by Adalina Mae
“Surprise, we’re early!!!” the three siblings screamed as they walked in and hugged Mother.
I ran out and jumped on Izabelle. I was so happy to see them.
“Hey, little sis. Look at you, missy,” Izabelle said. Izy is ten years older than me. I got down and did the Staying Alive dance like John Travolta, proud of myself.
“Did you miss me?” Benji asked. He is twelve years older than me. The eldest in the family.
“Naaaaaaaa. Not really.” I giggled, showing him I was joking. “Well! I gueeeess, maybe a little, but nobody wants to play with me except for Mary,” I said randomly.
Evangeline, eleven years older than me, stood in the doorway staring at Mom’s lip and said, “So good to be home, what happened to your lip, Mom?”
Without any second thought or hesitation I replied, “The monster wa…” I was immediately interrupted by Mom. “Shhh Zara, ’it’s nothing, I bumped into the cupboard.” They all looked at each other wondering if it was caused by Dad.
Benji bent down to whisper something to me. Izabelle and Evangeline already seemed to know what he was going to ask.
“You’re Dad’s favorite, he’ll never do what we want but if you ask hi…” Izabelle jumped in, “If you ask, he’ll do anything for you.”
“Ask him if we can go to the movies tonight?” Benji asked me.
Dad walked out of the kitchen and I knew I had to impress my older siblings and ask Dad. It was time to turn on my charm.
“Look who is here, Dad!” I yelled with joy.
“What a blessing to have all of you here!” Dad humbly said as he group-hugged them all together with great pride.
Winking at them I asked with complete confidence, “Dad, everybody is home, can we go to the movies tonight? Can we Dad, can we please?”
“Well, let’s see. If the boss says yes then why not?” he replied, looking at Mom to confirm. Mom nodded her consent, yet she knew it was never part of their plan for me to go with them. Benji high-fived Eva and Izzy, and I tried to jump in and high-five with them, but I was too little. They didn’t even notice me trying to get one in as I jumped in between them.
Later that day, early evening, I was getting dressed thinking I was going out with them to the movies. But the sneaky buggers had already dressed and snuck out of the apartment. I was so excited, putting on perfume and dolling myself up like a big girl and not to mention, wearing my new camel boots. I was in heaven. I walked out to the living room to announce that I was ready, looked around, but no one was there except for Mom in the kitchen. I ran into every room to see where they were. No one was there. I had an ugly feeling and ran out to the balcony. There they were, piling into their friend’s car. They were all chatty and excited trying to sneak away from me. Before Izabelle got into the car, she looked up and saw me standing on the balcony, with my head barely reaching over the balustrade.
“Oh no, she saw us, she’s on the balcony, poor thing.”
“Hurry up, before Dad changes his mind. Move over!” Benji yelled at her.
Bee Gees music blasted as they drove off. I was crushed as the car pulled out of the driveway. I plopped down on the floor and cried inconsolably.
Mom walked out to comfort me.
“They left without me. They wouldn’t be going if it wasn’t for me. Why can’t I go to the movies?”
“C’mon, little one, you are not old enough to watch that movie,” Mom said.
“I’m old enough to see what Dad does to you. Why can’t I go?” I cried out to her, feeling being betrayed and lied to.
“That doesn’t mean you should. Besides, they won’t let you in. You’re too young, then all your siblings couldn’t go in. Would you be happy then?” Mom asked me.
“I don’t care. If it wasn’t for me they wouldn’t be going, I just want to be with them, but they don’t want to be with me,” I cried broken-heartedly.
“They are so much older than you, Zara, you need some kids your own age to play with,” Mom tried to explain.
“I don’t like playing with kids, they’re stupid and boring,” I snapped back and stubbornly folded my arms looking down at the floor, still crying.
“Well, forget them then. Hey, I’m making some French fries for you. It’s your favorite. Yeah?”
The moment I heard French fries, I completely forgot my pain. My face lit up.
