by Shyima Hall
Liz was my calm in the center of the storm. She kept the immigration people informed of my estimated time of arrival and convinced them to hold my appointment. What a relief that was! When I finally arrived, Liz helped me go through the metal detector and led me to the reception area to check in. I had only a few minutes to calm down before a woman came to lead me back to her office. Liz gave me a confident smile as I left to take the most important test of my life.
The lady was nice, but I was quite intimidated by her. Before I could sit down, I had to stand in front of her, raise my right hand, and agree to tell the truth during the course of the test and interview. By the time I sat down, I was shaking.
I’d had to bring the original copies of all my documentation with me, and she went through that first. Then I signed a lot of paperwork before we went through the application I had sent in months earlier. She asked me questions about the information I had put on the application, but I knew from Liz that the woman was also assessing my comprehension of the English language, as well as my ability to speak it. Knowing the language is just one of the requirements for citizenship. My remedial English classes paid off, though. This was a part of the test that I knew I was going to pass.
Then the actual test started. There were three parts. The first was the oral test about United States history and government. Of the ten questions she asked me, I had to get six of them correct. When I got six of them right, she would stop asking questions, even though she had not asked all ten. I was nervous during this and don’t remember every detail, but I think I knew every question she asked. I got maybe one of them wrong; she might have asked me seven questions.
Part two was the English reading test. The lady put a sentence in front of me, and I had to read it out loud to her. Piece of cake! The third and final part of the test was writing down a sentence that she spoke to me. This was harder for me, and my hand trembled as I fought to keep my grip on the pen. I wrote slowly and deliberately. I looked at the words on the paper as I resisted my impulse to change them. Then I handed the paper to her.
The lady looked at the paper and wrote something down in her notes. Then she signed another piece of paper before she gave it to me. “Congratulations,” she said, “on becoming a citizen of the United States.”
It took me a second to process what she was saying. Then I realized that I had passed all of the tests, and I began to cry. My years in bondage had not been for nothing. My bondage had brought me here to this great country, and I was now a citizen, with all of its rights and privileges. I could even vote! Well, I could as soon as I went through my upcoming citizenship ceremony and took my Oath of Allegiance to the United States.
When I walked back to the reception area, back to Liz, I felt a rush of relief. It was over. My hours of study, my months of anxiety that I would not pass, or that the government would find some obscure rule that prevented me from becoming a citizen, were over. I was finally as free as anyone else. I had paid a huge price for my freedom. Now I could make real plans to begin helping others find theirs.
Added to the fact that the door was now open for me to become either a police officer or an ICE agent (or both), to become a United States citizen I’d had to renounce my citizenship to Egypt. I was no longer obligated to have anything to do with that country, and I felt as if the last tie that bound me to it had been cut.
I think Liz was about as happy as I was. The first thing she did was take me to Marshalls, a department store that was close by, to buy a frame for me to put my certificate of citizenship in. I knew that was above and beyond what she was required to do as my lawyer, and I appreciated her kind gesture. But she was not done. We then went to lunch at a nice restaurant.
The choice of restaurants was funny because another location of this same restaurant was where my adoptive family and I had gone after my adoption had been completed. We’d had a wonderful time then, and now Liz and I were having another wonderful time celebrating my citizenship.
Because the restaurant was on my way home, I drove my own car and followed Liz. In my haste to get inside the building to take my test, I had forgotten my phone in my car. When I checked it, I had close to a dozen calls from friends who wanted to know if I had passed the test. I was blessed; I could not have any better friends. Some had even called or texted me more than once because they were eager to hear my news. They were unaware that I had been late for the appointment, and they were dying to learn what had happened.
The first call I made was to Daniel. He was extremely excited for me, and I realized for about the thousandth time what a special man he was. He quickly made plans to get off work early so he could take me out to dinner that evening. My next call was to Amber. Without the kindness and generosity she and her family had shown me, I do not know what would have become of me. I could almost see her through the phone connection jumping up and down with joy.
There were so many more people to call, including Teresa, Karla, and PaNou, that I sent out a group text message. All the message said was, I PASSED!
Two people I did not call were my adoptive mom and dad, but out of the blue that evening Steve called me. By this time our communication was not regular, but we did talk—some.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
When I told him I was celebrating the passing of my citizenship test, he got pretty mad because I had not included him. I had not told him I was taking the test that day, and I had not invited him to commemorate the big event with my friends and me.
I didn’t have to think twice about why that was. Even though I give credit to Steve for trying to mend fences and establish good relationships with his kids, and even though I had allowed him to stay with me for several months during and after his divorce from my adoptive mom, I was still pretty mad about the money. He and Patty had spent tens of thousands of dollars of my money without my permission, and even though several years had passed, neither parent had made any attempt to pay me back. I was cordial to him, was even encouraged by his efforts to be a good dad, but I felt my anger was justified.
