Authors: Cathy Glass
Love …
It was supposedly signed by her brothers and sisters.
‘My father wrote it,’ Zeena said.
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘It doesn’t sound like the language children would use.’
‘And they never call me Zeena, but Zee,’ she said as I handed back the letter.
So while the contents of the letter hadn’t been distressing for Zeena, the fact that it was here at all was.
‘Do you think my father is still outside?’ Zeena asked with a shudder.
‘I think it’s unlikely,’ I said. ‘But I’ll check.’ I stood up.
‘Be careful,’ Zeena called, worried.
‘Don’t go alone, Mum,’ Paula said.
‘I won’t.’
I went into the kitchen where Adrian was about to put his meal in the microwave.
‘Sorry, love,’ I said. ‘Could you save that for a couple of minutes and come with me to check out the front? That letter was from Zeena’s father and he’s not supposed to know she’s here.’
‘Sure, Mum,’ Adrian said, and set down his plate.
I felt much braver with my strapping six-foot-tall son beside me, and we went down the hall while Paula and Zeena stayed in the living room. He opened the front door. It was still light outside and we went down the garden path and onto the pavement, where we had a good view up and down the street. There was no blue Ford Fiesta in the road, and no strangers, just a couple of neighbours, one of whom was watering his front garden. He waved to us and we waved back.
‘Thanks, love,’ I said to Adrian, satisfied.
We returned indoors. Adrian went into the kitchen for his dinner and I went into the living room, where I reassured Zeena her father wasn’t outside. The letter had shocked her and reinforced how important it was for her to move, and quickly.
‘You need to show Norma that letter tomorrow,’ I said to her.
‘Yes, I will,’ Zeena said. ‘She’ll know what to do.’
We returned to watching the television, although I don’t think any of us could concentrate on the programme. I know I couldn’t. I kept going over Zeena’s disclosures to Norma and Tara in my head, and the years of abuse she’d suffered in silence. Her school couldn’t have had any idea what was going on at home or why her father sometimes collected her and Tracy-Ann, or they would have raised concerns earlier. Little wonder, I thought, that Zeena hadn’t been fazed when she’d been told she had contracted two sexually transmitted diseases; she’d been half expecting it. And of course she couldn’t give the clinic her boyfriend’s contact details so he could be tested – she didn’t know them. And there wasn’t a boyfriend, but many men, all abusing her. I also thought of the well-intentioned but naïve advice I’d tried to give her about relationships and boys when she’d been upset. How ridiculous that seemed now set alongside what had really been going on. I knew I’d got it badly wrong and in a way I felt I had let Zeena down. Surely as a highly experienced foster carer I should have been able to find out the truth sooner? But how, I didn’t know.
That evening I stayed up later than usual, sitting in the living room and thinking. Then when Adrian and the girls were in bed I wrote up my log notes. There was no need for me to go into detail in respect of what Zeena had told Norma and Tara, as Tara had taken notes, so I gave a résumé of the day, and only referred to the meeting where Zeena had disclosed the abuse. I mentioned that Norma would be taking a statement from Zeena, and that she was going to move her to a safe house as soon as possible. I included that a letter had been posted through our door, what it said, and that Zeena was sure it was from her father.
Despite going to bed late, I couldn’t sleep that night, and at 1.45 a.m. I got up and made myself a cup of tea. I tried to be quiet so I didn’t disturb the rest of the house, but I hadn’t been in the kitchen long before the door slowly opened and Zeena came in, wearing her dressing gown.
‘I couldn’t sleep either,’ she said quietly.
I smiled. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Yes please,’ she said.
I made the tea and we took it with a packet of chocolate biscuits into the living room; I find tea and chocolate biscuits a good remedy for insomnia. I closed the living-room door so we wouldn’t disturb the others, and we sat in the easy-chairs.
‘I should have told you sooner, Cathy,’ Zeena said. ‘But I was scared of what my father would do. And also what you would think of me.’
‘Zeena, I can understand why you would be scared of your father. But you surely didn’t think that I would blame you for what happened?’
She concentrated on the mug of tea she held on her lap. ‘My parents always treated me as if I was to blame,’ she said quietly. ‘So eventually I believed I was. My father kept telling me I was a dirty little whore and that’s how I felt – how I still feel.’
