Hidden Girl: The True Story of a Modern-Day Child Slave by Shyima Hall Page B
Authors: Shyima Hall
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my foster home. I’d had enough of that with my biological parents, and with The Mom and The Dad, and didn’t want to get involved in the fighting in this home too.
Although Ahmed was a kinder person than the other men in my life, he still was the authority figure. None of us dared question his decisions—except his mother-in-law, Sarah’s mother, who made it clear that she did not approve of Muslims.
The mother-in-law visited often. But whenever the arguing became too intense, she’d leave in a huff. Life always settled down when she was away, but after a few days, boom, there she was again.
For some reason this woman did not seem to like me and I did not feel welcome there. I don’t know if she thought I was taking up a room that the baby could be in. Or maybe she thought she should have been sleeping in the room that I was in. It’s possible that she just didn’t like me. Whatever the reason, I think she went out of her way to get me in trouble.
“Shyima pinched the baby,” she’d say. Of course I did no such thing, but she was always saying things like that.
To make life even more difficult, my foster dad and I did not get along well. There was no connection between us, and he always wanted me to go to the mosque with them. Some who practice the Muslim faith go to their place of worship every day, but most families, including this one, didn’t. Instead they usually went weekly and on special days within the faith. The reason I didn’t like to go was that it was the same mosque that The Mom and The Dad went to. They were still under investigation and had not been convicted of anything yet, which meant they were free to enjoy everything the United States had to offer, including this particular mosque. One time we went, and I saw The Mom there. I had such a horrible feeling when I saw her. I told my foster parents, and they agreed that I would not have to go back if I didn’t want to. I went a few times after that but did not see her or any other members of her family there again. Even so, that mosque remained an uneasy place for me to be.
When I had been with my captors in Egypt, I had spoken with my biological mother once or twice. Now my social workers and my foster dad encouraged me to speak to my parents again, even though it had been a while since we had talked. My social worker thought it was important that we keep the lines of communication open, so my foster dad made the calls even though I didn’t want to. I knew the outcome would be the same as it had been when we’d spoken when I was in Egypt, and when we’d spoken just after I had been rescued. I was right.
The first time I talked to my dad when I was with this foster family, all he did was yell at me. “Your mother is very sick, and it is all your fault,” he said. Forget the fact that she had eleven children and little in the way of medical care or good food. When he said, “You are a selfish child to be in that place you are now,” I began to cry, and the tears only became larger when he said, “You should be here, home with your family.”
How could he even say that? For years I had wanted nothing more than to be home with my family. The reason I wasn’t was because he and my mother had sold me into slavery. Now he dared to yell at me for not being there? I could think of nothing that was more unfair than his treatment of me.
Even though there was a chance I would be sold back into slavery, even though my brothers had touched me inappropriately, if either my dad or my mom had said in a kind tone, “We love you, we miss you, we are sorry for what happened. We can’t wait for you to come home, where we can give you a hug,” I might have thought about asking my social worker to make that happen.
The reality was, in an ideal world I did want to be with my biological family. I desperately wanted to catch up on the lost years, and I missed my younger brothers and sisters a lot. But I had learned that we do not live in a perfect
Although Ahmed was a kinder person than the other men in my life, he still was the authority figure. None of us dared question his decisions—except his mother-in-law, Sarah’s mother, who made it clear that she did not approve of Muslims.
The mother-in-law visited often. But whenever the arguing became too intense, she’d leave in a huff. Life always settled down when she was away, but after a few days, boom, there she was again.
For some reason this woman did not seem to like me and I did not feel welcome there. I don’t know if she thought I was taking up a room that the baby could be in. Or maybe she thought she should have been sleeping in the room that I was in. It’s possible that she just didn’t like me. Whatever the reason, I think she went out of her way to get me in trouble.
“Shyima pinched the baby,” she’d say. Of course I did no such thing, but she was always saying things like that.
To make life even more difficult, my foster dad and I did not get along well. There was no connection between us, and he always wanted me to go to the mosque with them. Some who practice the Muslim faith go to their place of worship every day, but most families, including this one, didn’t. Instead they usually went weekly and on special days within the faith. The reason I didn’t like to go was that it was the same mosque that The Mom and The Dad went to. They were still under investigation and had not been convicted of anything yet, which meant they were free to enjoy everything the United States had to offer, including this particular mosque. One time we went, and I saw The Mom there. I had such a horrible feeling when I saw her. I told my foster parents, and they agreed that I would not have to go back if I didn’t want to. I went a few times after that but did not see her or any other members of her family there again. Even so, that mosque remained an uneasy place for me to be.
When I had been with my captors in Egypt, I had spoken with my biological mother once or twice. Now my social workers and my foster dad encouraged me to speak to my parents again, even though it had been a while since we had talked. My social worker thought it was important that we keep the lines of communication open, so my foster dad made the calls even though I didn’t want to. I knew the outcome would be the same as it had been when we’d spoken when I was in Egypt, and when we’d spoken just after I had been rescued. I was right.
The first time I talked to my dad when I was with this foster family, all he did was yell at me. “Your mother is very sick, and it is all your fault,” he said. Forget the fact that she had eleven children and little in the way of medical care or good food. When he said, “You are a selfish child to be in that place you are now,” I began to cry, and the tears only became larger when he said, “You should be here, home with your family.”
How could he even say that? For years I had wanted nothing more than to be home with my family. The reason I wasn’t was because he and my mother had sold me into slavery. Now he dared to yell at me for not being there? I could think of nothing that was more unfair than his treatment of me.
Even though there was a chance I would be sold back into slavery, even though my brothers had touched me inappropriately, if either my dad or my mom had said in a kind tone, “We love you, we miss you, we are sorry for what happened. We can’t wait for you to come home, where we can give you a hug,” I might have thought about asking my social worker to make that happen.
The reality was, in an ideal world I did want to be with my biological family. I desperately wanted to catch up on the lost years, and I missed my younger brothers and sisters a lot. But I had learned that we do not live in a perfect
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