8 posts tagged “abducted”

My Story: Calrifying a Few Points - al-qaeda, etc. (17)

Jun 4, 2008
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I've highlighted some of the major points to describe what has happened to me and my children - how I trusted my husband, how he responded by abusing us physically and emotionally, and how he kidnapped the children and has held them hostage in Yemen for over two years. I've also touched on certain key players, like David Fuller at the US Embassy in Sanaa, the US State Dept in Washington DC, and the UNHCR. I mentioned a few things, however, that were not explained well, and I had some questions about them, so I will try to clarify things a bit here.

I mentioned my husband's alleged affiliation with al-qaeda, but didn't say much about it. But there were questions about what happened, so I'll try to briefly explain that whole mess. I'd say the al-qaeda allegations started around December 1999 when two FBI agents came to our apartment to question my husband. They said that they had arrested an al-qaeda member at an airport in New York, and when they arrested him, this man had my husband's business card in his wallet. They wanted to know how my husband was affiliated with this man. The FBI agent produced the busienss card, and it was one that I had made for my husband on our home computer, so it was genuine. Ahmed told me and the FBI agents that he didn't know that man and that he had no idea why the man was carrying his business card. The FBI agents left, and we heard no more about it.

Then, on Sept 11, 2001 as he and I stood in our living room watching the horror that was unfolding with the trade centers in New York City on TV, I was stunned by my husband's response to the events. As soon as it started, and before the buildings fell, he stood there, watching, and told me, "This is what the US gets. The US gives billions of dollars to the Jews and supplies the Zionists with bombs and missiles so they can kill thousands of innocent Palestinians. It's bout time they fought back. The US is finally getting what it deserves." Later, when the names and faces of the hijackers appeared on TV, Ahmed shot up off the couch and said, "That's my friend! His brother and I were best friends growing up. I hung out at his house everyday after school". I was surprised that he knew these people well, and at that time, he had cut me off from all friends and family. He opened my mail and wouldn't let me have it unless it passed his inspection. I wasn't allowed to leave the house or talk on the phone to anyone, because he was extremely controlling, and he was afraid that I'd tell someone about all the bruises he was putting on me. So at that time, I would sit down every night and write in a personal journal on my computer. Shocked by his recent revelations, I wrote what he said in my journal. I never mentioned it to anyone. I didn't even have contact with anyone at that time.

On Oct. 23, 2001, Ahmed went to work as usual at 8 am. A half hour later, I got a phone call. The person on the phone said, "This is the Dept. of Homeland Security. We have your husband in custody, and we're bringing the van back to your house". Less than 10 minutes later, there was a knock at my door. When I opened it, there were 6 FBI agents at the door. They came in and said they wanted to search the house because they believd that my husband was involved in al-qaeda. They spent the next 8 hours searching everything in my house, copying all the hard drives on my computers, carrying out boxes of documents, etc. I was just in shock. At that time, I was just relieved that he wouldn't be coming home that day, because that meant that, at least tonight, I wasn't going to get hit.

When the FBI copied the hard drive on my computer, they found and read my personal journal, where I had detailed daily abuse and incidents with my husband, including things like his comments about the World Trade Center. There were other things, too, like the time Ahmed brought this Arabic man into our house shortly after the events of Sept. 11. He said this man was an old friend, and he came and stayed with us for about 2 months. The guy spoke no English, and they always talked in Arabic, so I didn't know anything about what was going on. This man and my husband were always busy with each other, talking away and going places. Then, after two months, Ahmed told me we were taking a trip to the Bronx in New York City to drop this guy off somewhere. I never questioned anything he did or argued with him, because I'd already learned my lesson well not to do such things, or I'd be suffering for it. So, before Christmas, we loaded our 1-year-old boy, and our 3- and 5-year-old daughters into the van and went to New York City with this guy. When we got there, I was told to stay in the van and don't talk to anyone. It was a pretty scary-looking area, and I wouldn't have gotten out with my three kids anyway. He and the man went into this brick building, and he stayed in there for several hours, late into the night. Eventually, he came out and we headed back home. Nothing was ever said about who he was or why we had to come here to drop him off or anything. I know that the guy came on a visitor visa and later stayed in America, never returning to Yemen. And from what I've heard, the US government has tried to find him but has never been able to.

Months after Ahmed was arrested and kept in a jail in Pennsylvania, he had a trial or hearings, or whatever they call them there at the court in PA. The FBI testified that they believed that Ahmed was a "highly motivated, highly trained first-stringer al-qaeda member". There were phone records showing that he had called some place in New York numerous times, and that phone number was used by people the government had already arrested for laundering money for al-qaeda. They asked Ahmed who he called and what he talked to them about, but Ahmed denied making the phone calls, even though the phone records showed at least 12 calls made to that number from our house, and each conversation lasting quite a while.

Then there was the Wisconsin incident. The day after I told Ahmed I was pregnant with our first child, he told me I had to get an abortion because having sex before marriage meant the death penalty in his country, and he would embarrass his family if they found out. I told him, "I'm having the baby. You are absolved from all reponsibility. Go away and leave, if that's what you want." He said he would not be able to see me or speak to me anymore, and the next day, he left to go "stay with some people he knows" in Wisconsin. When he got to Wisconsin, he called me several times and demanded that I get an abortion, so I changed my phone number and didn't want to speak to him anymore. When I was 7 months pregnant (7 months later), he showed up at my door. He said he was sorry, and that he wanted to be a father and all that crap, and I was stupid. I forgave him and let him back into my life.

At the trial or hearing (or whatever it was) in PA, the FBI produced Ahmed's State ID that he had obtained in Wisconsin. The address that was listed on his ID apparently was also the address of another man that the FBI had arrested on terrorism charges. They wanted to know who he lived with and how he knew this man. Ahmed denied knowing the man.

