KIDNAPPED
In August 2017, I embarked on what was meant to be a nine-day visit to my parents in Jordan. Little did I know that this trip would become a harrowing tale of familial strife and personal torment. The already strained relationship I shared with my parents took a turn for the worse when I introduced them to my partner, Jack, and sought their blessing for our union.
Under the pretext of celebrating Eid, my parents invited me to Jordan. However, on the second day of the festivities, I discovered that all my identification documents had mysteriously vanished. It soon became apparent that my mother was determined to trap me within her grasp, declaring that there would be no escape and brazenly asserting that she would deny knowledge of my missing documents if questioned by the authorities. Fearing for my safety, I reached out to the Canadian embassy's emergency line, desperately recounting my predicament. They inquired whether I had a safe place to stay, and naively believing that my parents were not capable of physically imprisoning me, I replied in the affirmative. Little did I realize the nefarious plot they had orchestrated.
Amidst escalating arguments, my parents managed to confiscate my luggage and phone, leaving me with nothing but the clothes on my back. Helpless and isolated, even my siblings and those aware of my ordeal were coerced into cooperating, obstructing any means of escape. In a final act of desperation, I positioned myself at the window, threatening to throw myself out if my belongings were not returned—a desperate ploy to instill fear and secure my release. Shockingly, my parents recorded this distressing moment and promptly shared it with a doctor at a nearby mental institution. Unbeknownst to me, they had conspired with this medical professional, and the following day, three men and a nurse barged into my room, overpowering and drugging me into submission. Three days later, I awoke, disoriented and imprisoned within the confines of the institution.
What followed was a nightmarish ordeal at the hands of supposed "doctors" and staff. They subjected me to degrading inquiries about my virginity, branded me a promiscuous individual for desiring a life with Jack, and even resorted to spitting on me, fueled by their prejudice against him for being perceived as Jewish. They paraded a paid sheikh before me, intent on forcing me to conform to my parents' ideals and embrace their religious beliefs. To add insult to injury, they administered medication to alleviate the anxiety they themselves had provoked, effectively perpetuating the cycle of abuse. Trapped in this monitored hospital environment, I had no means of reaching Jack or alerting him to my whereabouts.
Twelve agonizing days later, my mother and brother arrived to collect me, their treatment of me no less vile than before. My mother reveled in degrading and spitting on me, callously asserting that I was unworthy of freedom, and that my existence had brought them only pain. Dr. Abdul Hameed, the purportedly sane doctor overseeing my case, had long abandoned any semblance of moral and ethical integrity, readily doing my parents' bidding in exchange for their generous payments. He subjected me to further verbal abuse and humiliation. Eventually, the hospital director intervened, recognizing that this institution was not meant to serve as a battleground for familial conflicts but rather as a sanctuary for those truly in need of psychiatric assistance. He decreed that I should no longer be confined there and gave my parents a 10-day ultimatum to retrieve me, or else I would be released.
After enduring six weeks of captivity in that torment-ridden place, my mother finally arrived to claim me, relinquishing only two pieces of identification and nothing more. She dared me to escape if I so desired, ignorant of the resolve that had taken root within me. Despite all they had put me through, my parents still harbored the delusion that Jack would come to Jordan, convert to their religion, and marry me there. Although Jack promised to comply, my father attempted to stall his arrival. But after everything I had endured, I could not bear another moment in that suffocating environment. Seizing a moment of opportunity, my mother handed me her phone to contact my father, and I seized it as a lifeline to reach Jack. He swiftly arranged a ticket for my return home. Waiting until my mother succumbed to the sedating effects of her antihistamine pills, I fled as fast as my legs could carry me, towards the Uber ride I had arranged using her phone—my old phone that I had managed to retain—and clutching a $100 bill to settle my expired visa at the airport.
The subsequent events blur together in my memory—a cacophony of desperate pleas from my family, the comforting embrace of Jack and my friends upon my return to Canada, and the bitter discovery that my belongings had been ransacked and confiscated by my family's acquaintances in Ottawa. I returned, shattered and drained, to a life irrevocably altered.
This story, buried deep within the recesses of my mind, represents another creative manifestation of my parents' abusive cycle. It marked the definitive end of our relationship. Yet, despite all the torment inflicted upon me, I tried to keep the doors of reconciliation ajar, empathizing with their inability to comprehend and accept what lay beyond their own narrow confines of understanding, constrained by their cultural norms and beliefs. I longed for them to know their grandchild, Kai, but even that simple wish went unheeded. When Kai tragically passed away, my mother and I had not spoken in over a year. When I called her from the hospital that fateful night, all she could muster was a scream of joy, proclaiming that he deserved his fate, branding him a bastard child. In her eyes, our civil marriage held no weight in the eyes of her God. I find it inconceivable that any benevolent deity would condone a mother uttering such malevolence toward her own child, or celebrating the death of her own grandchild. This revelation, more than anything, revealed the true nature of my mother rather than shedding light on the character of any divine being.
The loss of my child, Kai, stands as the most devastating experience my husband, Jack, and I have ever endured. Our worst nightmares crystallized into a heart-wrenching reality. Words fail to capture the depth of our sorrow and the perpetual ache within our hearts. Kai brought light and love into our lives, serving as a catalyst for my healing and allowing me to momentarily forget the traumas inflicted by my abusive parents. His presence breathed life into every waking moment, his eyes shimmering with joy and vitality. To me, he was the epitome of beauty personified.
I blame Time. It didn’t stop after every beating, every falling out, every heartbreak, and it definitely hasn’t stopped since my son’s death. Nothing defines Time but it defines us. Time has shaped me into ages and dimensions my younger self would have never ever thought I’d be. Every crack into my structure and every encounter has broke me down into a leaner, more compassionate and open human. My heart evolved and now I carry its vulnerability in the palms of my hands. Time ticks without a plan. It does not hear us and it does not see us. We often fail when we think our lives are of any significance. There is no Destiny: we move in the spur of Time and under its command.
As I reflect upon the story of my life, I recognize the power of the human spirit to transcend adversity. It endures, survives, and—against all odds—thrives. I stand as living proof that the wounds inflicted by a lifetime of abuse need not dictate one's destiny. Through courage, resilience, and unwavering determination, we can emerge from the darkest corners of our past and find solace in the embrace of a brighter future. My journey is far from over. With pen in hand, I shall continue to write the chapters that chronicle my triumph over trauma, nurturing the hope that my words will resonate with others who seek solace, understanding, and the realization that they are not alone
