A Father's Betrayal

by Gabriella Gillespie

  “Stop it! I need to talk to you!” I said, pushing him playfully away while he tried to kiss me again.

  “Don’t be so cruel!” he sulked. “I need to hold you, and to kiss you and look and you, I need to smell your scent, I need as many kisses as I can to last me for as long as it takes, because I don’t know when I will see you again, we don’t need to talk here!”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter. “I have carried this with me every day since you left, wishing, and praying, that you will walk through that door, it says everything I need to say for now!” He placed the letter in my hand, and I quickly put it down my top.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t write you one,” I said with a frown, but he just looked at me with a sad face.

  “Is that because you don’t love me as much as I love you?” he sulked.

  “That’s not true, it’s because you have more time on your hands than I do, anyway, I don’t have much time now because I have to see to my brother, so, tell me, what have you been doing?” I asked. Anwar grabbed me and held me close to him again.

  “I’m not talking about me; tell me about you, what are your plans? Are you going to get a divorce? Are you planning on staying with your father?” He carried on with his questions until I let out a big sigh.

  “What else can I do? I have nowhere else to go and I haven’t heard from Ziad.”

  He sat me down and sat next to me, and then he told me that nobody had heard from Ziad since I left, and they didn’t think he was coming back. Then he tried to convince me to go to Sanaa, he said he would help me find work and he would support us in any way he could. He told me that I should learn to be independent from everyone, and said that if I did, it would mean that we could see each other until Ziad divorced me.

  I told him that although that sounded like something I would love to do, it wasn’t something my family would allow me to do. I knew my family, and I also knew that if I ever tried to leave, my father would track me down, and kill me!

  Then he told me that he himself had been offered a good job in Sanaa, but up until this time he had refused because he was waiting for me, convinced that eventually, I would turn up to see him. He said that now he had seen me he was going to take the job and hoped that soon, I too would go to Sanaa, so that we could be together.

  With time passing quickly and my brother awaiting treatment, we said our goodbyes and I took my brother to see the doctor. He had his wound stitched up we went back home.

  Once home I read the letter from Anwar, he was begging me to run away with him so that my children and I could have a better, free life, telling me how strong a person I was, and how much he loved me.

  Anwar’s letters, his words, they made me fall more and more in love with him. I wished I had the strength to make that choice, or was given the rights to choose what I wanted to do. I wanted to be with a man like him forever, someone who could love and respect me, love and respect my children, allow us freedom, allow us our own choices in life.

  It was around a week later when we needed to take Abdulla back to the hospital, his wound was opening up and was weeping, and once again I was chosen to take him. As before I went straight to Anwar’s office, but I was heartbroken to find him gone. I was told he had left, and although Anwar had told me of his intentions to leave I had no idea he meant so soon!

  Abdulla was seen by the doctor and found to have glass in his wound, they had stitched his leg up with glass still in it; I found myself feeling guilty, if only I’d paid more attention to my brother’s injuries on the day rather than putting my feelings for Anwar first, then I would have noticed the doctor not doing his job properly!

  As I cradled Abdulla in my arms and he clung on to me while they unstitched his wound to clean it, I felt a slight connection with my brother for the very first time; he was merely a child, and it was not his fault the way he was behaving, it was the fault of the people who were bringing him up, and the culture that he was being brought up in! I knew that in reality my brothers and sister were also the victims of the culture they were born into, just as my children were.

  When we got back from the hospital it was in the afternoon and Dad had gone to the fields for the night, and Viyza was sewing away at her machine. When she heard about Abdulla’s leg she went berserk at me, blaming everything on me, she said that if I’d been looking after him properly in the first place he wouldn’t have fallen and cut his leg, and why didn’t I notice before now that the wound wasn’t healing? We got into a huge argument. I did feel guilty about not paying attention at the hospital, but I told her Abdulla was her son, not mine! It was not my duty to look after her children, and if she loved him that much, she would have been the one to take him to the hospital, not me. I also told her that a good mother would have noticed before now that his wound wasn’t healing!

