12 posts tagged “missing children”

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....

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.

In the last post that tells my story, I told about how my husband had not seen his children in 4 years because he was incarcerated and how, after being deported, he begged me to bring the kids to see him, since he couldn't enter the United States anymore. I reluctantly agreed, and we left America to fly to Yemen on April 10, 2006.

As I was preparing for the trip, I could not find anyone who was willing to house the boxes of my belongings, and I couldn't afford to keep my apartment in Ohio while staying overseas. I didn't have enough money to rent a storage unit, so when I left with the kids to go visit their father, I walked out and left everything I owned behind in the apartment that I was losing. My pictures, my household items, and all the clothes that didn't fit into one suitcase were left behind. Since there was no one to keep them while I was gone, I had no choice. I did it because I felt bad for him - I'll call him Ahmed. I knew how I would feel if I hadn't been able to see my children for 4 years, and I felt really bad for him. I put his feelings above the feelings of my own daughter, who was dead-set against going to see him. I also felt that they needed to know who their father was, since they were too young to remember much about him when he was arrested and taken away to jail.

I was so wrong.

We arrived in his country on April 12, 2006. We went to his house and promptly fell asleep from the 2-day trip. The next day, the kids awoke with enthusiasm and high expectations, because he had made so many promises to them on the phone in the previous 6 months. He had promised my son that he would wrestle with him and teach him to play soccer. My son's favorite game was "horsey" - where I would get down on hands and knees, he would climb onto my back, and he would ride his "horsey" around the house, telling me where to go and what to do. Ahmed promised to play horsey with him, and he was too excited about that.

As we were preparing for the trip, Ahmed told me not to bring any clothes for the kids because he had money, and when we arrived, he would buy them all brand new clothes. My daughters were eager to go shopping and get some new clothes, as money had been very tight while he was in jail, and it had been a while since they had gotten any new clothes. He promised my oldest daughter a cell phone of her very own, and he told my middle daughter that he would get her the horse that she had been wanting for so long.

Enthusiasm soon turned to tears, however, all in the first day after our arrival. After the kids woke up on that first day and ate breakfast, they ran to Ahmed and wanted to play with him. He was sitting on his bed reading his Arabic newspaper, and he didn't want to be bothered. When they persisted in seeking his attention, he threw his newspaper across the room, grabbed my little 5-year-old boy and threw him off the bed and screamed, "Get away from me! I don't play anymore! Go away!".

I had always given attention to my children whenever they needed it, so they, of course, didn't understand that Ahmed wasn't joking. So, they persisted. They climbed back up on the bed and again asked to go play with him, asked for him to tickle them, and asked to go outside with him. Now he was enraged, because they didn't listen and go away immediately as he had instructed. He got more violent, and he hit each and every one of them and pushed them out of the room and shut the door.

They were stunned and hurt. They all cried. I yelled at him, asking him how he could treat them like that after not having seen them for FOUR YEARS! He could care less, however, and started blaming me for raising "his" children to be so disrespctful. He told me "Here, children listen to adults the first time, without ever talking back or saying a word. Children are not allowed to speak to adults, other than when asked a question or spoken to. You've made my children bad. No child should ever have to be told twice to go away".

He had missed the point. It wasn't about whether they know how listen to adults, it was about the fact that they wanted to be near him, and he responded with cruelness and violence. Their feelings didn't matter at all to him. The worst part was that he hit them. He had said on the phone for the previous 6 months, that he was a "changed man" and that he would not hit anymore. And now here we were - in his country, on the first day, and he hit them. I was irate. I knew immediately that I had made the wrong choice, and that I should not have brought them to his country to see him.

Next post: Life in Yemen 

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.

So, at the end of the first week after arriving in Yemen, I had had enough and told Akmed that I was taking the kids and going home. He got angry (of course) and said that I couldn't leave. He had the plane tickets and wouldn't give them to me. He said, "I didn't pay over $5000 for plane tickets for you to come for a week and leave, and they're my kids, too. They're staying here all summer". I knew that it was a lot of money, and I figured maybe I had just overreacted, and I agreed to stay for the summer.

