I was convinced my life was over. My mother refused to tell people back home. I told her my story, and she published an article about it in a Pakistan newspaper. I was getting sick every morning. At first, I thought it was because of the move, the abrupt change in environment. At the award ceremony, a journalist introduced herself to me her daughter was in my class.
I knew my husband would never let me leave the house to earn money for tuition, so I resurrected my babysitting service, telling him I was earning money for the family. The offer came from a nice man who lived in Canada. I even ran a small catering business out of my apartment. I stopped getting my period right away. I was getting sick every morning. I wore a long red lehenga sari. I worked as a TA, a researcher with the City of Mississauga and a student mentor. Jill Mead for the Guardian Betrayed by her own family, isolated from the outside world and raped daily by her violent husband, one desperate teenager turned to a confidential helpline. Traffickers stripped victims naked, beat them, sexual molested them, thrust metal rods up their nostrils, shaved their hair and paraded them in front of other victims. That day in the coffee shop, I finally felt free. I wanted to tell the whole world. A year after I started counselling, I told him I wanted a divorce. My older daughter refused to see him, but my younger daughter visited him every other week. I was relieved not to be out on the streets. We lived in Ruwais, a small town in the United Arab Emirates, where my father worked in an oil plant and my mother was a teacher. My agency had been stripped away. You do not belong to yourself. That may translate to traffickers forcing victims to have sex with border patrol as bribery or to rape them when they so desire. The traffickers in this case also confiscated victims' travel documents and armed guards prevented victims from leaving the brothels. One day, I was at the U of T tuition office, and a woman overheard me lamenting my situation. If only my father could have seen this, I thought to myself. I walked on eggshells all the time. I even registered at a couple of shelters, expecting to be homeless. My daughter would make crafts or play with Play-Doh, and the parents would gather in a song circle with their children and recite nursery rhymes. We saw each other a few times, but never for long and usually with others around. My husband took my daughter and me there a couple of times. John Rothschild, chair of the selection committee and the CEO of Prime Restaurants, was on the other end of the line with a few other panellists.
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