I was about two weeks into my eighth month when I was rushed into hospital after Ziad beat me. He had come home drunk as usual and I was in the kitchen getting something. I’d had problems with my pregnancy because I was constantly being sick and the doctors told me I had too much fluid around my baby and the baby didn’t have much room to move around. Ziad was arguing and I tried to walk away from him but he pushed me to the floor and started kicking me. I tried to curl up to protect my baby the best I could but I was huge, then after a few kicks he walked off, leaving me in agony on the kitchen floor.
I went back to my room and stayed up until the next morning in pain, and then I went and woke Dobia and told her what had happened. She immediately got the driver and rushed me to hospital. After I was examined the doctor told me I needed to be induced because my baby was in distress. I wasn’t in labour at the time, but he was worried Ziad may have damaged the baby and it was safer for both of us for labour to be induced as soon as possible. Dobia went back to tell Ziad what had happened. I knew he wouldn’t care but he still needed to be told because he was my husband, but just as I thought, he was asleep and didn’t care. She told the nanny to take care of the children as I wouldn’t be home that night, Dobia stayed with me in hospital as the doctor started my labour.
The doctors monitored me throughout my labour, they told me all the way through that it was going to be difficult as my baby failed to turn, and I was in labour until the next afternoon.
Sadig was a breach baby; he was born on 8th September, 1984. Dobia screamed in horror whilst he was being born, backing up against the corner because she feared I’d given birth to a beast!
“It’s nothing to worry about,” the doctor told her as he wiped the hair from his eyes, “It’s just hair!” Then he quickly showed us Sadig who was covered from head to toe in a carpet of jet black hair!
My baby was rushed away to a private room, where he was placed in an incubator. Ziad didn’t come to the hospital when his son was born. I was the one who decided to call my baby Sadig because it means ‘truthful’ in Arabic.
Sadig was allowed home after three days, and even after everything his father had put him through while he was still in my womb, he was a beautiful, big and strong baby.
The abuse started within weeks of me giving birth to Sadig. I was drained of energy and couldn’t understand why he couldn’t leave me alone and go to his other women. I wasn’t what he wanted, yet he took pleasure in torturing me. In the past he would get ready to go out, then tell me to be ready and be waiting for him when he got back, which would be early hours of the morning.
Most nights I would hear him bring other women back to his flat, but I would sit on the settee waiting in fear for him to finish with her, and then come for me. I never once heard him beat them, they would always leave laughing as they bid him farewell on the stairs. It was only me he enjoyed abusing and degrading. He would bring the whiskey with him; I hated it but it numbed the pain so I would gulp it down, the quicker the better! I didn’t plead with him anymore because I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was hurting me. He tried his best to get a reaction from me, I could see it with every punch, kick, degrading and despicable thing he did to me that he wanted me to beg him to stop, but I didn’t, I wouldn’t. I knew no matter how much I begged he would never show me mercy.
When the abuse started up again I couldn’t take it anymore, Sadig was only a few weeks old and not sleeping well so I’d asked Dobia to have him for the night. I made the excuse that I wasn’t feeling well, but in reality I knew that Sadig would most probably wake up while I was being abused, and I wouldn’t be able to go and comfort him. Ziad turned up and started insisting I drink the whiskey but I told him I didn’t need whiskey for him to rape or beat me anymore; I was immune to his pain.
“Just get on with it,” I insisted, “Nothing you do to me can hurt me anymore!” I was so wrong!
Ziad stared at me and coldly said, “Well that’s not true is it? There is one thing I could do to hurt you!” My heart started racing as he stood up and headed for the bedroom where the children were sleeping. I tried to run after him but he kicked me in the stomach taking my breath away. I continued grabbing at his clothes whilst being dragged behind him into the bedroom.
“Please!” I begged, “I’m sorry, I will do anything you want, anything! I promise!” However, I knew he wouldn’t stop; he yanked Tarek from his bed, pulling him by his arm and throwing him from the bedroom into the living room.
