Mark sent me photos of The Mom and The Dad in jail. Each wore an orange jumpsuit, and I have to say, orange is not The Mom’s best color. Those photos did two things for me. First, they made me feel, more than ever, that I wanted to be in law enforcement. The system had worked well for me, and I wanted to be the person who helped make it work for someone else.
Second, the photos were a big visual reminder that the case was over and my captors were not going anywhere anytime soon. That was a huge relief to me, and for the first time since I had been taken from my family, I felt relaxed inside. I could breathe.
CHAPTER TWELVE
After I had been with Steve and Patty awhile, a foster girl of about ten came to stay. She hadn’t been there long when she told a teacher that something bad had happened to her while she was at our house. Her teacher followed up by calling the girl’s social worker. There were a number of interviews and conversations that resulted in the girl’s being taken out of our home.
The entire situation made me mad, because even though Steve and Patty had their faults, nothing bad had happened to that girl while she’d stayed with us. I am not sure why the girl lied, but quite soon after that, social workers began to talk of taking me out of the home too. I didn’t want that, because I finally was beginning to settle in. I didn’t want to go back to Orangewood, didn’t want to go through the emotional upheaval of leaving my foster brother and sisters and settling in with a new family.
That’s when my social worker said to Patty, Steve, and me, “You know, a move could be prevented if you”—she nodded at my foster parents—“obtained guardianship over Shyima. Shyima, what do you think about that? Would you like to stay with Steve and Patty?”
I nodded that I would. I thought it was a good idea. But then even better news came.
“Now, if you adopt Shyima,” my social worker continued, “she could obtain citizenship and be a real citizen of the United States.”
Becoming a United States citizen had become a dream of mine. By now the US was my home, and my days of wanting to go “home” to Egypt were far behind me. When the social worker told us that any child of a citizen of the United States becomes a citizen too, I agreed to go ahead with the adoption.
My social workers had been such a help to me. From helping me adapt to life here in the United States, to being sure my needs were met, they had become people I could count on over and over again. A social worker at Orangewood had helped me apply for and get both my green card and my Social Security card. That had allowed me to receive medical care, among many other services. I was glad that safety net was there, for there was no one else to provide it for me. Over time I had learned to trust my social workers as they navigated me through many complex systems.
To their credit Steve and Patty were not opposed to the idea of adopting me. My concern was that this couple fought often, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a bigger part of the family than I already was, even though I had fallen in love with my younger foster brother and sisters.
But if the adoption helped me obtain citizenship, then I was okay with it. My desire to become a real part of my new country outweighed any unsettled feelings I had about my foster family, and I went ahead with it. The process was surprisingly simple. Several social workers filled out some paperwork for my foster parents to sign, and then a court date was scheduled.
On the big day Steve, Patty, and I went to the county courthouse. On the way my soon-to-be new mom and dad had a huge fight. Patty was mad at the world because the shirt she’d wanted to wear had not been cleaned properly, and Steve and I had to listen to her loud complaints throughout the hour or more it took us to get to the courthouse. I was angry at her—and at Steve, too, because he never stepped up to tell her how ridiculous she was acting.
Over the years, Mark Abend had become the closest thing I had to family, and he met us there. I was happy that he could share this special day with me. Plus, he was a nice buffer between my argumentative foster parents and me.
Inside the courtroom the judge let me sit in her chair. That was pretty cool. Then the judge said, “Steve and Patty, do you agree to treat Shyima as your own and provide for her as you would your natural born children?” Patty and Steve both said, “Yes, we will.” Then, before I even realized what was happening, the judge signed the order, we took some pictures with her, and boom, there I was with real parents and a real family.
To celebrate we went to eat at a nice French restaurant. Mark could not come, but some of my new extended family came. All of the fighting from earlier in the day was forgotten, and it was one of the nicest times I had ever had.
I thought I would feel differently when the adoption was completed because I was now legally part of a family, but I didn’t. My new mom and dad still fought. Their nephew, my new cousin, still didn’t like me much; and I still had RA, went to school, and worked. Life went on. I just had a new name.