‘Oh, love, please don’t. It was never your fault, believe me.’
‘But I feel so dirty, and it’s the kind of dirt that won’t wash off. It’s deep down inside me – here.’ She put her hand to her chest and looked at me pitifully. ‘My heart and my mind tell me I’m dirty,’ she said. ‘I thought you might think that too, for letting the abuse continue as long as it did. I should have told someone sooner.’
I was aware that sexually abused children were often made to feel this way by their abuser. ‘You didn’t tell because you were scared of what your father and uncle might do, and also your father had brainwashed you into believing it was your fault. I’m sure he told you that if you said anything to anyone they would blame you and no one would ever love you or speak to you again.’
‘Yes,’ she said sadly. ‘That’s exactly what he said.’
‘It’s what most abusers tell their victims,’ I said. ‘It’s part of controlling them and forcing them to do what they want. The majority of abusers are known to their victims. Often they are a member of the family or from the extended family, which makes it even more difficult for the victim to tell. Not only might they not be believed, but the rest of the family could turn against them. I’ve heard of cases where the victim had been so terrorized and brainwashed by her abuser that the abuse continued into adulthood – into their twenties. Such was the power the abuser had over their victim.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ Zeena said.
‘Thankfully you’ve had the courage to speak out now,’ I said. ‘Tara is going to help you and arrange counselling. But, Zeena, it will take time for you to recover. Your pain won’t go away quickly; it will take many months, if not years. Allow yourself time and you will heal eventually. You’re intelligent and very brave, and you have your whole life ahead of you. I know you won’t let your father and uncle and those other abusers ruin it for you.’
She gave a small nod. ‘That gives me some hope. I feel so dreadful right now. The future looks dark and scary.’
‘I know, love. But it will brighten. You will make it happen. I know you will.’
We sipped our tea and took a biscuit each from the packet. Zeena watched me as I dunked mine into my mug before eating it.
‘How do you do that so it doesn’t drop off into your tea?’ she asked lightly.
‘Years of practice,’ I said, with a smile.
We were quiet for a few moments as we drank our tea and ate our biscuits. The curtains were drawn against the night and the room felt cosy, as though cocooning us from whatever lay ahead.
‘Zeena,’ I said at length. ‘Did your mother really not know what was going on?’
‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘And I don’t blame her.’
‘You’re very forgiving,’ I said.
She shrugged. ‘My family is different from yours. In my family, like many Asian families, my father was always in charge. His word was law and we all did what he said, including my mother. We would never think of disobeying him. My mother would never question or criticize him in anything. He was like a god to her and it would never cross her mind to challenge him. Even if she did suspect something was wrong, she’d put it from her mind.’
‘Even blaming you for Hasan’s rape?’ I asked.
‘It wasn’t just her. They all did. It’s part of the culture in the villages to blame the girls. The boys can do nothing wrong; it’s the girls who bring dishonour. My parents, like many of the families we know, still believe that. If a girl or a woman is raped then it is thought they brought it on themselves. That is what my mother believed as well. And of course like everyone else she was worried about family honour; that’s why she made me get married. I was damaged goods. No one else wanted me. She thought that would make it right.’
‘Does your father ever hit your mother?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ Zeena said.
‘Can’t she leave him?’
Zeena shook her head. ‘It wouldn’t cross her mind to. She hasn’t known anything different, and her sister and her mother were both hit by their husbands, so it’s no big deal to them.’ I frowned. ‘My mother was married at sixteen,’ Zeena continued. ‘It was an arranged marriage, as they all are in the villages. As is the custom, she didn’t meet her husband until her wedding day, so she didn’t know if he was nice or not. My father brought her to this country and they lived with some of his relatives, where she was treated like a slave. Mother had to do everything for them and they hit her with a broom handle if she got it wrong. Then, at seventeen, she had me, and my brothers and sisters followed quickly.’
I nodded.
‘She hasn’t the confidence to leave him. And where would she go?’ Zeena said. ‘It would bring dishonour on the whole family if she left him, and she’d never do that. She’s not like me. Women like my mother don’t leave their husbands. They just shut up and put up with it.’
It was so depressingly sad, but I adjusted my feelings slightly towards Zeena’s mother for not protecting her daughter, for it seemed in some ways she was nearly as much a victim as Zeena.