But things continued and even got worse.

The kids were not allowed to play, because everything they did "embarrassed him" or "messed up the house". The only time I could be a mother to my kids was between 8 am and 1 pm while he was at work. When he came home and the kids were near me, he'd yell at the and tell them to "get away from me" because I was a "bad woman". Everytime they wanted to tell me something, he had a problem with it. He wouldn't let me pick them up or let them sit on my lap. When I went outside in the yard, he made them stay inside and not follow me. There was absolutely nothing to do, and they were bored. I was so frustrated because all I wanted to do was hold thenm, hug them, and play with them, but he stepped in every moment of every day to keep them at a distance from me.

One time, we were so bored, so I found an old, long board in the back of his house, as well as an old rusty 55-gallon barrel. I told the kids, "I know! We can make a teeter-totter and see-saw". They thought that was a great idea, so we took the board and put it on the barrel and started to see-saw. They were laughing and having fun, which was a rare event ever since arriving in Yemen, and we were all having fun. But the board kept moving with the up-anddown motion, and it slid backwards toward the concrete wall of the fence that surrounds the house. Leaning up against the wall was one of those old, large satellite dishes, and the see-saw bumped it and knowcked it down. We all jumped off as it fell and ran to avoid getting hit by it. Whe it fell, it was loud, landing with a huge "BOOM!". The kids and I laughed. That lasted less than a minute, though, because Ahmed came running out of the house yelling, "What did you do? The neighbors can see you (over the ten-foot wall??)! HOW DARE YOU EMBARRASS ME! Don't come back here anymore! Get inside". And then he punished the kids.

His first thought was not, "What happened? Are you okay?" His first and only thought was, "How dare you embarrass me!" He didn't care that his kids were bored and had nothing to do. He could have cared less that they were having a few minutes that put smiles on their faces. The ONLY thing that mattered to him was whether or not strangers might think something bad about him.

So we learned early on that the only time we could spend time together doing things and trying to have fun was while he was at work. The remainder of the days were always very miserable, thanks to his anger and horrible attitude.

When he was at work on day, I told the kids, "I have a camcorder. I know - we can make a skit show like Saturday Night Live". They thought that was a great idea, and so they got to work. We decided to name it the SLAM how - using each one of our initials. Then they set about making up skits and practicing them. Then we filmed it, and they had a blast. Of course, everything had to be cleaned up and put away before Ahmed came home from work, so it took several days to get it finished, but we did it, he never knew about it, and they had fun. That's the important part - they had fun. Anyone who wants to view our show can see it on youtube, but it's private, so you'll have to email me so I can add you to the list to be able to see it.

By the end of May - 6 weeks after arriving, I could NOT stay there any longer. His violence against the kids was out of control, and we needed to leave. So once again, I begged for the tickets. This time, his argument for not giving me the tickets was that I had given up my apartment to go to Yemen, and I couldn't take the kids back without having a place to stay once I got back. I said we could stay with friends once we got back until we got another apartment, but he wouldn't accept that. He told me to go back by myself and get an apartment, then come back and get the kids. Reluctantly, I agreed.

I left Yemen on June 2, 2006 by myself to go home and get an apartment set up. Leaving my kids there killed me, but it was the only way I was going to get the tickets from him to bring them home. SO I came home, got a job, and got an apartment. Within a month, I emailed Ahmed, telling him I had the apartment, that I had a ticket to come back to Yemen on Aug. 9, and that the kids needed to be home before Aug. 28 because that's when school started.

He responded, saying "Why are you trying to take my kids away from me? These are my kids, and they will never leave Yemen. There are no more plane tickets. I cashed them in. The kids are staying here with me."

Now, mind you, before going to Yemen, he promised me over and over and over again that he would not try to keep the kids there. I have the emails where he says it over and over. And he said, "Even if I wanted to keep them here, my family wouldn't let me keep them against their will". I had believed him. I was so wrong.