• • •
I took my oath and officially became a citizen of the United States on Thursday, December 15, 2011. On that day I dressed carefully in a black shirt and black dress pants, accented with dangly silver earrings and a silver pendant necklace. My long, dark hair hung loose, and my blue eye shadow matched my purse.
The ceremony was being held at the Quiet Cannon country club in Montebello, California, just east of Los Angeles. Amber and Teresa drove in with me, and Mark met us as soon as we arrived. I gave him a big hug. I was glad he was there. I knew without a doubt that without him I would not have been there on that day.
When I walked into the huge room, I was handed a small American flag, which I treasure to this day. There were roughly nine hundred of us becoming citizens, but the room was filled with many more people than that. Over and above the people being naturalized and their many friends and family members, there were a handful of reporters and news cameras. I am sure there were a number of interesting people becoming citizens that day, but the only person these journalists were interested in was me.
Since The Mom and The Dad had been sentenced back in 2006, I had been in the news many times. Southern California news such as the Los Angeles Times, television station KTLA, the Orange County Register, the Associated Press, and many others had championed me and used my story to bring awareness of human trafficking to the general public. I had spoken several times in the past to some of the reporters who were there at the ceremony. Besides my days as a slave and the details of my rescue, the reporters had been interested in almost everything I did. From my adoption to my high school graduation to my speaking engagements, it always seemed there was a camera pointed at me or a reporter waiting to speak with me.
Most times I did not mind, because I knew that the more people who knew my story, the better chance another person held in bondage had of being rescued. Today I welcomed the reporters. I was so excited that nothing could
break my joyful mood. Nothing.
Eventually the voices and stirring in the room settled down and we sat. Before long a federal judge entered the room. I stood, and there, with nearly nine hundred others, I was sworn in as a naturalized US citizen. Afterward, everyone cheered and my friends swarmed me with affection.
When the cameras descended upon me, I told reporters, “I went through something terrible, but right now I’m in a great place. I can’t imagine anything greater than having my own life.” And that is true. When you are a slave, your life belongs to someone else. It is an unimaginable existence for most people, and I am glad of that. I hope that soon no one will ever have to feel the overwhelming sense of loss, frustration, exhaustion, hunger, demeaning words, and physical abuse that I did.
The day I went through the citizenship ceremony was the greatest day of my life. To come from such extreme poverty and be sold into slavery had done nothing to give me a sense of belonging. After being shuttled across the ocean and then placed into a series of group and foster homes in several different cities, I had ended up with the feeling that I did not belong anywhere. But now I had a place to call home: the United States of America!
Looking ahead, I believe that someday I will become either a police officer or an Immigration and Customs Enforcement agent, and I hope to spend the rest of my life helping others find their way out of slavery. I’ve come this far, and I know I will get to the finish line.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
When I first came to the United States, few people saw me, or even knew I existed, because I was kept inside the house most of the time. But as time went on, I began taking my captors’ twin boys across the street to the park, and then to the pool. Other than the Asian woman who looked at me oddly, I do not believe anyone thought there was anything unusual about me. They should have.
Today there are tens of thousands of people being held against their will right here in the United States. Some are domestic servants, like I was. Many others are forced to work in fields or factories, or even perform illegal or sexual acts. If not for a concerned citizen, I might still be held in bondage. I’m not sure what one citizen saw that made him or her pick up the phone to tell the police about me, but it could have been any number of things. Whatever the reason, I am thankful that he or she decided to take action rather than sit and wonder about me.
On the off chance that you have suspicions about a person that you have seen, here are some specific things to look for, along with information on who to call and what to say. It takes only a single phone call to put the steps into action that could rescue someone like me. Remember, though, that small signs are always part of a bigger picture, so be careful not to assume things, and to share your concerns with a trusted adult.
If the person you suspect is a slave is out and about in public, something to look for is the clothes. If you see someone who is dressed in clothes that do not fit, that are more out of style and much dirtier than the people they are with, that could be an indication that the person is a victim of human trafficking.
When I lived with my captors, my clothes were always hand-me-downs. Often my clothes did not fit, and because I was forbidden to use the washing machine, my clothes were never as clean as they should have been. But the factor of clothing by itself is not nearly enough evidence, as there are many people to whom clothing is not important, or who do not have the money to buy nicer things. I have even seen wealthy people shopping in their pajamas in the store where I work, so clothing is only one possible piece to a big puzzle.
Another indication that the person might be held in bondage is the person’s level of activity as compared to the people they are with. If the person is dressed poorly and also does not participate in activities along with the people around them, then that could be another red flag. This is especially true if the person you suspect is being held against her will acts in a manner that is subservient to others.