Other things had come up that I didn't know about, also. When Ahmed was gone for those 7 months, he told me that he had gotten a scholarship to do a training program in Japan for two months. He said he went there and then came back to America. According to the FBI, he went to Japan, but he also had travel records stating that he was in other places like Malaysia and some other place where there are known al-qaeda training camps. I don't know anything about that, just what the FBI said.

At the trial, the FBI agent testified that there were so many strings connecting my husband to al-qaeda that, even though each one was inconsequential, putting all of them together was like having lightening strike in the eact same place over and over and over again, and mere coincidence could not explain it. The chances that all these ties to al-qaeda just, by chance, happening to the same man, were more like one in a billion.

Even so, I couldn't believe that my husband had anything to do with al-qaeda, so I stood up publicly and defended him and spent three years fighting for his release from jail.

Of course, I've seen and heard a lot more since those days, and I, personally, now truly know that my husband is in some group that is very powerful and very highly connected. I have seen him do things that no regular guy could get done. I won't elaborate, because this story isn't about him. He doesn't matter - my children are the ones who matter. I'm only saying it to clarify some points. But he has enormous power. He can pick up a phone and get anything - and I mean ANYTHING - done, and have it done in a matter of minutes. I have seen him get on a phone and have things done in another country, and that thing was done - in the other country - in less than 2 hours. Not just little stuff, either, but stuff that regular people could spend years trying to get done and not be able to get done. I'm will not elaborate, but I know that he is involved in a big, powerful group. Whether it's al-qaeda or something else, I don't know. But I know how powerful and conected he is, and that he has an army at his beck and call. He watches out for them, and they watch out for him. He's also connected to some of the best computer hackers in the world. He's shown me printouts of things he's gotten and bragged that "What - you think we Yemenis are stupid? We have some of the best hackers in the world". He, himself, doesn't know how to hack. It's his friends that help him and provide him with whatever he wants - no limits whatsoever. He has gotten lots of private records from companies that no one has access to. Well, whatever. Just take my word for it. Or don't. It doesn't matter to me. I'm just saying that this man is a very formidable foe. Very powerful.

Since I mentioned his thoughts on the Sept.11 attacks, I'd like to take a moment to mention the most horrible experience I ever had with him - more horrible than the mind games, the beatings, and watching him hurt my children.

One day, we were watching one of those evening shows like Dateline (not sure if that was the show, but it was one like that). The show was about honor killings. It showed stories of girls in Bangladesh and Egypt and Afghanistan and places around the world where these girls were killed by their own male family members for "bringing shame on the family". Sometimes, teh girls were raped, and since their rape "shamed the family", the father or oldest brother killed the girl. In Bangladesh, there was a problem of the men throwing sulfuric acid on the girls' faces. If they didn't die, they spent years in physical agony and were no longer a candidate for marriage. One story told about a girl in Egypt who was on the street when the wind blew her robe, and as a result, the skin on her ankle was seen by a prominent Egyptian man. The man who saw her ankle went to the girl's father's house and told him about it. Because the girl had dishonored the family by showing her skin in public, the oldest brother shot her in the head and killed her.

After watching the show, I was absolutely sick to my stomach. I was outraged and immensely saddened. I told Ahmed, "That's horrible! How can they do such a thing?" His reponse made me vomit - literally. He said to me, "It's the right thing to do. The most important thing a woman can offer her family is her honor. If she brings shame to her family, it is our duty to kill her to restore order to the family. She knows what she's allowed to do and what she's not allowed to do". I said, "How can you SAY that? She's a person! Some of those girls were raped! It wasn't their fault! And what about the girl with the ankle showing - the wind blew her robe, for goodness sake! How is that dishonor? How does that deserve murdering an innocent young girl? What are you saying? What if Amina decided not to be Muslim one day? What if she embarrassed you or, as you say, did something that you thought dishonored your family? Would you kill her?"

And without hesitation, he looked me straight int he eye and said, "Absolutely. It is my duty. If she shamed our family, I would kill her in a minute. If she chose not to be Muslim, I would definitely kill her because she knew the truth and then chose to turn away from the truth. Yes, I woud kill her. It's the right thing to do."

At that moment, I knew what a true monster he was, deep down inside. He was talking about his own, beautiful, highly intelligent, 5-year-old daughter. I just stood there, in complete shock. What do you say when you hear that from your husband about your own precious daughter? There are no words. I imagined this image in my mind of my little girl, being a teenager, lying inside the front door in a puddle of blood, with a gunshot wound to her head - inflicted by her own father, the one who is supposed to love and protect her. I still have that image in my head to this day just as vividly as I imagined it that day when he said those things. It's my greatest fear.

My daughter has always had a mind of her own. She never lets anyone make her think anything. She has her own ideas, her own opinions, her own way of thinking. She will never, ever be forced to be someone's puppet. She will never just accept someone else's belief as her own. She thinks about things in profound ways, and I know that she will not always agree with me - or with her father. Will her strong self of self leads to her death at the hands of her father sooner or later? My greatest fear is that it will. And it's a legitimate fear. It's my greatest fear. He has no sense of remorse when he causes others pain. In fact, seeing the terror and pain in our eyes is what he seeks on a daily basis. He has no conscience. He has never had any remorse or regret for any of the pain he's caused others, and believe me, he has caused more pain and terror than most of the criminals sitting in our jails today. Not just to me and my children, either. But the scariest thing to live with is to know who he is, what he truly believes in his heart, and what he's capable of. That is the scariest thing in my life. Knowing what he is perfectly capable of doing, and more than willing to do it.