I was so angry and fought with him every day until I arrived back in Yemen on Aug. 9. I did everything to try to convince him to honor his promise to us. My oldest daughter was so distraught. When he told her she couldn't ever leave Yemen, she sat and cried and was screaming this God-awful scream, a scream that I will never forget. It was this deep scream that wouldn't end that came from the depths of her soul. This is the little girl who refused to go to Yemen in the first place and who didn't want to go see her father. I had made her go. She was screaming and crying and telling him, "You can't make me stay here. I hate you! I hate it here! If you make me stay here, I swear to God I will kill myself! I'll be dead by morning, I promise you!" (she was 9 at the time, and she was serious).

Instead of recognizing her distress and trying to talk with her or express concern for her feelings and opinions, he simply walked over to her, hit her hard in the face, told her to "Shut up and stop crying" and then walked away and disappeared into the house. He couldn't care less what was best for the kids or what they wanted or anything.

The kids don't speak any Arabic, and there are no English-speaking schools in his city. He planned on sending them to an Arabic-speaking school, knowing that they wouldn't be able to understand anything anyone was saying. Also, the educational standards in Yemen are poor, and education is mostly focused on Islam and memorizing the Koran. It didn't matter to him that my kids had been excelling in school. The oldest was prepareing to enter the National Spelling Bee in America and had already spent months studying the words. She had made an invention and was prepared to enter the Toshiba inventors competition. The had girl scouts and friends and swimming lessons here, and nothing even available there. Most of all, they didn't want to be there. They wanted to come home.

He wouldn't listen to any of it, and he didn't care. The only thing that mattered to him was that he look like a respectable man in the comunity, and to him, that meant having kids and raising them to be "good Muslims". It didn't matter if they had a better life, a better education, or a better chances in America. Their needs and wants matter nothing to him. The only thing that matters is that people look up to him and think that he's "upper class" and that they respect him. And for him, like I said, having kids and making sure they can recite the Koran from memory is what makes him look respectable to other people.

Of course, he made them sit and memorize chapters from the Koran every single day. They didn't understand a word of it, since it's all in Arabic, but even when they asked him what it meant, he simply told them, "Just memorize it and say it when asked". His only concern was that they memorize it so he could show other people how his kids could recite the Koran inArabic, thereby making other people think what a great man he must be. He made them sit there and recite it for hours, and they'd cry and rebel, and he'd get angry and hit them and make them do what he wanted them to do.

I tried to come up with any solution whatsoever. My kids didn't want to be in Yemen, and frankly, I couldn't stand it there, either. I told him, "Just because you can't go back to the United States doesn't mean we can't go somewhere else. There are over 283 coutnries in this world. Let's move to a different country". We hadboth lived in Japan before and had friends there. We could move there. He has family in Canada and India. We could go there. We could move anywhere. He wouldn't hear of it. His answer was just "No. We're staying in Yemen", and then he'd walk away.

He went through my belongings while I was sleeping, and he took the kids' passports and destroyed them. I also found out that he had gone somewhere and gotten a travel ban on the kids. That meant that the kids were not allowed to leave Yemen without written permission from him. I didn't know about this until later, and I was so enraged that a man who doesn't even have custody of the kids can go and get a government document without anyone consulting the mother or even telling the mother about it. At this point, there was no way to get the kids out of Yemen.

Out of options, I decided to go back to the States and fight from there, thinking that I would have more options to get the kids home. But then I found out that he had put a travel ban on me, as well, and I was not allowed to leave Yemen. I'll talk about that in the next post...

After arriving in Yemen on April 12, 2006 and discovering that Ahmed was even meaner than he was before, I tried to stick it out. But after the end of the first week, I had had enough of him hitting, slapping, kicking, punching, pinching, andscreaming at my children. I believe that any mother who cares about her children could not stand by and watch what I watched him do to my children. After the end of the first week, I demanded that we leave Yemen and return to America.

Before I tell you how that conversation went, I first want to share some of what I saw and endured, but I understand that no words can describe the horrors that are now burned into my mind. But, I have to try. There were so many incidents, but I'll just share a few here.