  Viyza got upset and stormed out of the house, saying that she was going to stay with her family for the night, but she told me she wasn’t taking her children. She had no choice but to take Zain because she was still breastfeeding him, but she was leaving the other two with me! I was happy to see the back of Viyza for the night, but terrified of what Dad would do to me once she told him what I’d said to her.

  That night, although I had seven children to look after we had lots of fun, we made as much noise as we wanted and ran around the house, even Abdulla, who would usually have his guard up when his parents were there, joined in our games and had lots of fun.

  The next day Dad had his breakfast and dinner sent to the fields for him because he was busy with work, so I didn’t see him until the afternoon. When he did come home he was chewing ghat and was in a mellow and calm mood, I was sure he had spoken to Viyza because he hadn’t asked about her or mentioned her, so I found the strength to approach him and try to put my side of the story across. He was sat in the main room with his children; my children were outside playing, so I asked if I could talk to him.

  “Of course, come and sit here,” he said in a surprisingly good mood, while tapping the floor beside him. There was a time when I yearned for those moments of love and affection from Dad, but now I was older and somewhat wiser to his charm. I was merely here to put my side of the argument across, even though he still terrified me.

  “Viyza and I had an argument yesterday.” My voice was trembling and my mouth was drying up. Dad seemed unfazed, as though he already knew.

  “What about?” he asked in a blank tone while he carried on playing with Abdulla.

  “About Abdulla, I think she doesn’t show him enough affection, especially when he’s ill.” I knew I was pushing it telling him these things, but I had to say something to defend my argument with her.

  Dad looked concerned. “Are you saying she doesn’t care?”

  I just wanted to tell him exactly what I thought of her, but I knew I couldn’t, I wasn’t free to talk, to tell him that I thought she was devious, manipulative, cold hearted, unloving, selfish, back stabbing… the list goes on! But I couldn’t say all these things; I knew I had to be careful what I said. I knew in a few days’ time once he had spoken to his wife he would turn on me again!

  “She should have checked Abdulla’s wound ages ago but she’s instead blaming me, she’s too busy on her sewing machine, all she thinks about is that machine!” I said angrily. As soon as I spoke I waited for Dad to lash out and hit me, after all, I’d just insulted his wife, the mother of his children, but instead he looked at me with a hint of a smile.

  “You care for Abdulla, don’t you?” he asked, looking into my eyes.

  “Of course I do Dad, he’s my brother!” I insisted.

  Dad smiled, “Well, you have a point about Viyza, I’m sick of her bloody machine, so as far as I’m concerned she can stay with her family, you can take care of your brother and sister, they will be safe with you!”

  We sat together and chatted a little more, it was nice to see Dad relaxed when my children came up and played in the room. It was a rare occasion when he would allow my c
hildren to play inside if he was home.

  That evening after Dad had gone to the fields, the children and I played games again and drew drawings on my scraps of cardboard and paper, then I laid them all down and told them children’s stories from what I remembered being told to me when I was a child. I told them the story of Jack and the Beanstalk, I didn’t have any books, but I remembered the stories in my head.

  It had been a good day for us, Dad had been in a good mood, and the children had all gone to bed smiling. The next morning I was up bright and early to cook breakfast. Tarek took Dad’s breakfast to the fields with him on his way to work, and I carried on with my chores and looking after the children. Dad was due home for lunch so I was busy in the kitchen, when suddenly Viyza turned up with one of her brothers.

  She was furious that Dad hadn’t gone around begging for her to come home, and she had come back to pack some clothes to take back with her, but that wasn’t all she wanted; she was taking Abdulla!

  Viyza knew that by taking Dad’s favourite son she would provoke a reaction from him, she also knew that he would take out any anger on my children and me!

  “Tell your father I’m taking his sons, if he wants to see them he knows what he has to do!” she demanded, dragging Abdulla down the stairs; he was crying because he didn’t want to go with her.

  “What about Ismahan?” I asked.