Let me just say that I, in no way, think that Ahmed’s behavior translates into all Arabs or all Muslims. Ahmed always tells me that the Koran tells him to hit his wife and that Allah said that honor killing is right, but I know that most Muslims don’t believe that. Several of my Muslim friends don’t think Ahmed is Muslim at all, based on his actions. A lot of his behavior is just evil - and has nothing to do with any religion. Some of it is his culture. As much as he tries to justify his actions and thoughts to me by quoting the Koran, I’m no longer stupid enough to believe that he is just “obeying Allah”. What I talk about here are my own experiences, my own conversations with my husband, my own observations of things he’s done. Don’t think that I am taking those experiences and generalizing to all Muslims or Arabs, because I’m not. There are good people bad people in every socioeconomic class, in every religion, in every geographic area. This isn’t a generalization. This is my personal story. So please don’t send me hate mail saying that I’m bashing Islam or Arabs or any particular group, because I am not.

Well, I hope I clarified some of my earlier comments. If anyone ever reads this and has a question, just email me.

Saying Goodbye (16)

Jun 4, 2008
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The quest to get my kids home had failed, and I had to return the kids to their father's house in Sanaa. We got a ride and sat through the 7-hour ride back to Sanaa in quiet with heavy hearts. As a mother, I couldn't imagine having to send my kids back to a place they hated so badly, but there were no other options left. When we arrived in the city, we went to a restaurant that had a playground. We got something to eat, and then I called Ahmed, telling him where to pick up the children. I took the kids in the back to the playground, and I sat and watched them play for the last time.

Kids are amazing. They knew what was coming, but for that short time, they were fully involved in their play, and they were happy. I heard, "Mama, watch me slide down the slide!" with a big smile on their faces. I pushed them on the swings and listened to them squeal with delight. I wanted to be with them forever, and to spend as many years as possible making them smile like that. But, of course, it only lasted for less than an hour. Then their father came to pick them up.

He brought his brother with him to get the kids. Once the kids and I got in the car, reality hit them - hard. They started crying uncontrollably, and my oldest daughter kept grabbing for my hand to hold it. Ahmed kept pulling her hand off of mine and told her to quit touching me, that I was bad and was out to hurt them. Of course they knew that wasn't true, but he wouldn't let them speak to me in the car or touch me. We sat and cried by ourselves, without being able to speak to each other or touch each other. I wanted so much to grab them and hug them and tell them how much I loved them and how wonderful they were, but now they were in his territory, and that meant they had to abide by his belief that I was evil and shouldn't be touched or spoken to.

Ahmed told me that I was not allowed in or near his house and that I would never see the children again. He said that I had "embarrassed" him and his family by taking the kids. He couldn't care less about how the children felt. He cared about what damage his reputation might have suffered since his wife had taken his children out without his permission.

He took the children to his house, and he put me in a hotel. He told me there was an arrest warrant out for me, and that I would get arrested if seen on the street, so he told me to not go outside because he had the police watching. He said that I would get sentenced to at least 5 years in jail for kidnapping. I told him I didn't care. He had already done the worst he could possibly do. He took my children away from me, and instead of loving them and treating them well, he spent his days hurting them in so many ways. There was nothing more he could possibly do to me that would be any worse, and the prospect of spending years in a Yemeni jail didn't bother me in the least.

He didn't have me arrested, for some reason, but I spent the next two weeks in that hotel room, trying to get money wired to me to buy a plane ticket to go home. He would come every day to bring me some food and let me know just how much he hated me and how hard he was trying to convince the children how horrible I was and what a bad mother I was. He rarely brought the kids to see me in that hotel room, but he did bring them a couple times. When they were there, they weren't allowed to speak to me or hug me. They had to sit in the corner while he made them repeat sentences like, "My mother is bad and she doesn't care about me", etc. Seeing them sit there and suffer and cry was absolutely horrible. Oh my God, I can't tell you how much I love those three children.

Two weeks later, I received the money and bought a plane ticket home. He took me to the airport, and he wouldn't let the kids come to say goodbye. I got on the plane and cried myself halfway around the world to America.

After arriving home, I tried to call them. He told me that he was going to disconnect the home phone so I couldn't call the kids anymore. He said that he would place the children with a family in the rural areas or in Pakistan so that I'd never be able to find them again. I tried my best to apologize to him and do whatever he wanted, so that I could still talk to my kids. I sent him $2000.00. He got angry and retorted, "We don't want your money. I'm sending it back!". He kept the money, but he never told the kids that I sent it. So I bought the kids a bunch of toys and games and some new clothes and shoes for each of them, and I sent them via DHL. He got even angrier. "Don't send them anything! They don't need anything from you! The next time you send something, I won't go pick it up". I later called and got to talk to the kids while he was at work, and I found out that he had given most of the gifts away, instead of giving them to my kids. He let them see them first, though, then he took them and gave them away.

It has been 5 months since I got back from Yemen. I still call every week, and he hasn't disconnected the home phone yet. When I call, he has to stand there and monitor everything I or the kids say, which means that no one is allowed to say anything except, "I love and miss you", but I'm grateful to be able to hear their voices. For the first 4 months, my oldest daughter refused to speak to me or get on the phone at all. She was so angry at me for failing to fulfill my promise to get her home where she desperately wants to be. The last three times I called, though, I got to hear her voice. I've tried to be civil and nice to him, but all he can do is be mean and nasty. He often takes the phone from the kids and starts telling me how horrible I am, how hard he is working to convince the children that I abandoned them, etc. Then I just hang up, because I refuse to pay to listen to a bunch of nasty lies from a man who cares about nothing except himself and what people in his community think of him. That is the only motivation he has - to make people think he's this awesome man who will one day die and get the highest level in Heaven for being so wonderful. He works very hard to look good and dress well, and to say and do whatever people would expect a wealthy, upstanding citizen to do. He is a deceiver.

But this story isn't about him. It's about a mother's love for her children, and, more importantly, it's about three wonderful children who have so much joy and intelligence to share wth this world, but who are being brainwashed and tortured on a daily basis. It's not his story - it's ours.