Ahmed treated me badly, which didn't bother me too much because I went there so that he could see the kids and they could see him. He constantly blamed me for his time spent in jail. See, his original conviction was a conviction for domestic violence. When he was arrested in Oct. 2001 but the Dept of Homeland Security, the initial charge was that he was going to be deported because he had a DV conviction and a conviction for violating a protection order.

He had hit me so many times, starting right after we married, and I kept telling him that I would not tolerate being someone's punching bag. He didn't get it. I told him over and over and over again that, in AMERICA, it was against the law to hit a woman. He didn't understand or he didn't care, I don't know which. I left twice and went to battered women's shelters, but with no money, I had no place to go. The shelters permitted me to stay for 30 days, but the waiting list for housing assistance was 2 years long. After 30 days, I got kicked out, regardless of whether or not I had a place to go. Since I didn't have anywhere to go, I went back home to live with Ahmed.

One day in December 1998, however, we went to the mall to look at buying a treadmill since I had gained a lot of weight from my pregnancy with my second child, and I had my own money to be able to buy one. While we were in Sears, I chose the one I wanted. He didn't want to be there, and he was impatient and angry. When the salesman went into the back room to see if he had that one in stock, I saw another one with more features that was the same price. So when the salesman came back to the floor, I told him, "I think I'd like this one instead". He said he would have to go into the back and make sure they had it in stock. When he left, Ahmed freaked out. He grabbed me by my hair and said, "What's wrong with you? You already chose one. You're selfish, and you're bothering people and you're embarrassing me. We're leaving! You will NOT get a treadmill".

After countless fights with Ahmed, I had already learned not to fight back because it was always days of heartache with no chance of winning. So I just turned around and walked out of the mall and got into the car. He soon followed with the stroller and the two girls, and he put the girls in the back seat. He then got into the drivers seat, but wouldn't turn on the car. Instead, he started screaming in my face, telling me what a horrible woman I was, how selfish I was, how much I bothered people and embarassed him, how he couldn't take me anywhere, etc. He was screaming so loudly, and the girls were crying. Unfortunately, the girls had already seen too many episodes of his anger and knew that this was going to end up with him hitting their mother. My oldest daughter was always standing up against him to protect me, even though she KNEW that that would get her hit, as well. I wish to God I had found a way to leave and get away from him with my children early on, but I didn't. And this is how the story went.

I can't stand to hear my children cry, so I kept calm and just kept telling him, "Shut up, Ahmed". He continued his tantrum and his screaming. Several times I interjected and said, "Shut up Ahmed!". He got angrier and told me "How dare you speak to me like that? Do you know that, in India (his whole family is originally from India & Pakistan), women bow down and kiss their husband's feet every morning so they can remember their place? And you DARE speak to me like that?" After he continued on and on, I had had enough - the kids were hysterical now - and I screamed, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!".

That was it. He lost it. He grabbed my face with both hands and left 10 red welts down my face. He grabbed my coat and twisted it, trying to choke me with it around the neck. I grabbed the door handle, trying to get out of the car, but he pulled the twisted neck of my coat tighter, hit me in the face, then reached over to keep the door locked so I couldn't get out. I was losing my breath, and I struggled harder. I finally got the door open and fell out onto the pavement. I ran back into the mall.

I was breathing hard and crying, and I ran into a policeman standing near the front door of the mall. He stopped me and asked me what was wrong. I told him my husband had hit me. He told me to come back to his office, so I did. In the office, he asked me what had happened, and I told him. He said, "Do you want to press charges?" I said, "No. I just wish I cold find another place to stay". He said, "Well, there are red marks all over your face and neck, and I am required by law to press charges."

When Ahmed came back into the mall looking for me, the police found him and handcuffed him on the spot. They brought him back into the office where I was sitting, and he started yelling at me, telling me "What lies have you told them? I didn't do anything to you, you ungrateful bitch!". Because he was so angry and hostile, the police told him to be quiet and promptly removed him from the room and took him straight to jail.