“Are they ready to eat?” I looked up.
“Yes, they are, c’mon, let’s go inside and have some.”
I got up and walked to the kitchen, forgetting everything that had just happened. Mom shook her head and chuckled at my reaction.
“Do you think the monster will come again tonight, Mom?” I asked as I was biting into my French fries.
“Zara! It’s not a monster. Anyway, not tonight thank God. Your dad is downstairs at John’s house.”
“Why does he turn into a monster? Why can’t he turn back into Dad? I don’t understand? Is he like The Incredible Hulk? Except Dad doesn’t turn green,” I announced so innocently.
Mom looked at me, not knowing how to respond. The only thing she was able to say was, “I don’t know either. I wish I knew. I wish I could help him.”
“Maybe drinking Arak turns you into a monster, Mommy? Maybe you can hide it from him.”
“Really? Look what happened to my lip when I tried last night. I don’t know, he just has his demons and I can’t control him anymore.” Mom winced and knew instantly she probably shouldn’t have said that. Now, I was trying to figure out what demons were.
“Hmmmmmm, what are demons?”
“Oh God, I can’t say anything in front of you, can I? They are just bad little creatures that whisper in your ear to do bad things and that’s how the monster comes out.”
“Do I have any demons? I don’t want to become a monster.”
“Hahaha, you’re an angel and demons don’t come near angels.”
“What if they come to me later when I’m asleep? Will they turn me into a monster and make me do terrible things? I don’t want to hurt people, Mommy.”
Mom began to tear up.
“You see more than any other child your age. I am so, so sorry for that.”
“I smell French fries. Are there any left for me?” We heard Dad as he walked into the front door. He sounded sober.
“Thank God he’s sober,” she mumbled. “Yes, there’s plenty, come to the kitchen!” Mom shouted.
“Thank God.” I nodded to Mom as I took a big bite.
Every year, his drinking became worse. He owned guns and for some reason when he was drunk, he thought he was a cowboy. An aggressive side came out in him, and he would fire his weapons numerous times inside the house and the building. He even fired his weapon at my brother once and it only missed his head by a few inches. That’s why Mom sent my brother back to America. She constantly hid the weapons only to find him arriving home with new ones. I cannot remember how many times Dad fired his gun in the staircase of the building in Byblos. He caused so much distress to our neighbors, even though they loved him and knew he had a good heart. One afternoon he was walking up the stairs in the building, completely inebriated thinking he was a cowboy.
“Take that!” He held the gun up and fired it at the wall. He turned around to play-shoot and lost his balance, falling a few steps backward on the stairs. The gun flew out of his hand and landed in front of John’s feet, our neighbor. John picked up the gun and passed it quietly to his wife who was standing at the door to hide it. He helped him up and supported him as they arduously walked up the stairs to our apartment.
“C’mon Yousif, let’s go home and sleep, okay? I don’t know why you do this to yourself, my friend. You are a good man with a beautiful family,” John humbly said to Dad as he helped him up.
“I miss my son, John. He is so far away in America. How could I have let him go? He’s my only son, my eldest too,” Dad said regretfully, moaning to John.
“Well, he is better over there studying than seeing you like this,
” John replied empathetically.
That was one of many incidents. No one could hate him, they knew he was a good person. He really did have his own demons and needed help.
We could usually tell what state he was in when he arrived home, by the way he drove into the driveway. Mom would determine this from the window or balcony. If he drove in straight at normal speed, then he was sober. If he drove in like a maniac, swaying from side to side and then slamming on the brakes inches before he hit the wall, then we would often visit our neighbors unannounced until he left again or fell asleep. If we stayed at home, when it was time to sleep, Mother would put me behind her in the bed, with her body facing the door, in case Dad walked in inebriated and shot us unintentionally.
Chapter 4
The red T-shirt
Lebanon 1970s
My siblings were attending an American boarding school forty-five minutes away, so most of the time I was alone in the house. I often felt like an only child, and it was like that for most of my life.