Screwed by my Own Government - Again (15)

Jun 4, 2008
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I admitted defeat. I couldn't get my kids out of Yemen and back home to America. Without money for food and water and a place to stay, I had no choice but to take them back to their father's house. But there was no more money for a 7-hour taxi ride back to Sanaa, either. I needed to find help.

I went to the United Nations High Commission for Refugees (UNHCR) office. I told them the story ofhow my kids had been kidnapped, how they were abused, how I had tried to contact my embassy for help but was told to leave and not come back, and how I had tried to get them out by Sea to the American Embassy in Djibouti. I told them that there was no money, no food, no water, no transportation, and no help. I asked to apply for asylum, since my own government was completely unwilling to help me in any way. I told them how David Fuller at the US Embassy had copies of my custody papers, the arrest warrant out on my husband, how they knew my husband had gone on trial in the United States for being involved in al-qaeda, and how David Fuller saw the bruises all over my children and listened as they told him of their daily beatings. I also told them how he had taken money from my husband and destroyed my kids passports and told me I was not allowed in the US Embassy again.

The UNHCR helped me fill out the asylum application, and they provided us with a place to stay and food to eat. But the next day, they said to me, "We called the US Embassy and asked them to help. They said "We know about Michele. There is no problem. She's only seeking attention. Don't help her". The UNHCR told me that, without any assistance or cooperation from the US government, there was nothing they could do for us. They said we could stay in the place where they put us for another three days, but then we would have to leave and we would again be out on our own.

I told the kids what had happened and told them how very sorry I was. I spent the next three days savoring every single moment with my kids. I knew that now there was a very good chance that I was going to go to jail in Yemen for a long time, or at the very least, I would never be allowed to see them again - ever. During the next three days, I didn't even want to sleep. When they were sleeping, I just wanted to stare at their beautiful faces so that I would have every feature, every little gesture indelibly imprinted in my mind. I memorized every feature, every mannerism. I couldn't stand the thought of being separated from them ever again, but the reality was upon me. I spent every second soaking up their wonder, their beauty, the sounds of their voices, and all the things about them that I knew I was about to lose the chance to maybe ever see again.

The UNHCR employee who had helped us came to me one evening, with her hands shaking. She said, "Your husband called me on my personal cell phone. How could he have gotten my personal cell phone number? There's no way he could have gotten that number". She had used her cellphone when she called the US Embassy, however, and we discovered that David Fuller at the US Embassy had called my husband as soon as he got off the phone with this lady from the UNHCR, told my husband where I was at and that I had sought help at the UNHCR, and he also gave my husband this lady's personal cell phone number.

My husband had called her and threatened her. She was so shaken that her hands will still shaking when she came to see me. She said, "Your husband is highly connected. He has the vice president of Yemen at his house right now. He has people at the US Embassy working for him. He has a copy of the cell phone agreement for that cell phone you bought and have carried with you, and he has a record of all calls made from that phone. He has the entire Yemeni military out looking for you. He was very mean and threatening to me on the phone, Michele, and I have a family to think about. I have children and a husband. He was very mean and he scared me. I told my boss about what he said to me, but when your husband talks to men, he is very calm and professional and convincing, so my boss can't see that this is a very dangerous man. I have to cut all ties to you. I can't jeopardize my family. Your husband scares me." I knew what she was talking about. I know my husband very well and how he can manipulate anyone into believing whatever it is he wants them to believe. And I know how he can scare and threaten and intimidate - especially women, who he thinks are lower than pond scum on the evolutionary tree. She provided us with a ride back to Sanaa, so the kids and I got in the car and headed back to Hell. Less than a month later, the lady at the UNHCR transferred to another job in another country outside of Yemen. I'd be willing to bet that my husband had something to do with that....

Crossing the Red Sea on an Inflatable Boat - part 3 (14)

Jun 4, 2008
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We arrived at Bab al-Mandeb at 10:30 pm. Upon arrival, I discovered why the taxi company gave us so much trouble about taking us there. There was nothing there. Well, there was one lonely gas station with about 6 men sitting outside it. That was it. I couldn't find any houses. There were no hotels or anyplace to get food. There was only this little gas station. The taxi driver stopped and announced that we had arrived. I asked him to find a hotel. He asked the men at the gas station, and they told him there were no hotels. The men at the gas station couldn't understand why a woman and her three children were getting off in their area. I don't think they had ever had any foreigners in their area before. But, I was determined to get to Djibouti, and according to Google Earth, this was the closest launching point. So the taxi driver dropped us off and left us standing there in the pitch-black darkness.

I had three large suitcases with me. One contained the 50-pound boat tubes, one contained the life jackets and water containers, and the other contained a change of clothes for the kids. Since there was nowhere to go and it was too black to see any water (or anything for that matter), I knew we couldn't do anything until the sun came up in the morning. So, I grabbed the bags and started dragging them as we walked down the desolate road. I just wanted to get away from the 6 men at the gas station who were visibly shaken about our arrival. I figured we could get away from the men and just lay down and sleep next to the road until morning came and we could see something and find the Red Sea. It was so hot and arid, however, that it was a very slow process trying to drag those three bags down the road.

After about 15 minutes, one of the men from the gas station came running down the road after us. He was saying something, but even my daughter couldn't figure out what he was saying. He grabbed the big suitcase that had the boat in it and started walking back toward the gas station. I kept trying to tell him, "No! It's okay!", but the only word I know in Arabic is "Tamaam", which means "Okay". I needed that boat, so we had to follow him. All I could think of was that now we were getting kidnapped. Everyone had warned me about how the tribes kidnap any foreigners they find, and we were definitely in tribe country. But without that boat, we weren't going anywhere anyway, so we followed him back to the gas station.