I was horrified, because I felt so guilty. Looking back on it, I realize how stupid I was, but at the time, all I could think of was how much angrier he was going to be when he got out and how this might ruin his chances of finding his dream life in America, which was his main goal. So I took the girls and went home.

He called me from jail and was so very, very angry. He told me that he was going to make me pay for what I had done. He told me time and time again how he didn't do anything wrong and I was such a bitch to do this to him for no reason, etc. He told me to go talk to the judge and the prosecutor and "fix what you've done". I was scared, so I left the house and went to a shelter, because I didn't want to be there to take his wrath when he got out the next day.

After my 30 days were up at the shelter, I went back home, as I explained earlier. He told me to get the charges dropped. So I made an appointment with the prosecutor and went to see him and asked him to drop the charges. He refused. I then went and talked with the judge and asked the same thing. She refused. Court day came, and I stood beside him in front of the judge and tried to tell the judge that it was all a misunderstanding, and that he just didn't know better since he came from a country where that behavior is normal. They didn't buy it, and he was convicted and got a suspended sentence. It was over. Or so we thought.

So anyway, back to being in Yemen. Because I knew how mean he used to be, I was used to handling his anger and his violence. But what I couldn't handle was his anger and violence directed at my children - the same kids he hadn't seen in 4 years.

When he refused to honor any of the promises that he had made to my kids, my oldest daughter went to him one day and said, "You're supposed to be a man of your word. You lied". He could not tolerate his child speaking to him like that, and he quickly grabbed her and punched her down onto the ground. I went to grab her and get her away from him, but he picked her up by one arm and put her in the guest room. I followed. In the room, he shut the door so the rest of his family wouldn't see him (he only hits behind closed doors where no one can see what he does). When he was in jail, he spent 4 years lifting weights, and his biceps were HUGE. He had my daughter on the floor and was bent over top of her with both fists closed and was just pummeling her furiously with both fists. He was punching her so hard, the sound of those landed punches is completely indescribable. I jumped on his back to try to get him off of her. She was screaming, "I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!" at the top of her lungs with her eyes full of tears, but trying so hard not to let him see her cry. That made him angrier, and he hit her faster and harder. I feared he was going to kill her right then - right there. I jumped on his back and grabbed his neck, trying to pry him off of her, and he flipped around, grabbed me by the neck, and threw me against the far wall with the one hand grasping my neck. Ihit the wall and fell down, and he jumped up, grabbed me by the hair, opened the door and threw me out of the room, shut the door and locked it. Inside, I could hear those god-awful fists pounding my daughter and my daughter was screaming, "MAMA! MAMA! MAA-MAAAAH!" and I couldn't get to her. He had the door locked, and all I could do was stand outside the door and listen to my children get pummelled by a man who was 4 times her size, screaming for my help, while I coldn't help her. Let me just say this, NO CHILD SHOULD EVER HAVE TO GO THROUGH ANYTHING LIKE THIS! No child deserves that, and no mother could possibly stand by and let it happen.

He continued punching her in that room until he tired himself out. I don't know how long it took, but it seemed like an eternity. Then he opened the door and came out, but shut it behind him, leaving my daughter to sit in there and cry, uncomforted, all by herself. She kept trying to come out, and he'd step in and hit her some more and tell her to "STAY IN HERE BY YOURSELF AND THINK ABOUT HOW BAD YOU ARE!" He guarded the door so I couldn't get in to hold her and help her or see how badly she was hurt.

After it was all over, the rest of his family members came down to see what all the noise was about. I told them what he had done. He stood there, in front of them all, and said to them, "I swear by Allah that I never touched them. She's a liar". He told them my daughter was being bad and wouldn't let them go into the room to see my daughter. For some odd reason that I'll never understand, they never stand up to Ahmed. They all just obey him and treat him like he's a God. They purposefully try to just do what he ways and never make him angry. I know now that that's why he loves them so much and hates us. He needs total control and total awe and respect, and he cannot tolerate anyone who doesn't give that to him all the time. His family does that. In their eyes, Ahmed can do nothing wrong.

