Hidden Girl: The True Story of a Modern-Day Child Slave (5 page)

How could they not see how privileged they were? How could they not see how lucky they were to live that kind of lifestyle? Why couldn’t they give thanks for their wonderful life or be appreciative of it? There are many things about my life then and the people in it that I did not understand. I probably never will.

Once or twice, though, I got to briefly speak with my mother on the phone. The calls were set up by The Mom and were mostly to discuss the details of payment for me to my parents. While I believed I had been paying off my sister’s debt, as part of their deal with my parents The Mom and The Dad were paying them a small amount each month, the equivalent of seventeen US dollars. Later I learned that this arrangement was most likely a split—if, for example, my “employment” had earned me fifty dollars a month back in Egypt, The Mom and The Dad would have given my parents less, and the difference would have gone toward the debt my family owed. Every time I said, “Mom, I want to come home,” my mother replied, “You are almost done. It’s okay. You will be home soon.” But even then I knew these for the placating words they were.

Plus, every time my mother and I spoke, either The Mom or The Dad listened in on another extension. Afterward, they’d yell at me. “You are a stupid girl,” one or the other would shout. “You should be grateful for the good life we give you.” It was like a broken record, or the movie
Groundhog Day
, where the same events take place over and over again.

Nothing was going to change of its own accord. I knew it and knew that the adults knew it.

Life went on . . . and on.
Day after day I waited on this family, took care of their every need, and cleaned their house. I took their verbal abuse and received more slaps than I care to count. I never had a day off, even when I did not feel well.

Every month it seemed someone had a birthday, or there was a Muslim holiday. I was never invited to participate, nor were my own birthdays celebrated. When the twins had their second birthday celebration since I’d been in the house, I knew I had been there a long time.

I had no knowledge of the calendar, of months or how years worked. Even though before I’d come to the home of my captors I had counted my age in years, I did not have a full concept of what that meant. Time was meaningless to me. Today was just a day—as was tomorrow.

I was too tired to be resentful. Too tired to be mad that other children were celebrating milestones and I was not. When you are a slave, it does not take long for your emotions to shut down or for your mind to go into survival mode. That may be why my memories of some occasions are spotty or nonexistent. My brain was on overload trying to survive, and day-to-day details were not necessary to that process.

But after I had been with my captors for a couple of years, I had the growing sense that this family had their own troubles. The Dad had been “away” a number of times for lengthy periods, and while nothing specific was said to me, I overheard conversations between family members or servants when they talked about him being in trouble with the law.

“He’s coming home soon,” the cook commented one day.

“
She
wants a big to-do when he gets home,” added one of the maids.

“That’ll be more work for us, mark my words,” said another.

Just as some of the servants had predicted, when The Dad returned, there was a huge party. There were a lot of people at the party, so he must have had a lot of supporters.

Then there was a day when one of the servants left, then another. A short while later The Mom and the kids began packing their things, and I realized they were moving away because of work or personal trouble The Dad had. These goings-on were a major change from the sameness of my days, and I watched out of the corner of my eye with avid interest. I was excited! We were down to just a few servants who were helping close up the house. Could this possibly mean I was going home? The thought was exhilarating; I barely dared to think about it.

I couldn’t wait to see my family—especially my baby sister and my other siblings. It seemed like an eternity since I had last seen them. I didn’t know if my family still lived in the same apartment, but I didn’t care. If I could be with my family, it didn’t matter if we lived in a hole in the ground.

One day not long after that The Mom said, “Your parents are coming tomorrow.” I was so eager to see them! When my mother came, she gave me a hug, but both she and my dad arrived with cautious expressions on their faces. We all went right into the kitchen where The Mom said, “She is not yet done paying off her sister’s debt. Our family is moving to the United States, and we need to bring one servant with us. That person will be the girl.”

The girl, of course, was me. I had no concept of what this meant. I was ten years old, but I had never been to school. I didn’t know what the United States was, or where it was. For all I knew it could have been a two-hour car ride away. But the distance didn’t matter. I was devastated that I had to stay with my captors. Most of the other people who had worked or lived in the house had gone home to their families. Why couldn’t I go too?

I was quite apprehensive about going to the United States. The only thing I had seen of it had been on the news. I didn’t understand that it was another country, but I did realize that it was different from where I was now. Over the years my captors and their family and friends had often said what a bad place the US was, and I wondered with some unease why we were going there.

The Mom then handed my parents a pile of paperwork. “We will be gone only a few months,” she said. Then I was asked to leave the room while my parents and The Mom talked further.

•    •    •

After my parents left, The Mom sent me out to have my hair cut. This was the first time I had ever been to a salon. In fact, I didn’t even know such places existed. The experience was traumatic for me because my hair at this time was quite long and fell almost to my knees. After the haircut my hair came only to the middle of my neck. Then, because my hair is naturally curly, they chemically straightened it—possibly in an attempt to alter my appearance.

I cried and cried because I loved my hair. I didn’t want to have it cut, but the lady at the salon had received instructions from The Mom, which meant I had no options. Back home The Mom saw my tears and told me to “get over it.” Then she dressed me in a shirt that belonged to her youngest daughter. The shirt was red with tiny flowers on it. I never have liked the color red. Finally, I was introduced to a man named Aymen, who said, “Okay, let’s go. Let’s get started.”