Having to spend most of my time alone when I was a child, without the joys of playing with my siblings, forced me to frequently play on my own or at times with some of our neighbor’s children. One of them was Mary, our neighbor’s daughter. We were the same age. We often played hopscotch or played with our new dolls and toys together. I used to enjoy my time playing with her until a certain time when I was exposed to encounters that left ugly imprints on my life.
I would have been around six or seven years of age when I was molested by her father. He lived in our building. He seemed very old to me, but he must have been the same age as my father because his daughter Mary was my age. He used to wait for me in the staircase and lure me inside to satisfy his desires. I was too young to understand what was going on. Too young to know I was a victim. I felt uncomfortable and confused about what he was doing. I didn’t understand why he did it. Even though I was only a child, I sensed what he was doing was wrong and I didn’t like what was happening to me, but I was scared to tell anyone and worried about what my father might do to me if he found out. I tried to avoid going outside on my own to escape the possibility of being dragged forcefully inside his unit. I don’t know how many times it happened, but I can tell you it was numerous times. I remember the first time it happened I was wearing a yellow belt with my jeans. As I walked up the stairs of our building, he was waiting at his doorstep, wearing a red T-shirt and white underwear. He grabbed my hand and said to me what a lovely belt I was wearing and dragged me inside on the pretense his daughter wanted to play with me. He fondled the both of us at the same time while forcing us to sit there and color in. She and I never spoke about it. We didn’t know how to interpret or talk about this unusual behavior, however, I do remember feeling extreme discomfort emotionally and physically.
Other times, he would grab me and entrap me alone in the corner of his living room, touching and feeling me inappropriately and forcing me to do disgusting acts to please him. I would cry and beg him to let me go home to Mom, and he would tell me that I would go home soon and not to cry. I learnt that was the only way I would be allowed to go home. By not crying. Thinking about what happened still makes me sick to the stomach. I still shake and my heart beats with fear and trepidation. My childhood years were filled with fear, distress, and the instability of living in that environment.
After that happened, I began to hate living in that building and looked forward to our annual move to our country home. In winter and during the school season, we lived in Byblos and in summer, we moved to the country for three months.
Italy 2008
One evening when I was heading back to my hotel in Rome, I took a wrong turn and ended up in a cobblestoned alley lined with the façades of ancient homes. I picked up my pace, wanting to get out of there. I heard footsteps behind me. I turned around and in the near distance, I saw a guy in jeans wearing a red T-shirt. He had short spiky hair, was of medium size, and he was walking in my direction. I think the red T-shirt triggered my fears, reminding me of my molestation. His hands were in his pockets. What was he hiding? A gun? A knife? I didn’t know what to make of it.
His footsteps got louder and faster. I picked up the pace even more, and then his footsteps matched my pace. I was concerned. However, I knew if I got my hands on him, I would break his legs. You see, I was a skilled martial artist by then. My only concern was if he had a gun.
I walked a little faster and kept turning around. He was constantly looking down with his hands in his pockets, but for some reason matching my speed in footsteps. I then thought, no point panicking, let’s see what he wants. I deliberately dropped my scarf on the ground and waited for him to get close to me. I took my time picking it up and when he got close enough, I swiftly maneuvered a martial arts technique that head-locked him in a position with his arms behind him. He couldn’t move.
“Why are you following me? What do you want?” I yelled forcefully.
“Ah, ah, ah, heeeeeeey, what da?” the captured man screamed.
I looked closely at the face only to realize it was a woman, a really masculine looking woman, a dyke actually.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Scusa, scusa, holy shit!” I said.
I released her from the lock and she dropped to the ground. I couldn’t help but giggle at the way she fell. I felt bad yet at the same time I couldn’t help the smirk on my face. I helped her up and made sure she was not hurt. I then realized she was staring at me in a provocative way. She was admiring my looks and gave me a sexy how you doing kind of look. I kept apologizing, quickly grabbed my scarf, and walked off as fast as I could, leaving her standing hopelessly in the alley shouting, “Ehhhh bella, come back. Please do that again. Bella, where are you going?” she yelled, intrigued.