So this is the kicker - after Ahmed told them that he hadn't done anything, his brother said to me, "We know Ahmed would never hit anyone. You need to go away and calm down. Ahmed didn't do anything". I just stood there, totally stunned.

Incidences like this happened every day, all day, whenever he was home. I won't describe anymore, but there is one more incident which deserves mention.

Ahmed went to work every morning at 8 am, and he came home at 1 pm. While he was gone, my kids and I took the opportunity to play and have fun together, which was NOT allowed when he was home. One day, we were in the middle of a game of hide-and-seek when the front gate clicked, indicating that someone was coming home. My 5-year-old son was laughing and playing hard, enjoying the chance to play hide-and-seek when all of a sudden, he stood up and got the most horrified expression on his face. His eyes got as large as golfballs, and he stood there, just totally terror-stricken. I had not heard the gate click, because we were busy playing, but he had heard it. It was such a dramatic change - one second laughing and playing so excitedly, and the next minute, standing there looking as if he had just been stabbed.

I said, "What's wrong? What is it?" He was trembling, and he said, "Baba's home. I gotta go hide", and he immediately ran and hid under the bed. (Baba is Arabic for "dad"). I stood there in that moment and the full realization of Ahmed's behavior on my children hit me dead in the face. A precious, exuberant, lively, smart little 5-year-old boy, weighing only 30 pounds, was so terror-stricken by the thought of his father coming home. I knew what I had to do. I had to get my kids away from their father. I wasn't going to wait untilt he end of the summer, as we had planned to do.

I told Ahmed that we were going to take our return tickets and go home. That's when the real nightmare began....

After arriving in Yemen on April 12, 2006, our first day didn't go well because Ahmed showed me immediately that he was NOT, as he had claimed so many times, a changed man. He was not interested in seeing his children or spending time with them, after not having seen them in 4 years, and he was still, to my dismay, a violent man.

It was a long trip, however, and he had paid over $5000 for the round-trip plane tickets, so I decided to try to make the best of it, knowing that it would only be for the summer. We were supposed to go back home to the States before the kids started school in August.

The first week was a miserable one, because Ahmed was mean and cruel and abusive to me and the kids every single day. He demanded that the kids stay away from him and listen to his every command the first time he said it without ever speaking back to him. I had always encouraged my kids to express their feelings and opinions - the good and the bad, because I don't think it's healthy for kids to have to learn to bottle up their emotions or to only say those things which people want them to say. I've taught them respect, but I taught them that respect is a two-way street - respect is something you earn. I also spent years stressing the need to "be a man of your word", meaning, if you say you're gonig to do something, then you better do it. It's one of our mottoes.

None of the things I taught them prepared them for life in Yemen with their father. In his world, he was God. He wanted nothing more than respect and fear and total submission from anyone around him, demanding respect without giving any in return. He constantly made promises and said he would do things, but never fulfilled his promises. For example, he had promised to play with them, but after our arrival, he refused any type of such "frivolity". He wanted his kids to be "out of sight and out of mind". He said there were tons of toys at his house, but when we arrived, we discovered that there was not one single toy for them to play with, and he refused to spend ANY money on them for anything. We didn't bring many clothes, because he told them he would buy them all new clothes. After arriving, he claimed that he didn't have money to buy them clothes. He did make his sister, however, who is a doctor, to go buy them some clothes to wear.

That was a disaster. When shopping in America, I let my children choose what clothes they liked. In Yemen when they went clothes shopping with Ahmed and his sister, my children were excited to pick some clothes for themselves. However, he got angry, because, in his mind, kids are not allowed to have an opinion, and they were not allowed to choose what they wanted. They were ESPECIALLY not allowed to state their opinions or ask for something.