Even though I went to Big Bear Lake, Disneyland, and SeaWorld with my captor family, I was not allowed to participate in the fun activities as their children did. I could not go on the rides or swim with the dolphins. And when food or souvenirs were purchased, they were never for me.
I was never taken to a store, but if I had been, I might have carried packages while my captors carried nothing. I would have walked behind The Mom or The Dad and kept my eyes lowered. Outside, in a place like a park, a person in bondage might give water to captors who are playing football. The slave would gather everyone’s belongings and carry them to the car while everyone else socialized at a picnic.
If you see a poorly dressed person who seems to be in a servant’s position, another big indicator is his or her demeanor. A person held in bondage will have a completely different manner about them than someone who is gainfully employed. A slave will keep his eyes downcast, even when he speaks to others. This is a different kind of downcast than someone who is shy. There will probably be sadness in his facial expression and an aura of defeat in the way he carries himself. This person will walk and move in a manner that is deferential to the people around him. And he will keep himself some distance away, usually coming toward others only when asked to do so.
If I ever saw a person who acted frightened or cowed, especially around certain people, I know I would pay special attention, because that’s exactly how I behaved when I was with The Mom and The Dad, or any of their family members. I was terrified that I would do, or not do, something and that my action or lack of it would get me slapped.
Being called “stupid girl” for many years damaged my self-esteem. Words can be hurtful, and if you hear hurtful words directed at you over a long period of time, something inside you begins to believe them. Because of that, the way I walked and moved indicated my total submission to the members of my captor family.
How the person speaks is another sign. Most people enslaved here in the United States have been brought here illegally from other countries. The slave might not understand English, so the people around her speak to her in another language. If you approached her to ask a question, she might give you a frightened or confused look, then someone else, maybe a captor, would answer on her behalf. He might tell you she is deaf, autistic, nonverbal, or visiting from another country—any story to deflect your interest and suspicion.
I learned early on that I was never to speak unless I was spoken to first, and then I was only to answer the question, or indicate that I understood the instruction. Any other communication could earn me a slap, and chitchat was out of the question.
The group of people the person is with is another indicator that something might be wrong. Do others speak to the person in a rude and demanding manner? Do they never include the person in conversation? Do these people act in a way that seems entitled? Do they act superior to everyone else? If so, these people might be like The Mom and The Dad. They could be captors, and guilty of illegal human trafficking or holding someone against their will.
Never have I met another person who behaved in such an entitled way as The Mom did. Nothing was ever good enough for her, and she made that clear to whoever was in the house, even when friends of the family came to stay. Captors often feel they deserve better than anyone else, and that attitude shows in everything they do.
Keeping odd hours is another indicator. I believe the person who called about me had seen me repeatedly late at night washing dishes. If you see a child at a time when you shouldn’t, or in a place where a child should not be, or doing an activity a child should not be doing, that should be a red flag. The same goes for adults. Odd activity, odd hours should be noted.
The final major sign is the person’s speech. Not the language they speak—although, not knowing English or not speaking it can be an indicator—but how they speak is important. If the person you think is being held in bondage does not look at you when you or others speak to him, if he mumbles or seems fearful when spoken to, that could be an indicator that something is wrong.
On the day I was rescued,
I knew three words in English: “hi,” “dolphin,” and “stepsister.” I now believe my captors intentionally kept anything from me that might teach me the language, because knowledge of English could have given me some power. Something captors do well is keep their slaves powerless.
It is important to know that none of these factors, either individually or together, necessarily mean that a person is being held against their will. I am sure there are many people who have all of these factors who are not toiling away in slavery. But they could be. It is possible that they could be, and it’s that fact that is critical. If you think someone is being held, you then have to decide what to do. Will you do the right thing, or the wrong? If you do nothing and the person is in need of help, that would be a tragedy. You might be that person’s only hope. You might be the only person who notices that something is off. You could be the person who changes someone else’s life for the better.
On the other hand, if you say something and the person turns out to be happy, healthy, and interacting of their own free will with the people they live and work with, then all that has been lost is some of your time and the time of a few people from your local police or social services department. Even though many of the people at these departments are overworked and the departments are often understaffed, my experience has been that helping a person out of bondage is something they absolutely want to do.
If you are not sure if someone is being held, a private discussion with people you trust is always a good idea. If you have surrounded yourself with good people, then they will most likely give you good advice. If not, find someone you trust: a teacher, counselor, pastor, or family friend.
If you decide that action is in order, the first step is to call the non-emergency line for your local police department. Then give the dispatcher a brief rundown of the situation. You could say, for example, “I think my neighbors are involved in human trafficking and slavery, because I regularly see a child working in the house late at night. This child never goes to school, and on the rare times when I have seen her in the yard, she acts as if she does not speak or understand English.”