As I tried to grab hold of our son Ziad punched me again, sending me crashing to the floor of the bedroom as he took the key from the door, pulling it behind him and locking him and our son in the living room.
I could hear Tarek crying as I crawled over and put my eye to the keyhole. He had turned the key so I could see through and I could see them, he was yelling at his son for crying, and then suddenly he punched him. I heard Tarek scream and it was as if someone was slowly sticking a knife though my heart!
“Ziad, stop! That’s enough! He’s your son! You’re scaring him, he’s just a child!” I pleaded with him through the keyhole, sobbing while slapping my head over and over again! Why? Why? Why was I so stupid? Why couldn’t I just do as I was told? I hated myself for allowing this monster to do this to my baby!
I didn’t know what to do. I thought about going and waking Dobia and her husband but I knew they wouldn’t be able to protect us from Ziad tomorrow night, or the night after, we were alone in this fight.
“Tarek, baby, it’s OK!” I tried to sound calm as I talked to Tarek through the keyhole. “Daddy’s just playing a silly game, please don’t cry baby, just do as Daddy tells you.”
I watched Ziad as he lifted Tarek and placed him on the dining table next to the flower pot; he was warning him to sit and be still, not to move or fall asleep unless he told him to while he lay on the settee.
I was hopeful, I knew once Ziad laid down he wouldn’t get back up, he never did, he would soon be asleep! Tarek was weeping, but quietly out of fear from his father. I opened the balcony door and ran over to the living room balcony; I was praying the balcony door would be open even though I knew I always locked it. I tried the other door that led to the courtyard balcony but Ziad had locked that one as well, I went back and sat next to the keyhole. With Issy fast asleep I sat with my eye up to the keyhole for about ten minutes, whispering to my baby to be brave, but how could I tell my five year old child to be brave, when I was terrified myself?
I felt, and was, helpless, as I watched him struggle to stay awake because his father had told him he had to. Tarek sat in total silence until finally I could hear Ziad snoring and I knew it was safe to do something, so I finally convinced him to move off the table.
He was terrified, shivering. I convinced him to come over to the door and quietly take out the key and pass it to me under the door. I quietly opened the door, I picked him up and placed him on the bed while I locked the door from inside the bedroom. I then went to hold Tarek in my arms, to comfort him, but his father had done more damage than I’d realised. He had punched him so hard in the shoulder he had dislocated it, his shoulder was drooping, hanging and swollen, he couldn’t move it!
I gently picked him up in my arms and ran over to Dobia’s room where I tapped gently on the door, fearful that I would also awake Ziad. Ali answered the door; he was shocked to see me holding Tarek in my arms and at first thought he had fallen out of bed. Dobia went and got Issy and brought her back to her flat while I told Ali what Ziad had done to his son. He was furious and wanted to go and drag him off the settee and confront him, but we persuaded him that at that moment Tarek needed help, we needed to go to the hospital; he could deal with Ziad later.
Dobia stayed with the children while Ali took us to hospital, it was heart-breaking to see what Ziad had done to his own son. Because of his age, Tarek was put under general anaesthetic to have his shoulder fixed; we returned from the hospital the next afternoon.
Although Ali h
ad a word with Ziad he convinced him it was all a misunderstanding, something that got blown out of proportion! Ziad thought it funny that his son dislocated his shoulder. He refused to take the blame or apologise to his son, he thought that if he bought him lots of presents Tarek would forgive and forget, but Tarek had seen too much.
When we first moved to Africa Tarek adored his father; he would run up to him when he saw him come home, and he would cry when he left. Tarek was very young but very clever, he was in private school in Africa and the short time we lived there had learnt to speak French and African, and although he wasn’t fluent, he could get by. He woke up many mornings and found me black and blue and unable to move from my bed, and although I tried my best to make excuses for my injuries, there are only so many excuses one can make to a child before the truth becomes apparent!