The man put the suitcase in a room in the gas station and motioned for us to go in. At this point, my daughter figured out that the man was telling us that we could spend the night in there. It was dirty and full of really huge bugs, but I was very grateful. After seeing the size of the bugs in that room, I could just imagine what bugs and creatures might be out there on the side of the road in the pitch-black darkness. At least here, we had light and could keep an eye on the bugs. We laid down the bags to use as a pillow, and we laid down to sleep on the floor of that gas station.

I hate bugs. I'm terrified of bugs. And to my dismay, I discovered a large orange spider in the corner of the room. He was larger than my hand, and he was quite mobile. Everytime I tried to close my eyes to rest, I could only imagine that huge monster crawling on me or my my kids, so I didn't get any sleep that night. I had to keep watch for him. There were a lot of other bugs crawling around in that room, but that spider was definitely my worst enemy at that point. But, the kids were able to get some sleep, so I was grateful.

When the sun rose in the morning, I looked out the back window of our room, and I saw the Red Sea no more than 100 feet behind the gas station. I was elated We made it and now we were going to go to Djibouti! The kids woke up, and we gathered our things, ready to hike to the water and launch the boat. But, the men at the gas station had other plans.

As I opened the door to leave the room and go to the water, the men from the gas station were there. They were angry and yelling, and they grabbed my bags. I tried to take them back, but I couldn't say anything to them because I didn't speak Arabic. My daughter told me what they were saying, as much as she could understand. She said, "Mama. We have to leave. They are very angry that you are here. They said they've called the military police and the police are coming. We can't stay here. They want us to go NOW". As she was telling me this, the men loaded my bags into a little minibus outside and motioned for us to get in. Unable to speak to them, I couldn't argue. The kids and I climbed into their minibus, and the man started driving. We had no idea where we were going, but we drove for an hour and a half. The heat was indescribable. It was so hot that it just sucked all ability to move out of you, and you had to force yourself to inhale every breath, because the air was so hot it burned your nostrils. It sucked all energy and life right out of you. During the entire drive, there was not one house to be seen, not one person anywhere in sight - nothing but rolling desert. It was the most desolate and hottest place I had ever seen.

Finally, we came to a place where there were a few buildings. We found out that this was the town called al-Mocha. As soon as we came to the border, the driver motioned for us to get out, so we took our bags and got out. He promptly left, leaving us standing there on the side of the road. We walked up to the only building within walking distance, and there was an old sign laying on the ground that had English words on it. It said, "Tourist Hotel". I was so happy. I figured we could get a room, maybe cool down a little, get some water to drink, and then set out to look for the Red Sea, which was now nowhere to be found. I entered the hotel.

The man asked me where I was from. I was told to always say that your from Australia or England because they really hate Americans there, so I told him I was from Australia. I asked for a room. He demanded to see my passport. I tried to tell him I didn't have it with me, but he wouldn't let me get a room without seeing it, and he kept fighting wth me. Finally, I took my passport and handed it to him. He saw "United States of America" on the cover, and he started yelling and motioning for me to get out. I stayed, thinking this could be resolved. I wanted to just hand him some money and get a room, but he came around and grabbed my arm and pushed me out the door, and the other man who was standing next to him threw my bags out after us.

Now we were in the middle of nowhere, in unbearable heat, with no water and no food, and with no energy to move, let alone walk around dragging three heavy bags with us. I couldn't see the Red Sea anywhere, and I couldn't see anywhere to walk to where we might be able to find food or water. The heat had sucked all energy out of us, so we stood there outside that hotel on the side of the road. We waited for a taxi to come by to take us somewhere else. We waited for two hours, but the road was as desolate as the desert we had come through. No taxis, no anything. We needed water to drink, and I couldn't let the kids stand there in that heat with no food or water. I figured we had no choice but to go back to Aden. Aden was at least 150 miles across the Red Sea from Djibouti, but we couldn't launch from here - we couldn't find the Sea here. And the longer we stood there in that searing heat with no water, the quicker we were going to succumb. So, I called the taxi driver back in Aden who had driven us to Bab al-Mandeb and asked if he would come and take us back to Aden. He said he would, but since it was a 5-hour drive to get to where we were, we would have to wait about 5 hours. So, we sat in the sun on the side of the road for 5 hours until the taxi driver came back and picked us up.

We got back to Aden that evening, although we had some trouble getting through the military checkpoints on the way back. At two checkpoints, the military stopped us and argued with the taxi driver for over 30 minutes. The military didn't want to let us through, and I got very scared, since we had no travel papers. Luckily, though, the taxi driver eventually succeeded in getting us through and back to the city. Once there, I got a hotel room so we could shower, cool off, get something to eat and drink, and get our energy back. The kids were happy to be out of the searing heat, and elated because the hotel had a pool where they could go swimming.

I was extremely worried at this point, and my intense worry took a toll on me. Instead of enjoying the time I had with my kids, I was too preoccupied with finding out how we could get across the Red Sea from here. It was way too far from Djibouti (over 150 miles on the Red Sea). The military heavily patrolled this port city, and foreigners were not allowed in the water without armed police escorts. When we launched, we couldn't be seen by anyone, or else we would be arrested and it would be over. We were completely out of money. All the taxi rides and water and food had used every bit of money I had left. I was so worried, that I didn't enjoy the wonder of my children. They had believed in me. They were counting on me. They wholeheartedly believde that this was it - I was taking them home to America, and they were full of joy and exuberance. To them, their long nightmare was almost over, and they talked excitedly about what they were going to do as soon as they got home. They fought over who was going to sleep with our dog, they talkedabout going to Burger King and eating a whopper, which they missed the most, and they talked about how they were going to decorate their bedrooms. All I could think of was "How can I get them home now?"

