Hidden Girl_The True Story of a Modern-Day Child Slave

by Shyima Hall

  The real tragedy in the divorce is that I now do not have any contact with my adoptive brother and sisters. I hope that when my new siblings become legal adults, we can pick up where we left off, because I love them a great deal. The lack of contact is especially hard for me because this is the second set of younger siblings that I have lost in about fifteen years. Add to that the two sets of foster siblings that I lost. If I think about it too much, it tears my heart apart.

  • • •

  The good news was that I was busy with work and my friends, so when Steve was living with me, I didn’t see him that often. Even better, I was doing some speaking that occasionally sent me out of state.

  Through Mark, I continued to speak to audiences about my time in captivity. All told I must have stood in front of several dozen audiences. Maybe, just maybe, some other slave would be rescued as a result of my letting people know what to look for. Or someone else might not be as traumatized as I’d been during the rescue. I was excited to spread this kind of awareness, even though the nervous, sickly feeling that I had before every speaking engagement never went away.

  Steve came with me to a few of the events, and I was glad that he could see firsthand the difference I was making, as well as learn more about my past. I had never been forthcoming about the details of my ordeal in slavery. Usually I told people the basic facts and then asked them to Google me. I had not spoken publicly before the sentencing hearing for The Mom and The Dad but had spoken to the press half a dozen times or more since then. By now there were enough articles about me out there that people could get a good feel for what had happened. Reliving the details over and over with new friends was hard for me, and referring someone to a Google search kept me from emotional upheaval every time I met someone new.

  I was not sure how much my adoptive parents had been told about my past. Sure, they knew my biological parents had sold me into slavery. They knew many of the facts, since I had lived with them while the case against The Mom and The Dad had been going on. But I do not think they had been told many of the details, how I’d been forbidden to use the family’s bathroom because I was too dirty, that I’d had to wash my clothes in a bucket, that I’d not been allowed medical attention when I was sick, that I’d born the brunt of anger for every member of the family in the form of stinging slaps.

  I could see the pained expression on Steve’s face as one detail after another spilled out. But I could also see brains whirring and clicking as the law enforcement officials in my audiences developed new ideas and protocols that would make future rescues and integrations safer and smoother.

  Local speaking events gave way to larger events out of state, and I flew to Houston, Dallas, North Carolina, Georgia, Saint Paul, Saint Louis, and many other cities and states. Since my arrival in the United States, before these trips I had flown only twice—to my foster home in central California and back. It was stunning to realize that the first time I stepped aboard a plane on the way to a speaking engagement was the first time I had ever flown of my own free will. I have to say—it felt great! Even better was the knowledge that I could make a positive difference.

  Sometimes Mark came with me, but other times I went alone. I was surprised that so many people were interested to hear my perspective and feelings about my rescue and its aftermath. But I was gratified and excited. The more people I could reach, the better chance we had of ending the hateful practice of human trafficking.

  Some of the speaking engagements paid me a small fee, while others paid only my expenses. While the fees were nice, I never turned an event down because of the lack of payment. If I could get the time off work and if I was healthy enough to do so, I went. In addition to the events, I enjoyed the travel. I liked meeting new people and learning firsthand what the many different cities were like. But the biggest thrill for me was the realization that I was doing any traveling. During my time in captivity not once had I ever thought my negative experience could be put to such great use.

  At some of the conferences I got to see Andrew and Robert, my lawyers who’d worked diligently to prepare my case against The Mom and The Dad. It was great to keep in touch with them, especially because I kept in touch with only a few people from my past. I was shocked to realize that with the exception of a very few, I had known for only a few short years the people who were in my life now.

  In Saint Louis I spoke to hundreds of lawyers from across the country, and all I could think was what a positive impact they could make for people like me, people who had been held against their will. A lot of their questions showed their need to recognize the different forms of human trafficking. One form of human trafficking involves the recruitment, transportation, transfer, harboring, or receipt of people though threat, force, coercion, abduction, fraud, deception, or the abuse of power.

  The second form of human trafficking is slavery in the historical sense, where a person is stripped of all rights and is trafficked, “owned,” or controlled by others. For example, I was trafficked illegally into the United States, but the work I was forced to do, the conditions in which I lived, my lack of pay, and my captors’ control over my movements resulted in my slavery.

  I loved this Saint Louis group and their intelligent questions.

  In Glynco, Georgia (halfway between Savannah, Georgia, and Jacksonville, Florida), I spoke to a large group of ICE agents at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center. These people had such great questions that I knew each of them was as passionate about his or her job as Mark was. Government officials often get a bad reputation, but I have to say that the people who are trying to stop the practice of human trafficking are the best.

