Hidden Girl: The True Story of a Modern-Day Child Slave (10 page)

In the years since, I have been able to come up with only two answers to my questions of that day. One is money. I had been sold to my captors for a sum that was less than twenty dollars a month. Even though some of the money had gone to repay what my sister had stolen, I believe my parents were still getting part of it. Twenty dollars goes much further for a poor family in Egypt than it does here. Even so, it was not a huge sum.

The other reason is honor. My sister had disgraced our family, and it was my job to uphold honor for my mom and dad, and for my siblings. That may be hard for people here in the United States to understand, but in many other countries this is an important matter.

In the middle of my dad yelling at me, I found some nerve and began to yell back. “How dare you speak to me like this! How dare you suggest that I go back to a family that refused to provide me medical care, who regularly yelled at and slapped me, and made me sleep in a garage while they were surrounded by luxury. How dare you!”

It felt great to let loose and tell my father what I had been feeling. I had never yelled at him before. Even though I had been outspoken when I’d lived with my family, never had I been disrespectful enough to yell at either of my parents. In fact, once I got going, I didn’t stop yelling for several minutes. That was about the maddest that I have ever been.

I then spoke to my mother. Briefly. I never learned if she had had a heart attack or not, or if I had been the cause of it. But she, in softer words and tone, echoed my dad. I couldn’t believe that she, too, wanted me to stay. What had I ever done to deserve this? Back on the line my dad told the social worker that he was coming to get me, but she said, “No, you have no visa. You cannot come.”

The reality was that after hearing my dad’s rant, no one in the room, including me, had any assurance that my dad would not send me back into slavery. That’s why I decided in that single moment that, no, I was not going to go back to Egypt. I was done with my parents. All my hopes and dreams of being reunited with my family had just been shattered. I, too, had been shattered, but I was not going to go back to Egypt or to my captors’ house. No, I would take my chances with the foster care system here in the United States.

After the call ended, the translator wanted to talk with me, but my mind was spinning all over the place, and I refused. Instead I walked back to my room and stayed there by myself for the rest of the day.

Later that week I told the police about the slave girl who had visited us with her captors. In case she had not been able to run away, I wanted authorities to know about her. I was shown pictures of people that The Dad might have known, and I was able to pick out her captor. Sometime after that I learned that the police tried to find her, but by the time they got to the home, her family had left the country. In fact, they had probably fled within hours of learning of my rescue. That girl was older than I was, and she was smart. I think of her often and hope that she, too, found freedom.

•    •    •

It turned out that Orangewood was a good place. It was not as plush as either of my captors’ homes, but it was by far the nicest place I had lived as a free person. The main part, where I lived, looked like a big house. When you walked in, there was a medical area on the left, and on the right was an area where parents could meet with their kids. I was to learn that many of the kids at Orangewood had been taken out of their parents’ care for one reason or another. But as the family worked through their issues, the kids were often reunited with their mom and dad. Other kids went in and out of foster care and stayed at Orangewood between placements with foster families.

The house I was in had only girls. Inside there was a hangout area for us, game area, kitchen, and dining room. Outside there was a nice yard and a pool. I shared a room with a girl I’ll call Autumn, who was about my age. She was as blond as I was dark, but she was friendly and caring, and she tried to calm me down whenever I got upset or overwhelmed—which, at first, was often. Because I didn’t speak English, I didn’t understand her words, but I could read her body language well. She became my first real friend.

I liked the comfort of our tiny room. Autumn and I shared a closet, and there were two beds, one for each of us on opposite sides of the room. And I have to say that the mattress on my bed was the most comfortable that I had ever slept on. I loved the bedspreads, which were white with tiny flowers on them. The room had a big window so we could see outside, and the door to the hallway had a little window that staff could peek in to be sure we were okay.

While I was at Orangewood, I met kids from every kind of situation imaginable. I met bratty kids, kids with entitlement issues, kids who had been horribly abused, kids who were full of rage or sadness. I even met a ten-year-old who was pregnant. Being with that many different kinds of kids made me understand that while bad things can happen, there are a lot of people out there trying to do good. I hope if someone is going through a bad time, if they are being abused in any way, that they will find a teacher, boss, friend, social worker, counselor, or pastor—someone who will help get them out of that situation. The many different situations the kids came from, contrasted with the kind, helpful people at Orangewood, convinced me that there are many good people in this world.

Even though I was surrounded by kind people, I cried all the time. The horror of the trauma, of the abuse, and of missing my family, combined with my dad’s betrayal, came pouring out in my tears. Slowly, as the days passed, I realized that I would get to stay at Orangewood, at least for a while. The relief that knowledge brought caused even more tears to fall. My years in captivity had taken a huge emotional toll.

One thing that helped me a lot was the regular routine at Orangewood. I’d had a routine in my captors’ house, but this was different. When I had breakfast at Orangewood, I did not have to cook the food—for me or for anyone else. When it was time to go to bed, I had a real bed with real blankets and lots of time to sleep and recharge for the next day.

In my first weeks at Orangewood I regularly met with Hana and other social workers and law enforcement officials. One of these people was Mark Abend. Mark’s job title is supervisory special agent, Homeland Security Investigations, Immigration and Customs Enforcement. He is what is known as an ICE agent. Mark told me that I was taken from the home of The Mom and The Dad because someone had seen me and thought something was not quite right. I was never in school and I worked all the time. I think the person who made the call might have been a neighbor who had seen me through a kitchen window when I was washing dishes late at night, but I will never know for sure. I am forever grateful that he or she called the local police.