  “I don’t want her, you can keep her!” she snapped in her cold hearted voice, and then she ordered her brother to pick up her sewing machine and follow!

  I couldn’t hide the fact that I hated her just as much as she hated me; she was a rare breed in the Yemen and not in a good way. Most females were kind, good hearted, or at least had some decency in them, but Viyza didn’t; her heart was made of stone, and that showed in the way she treated her own daughter, the child she gave birth to!

  Ismahan started to scream while grabbing hold of her mother’s dress as she was leaving the house, but Viyza just loosened her grip and pushed her away.

  “Go to your precious sister!” she hissed at her daughter, shoving her in my direction. I ran over and picked Ismahan up to try and comfort her, but she was screaming to be with her mother. I knew Viyza was heartless but I was stunned at how cold she was being towards her own child.

  “You’re a heartless bitch!” I shouted after her as she walked away. “Does Ismahan mean anything to you?” I followed her out the door.

  “I’m not telling Dad anything you said because I’m not your slave! If you want to speak to him, then you can go and find him yourself!” I screamed at her, but she quickly walked off totally ignoring both Ismahan and me, dragging Abdulla along with her.

  As I held Ismahan in my arms I thought about what was going to happen to me once Dad got home; he was going to be livid with me for allowing her to take Abdulla, but what was I supposed to do? I tried to block it out of my head and carried on cooking dinner, knowing that there was nothing I could do to change the outcome of what was about to happen to me! Sure enough, about an hour later, my stomach turned when I heard Dad’s voice calling out for Abdulla as he walked up the stairs; his voice got louder as he got closer to the kitchen, so I went out and faced him.

  “Viyza came and took him but left Ismahan!” Once again my voice was trembling with fear.

  Dad looked at me, disappointment filling his face. “I will deal with this later, just get me my food and then I’m going to sleep!” His voice said it all, once he woke up, I was in big trouble!

  Dad ate his food and then went to sleep, and as soon as he woke up, around 7 pm, I was surprised when he left the house without a word. When he came back about an hour later my children and I were all upstairs ready for bed, they were huddled around in the corner of the room drawing, and I was reading my Bible. When I heard the knock on the door I ran downstairs, my heart was pounding as I opened the door, and to my surprise Dad was stood at the door with Abdulla in his arms.

  “Hello!” I said to Abdulla, a big smile on my face, but before I finished saying it Dad had swung his arm and hit me with the back of his hand across my chin. Although I’d been hit harder it still hurt, and because I wasn’t expecting it I stumbled a bit! I knew Dad had taken Viyza’s side again without listening to me, and I was so angry with him for it.

  “Now what have I done?” I shouted. I couldn’t hold back my anger, and my voice was demanding an explanation.

  “You make life so difficult for me don’t you? You always have!” Dad was fuming as he stormed past me. “What did you say to Viyza?” he demanded to know as he made his way up the stairs with me behind him insisting I hadn’t done anything wrong. Dad stormed up the stairs and into the room where the children had been drawing, but by then they had heard Dad’s temper and they were all cowering in the corner of the room, with Tarek hugging them together in a protective circle. Dad looked over at the papers on the floor next to them.

  “Get up, you little bastards!” he shouted at them. They didn’t move but had started to cry with fear.

  “Books! Books! Books!” he continued to yell. “You’re just like your bloody mother, you remind me of her so much! I can’t take it anymore!”

  I could see his whole body filling with rage as he put Abdulla down and stormed over to my box of papers. “Well, no more!” he yelled as he started tearing at my precious books and papers and ripping them to pieces.

  The box of papers not only had my scrap papers in it, but photos of my sister Issy, Yas, and my children, and also letters I’d kept over the years from my family, and so many other little things I’d kept as a reminder of years that had passed. I screamed in terror as I ran over to stop him, but Dad pushed me aside and onto the floor, and then he turned and kicked me in my thigh. As Dad went to kick me the second time Tarek shouted out at him and ran towards me to protect me.