  By this time I had realized that law enforcement officers often did not understand the victim’s point of view. Police officers and ICE agents were focused on upholding the law and getting their man (or woman), which meant the victim often got lost. My role was to show them how to be more understanding. To do this I told them of other victims I had met who were depressed and without hope because no one believed in them. I mentioned how these compassionate law enforcement officers had an opportunity to be that person who cared, just as for years Mark Abend was the one constant person in my life who cared about me. I hope they took my words to heart, because the difference they can make to the victim can be everything.

  • • •

  Early on in my travels I had been concerned that the flying, hotel rooms, and strange food would bother my arthritis. But I needn’t have worried. I was holding up well as long as I didn’t get too tired, and as long as I didn’t allow myself to get too cold. A luxury I usually allow myself pretty much every day are high heels. I am barely five feet tall, so I love heels. When my RA flares, however, I am reduced to wearing flats, and I always brought a pair with me when I traveled, just in case. I usually wear warmer clothes during a flare than might otherwise be warranted, so I made sure I packed for that, too. I can’t take a soothing hot bath when traveling on a plane, but a soft, warm sweater is the next-best thing.

  At some point a woman who worked for the Associated Press came to do an interview with me. At the end of it she told me she was going to Egypt. “Maybe,” she said, “I can find your family and get them to talk with you.”

  It had been several years since I had last spoken to any of them. After the hurt I had experienced when I’d realized that members of my family were ready to testify against me—and for The Mom and The Dad if their case ever went to trial—I hadn’t wanted anything to do with them. But they were my family. I held out a tiny bit of hope that we could be friendly, that my family still wanted me.

  Maintaining family ties is a theme of many who are rescued out of slavery. Many of us can’t go back to our families (there are as many reasons for this as there are people who are rescued), but it is a natural human emotion to want your family to want you. I was no different.

  I did not hold out much hope that the woman who spoke to me would find my family, or even try, but to my amazement she did both. On a d
ay when I was speaking in yet another city, I was alone in my hotel room when my phone rang. I was astonished to find two of my sisters and my mother on the other end of the line. One sister was the one who had lived with my grandparents, and the other was the “nice” twin. Their big news was that my father had died. One of my sisters told me, and when I heard her words, I didn’t know what to think or what emotion to feel.

  My entire past came back in a rushing whoosh, and I was saddened that I’d never gotten to know my dad. Almost every interaction I’d had with him had shown him to be angry and domineering, but had he lived longer, I might eventually have taken the opportunity to try to discover a different side to him. Now that chance was gone forever.

  To make the conversation even more difficult, my mother said, “His last wish was to see you and talk to you. He wanted to ask you to forgive him; he was so very sorry.”

  I was at a loss for words. What could I say to that, knowing what had happened to me because of him?

  Then my mother added, “I’m not doing so well either. I wish I could see you once more.”

  This had my thoughts and emotions jumping all over the place. From one second to the next I was thinking and feeling entirely different things. I had not expected either the news about my dad or what I was now feeling. Eventually I realized that while I did want to see my mom, I wanted the life I had in California much more. I was afraid that if I saw any of my relatives in Egypt, I would be dragged into a family drama that I was not equipped to deal with. I tried to explain that to my mother, but I do not think she understood.

  Part of that was because my Arabic was pretty rusty by that time, and my mother spoke no English. We spoke through a translator who was in Egypt with my family, but I know that a lot of the details from both sides of the conversation got lost. Language is of huge importance to communication. Our lack of ability to communicate through words was another huge sign of the wedge that had been driven between my family after I had been sold into slavery.

  When my sisters got back on the line, one said that three of my brothers had joined the Egyptian army. Then she mentioned that another sister had named one of her babies after me. And I found out that my sister who’d stolen, the one whose actions had taken me away from my family in the first place, had a baby too.

  After we hung up, my fragile feelings got the best of me, and I lay on the bed and began to cry hard enough that I thought I’d never stop. I was devastated that I had not gotten to see my dad before he’d died. I had dozens of questions for him that would now never be answered. Why had he not fought for me? How could he have slapped me as often as he had if he’d loved me? Why had he not welcomed me back into my family after I’d been rescued? Why had my siblings gotten to grow up in the family home, as meager and dysfunctional as it was, while I’d been sold like a piece of furniture? Why?

  During the coming weeks and months I thought a lot about the phone conversation with my mother and sisters, and I knew that if I truly wanted to go to Egypt to see my family, I could probably find a way. I realized, however, that I didn’t want to go. Not then. I was not ready. I had let a lot of my anger go, but there was enough left that was still simmering inside me that I did not feel a meeting would be a good thing right then.

  The main reason for my decision was that even though these people were my biological family, they were no longer my real family. I had made a new family with my friends Amber, Teresa, and Karla, and even with Mark and my adoptive dad. These were the people who had loved and supported me for years, and through their actions they had earned the right to be called family. That was not the case with my biological parents and siblings.

  Another factor was that I did not know my biological family anymore. Because of the circumstances of my life, my family in Egypt and I no longer had the same points of reference, the same religion, or the same viewpoints. We had nothing in common, and if truth be told, I didn’t even remember most of them.