We talked for a while longer, about school, the safe house Norma was finding for her, and continuing her education in another part of the country. ‘It’s going to be so strange at first,’ she said, trying to be positive. ‘I’ve always lived around here. But it’s only until the trial.’
I nodded.
Presently she stifled a yawn. I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was after 3 a.m. I knew we’d both be exhausted in the morning but I was pleased we’d had this opportunity to talk. I felt close to Zeena now, and I hoped to be able to help her after she’d moved. She was already ostracized from her family and now she was about to leave behind her friends at school, so I would do all I could to help her. I thought it was a testament to her strength of spirit (and desperation) that she was able to go through with this; moving away and then testifying against her father and others. But what was the alternative? To remain in a life of abuse and servitude. And I wondered how many other girls were trapped and terrorized into staying in an abusive situation, suffering but too frightened to speak out. It didn’t bear thinking about.
I woke the following morning to see Paula and Lucy standing beside my bed, looking at me, very concerned.
‘Are you all right, Mum?’ Paula asked.
‘It’s after seven-thirty,’ Lucy said. ‘You’re never in bed this late. Are you ill?’ They were used to me being up before them and waking them on a weekday, although they set their bedside alarm clocks.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, heaving myself up from the pillows. ‘Just a bit tired. I didn’t go to sleep until the early hours.’
‘As long as you’re all right,’ Paula said. ‘We were worried.’
They kissed my cheek and then disappeared out of my bedroom to finish getting ready: Lucy for work, and Paula for sixth form. I was touched that they’d been so concerned, but as they’d said, it wasn’t like me to be in bed so late.
As Zeena wasn’t going to school there was no rush for me to dress, so I went downstairs in my dressing gown to make a cup of coffee. There was no movement coming from Zeena’s room, so I guessed she was still asleep. I didn’t know which shift Adrian was working – it kept changing – but he would have set his alarm, so I didn’t wake him. As I waited for the kettle to boil I leaned on the work surface and gazed out of the kitchen window. The summer sun was rising in a cloudless sky, promising a fine day. Birds were already busy at the bird feeder, while others were pecking insects from the shrubs and lawn.
I poured a mug of coffee and then, opening the back door, I took it outside to drink. The air was fresh but not chilly, so I sat on the bench on the patio and enjoyed the early-morning calm at the start of what was likely to be another stressful day. I glanced up at Zeena’s bedroom window. Her curtains were drawn and her small window was open as she liked it at night to let in the air. It was all quiet.
As I didn’t know what time Zeena would be going to make her statement I thought we should be showered and dressed ready just in case it was early, so after I’d finished my coffee I went indoors and then upstairs to wake her. I passed Lucy on the stairs coming down and in a hurry as usual.
‘Bye, Mum,’ she called, blowing me a kiss as she passed.
‘Bye, love. Have a good day.’ I braced myself for the inevitable door slam and I wasn’t disappointed.
I went round the landing and knocked on Zeena’s bedroom door. A sleepy voice replied, ‘Yes?’
‘It’s Cathy, love. Can I come in?’
‘Yes,’ she replied groggily.
Her room was lit by the morning sun coming through the curtains.
‘Hello, love. Did you manage to get some sleep?’ I asked, standing beside her bed.
She rubbed her eyes. ‘A little, thanks. Did you?’
‘I did. There’s no rush, but as we don’t know what time you’ll be going to see Norma I think you should get up in reasonable time. Shall I go in the bathroom first or do you want to? It’s just gone eight o’clock.’
‘You go first,’ she said. ‘I’ll go down and get a drink.’
‘All right, love.’ I came out and closed her door.
Paula had just come out of the bathroom and I said goodbye to her before I went in.
‘I should hear about the summer job soon,’ she said. ‘If a letter arrives for me will you text me?’
‘Yes, I will.’
I showered and dressed and then checked Adrian was awake. That morning the three of us had breakfast together – a first for a weekday, as I was usually taking Zeena to school at this time. Adrian knew Zeena was leaving us soon but he didn’t know the extent of the abuse she’d suffered. Zeena had felt comfortable confiding in Paula and Lucy as women, but understandably not Adrian, a young man of twenty-two. After breakfast he left for work, and then just before ten o’clock the landline rang. I answered it where I was in the hall. It was Tara and she began by asking how Zeena was.