The poor woman just happened to be walking in my direction.
They say your perception on life is developed between the ages of zero and seven. I often wondered about mine: Being sexually molested under the age of eight, waking up to guns being fired in the house, and an abusive father who almost killed my mother numerous times in front of me. All my life, I have felt ripped off because I did not have a normal childhood. I get annoyed when I see kids being pampered and treated fragilely over minor incidents, when at the same age, I was battling to survive.
I know children should be treated gently and not be exposed to the violence and abuse I was exposed to, but I just can’t help the burn in my heart knowing I cannot have a second chance at my childhood years. The only way I’m able to mend my heart is to think about children who are terminally or seriously ill, or who have to confront starvation daily. My life could have been worse.
My childhood molestation has caused negative impacts on my life. I think most of my struggles to love are not just because of my father’s violence, but from the bad memories from the abuse. Growing up, I had to deal with it and learn to understand it somehow.
Chapter 5
My last night with Dad
Lebanon 1980
I was eight years old. Mom had had enough and set herself to preparing the paperwork for the family to return to America, hoping my father would follow so she could get him professional medical help. In Lebanon, he was out of control because the power and money he enjoyed had got the better of him. He felt all-powerful.
My brother had already returned to LA a year earlier, as Mom had thought it best he leave Lebanon to focus on his education in America and move away from the dangerous environment. By that, I mean from Dad.
My sister Evangeline had been married for two years to the son of our next-door neighbor of our summer vacation apartment in the country. She had a one-year-old son, James. I understood why she had married at seventeen. Growing up with a violent father had made her want to escape from home as soon as she could. My other sister, Izabelle, eighteen at the time, was the only one of my siblings living with us at home.
One evening in August, we were in our country home. Dad had been out all day and we knew that when he arrived home, he woul
d not be sober. In the early evening, around 6 pm, I was helping Mom fold the laundry in the bedroom while Izabelle and Evangeline were in the TV room, chatting away as usual. We heard Dad outside the door, swearing and agitated after endless attempts to get the key in the lock. He eventually managed to open the door and barged in. Mom and I looked at each other with despair and shook our heads in disappointment.
“Here we go again, oh God,” Mom muttered.
He walked toward the bedroom and stood at the door staring at Mom with a vengeful look on his face. Mom and I ignored him, to avoid starting an argument and fueling his aggression. We kept our heads down and continued to fold the laundry when for no reason, he walked up to Mom, grabbed her by the hair, and dragged her to the dining room. He mumbled some words we couldn’t make sense of. I ran after them and launched myself at him, trying to punch him with my little eight-year-old fists and yelling at him to let her go.
Izabelle and Evangeline both ran in when they heard our screaming. He was unusually strong when he was in that state, and not even the four of us could stop him from pulling Mom’s hair. Izabelle ran out to town to get help while Evangeline kept trying to pull him away from Mom. He kicked Evangeline in the hip to push her away and then launched himself at her. Mom swiftly crawled away, picked me up, and ran toward the door leading to the stairs of the building. Evangeline stood up, limping, and tried to stop my father from following us. She was in pain from where he had kicked her.
“Go, Mom, take Zara and go, hurry!” Evangeline yelled as she pushed Dad back and blocked him from launching at Mom again.
Mom turned around before she walked out and shouted, “Evangeline, go home! Go home to your husband before he hurts you!”
“Mom, we can’t leave Evangeline behind. Eva! Eva! Come with us!” I screamed while Mom ran down the stairs carrying me. I kept crying because we had left her behind. “Eva! Eva! Eva!” my voice echoed throughout the staircase. As we reached the ground floor, Mom put me down, grabbed my hand, and ran toward our neighbor’s property to hide.