  I didn’t rule out going to Egypt at some point in the future, though. I wasn’t sure if my mother’s claim of poor health was real or not, and I knew that if it was, I might miss my opportunity to see her again. If that happened, I’d just have to accept it. I knew that I had gathered together all the facts, feelings, and emotions, and I made the best choice for me.

  I do think about my family whenever I hear of all the unrest that is happening in Egypt now. I do know that someday I would like to show my brothers and sisters that there is more to the world than what they have experienced. I’d like to show them that a better life awaits them, even if it is in another country. But the reality is that some days I am more open to this idea than others. What I can say for sure is that if the opportunity for us to meet presents itself in the future, I will think about it.

  I was glad the woman I had met had taken the time to track down my family, and I was even okay with the fact that it ended up as a story that was broadcast across the Internet. I was grateful for the chance to speak with them. But I knew too that I needed time before I took another step toward my biological family. Actually, I might need a long, long time.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  One of the lingering effects from my time in captivity was my lack of trust—of both people and situations. It takes me a long time to warm up to someone, even on a casual level. Mark was patient with me in the early days after my rescue. Even before we could communicate directly, when we were talking through a translator, Mark kept on trying to let me know that he was safe, that he was someone I could always trust and count on. He did that by speaking to me not as a victim but as a person. He asked over and over how I was doing, how I liked to spend my time, what I would like for myself for the future.

  I didn’t realize it then, but these are questions that friends ask each other. Since that time, any new person I meet has to take it almost as slowly as Mark did with me ten years ago. Because my world was upside down then, and because my childhood was not a childhood, I relate to new people in my life differently than many other people do.

  I have realized that I must gain trust in people through situations before I can trust them as people. For example, if the situation is that it is busy at a store where I work and an employee is having a meltdown, that employee is not someone I will be able to trust in the future. In another situation, if I am riding in a car with someone and we have a flat, if that person wants my trust, he or she had better act with calm action rather than with angry words.

  Once I have seen people act honorably in trying situations, I might then let them in on a more personal level. But if my new friend has told me she is going to meet me at eight o’clock, she had better be there at eight. If she isn’t, I will lose trust in her. If an employee at my store is responsible for ordering supplies, he had better do his job and order the supplies. If not, I will not feel that I can trust him.

  I do not mean to sound rigid, but to some extent we are a product of our environment. My lack of trust is only one thing that being held in captivity did to me. However, if I find I can trust you to do what you say you are going to, then we might even become friends. This way of thinking was helpful to me in all areas of my life, but especially when it came to dating.

  When I first started going out with boys, if my date slipped up even once, that was it for him. Good-bye, you’re gone. I feel sorry for some of those boys now, for they were kids, and kids make mistakes. I feel bad for me, too, because I probably pushed some good people out of my life way too soon. But I could not take the chance. I had been beaten up, threatened, ordered around, and given so many broken promises by the men in my life that if the boy I dated wasn’t rock solid, I wanted nothing to do with him.

  Of course, many of the women in my life had not treated me well either. My mother had sold me into slavery, and my two foster moms and my adoptive mother had each been difficult in their own ways. I still believe in the goodness of people. I think it was bad luck that in my early years I was surrounded by adults who were quite into themselves. The unfortu
nate result was that there was nothing left over for them to give to others.

  It took me a long time to learn how to separate the good people around me from the bad. Was a male teacher abusive like my biological dad? Or was he a stand-up, honest guy? I’d had much of the former and little of the latter, and it was not easy for me to figure out which was which. But I had to.

  For someone else, someone who has had long-standing relationships with people they have known, loved, and trusted all their life, surrounding themselves with honorable, trustworthy people might not be such a big deal. But I’d had none of those kinds of relationships, which is why letting only the right kind of people into my life was much more of a survival tactic for me than for others.

  I look back to my time in captivity, and to the times when I took the twins to the park across the street and to the nearby pool. Those visits offered me the chance to observe many different kinds of people, to see how the way they walked affected their tone of voice, to view how they positioned their body next to other people and what that did to their facial expressions. I studied people so intently then that I probably got the equivalent of a college degree in body language. Those visits provided me with a foundation on which to base my current relationships.

  Eventually I got to where I could tell pretty quickly if a girlfriend was in my life because we had a lot in common or if she wanted to be around me because my picture had been in the newspaper. I knew right away if a boy thought I was a pushover because my English was not perfect, or if he wanted to take advantage of my generosity. I figured a lot of that out when I was in high school, and have refined the process since.

  After dating a boy for a number of months, I was proud of myself when I broke up with him because I didn’t like us together. I liked him fine, and I liked me. But together we were not a good fit. That was a huge revelation for me. That was the first time I stopped being around a boy because of how he was, rather than for how he compared to the men in my past.