The next day, there was no more money for anymore hotels or food. The money was gone. I sat down with the kids and told them that I didn't know how we were going to get home from here. I told them we were out of money, which meant I couldn't even buy water to drink or get a hotel room. I told them, "If we launchfrom here, there's a good chance we will die. The sharks areintense here, and they kill hundreds of Somali refugees each year. Then there's the Somali pirates that flood this area that kidnap boats and throw the people overboard. And without any kind of navigational devices, we could go out into the Sea and get lost and never find Djibouti. I don't believe in the word "can't", but I didn't bring you here to die. Maybe we just can't make it home. Maybe I'll have to return you to your father's house".

The kids freaked out. My daughters said to me over and over, "We don't care. Let's go. We can't go back to his house. You don't know how horrible it is. At least we'll die together. We don't care. We just want to be with you, and if we all die, then we die together. Don't give up, Mama. Let's launch the boat. Let's GO!" Hearing the fear and despair in your own children, knwoing that they'd rather die than go back to live with their father has a profound effect on a mother. So, I decided that we'd try to launch. We went down to the beach and sat. We surveyed the area and waited until nightfall so all the people would leave and we could launch without being seen. Night came, the people thinned out, but there were still people on the beach long into the night. But, we had no more money and no food, so we had to launch - regardless. We inflated the two boat tubes and tied them together with rope. We put it in the water and got on. We tried to launch, but the waves were huge and the boat wouldn't stay steady. It was sodark you couldn't see your own hand in front of your face. The tubes were swaying so badly that my littleboy couldn't stay on the boat. And this was right next to the shore. Imagine what the waves would be like out in the open Sea! There was no way to cross the Sea on these two inflatable tubes. No way whatsoever. We got out of the water, deflated the tubes, and went back to spend the night on the beach.

The next morning, I explained to the kids that there was no way to get to Djibouti from here on our inflatable tubes. They were sad and upset. Their dreams of going home and eating whoppers and playing with the dog vaporized. Worse than that, they knew that if they went back to their father's house that it would be even worse for them than it was before, because their father had told them to never go with me (after I took them and ran the previous summer), and they knew they would get beaten for having gone with me. I was devastated. They believed in me. I had believed that we would get home. And now I had let them down. I failed them.

Regrets (7)

May 30, 2008
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When I was around 18, I made a promise to myself. I swore that I would live life deliberately so that when I got older, I wouldn’t have any regrets. Well, now I’m in my late 30’s, and I was doing well with that promise until I trusted my husband. Now I have several regrets, and these regrets are HUGE.

They say hindsight is 20/20, and it’s certainly true. Knowing what I know now, I regret staying with my husband and standing up and fighting for him, even though he was mean and abusive. I regret that I didn’t get out and walk away sooner.

Everyone lives and learns from their experiences, so that isn’t really my biggest regret. My biggest regrets have to do with my children. When my children were young, I was severely stressed out, and in reality, it had nothing to do with them. I was so frustrated and angry at my husband, and I let it seep out in my interactions with my children.

One incident is indelibly imprinted in my mind. When my oldest daughter was 3 years old, she was, even then, very advanced. One morning, I had not slept much the night before, and as a result, I wouldn’t get out of bed. She decided that she wanted to help me, and she went into the kitchen and cooked scrambled eggs. She knew she wasn’t allowed to touch a hot pan, so after she cooked them, she came to me in bed. She kept trying to wake me up, and I got angry that she was waking me up. I’ve always hated to be woken up when I’m so very tired.

I’ll never forget that moment. She crawled up on the bed and kept shaking me to wake up. I looked at her big, brown eyes staring down at me, and she was so excited as she said, “Mama, I made you some eggs. Can you get the pan off the stove for me because it’s hot”. God knows I will never understand why I did what I did. I was half awake, and I was angry for having been awakened (which is no excuse). I grabbed her by the arm, yelled at her for waking me up, carried her to the kitchen, yelling all the way about how tired I was and how she should know better than to wake me up, etc. When I got to the kitchen, I impetuously grabbed the pan of scrambled eggs that she had so carefully created - and I THREW IT ACROSS THE ROOM! The eggs went flying all over the floor, and I will never, ever forget the horrified look on her face. She started crying and ran away, and I went back to bed.

She remembers that incident to this very day, and she has mentioned it to me more than once. I wish to God I could take it back. I wish I could understand why, in that moment, I let my own selfish needs supercede her need for love and approval.

Now my daughter is gone. I would give my life in an instant if I could just see her or hug her or tell her how special she is and how much I love her. I may never get that chance, but neither can I ever remove that memory from her mind - or mine.

As parents, sometimes we get frustrated or tired and we react to our children in a way that is NOT what they deserve. Even though my actions and my state of mind had nothing to do with my daughter, her reaction was one of utter rejection. I made her feel bad about herself. I will never forgive myself for that.

You never know what tomorrow may bring or how long you get to hold on to your child. My advice to all parents would be to cherish each and every moment. Make them feel loved and valued each and every day. Don’t take your personal problems out on them.

My children are gone, and I am left with that memory and that intense regret.

Mostly, I’ve loved and cherished my children every day of their lives, but there were times when I’d get so frustrated and tired, and I’d snap at them for no reason. Those are the moments I remember the most. I would do anything to take them back, but I can’t. I see parents in stores these days with their own children, and sometimes I see them get frustrated when the child is aking for things. I see the parents get snappy and yell or even hit their child. It’s those times I just want to run up to the parent and say, “Be patient with them. Hug them. Tell them in a nice way that you just can’t get that for them right now. They might be gone tomorrow and these are the memories you will have”. But of course, I can’t tell anyone else how to interact with their children, so I keep my mouth shut.

I broke my promise to myself. I definitely have regrets.

My Story: How it Started (part 2)

May 6, 2008
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I am a mother, and my children were kidnapped to the Middle East by their father. This is how it happened.

I first met my husband while studying as an exchange student in a college in Japan. I'm American, and he was Middle Eastern. At the time, he seemed very exotic and unique and nice. A couple months after being together, he returned to his homeland, and I stayed in Japan for another 9 months.