Mark said, “After the police knocked on the door the first time and were denied entry, they got a warrant and came back. They asked your captor who lived in the house, and he named every person—except for you. When an officer pointed you out and asked why you were not in school, he replied that you did not want to go.

“When the officers finally entered the house,” Mark continued, “they found your passport and saw that you had overstayed your three-month visitor’s visa by about eighteen months. Those were the grounds on which you were removed from the home.”

Sitting there at Orangewood with Mark, I tried to relax, but I couldn’t. Mark used humor to try to get me to open up, but Arabic prohibition against male-female interactions stopped me from engaging with him. I could not understand his words without a translator, but his friendly vibe and his facial expressions almost made me smile. Almost.

While I appreciated Mark’s efforts, I had other things to think about. School. My biggest challenge at Orangewood, by far, was school. I had never been inside a classroom, so the mechanics of school were foreign to me. What was toughest for me was that I didn’t understand anything that was being said. Physically my butt was in the chair, but mentally I quickly learned to zone out. Imagine not knowing your letters or numbers, then being put into a middle school classroom in a country that not only doesn’t speak your language but also doesn’t use the same alphabet—China for instance. It was impossible for me to learn in that setting.

All was not lost, however. Hana Hana met with me many times, and I learned to trust her and over time came to consider her a friend. In addition to the Arabic words she spoke, she looked and acted as if she cared, and I appreciated her efforts on my behalf. Hana had my back and did her best to make Orangewood the best experience it could be for me. Hana helped Orangewood put special teachers and aides next to me in the classroom, and these people taught me letters, colors, and numbers. And slowly, very slowly, I began to pick up on some of it.

Hana explained that here in the United States everyone has rights and that all kids go to school. Through her I learned how mistreated I had been, and I made up my mind that no matter what else happened, I would never allow someone to mistreat me ever again. I was no longer a helpless, naïve, eight-year-old child. By now I was almost thirteen and had been around more than my share of abusive people. No more. No matter what else happened to me in the future, I was done with that. I was old enough to advocate for myself, to speak up and tell people what I needed. My social worker taught me that here in the United States people can make their own decisions. That alone was life changing for me.

Another issue was that, according to Hana and my team of other social workers and the staff at Orangewood, I should have been with my parents. But my mom and dad were in another country. If I were sent back to them, there was no guarantee that they would not sell me into slavery again. Hana and my team would not allow that to happen. It was an odd feeling for me to think that there were people who were watching out for me. That had been a rare occurrence in my life thus far.

I had told Hana about my brothers’ touching my private parts and how icky that had made me feel. She made me see how wrong and unacceptable that was. Those two factors eventually kept me here in the United States. Even though my three-month visa had long since expired, and even though that visa had been obtained illegally, a wonderful woman judge in Orange County, California, felt I would not be safe if I were sent back to Egypt.

Several times Hana and I made the five-minute walk from Orangewood to the juvenile courthouse where various aspects of my case were heard. Several other social workers acted on my behalf too. On one visit the judge gave me a stuffed tiger. It was not the first such gift I received, as a woman at Orangewood had given me a little bear with a heart on it. This gift was especially important to me, though, because tigers are strong and stand up for themselves. To me that tiger meant hope. That tiny stuffed toy represented a better future. I still have it because the gift and what it stood for meant something to me then. And you know what? It still does.

I was at Orangewood for
quite a few months before I was placed in a foster home. That was probably a good thing, because it took me a while to get used to doing everyday tasks that most people enjoy. Showering daily was one thing. And having shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, soap, and other supplies was hard to get used to at first. Most people take these things and others, such as sleeping with a window and a light in the room, for granted, but I didn’t. I still don’t. When it came time to find placement for me, it was more difficult than for many of the other kids because I did not speak English. Plus, I was still way behind in my education. I was thirteen but was probably at a kindergarten level in school.

The other reason placement was difficult was that Orangewood made a real effort to screen their families well. Rather than put kids with just about anyone, as I have learned some other facilities do, the staff at Orangewood tried hard to find a good fit for their kids. Part of this process allowed the kids to interview the prospective foster parents, and to have the final say on whether or not they wanted to join the new family.

When I initially met my first foster family, I felt in the back of my mind that I was supposed to accept them no matter what. My prospective foster mom and her kids came to Orangewood, and we met in the parent area. I did like them. And this family was a Muslim one that spoke both English and Arabic, which was great because they could provide me with a strong transitional home. I knew nothing of American life. I had never been to a store or a restaurant and didn’t know such things as libraries or movie theaters existed.

This family said the right things, but I was still mistrustful of people I didn’t know, and especially of Muslim men. The men in my life so far had not been good to me, as all of them had been angry, domineering, and belligerent. But I wanted a family. I very much wanted to belong, and when the staff at Orangewood asked if I wanted to give this family a try, I said, “Sure. Let’s go for it.”

•    •    •

My first foster family lived about a fifteen-minute drive from Orangewood. It was a nice, calm neighborhood, with lots of retired people. There were several bedrooms and one bath in our home, along with the usual kitchen and living room.