I was born Shyima El-Sayed Hassan, but when I learned that I had the opportunity to change my name during the adoption process, I did. I changed my middle name to Janet-Rathiba. “Janet” was after Patty’s grandmother. She was a wonderfully sweet woman whom I adored. “Rathiba” was after my own grandmother, the one far away in Egypt whom I had loved. I didn’t know whether or not she was alive, but I wanted to honor the love she had for me by taking her name. In retrospect, I am surprised that I recalled her name. I had forgotten the names of many others who’d been important to me when I’d lived with my biological family.
A short time after I was adopted, I called a number that was on a piece of paper I had been given when I’d gotten my green card. The number was to inquire about obtaining citizenship, and I was filled with giddy excitement as I made the call. Sadly, my hopes were dashed when I found out that my social worker had been mistaken. I could have automatically become a citizen only if I had been adopted before I’d turned sixteen. I’d recently had my seventeenth birthday and was now told that I had to wait until I was eighteen before I could apply for citizenship. I would also have to undergo a lengthy interview and take a detailed test.
The time frame turned out to be much longer, though. It turned out that I could apply for citizenship five years after I got my green card, and then only if I had not been convicted of any crimes. I had not received my green card until I was fifteen.
I was devastated to learn this. First my heart sank into my stomach, and then my thoughts turned bitter. “What else could I expect?” I said to myself. “Other people never, ever get it right when it comes to me.” I can’t say that I was mad at the social worker, but I was discouraged. I wanted more than anything to belong to my new country. After a few days of being in the dumps, though, I sucked it up. If I have to wait three years, I thought, I will. Better late than never.
• • •
I had stopped any pretense of being Muslim when I’d moved to my adoptive family’s home, because I had gotten so tired of every foster family forcing the Muslim religion on me. I had studied the Koran with my first and second set of foster parents. The dads of those families had usually read it aloud, and a line that stuck with me said something to the effect of “You respect me.” This was a reference to adult men. From my perspective, however, adult Muslim men had done nothing worthy of my respect. I felt that the demand for respect without earning it was hypocritical. I experienced that demand over and over during my early years and wanted no more part of it. I was more than ready for something new.
My new family belonged to a Christian community church, and I began attending services there. Although I didn’t always agree with the pastor’s politics, I liked him as a person and know he always acted out of compassion for others. I attended my friend Amber’s church too, which was also Christian. More recently I have been going to a Catholic church and have found this church to be open and accepting of me.
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For me it comes down to the fact that this country was founded on the concept of freedom of religion. We need to respect that. There is one big sky above us all, and I believe that the same God put each of us here. Every day I pray for the people I love, and while I might not pray in the same way you do, I believe that God hears our prayers—no matter what religion we practice.
For many years I had been forced to do things I did not believe in, in the name of religion. From the relatively simple matter of the head scarf to the accepted practice of child slavery that is common in many Muslim families in Egypt, I no longer wanted to be forced. I wanted to practice a religion because I chose to, not because a Muslim man slapped me if I didn’t.
In addition to the new church, I found that I liked participating in sports. I began to play soccer in 2005 and looked forward to days when I could get out onto the field. I’d never had the opportunity to do that before, and I thought being on a team was great! I loved running and the aggressiveness of soccer. I still had a lot of residual anger and emotion about how life had treated me, and kicking a soccer ball with as much force as I could muster helped dissipate much of that. I had to be careful not to overdo it, though, as I didn’t want my RA symptoms to flare up. I played soccer in a community league every year until I was nineteen. Each season I had different teammates and a different coach, and I found it was a great way to get to know lots of people and have a lot of fun at the same time.
Also outside of school I played softball for a time. I can’t tell you how wonderful it felt the first time I walked out onto a softball field. I had come a long way from watching the Anaheim Angels play and not understanding anything that was going on, to actually putting on my own glove and being part of a game. But my new parents were part of the coaching staff, and they carried their never-ending fight into the dugout. I had enough of that at home, and their continual sniping at each other ruined the game for me. Fighting aside, I found that I enjoyed watching baseball much more than I liked to play, because there wasn’t enough action on the field for me, as compared to soccer. And to be honest, I wasn’t that good at either hitting the ball or catching it.