When I returned to America, he came to "visit" me shortly after I arrived home. I didn't know he was coming. I just got a call from him one day saying, "I'm in New York and I'm coming on a Greyhound. Please pick me up at the station". So, I did.

When he got here, he had no money and no place to stay, and I hadn't found a job yet, so I couldn't support him. I told him he had to go back or get a job. He said that the only way for him to get a job was to get married. That way, he could get a green card and go to work. I wanted to help him, and I liked him, so I agreed, and we went down to the courthouse and got a marriage license.

The day after he got the marriage license, he left. He said he had some friends in Wisconsin who would let him work "under the table" at their gas station, so he left, even though I had just told him that I found out I was pregnant. After he left, he would call me and tell me that I had to have an abortion because his family wouldn't approve. He said if I didn't have an abortion that he wouldn't be with me anymore. So I told him to go away and never contact me again. No one was going to tell me what to do! I changed my phone number and didn't hear from him again for the next 7 months.

Then one day, when I was 7 months pregnant, he showed up at my door and wanted to stay with me. Stupid as it was, I let him in. Of course, now, I wish I would have slammed the door in his face and let him go on his merry little way. But I was young and naive, and basically, really stupid.

The day he came back, he was a different person from the one I had known previously. He called me names, slapped me, pinched me, forbid me to leave the house. He wouldn't let me talk on the phone to anyone and he monitored everything I said on the phone. He was mean and abusive. I should've kicked him out, but I was due in a couple months and a full-time college student, so I figured I'd just put up with him until I could graduate with my college degree. Then I'd be better able to take care of myself and my child.

I tried to please him, giving in to all his ridiculous demands. He hit me, punched me, kicked me, slapped me. I rationalized it away, saying, "Well, that's how they treat women in his country and he doesn't know any better". Of course, I told him all the time that hitting women was illegal in this country, but he didn't care. I figured he'd learn eventually. He didn't.

Things got worse. He got angrier and more abusive. When he wanted sex, he took it, whether I wanted it or not - which of course, I didn't because before long, the sight of him made me sick to my stomach. I got pregnant again soon after I gave birth to my daughter. I didn't want to bring another child into this horrible situation, but he refused to let me go to a Dr. I had to sneak out of the house when he was a work if I wanted to leave at all and then pray no one would tell him I had gone out.

He wore me down. I lost my spirit, my fight, my will to live. I tried to kill myself and was hospitalized. After that, he had a label that he shared with everyone who would listen, "Crazy". "You're crazy". "My wife is crazy, so don't listen to her".

He hit me really hard when I was 7 months pregnant with my second child, and I had had enough. I left and went to a battered women's shelter. However, the shelter only let me stay for 30 days, and when I ahd no money and no place to go after the thirty days was up (there was a 2-year waiting list for housing assistance), I had to either go live on the streets with my children and risk having Children's Services take them away, or go back and live with him. So I went back.

In 2001, he attacked me at a public mall. The police officer saw him and promptly arrested him for domestic violence. He denied everything, of course, but the policeman saw the red marks on my face and neck and pressed charges anyway, even though I begged him not to. They handcuffed him and took him to jail.

I thought, at the time, that this was going to be his eye-opener. Now he would know that hitting his wife was illegal, he would be sorry, and he would learn his lesson. I was so wrong.

He got out the next day. I out a restraining order on him, which he violated within 12 hours and was re-arrested for violating a protection order and put back in jail. I went to a battered womens shelter once again.

Once again, I had no money, no place to go, and after 30 days, I was forced to leave the shelter. I went back to the apartment where he lived. He begged me to contact the judge and the prosecutor and make them drop the charges. Again, being stupid, I did as he asked. By this time, I knew better than to fight him. All I wanted was peave, adnt eh easiest way to try to get some peace was just to do whatever he said. The consequences of not doing so were horrible.

So, I made an appointment with the prosecutor. I went and begged him to drop the charges. He said that since I didn't file the charges - the police officer did - couldn't drop them, and he wouldn't drop them, either. So I wrote tot eh judge and asked her to drop the charges, on several occasions. She refused. When the day came to show up in court to answer his charges, I stood next to him and defended him and once again asked the judge to drop the charges. He was found "guilty" and sentenced to time served, as well as being put on probation for a year.

So, it was over with - we thought. Then, a couple weeks later, he received a letter from the Dept of Homeland Security stating that under the IIRIRA law, he was being deported because he had been convicted of a crime (domestic violence and violating a protection order). At first, he thought it was some kind of misunderstanding, but after researching it, we discovered that anyone who is not a US citizen who is convicted of any crime is automatically deported from the US. A new law called IIRIRA had been passed in 1996 making this the case.

So, a long legal battle began. He begged me to support him, and although I hated him, I felt it was my duty to do so, and that, for the sake of his dreams and his life, adn for the sake of my children, I should fight to keep him in the US. First, we went through the local courts, trying to re-open the case and erase the guilty verdict. That failed. We petitioned the Federal Courts and the Immigration Service. That failed. So then we went public, seeking the help that sometimes comes through publicity. That also failed.

Meanwhile, the government had been compiling a case against him for ties to al-qaeda. The FBI had arrested an al-qaeda operative at an airport in New York, and when they arrested him, they found my husband's business card in his wallet. The FBI came to our house, asking my husband how he was affiliated with this man. He said he didn't know the man and that he had no idea why that man was carrying his business card.

Then there were phone calls from my husband to a place in Brooklyn, New York. According to the FBI, this number was known to have been used by people laundering money for al-qaeda. The phone records showed several calls from my husband to this number over a several-month period. The government wanted to know who he talked to and what he talked about. He denied anything, just saying that the only calls he made to New York were to some friends he had there who owned a convenience store.