I had no idea what he meant. Get started for what? Where were we going? I was nervous when I left with him, but what else could I have done? My parents, The Mom, and now this man had tried to explain what was going to happen, but I had no concept of the ocean, airplanes, different countries, or customs other than what I knew in Egypt. My knowledge of life beyond my own was limited; there was no possibility of me understanding what was going on, other than that I knew I was not going home to be with my family. That’s what I knew for sure, and for me that was the only thing that mattered.

Here I call the man by his first name, Aymen, but I think of him as “The Man That I Came With.” First he took me to his house and showed me his daughter’s room. The house was an average house, and the room was quite generic, as young girls’ rooms go.

“When you get your passport, if you are asked anything, you are to describe this house, this room,” he said. I didn’t even know what a passport was.

Then we went to the home of a man who felt sneaky to me. I can’t say why, exactly, other than that he had a dishonest vibe about him. I can no longer describe what he looked like, but I still sense the extreme unease I felt at this place. Aymen said to the man, “I am the girl’s godfather and am in the process of adopting her.” While the words were news to me, I didn’t believe them. I knew Aymen said them so he could get what he wanted, which apparently was for the man to take my picture—after money changed hands. After some discussion Aymen handed the man more money and we left with a document that I later found out was a three-month visa to the United States. Aymen then took me back to the home of my captors.

Soon after that The Mom and the kids left for the United States. Several weeks passed during which The Dad, an older servant woman, and I were the only people in that huge, huge house. I began to wonder what was going to happen to me.

One day I was surprised to find my parents at the door. My mother packed my meager collection of clothing into a suitcase that had been obtained for me, and she added a photo of my family. Then my mom and dad spent the night with me on the fifth floor. I was thrilled that my mom and dad were there. Maybe we were going to stay together after all!

The next morning I got into a car with them and we went to the airport in Cairo. I had no idea what was going on. I didn’t know I was permanently leaving the palatial home of my captors, or that I was going to fly halfway around the world. I also didn’t have a clue that it would be the last time I ever saw my mom and dad.

Outside the airport, at the drop-off area for departing flights, we met up with Aymen.

“Good-bye,” my mom and dad said. “We love you. We’ll talk on the phone and we’ll see you soon.”

I never knew if my parents intentionally lied to me or if my captors had not told them the truth. I was leaving Egypt forever.

•    •    •

After a long flight Aymen and I landed in New York City. Aymen had not sat with me; he’d been in the front of the plane and I’d been in one of the last seats in the back. No one had taken the time to explain about flying to me. I had understood the concept. I had seen planes fly overhead before. But I hadn’t known about the change in the cabin pressure as the plane rose into the sky, or that you could hear and feel the wheels clank as they slid back into the body of the plane. I had been bewildered during the flight, but hadn’t known enough to be afraid.

Too, I hadn’t expected the twenty-plus hours of travel time or the enormous size of the endless ocean. I didn’t know how to read and had no toys to bring with me. With nothing to do, I’d soon fallen asleep. The entire experience had been too much to process and I had worn myself out.

After we landed in New York, Aymen and I transferred to another plane. On the way to the new gate, we walked past rows and rows of windows, but I barely noticed them. Instead I was overwhelmed with the bustle of the airport and the odd-sounding language that I later learned was English. And the clothes. I could not believe my eyes. I was astonished that women in the United States wore pants and also that they did not wear head scarves.

What most amazed me, though, were people of Asian descent. I had never seen an Asian person before. I didn’t know any such kind of person existed. I had seen a few white people on the news when I had walked by one of the many television sets my captors had in Egypt, but the enticing, exotic look of people from China, Japan, and other Asian countries was a thing to wonder about. Being in the airport was like being dropped into an alternate universe, America was that much of a change for me.

Maybe I could have spoken up in the airport. Maybe I could have tugged on the pant leg of one of the scarfless women I passed and told them of my plight. But I spoke no English. I was afraid to leave Aymen’s side because I had been told bad things would happen to my parents, brothers, and sisters if I didn’t obey him. That’s why I did not look for any kind faces in the airport, why I didn’t tug on any pant legs. I was resigned. Resigned to go with the flow, resigned to this new country, resigned to a life of drudgery.

I can look back now and see how terribly wrong everything about my situation was. A ten-year-old girl should be bubbling and full of life. She should have masses of friends, learn important things at school, and be tucked into bed at night by a parent who loves her. I missed out on all of that. I guess it was a good thing that I didn’t have any concept of what was lacking in my life.

The flight from New York to Los Angeles wasn’t as long as the flight from Egypt to New York, but it seemed as if it were. I again sat in the back while Aymen sat in front. When we landed in California on August 3, 2000, I somehow knew we were done with the flying. I was glad of that, as the entire trip had taken almost a full day and night.

I had never learned about time zones, so I was doubly disoriented with jet lag and the change in time. Depending on whether daylight saving time is in effect, Cairo is either nine or ten hours ahead of Los Angeles. The flying time between Cairo and New York is almost twelve hours. The time spent getting to the airport, the two flights, and the wait time between the two flights meant I had been traveling for at least twenty-two hours.

Before we could meet up with The Mom and her oldest daughter, we had to go through customs. There, while we were passing through, a customs official looked at me oddly. He took an extra-long time with my passport and visa before he asked me a question.

Quietly Aymen said to me, “Smile.” I smiled. Later I learned that Aymen had explained to the man that I did not speak or understand English. That much was true. Then he told the official, “I am adopting this girl and taking her to Disneyland.”