I soon found out why he told me not to bring any clothes to Yemen. In America, the girls wore shorts and dresses and short-sleeved shirts. In Yemen, he wanted them to be completely covered from head to foot - only long sleeves, long pants, etc. Yemen is a very, very hot place, especially for us Ohioans who are used to cold weather most of the year. Wearing heavy, long-sleeved shirts and pants in 100-degree weather is absurd, in my opinion. The kids definitely felt that way, too. That got them into trouble, as they protested against the clothes he picked out and were punished and hit for daring to speak to him as an equal. Each child only got two outfits, meaning their total wardrobe consisted of approximately 4 outfits total.

The living arrangements were also very hard to deal with. His house is a 3-story concrete box surrounded by a 10-foot concrete wall (because women aren't to be seen there). On the first floor, there are 3 bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small kitchen. Each bedroom is about 12 feet sqaure. One bedroom is occupied by his sister. The second bedroom is occupied by his father and his schizophrenic brother. The 5 of us shared the remaining bedroom, and all 5 of us were relegated to sleep in the one bed, which is smaller than the average twin-size bed in America.

I suppose they didn't want to buy the kids very many clothes because there was nowhere to store any clothes. There was one wardrobe in the bedroom that contains 5 small shelves. Each of us got one shelf to put all their clothes and belongings on. It is very cramped, and there is no privacy whatsoever. The second floor is inhabited by Ahmed's brother and his wife and chidlren, and the third floor is occupied by his other brother, his wife, and their 3 children. There are also two guest rooms on the first floor where they meet their guests - one for women and one for men. These two rooms were to be kept "spotless at all times", since guests could stop by at any time. As a result, there was no room for my kids to run around and play, and after being used to having their own rooms and their own space, the cramped quarters gave them no space to get away from their brother and sister, and their own tempers started to flare as a result.

Ahmed made it clear that we were not allowed to leave the house beyond the front gate, claiming that "They really hate Americans here and you are not safe". We became prisoners inside those 4 concrete walls surrounding his house, since he would never take the time to take us outside for a walk, except on rare occasions.

When we did go out, he made me wear the long, black robe that all the women are forced to wear, and the headscarf. I told him that I don't believe in wearing the scarf, in fact I am adamantly opposed to it and what it represents to me. We fought about that, but he would not let me leave without wearing the scarf and the heavy, black robe - which is very difficult when it's 100 degrees! Once again, he got what he wanted, as he always does. He never gives up until he gets people to do what he wants, when he wants it, and how he wants it done.

In the last post that tells my story, I told about how my husband had not seen his children in 4 years because he was incarcerated and how, after being deported, he begged me to bring the kids to see him, since he couldn't enter the United States anymore. I reluctantly agreed, and we left America to fly to Yemen on April 10, 2006.

As I was preparing for the trip, I could not find anyone who was willing to house the boxes of my belongings, and I couldn't afford to keep my apartment in Ohio while staying overseas. I didn't have enough money to rent a storage unit, so when I left with the kids to go visit their father, I walked out and left everything I owned behind in the apartment that I was losing. My pictures, my household items, and all the clothes that didn't fit into one suitcase were left behind. Since there was no one to keep them while I was gone, I had no choice. I did it because I felt bad for him - I'll call him Ahmed. I knew how I would feel if I hadn't been able to see my children for 4 years, and I felt really bad for him. I put his feelings above the feelings of my own daughter, who was dead-set against going to see him. I also felt that they needed to know who their father was, since they were too young to remember much about him when he was arrested and taken away to jail.

I was so wrong.

We arrived in his country on April 12, 2006. We went to his house and promptly fell asleep from the 2-day trip. The next day, the kids awoke with enthusiasm and high expectations, because he had made so many promises to them on the phone in the previous 6 months. He had promised my son that he would wrestle with him and teach him to play soccer. My son's favorite game was "horsey" - where I would get down on hands and knees, he would climb onto my back, and he would ride his "horsey" around the house, telling me where to go and what to do. Ahmed promised to play horsey with him, and he was too excited about that.

As we were preparing for the trip, Ahmed told me not to bring any clothes for the kids because he had money, and when we arrived, he would buy them all brand new clothes. My daughters were eager to go shopping and get some new clothes, as money had been very tight while he was in jail, and it had been a while since they had gotten any new clothes. He promised my oldest daughter a cell phone of her very own, and he told my middle daughter that he would get her the horse that she had been wanting for so long.