  “Leave my mum alone, stop hurting her!” he cried.

  As Tarek tried to cover my body with his own, Dad went to lash out at him, aiming for him with a punch. “How dare you speak back at me!” he threatened as he lowered his fist at him, but I saw it coming, and as I pulled Tarek out of the way and into my arms I caught the blow myself. As I held on to my son Dad turned back to the papers, gathering them all together and shoving them into the box, making sure he didn’t leave any behind, as he continued to ramble on like a mad man.

  “That’s all you ever do is bury your head in these bloody books, well no more!” he growled as he marched out of the room, the box tightly in his grasp. Once Dad had left the room, Tarek looked up at me.

  “Don’t worry Mother, I will protect you,” he whispered as I held on tightly to him.

  With a choice as to whether I should run after my father and try and save my life’s worth of memories, or look after my terrified children, I chose to stay; I knew that if I’d chosen to follow, someone would have been hurt. Dad had always been this spiteful, cruel, and hurtful towards me, and now he was going to repeat the same behaviour with my children.

  A few minutes later I could smell smoke coming from upstairs, and I knew Dad was burning my papers, but again I chose to stay put and comfort my children. I knew I wouldn’t have been able to stop him from doing what he was doing; he was angry with Viyza not me, but he couldn’t vent his anger out on her, because he was a coward.

  I stayed with the children until he came back down and took Abdulla, and then he went and locked himself in his room. Later that night after everyone was asleep I snuck upstairs to see if anything had survived the fire, but Dad had put everything in the clay oven and made sure they had turned to ashes. He was a cruel man in so many ways!

  That night it was as though I’d lost another loved one. I sat beside the oven and quietly wept until I couldn’t cry anymore. Dad had taken so much from me, and he kept on taking. Deep down I knew I had to put a stop to him hurting us anymore, before one of my children got hurt standing up for me. As I reached down my top I pulled out the letters from Anwar; I hadn’t taken them off my body since he gave them to me. I kn
ew I needed to find him, and be with him. I went back downstairs and lay down by my children, hoping that somehow, someway, a miracle would happen that would allow me to get away from my father.

  The next few days Dad spent most of his time at the fields. Abdulla was back with his mother, but Ismahan was still with us. When he did come back home he would have Abdulla with him and they would totally ignore Ismahan. Abdulla was cruel towards his sister and I could see so much of Dad in him, even though he was just a child! I tried so much to just love him because he was my flesh and blood, my brother, but Dad and Viyza made that so hard by the way they treated him and paraded him in front of the other children.

  Ismahan would cry when Dad left with Abdulla in his arms to take him back to his mother, but Abdulla would shout at her and tell her that her mother didn’t want her because she cried too much. My children and I would hold her and tell her she was the sweetest little thing ever, she didn’t cry for nothing, she was a sweet girl who was lovely and kind and we all loved her. Unfortunately for Ismahan, my little sister’s fate had been decided the day she was born as my father’s daughter. She was merely a girl, unloved and unwanted. She would be sold, just like we were; it was just a matter of time.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Marble Step

  It was late 1989, and my escape from Dad at this time came in the form of my uncle Ahmed, whose wife was pregnant and needed someone to look after her. Uncle Ahmed told Dad that his wife Azeza wasn’t well, and had been told to take rest until she gave birth; he managed to persuade Dad to allow us to go and stay with him in Sanaa until his wife gave birth. Azeza had family of her own who could have gone and looked after her if she needed it, but Uncle Ahmed had his own reasons for wanting us to go.

  Once I’d taken my little sister to my grandmother so that she could look after her until her mother decided to pick her up, we were on our way, and I couldn’t wait to be out of the village, and away from Dad! Later, Uncle Ahmed explained that he had heard Dad was mistreating us, and he wanted to offer us his help. He said his wife wasn’t as ill as he had made out, he told me he would keep us with him for as long as possible. I thanked him for his help and told him I would do everything I could to help him and his family. I barely knew Azeza, but what I had seen and heard was good.