Tarek started to cling on to me and fear his father; he hid when he saw him coming, and cried when Ziad tried to pick him up! One afternoon, after Ziad had shouted at his son for being a ‘mummy’s boy’, Tarek took a box of matches from the kitchen and went into his bedroom and closed the door. He set fire to his bedding while he was sat inside. Danso smelt the fire and opened the door, the bedroom was on fire and Tarek was curled up in the corner. Danso ran through the flames and grabbed Tarek!
I was in Dobia’s flat with no idea what was going on outside. We heard loud voices and ran out to the balcony to see what was happening; smoke was everywhere and there were people running around, and then I saw Danso running towards me with Tarek in his arms.
“Tell Daddy I don’t want my bedroom or toys anymore!” Tarek told me when Danso passed him over. I was crying with joy as I cuddled and kissed him; he was OK, but I knew his father would be furious with him.
The bedroom was totally ruined, burnt; Ziad had gone out at the time but I knew he would be back soon and I was terrified of what he would do to his son. Dobia decided to take him to one of her friends’ houses. She had been to Africa many times and had more freedom than I did, and she had friends outside of the flats. She took all the children and left, she promised that if she came back that night she wouldn’t bring the children back to my flat or let their father know where they were. She would leave me alone to deal with Ziad.
Ziad came back around 8 pm to get ready to go out and found out what had happened, as I thought he would be he was fuming and came looking for his son to punish him. We started arguing and I thought that because he was still sober and hadn’t been out drinking at that time, that maybe I could talk some sense to into him. I tried to explain to him that his behaviour towards his children was becoming out of control, and that it was affecting his relationship with them. I also told him Tarek was seeing what he was doing, and that was why he set fire to his bedroom and toys, because he was angry with him. But Ziad didn’t want to listen.
That night Ziad beat me so badly he left me nearly crippled. When Dobia came back from her friend’s, hours later, she found me on the floor semi-conscious. She had left the children with her friend. I was rushed to hospital where my neck was put in a brace, my arms and legs in casts; I had multiple injuries and I stayed in hospital for a week.
By some miracle I found out I was pregnant and the baby was unharmed! I suppose it had become instinct to curl up into a ball when Ziad beat me, maybe this had saved my baby.
The next day Ali came to the hospital, he told me that he had spoken to Ziad and made it clear to him that if he touched me or the children ever again he would send word back to Nasser Ziad. Although I was hopeful that this would be the last time Ziad abused me or my children, I knew in my heart that there was nothing Ali or anyone else could do to stop Ziad; he wasn’t someone to reason with. This latest attack was proof of that. The only person that could save me and my children was me!
When Ali’s mother became ill he decided to take his wife and go back to Yemen. Grandmother Dobia had been ill for a while but now it was her final days and he wanted to be with his mother.
Dobia and I had become close during her short stay and I would miss her terribly. I wrote yet another letter to Yas and one to Dad begging for help. I knew this one would get through; I’d written many letters with family members and men who worked in the shops that came and went to Yemen, but I never really knew which ones got through. At least I could trust Dobia to hand this one to Yas herself, she had seen with her own eyes what Ziad was doing, some of it anyway, and she didn’t like it!
After Dobia left I survived like I did before she first arrived, alone. I protected my children the best I could while Ziad carried on with his abuse whenever and however he felt like it!
When Sadig was nine months old the nanny left a big pot of boiling coffee on the cabinet table, while Sadig was just learning to walk. He was a big, chubby baby. He pulled the coffee over himself from his head down and was rushed into hospital with horrific burns; the skin on his ear, shoulder and chest melted off and he was in hospital for weeks having treatment. Of course his father was asleep when it happened but gave us permission to use the driver, but Ziad never once visited.
When I was eight months pregnant with my fourth child, Dad finally turned up in Africa. I was so happy seeing my father had finally come to my rescue! I had no idea he was coming but I had noticed a big change in Ziad’s behaviour for a few weeks. He hadn’t raised his voice or finger to any of us, and although I was always the optimistic, as soon as I saw Dad I knew Ziad had known he was coming, he just didn’t tell us.