Then there was the fact that an arrested al-qaeda member who was already in custody had the same address that my husband had on the Wisconsin ID that he got when he left me and went to work for his friends in Wisconsin. Same street address. They once again came and asked how he knew this man and why they both listed the same address as their own. My husband denied knowing anything about this other man.

Then there was 9/11. On Sept. 11, as we stood in front of the TV watching the horror of the World Trade Centers unfolding before us, my husband's comments made me sick. Instead of being horrified, as I was, he was smug, and his comments were, "That's what the US gets. They send all their money to the Jews and use their money to buy bombs that Israel uses to kill innocent Palestinians. This is what the US deserves." Then, when information about the hijackers came on TV, identifying them, he said to me "That was my friend! I grew up with his brother. I used to spend all my days after school in his house. We played together. He's a good guy". I was sick to my stomach.

He had cut me off from all friends and outside contacts, so my only release at this point was a journal that I kept on the computer. When things got really bad, I would sit and write my thoughts. So, I added this new revelation of misery to my journal.

On Oct. 21, 2001, life changed dramatically. My husband went to work as usual. An hour later, I received a call. The caller said, "This is the FBI. We have your husband in custody. We're bringing the van back". Within 5 minutes, there was a knock at the door, and standing at the threshold were 8 FBI agents. They asked to search the house. They said that they believed that my husband was affiliated with al-qaeda. I let them in. They spent the rest of the day going through everything in the house, copying the hard drives on the computers, carrying out boxes of documents, and asking me questions.

I was in shock, but mostly I was just glad that he wouldn't be coming home that day. For once, I could go a day without getting hit. I was SO relieved that he was out of the house. That immense relieve is just indescribable with mere words.

For the next three and a half years, he remained incarcerated, fighting his impending deportation. Scared about what would happen if he were deported and how that would affect the kids, I stood once again and supported him. I stood on street corners getting people to sign petitions to support his release. I spoke at public events about his plight. I held fundraisers to raise money for his legal defense. I spent half my monthly income paying for a special phone line so he could call home and talk to the kids whenever he wanted, andhis collect calls cost over $3.00 a minute. I don't know why I did everything I did, but I felt bad for him. I felt guilty, since it was the domestic violence conviction that started the whole thing. I worked with the lawyer and helped him with research and filing briefs on my husband's behalf. I worked my butt off for him for three and a half years. Then, in November 2006, he was deported to Yemen, unable to ever enter the US again. All efforts had failed.

This is where the REAL nightmare began.

After he was deported, he contacted me constantly. He said that he hadn'tseen his chidlren in 3.5 years and that he needed to see them. He said that he had had time to think and pray in jail, and that he'd read the Koran from beginning to end 8 times while he was in jail. He said he was a changed man. He begged me to bring the kids to Yemen to see him since he couldn't come back to the USA.

I didn't believe that he was a changed man. After enduring his abuse for 7 long years, I knew the depth of the evil that resided within him. I refused to bring the kids to Yemen to see him. But, I kept reading the emails and accepting the IMs. I started to feel bad for him. He seemed so sincere. I thought, "Well, maybe he has changed. People can change when bad things happen to them". Mostly, I thought, "My God, if I coudln't see my kids for 3.5 years, I would go crazy. He must be feeling the same way. I couldn't stand to be without my kids. I'm sure he can't stand it, either." That was my huge mistake.

He made tons of promises to me, trying to get me to bring the kids to see him. He told me that he would provide round-trip plane tickets. He said that we would always be free to come and go as we please. He said he wasn't interested in custody or anything like that - he assured me over and over that he just wanted to see the kids once more. He told me that he had a well-to-do respectable family, most of whom are physicians, and even if he wanted to keep the kids, his family would never permit him to kidnap them or do anything bad to them. He promised to buy the kids new clothes, he promised my daughter the cell phone she was asking for, he promised to teach my son how to play soccer, he promised my middle daughter her very own horse, etc. I was still very skeptical. But, I kept listening.

After 6 months of hearing all the kind words and wonderful promises, I accepted his offer. I was convinced that he was, indeed, a changed man and that he was sincere when he said he only wanted to see the kids for the summer. My oldest daughter fought me tooth and nail. She remembered her father very clearly. She remembered how he hit her and me and how mean he was. She refused to got o Yemen to see him. She secretly talked to a neighbor of ours and arranged to stay with her while I took the other two children to Yemen to see their dad. When she told me about this, I told her "No!. I'm your mother, and I'm taking you to see your father! It'll be fine - I promise!" She fought me and cried and refused to go, but after all, she was an 8-year-old child with no autonomy, and I had made up my mind. I made her go.

I made her go.

The knowledge of that kills me every second of every day. I took her to Hell, where she became trapped in the deepest, darkest bowels of Hell. Her own mother - the mother who loves her SO much and who would die for her in an instant, took her by the hand and led her straight into the mouth of Hell. How can a mother live with that guilt? It's not possible. I am a mother who loves her three children more than the air I breathe, and yet I took my three wonderful children and led them straight into Hell. I deserve no mercy, no pity. I deserve all the pain they feel every day of their lives. I wish I could save them and take all their pain away and add it to my own. I don't know how to save them, though. But God knows I've tried everything I can think of.

I believed a man who had a history of lying. He was so convincing at the time. He seemed so sincere, and maybe I just wanted to believe he was a changed person and that he was telling the truth - over and over and over again. Maybe the repetition of his lies is what made me believe him. Maybe it was my own desire that he had finally learned and become a better person. Maybe it was because I conferred my own sense of how I would feel without my children on him, when it wasn't there on his part. In any regard, I believed someone who couldn't be trusted, and now my children are suffering immensely because of it. I made the decision to continue listening to him and to ultimately believe his words. It is all 110% my fault. And now I can't fix it.

I'll have to finish the story later. I can't see through my tears.

My Story: How It Started (part 1)

Apr 15, 2008
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