Enthusiasm soon turned to tears, however, all in the first day after our arrival. After the kids woke up on that first day and ate breakfast, they ran to Ahmed and wanted to play with him. He was sitting on his bed reading his Arabic newspaper, and he didn't want to be bothered. When they persisted in seeking his attention, he threw his newspaper across the room, grabbed my little 5-year-old boy and threw him off the bed and screamed, "Get away from me! I don't play anymore! Go away!".

I had always given attention to my children whenever they needed it, so they, of course, didn't understand that Ahmed wasn't joking. So, they persisted. They climbed back up on the bed and again asked to go play with him, asked for him to tickle them, and asked to go outside with him. Now he was enraged, because they didn't listen and go away immediately as he had instructed. He got more violent, and he hit each and every one of them and pushed them out of the room and shut the door.

They were stunned and hurt. They all cried. I yelled at him, asking him how he could treat them like that after not having seen them for FOUR YEARS! He could care less, however, and started blaming me for raising "his" children to be so disrespctful. He told me "Here, children listen to adults the first time, without ever talking back or saying a word. Children are not allowed to speak to adults, other than when asked a question or spoken to. You've made my children bad. No child should ever have to be told twice to go away".

He had missed the point. It wasn't about whether they know how listen to adults, it was about the fact that they wanted to be near him, and he responded with cruelness and violence. Their feelings didn't matter at all to him. The worst part was that he hit them. He had said on the phone for the previous 6 months, that he was a "changed man" and that he would not hit anymore. And now here we were - in his country, on the first day, and he hit them. I was irate. I knew immediately that I had made the wrong choice, and that I should not have brought them to his country to see him.

Next post: Life in Yemen

I went to get a haircut a few weeks ago, and the hairdresser was such a nice lady. We exchanged phone numbers, and she called me and asked if I would go to her church for a women's program on Fri. May 16. I'd like to get to know her better, so I accepted the invitation, even though I haven't stepped foot in a church in over 15 years.

I spent most of my life in a Southern Baptist church growing up. I was the church pianist, president of the youth group, Sunday School teacher, etc. But in early adulthood, I researched and studied the other religions, including Wicca and Hinduism, and I found more truth there. I abandoned the church. After my children were kidnapped, I prayed and prayed and prayed every minute of every day for two years. And of course, I've felt nothing, felt like God can't hear me, Felt like God is no longer a God of justice as the good books say, and basically, I am very tenuously hanging on to my belief that there is a God who cares about us here on earth.

I was leery about going to this church with her, but I went. It was interesting, because I was the only caucasian in the building. She's African American. I was amazed at how they sang and moved and clapped and shouted out whenever they felt the need. In my congregation growing up, the church was full of people over the age of 60 and basically, it was like walking into a tomb full of dead people. I hated it for years. The church I went to yesterday was so lively and LOUD and well, fun.

However, I lost control and kept crying uncontrollably. It happens to me every day, especially when I leave the house and venture into the world. See, everything reminds me of my kids. When I was sitting at the church yesterday, I looked around and saw all these mothers sitting there with their children. It reminds me how badly I want to be sitting next to my own children.

Then there was the music. In their father's world in the Middle East, music is BAD, and it is not permitted at all. The only audio they're ever allowed to listen to is the constant droning of men citing in the Koran. Any other music is out of the question. I want to sit and listen to the music and enjoy it with my kids. They LOVE music. Before they got taken, music was a huge part of our lives. I played the piano, we sang and danced together constantly.

Another aspect that made me so sad was that I actually enjoyed the service. And I feel horribly guilty about enjoying anything, because I want to enjoy things with them and to provide them with experiences where they feel happy and joy. Doing it alone reminds me even more of how they suffer each and every day. If I feel happy about something, I feel so guilty, because I have something that they don't, and that's unbearable to me.

I miss my kids. I can't navigate this world without them. I need to hold them and hug them and love them, and just be with them.

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.