Instead of coming to rescue us, Dad and Ziad became best buddies. Ziad would take Dad out and show him around, he bought him new clothes, a watch, told him he could choose whatever he wanted from the shops to take home as presents! Ziad behaved like the dutiful son-in-law and loving husband in front of Dad, and nothing I said made any difference!
Dad called me a trouble maker, he said I always had a big mouth; he said I should listen to my husband and do as I’m told! Ziad told him there was no need to take me back with him; because once the baby was born we were both going back. Dad stayed for a few weeks and left, without me. I was in my last month of pregnancy when Dad left, I weighed under eight stone.
Ziad turned up at the hospital in the early hours of the morning while I was in labour; he was drunk, swaying all over the place and hurling abuse at the staff. I was in a private room and there was an empty bed in the room, he eventually climbed into the bed and fell asleep. When the doctor turned up he asked me if I wanted him removed, but I said no, leave him alone, he’s not bothering me. The hospital was a small one and I’d been there many times from injuries and so had the children; the staff had all seen what Ziad was really like and had become tired of his behaviour. Although most of the local staff was scared of him, some of the doctors were foreign and didn’t fear him.
On 1st October 1985, I gave birth to my beautiful little girl, Dobia, she weighed over 10lb.
When he finally woke up Dobia had been born and was asleep in the cot next to me, he came over and looked at her.
“That’s not my baby! She’s too ugly to be my child! Tell the doctors they must have given you the wrong baby, and don’t come home till you have the right one!” Ziad wasn’t joking; his voice was mean and cruel.
“She’s the splitting image of you, so if she’s ugly, so are you!” I shouted after him as he left the room.
I wasn’t lying, Dobia was the splitting image of her dad and that was OK, because I’d always said Ziad was good looking, it was his heart that was ugly!
I wanted to call her Yasmin after my sister but Ziad refused, his grandmother had just passed away and he had insisted if it was a girl she be named Dobia.
It wasn’t just the staff at the hospital who had become tired of Ziad’s behaviour, so had his father. Ziad had become a burden and an embarrassment to his father and the family. Nasser Ziad had built his empire out of hard work, he didn’t throw away his money and he was both feared and respected. Ziad wasn’t working in Africa; he partied all night and slept all day. He wasted money on
drink, drugs, and women, and he was making a lot of enemies in Africa because of his temper and arrogance.
He was firing good workers when they had the nerve to stand up to him, and the last one was his uncle Ahmed! When Ahmed returned to Yemen and told them that Ziad had fired him, Nasser Ziad was furious and demanded we go back to Yemen! I was over the moon, but Ziad refused to leave Africa.
Jehovah’s Witnesses helped me wrap up the one book I’d been studying for years with them in hope to access their help, The Bible was also a book that was banned in Yemen. I wanted to smuggle it back to allow me to keep up with my studies, so I ripped off the front and back hard pages and replaced them with newspaper. They told me they had people working undercover in Yemen and gave me contact details for them. In 1986 I was escorted back to the Yemen, with my four children.
Chapter Seventeen
Disowned
When I landed in Yemen I got through the airport with my Bible without any problems. Yas and Abdul were there waiting for us. I’d been gone for over three years and it had been absolute hell being away from my sister. As we held on to each other I didn’t want to let her go, we had a lot of catching up to do! As always I could count on Yas to be direct with me.
“What’s wrong with your face, Moo?” she asked, touching my cheeks. Ziad had knocked out some of my teeth leaving my face looking collapsed, and my cheeks sunken.
They took me to their house where I would stay for a few days before travelling to Dad’s house, where I would stay until Ziad got back from Africa. Ziad had told me to stay at Dad’s house because he was having problems with his family and he didn’t want us going there until he got back.
A Father's Betrayal Page 28
