SHOCKING! How my mom took me overseas and forced me into being a teen bride (part 3)

This heartbreaking story reflects the a real life experience of fatherless girl who was married off to a strange man by her mother at 15.

In her heart wrenching story that will surely bring tears to your eyes, she narrates how her life was suddenly turned around as a teenagers and the things she went through as a young bride

If you are just joining the story, read the first part here and second part here.

After a moment of silence, he said, “Wow, this is a first. Hold for a moment.” He connected me to a man named Mohammed, who asked me for my parents’ names and address in the states.

I gave him all the proof I could think of that I was a US citizen. I didn’t know my social security number and didn’t have my passport.  He said that was okay, but he needed proof that I was actually married.   He asked for the marriage certificate.  I had no idea where it was.  Then he asked me for my husband’s last name, and I realized, I had no idea what that was either.

READ ALSO: Touching story of teenage girl forced into marriage

Mohammed told me he’d be in touch once he verified all my information.  He called me several times over the next two months.  During that time, I learned my husband’s last name, which was legally mine as well.

As I waited for news, I got lots of migraines.

On December 3^rd, Mohammed called with the number for a taxi service and the address of a hotel. He told me to be there the next morning at 11am.

The next morning, I waited for my husband to leave and shoved all of my belongings — including the traditional wedding gold my husband’s family gave me — into my suitcase and called the number.   That’s when I realized that I didn’t even know my address. I told the driver the name of the closest big store and then stayed on the phone with him, telling him when to turn right or left.  He still couldn’t find me, so I ran down to the main street to flag him down praying no one would see me.

I held my breath for the entire 30-minute ride to the hotel. There, in the parking lot, I spotted a blond woman sitting with a guy in a black van.

“Are you with the US embassy?” I asked.

They said yes, and then she patted me down, explaining it was for security purposes, to make sure I was not strapped with any bombs.

I said, “Do whatever you need to do!” I didn’t care — I was so close to freedom.

When they put me in the back seat, I pulled off my headscarf and fought back happy tears: There, with these two strangers, I felt safe for the first time in forever.

We went to the US Embassy in Jerusalem where I spent the day filling out paperwork in order to enter into the foster care system back in the States. I had no idea what that meant other than from this one cartoon show called Foster Home for Imaginary Friends, but agreeing to enter foster care wasn’t hard — at least it was a new start.

That night, a diplomat accompanied me to the airport with two bodyguards, and I was placed on a plane to Philadelphia.

On my next flight, I flew from Philadelphia to Chicago O’Hare and sat next to a 20-something guy on his way to his friend’s bachelor party who asked me how old I was.

I said, “15.”

He said, “You’re too young to be on a plane by yourself!”

If only he knew.

At O’Hare, I had twenty minutes to kill before I was supposed to meet two state officials in the food court, so I went to a computer terminal and logged onto Facebook.  I had two accounts at the time: one for friends and one for family. I wanted to see what my family was saying.

A three-page letter from my second oldest sister was the first thing I read.  She said she never wanted to see me again, that she hated me, and that if anyone asked her how many sisters she had, she’d say two instead of three.  I was devastated.

Then I read a group chat between my two sisters, my mom, and my mom’s sister.

It started, “Yasmine ran away.”  “What? Where?”  And then someone wrote, “She’s ruining our reputation!”  Not one of them wondered if I was okay.

My aunt asked if I had taken my gold. When my sister said yes, my aunt replied, “She could have gotten kidnapped or robbed!”

That was the only mention of concern for my wellbeing.

As painful as it was to read those words, it made me realize that I had made the right choice.

The people I then met in the airport food court introduced me to a woman from Illinois’ Child Protective Services, who took me under her wing.  It was 11am, 24 hours after I ran for my life into the streets of Ramallah to escape my forced marriage.

I first moved in with a woman who fostered several kids, and stayed there for six months.  It wasn’t ideal — she was very religious and made us go to her Baptist church with her on Saturday and Sunday.  But it was still better than what I’d left.  This was confirmed when I had to face my mother in court to establish that I should remain a ward of the state, which is what they call kids whose parents aren’t fit to take care of them.

The first court date was two weeks after I arrived.  When I saw my mom, I froze. She was sitting in the waiting room and refused to acknowledge me. She didn’t make eye contact; it was as if I didn’t exist.  I felt an awful mix of hurt and rage.

READ ALSO: Woman narrates touching true life story

A few months later, I had to testify in a courtroom.  My mom was there with her lawyer.  He showed photos from my wedding and said, “You look happy!  And your mom said that you wanted to be married.”

I had to explain to a room full of strangers that I was faking that smile to survive and that my mom knew the entire time that I didn’t want to marry that man.  On the stand, I said, “My mom is lying.”  That was so painful to have to say — I wept in front of everyone.  All the feelings I’d kept inside just poured out.

After that hearing, I officially became a ward of the state of Illinois.

By then, I’d already started ninth grade. I didn’t like my foster mom much.  I stopped going to church on the weekends, but she wouldn’t let me or my foster brother stay in the house alone so we were locked out until she got home every weekend and weekdays too. It was hard in the Chicago winter, but the agency didn’t think I was in immediate danger, so I stayed put.  Teens are hard to place.

By January 2014, at 16-years-old, I’d been in and out of three foster homes.  My strategy was just to survive foster care until I was 18, when I would finally be on my own. So when a couple called Carrie and Marvin came to meet me one weekend, I didn’t hold out any hope.

Carrie and Marvin had two biological teenagers, both with developmental delays.  They understood kids and were super warm, but it still took me a while to open up. I really wanted to make it to 18 living with them, but I never dreamed what actually happened next.

When I hit my one-year anniversary with them, they asked me if I wanted to be adopted. I was shocked! I figured I’d leave at 18 and just be on my own — I never thought there was an alternative.  But they told me that they wanted me around forever.  I cannot tell you how good that felt — to be wanted, by an actual family. I said yes.

No more waking up at 6am to someone saying, “Pack your bags — you’re out!” For the first time in my life, I could put things up in my room and it was okay.  It was the first time since being in that van with the people from the embassy that I felt safe.

I saw my mother one last time in court, at the final termination of parental rights.  Carrie had asked her for childhood photos of me, and amazingly, my mom handed them to me there.

It was a cold exchange.  She was expressionless.  At first, I was insulted. It all seemed so easy, her giving me up.  But it was really nice to get the photos.  She didn’t have to do that.

Now Carrie has them around the house.  It makes me feel like I’m really part of her family, like I’m her kid.

I finally reconnected on Facebook with my sister a few months ago, the one who’d said she hated me.  She admitted that she wished she’d had the nerve to do what I had done.  Now I understand why she was so upset:  I got away.  She didn’t.

READ ALSO: Girl burnt alive for refusing marriage proposal

I just graduated from high school — the first in my biological family to do so! In September, I’m going to Illinois State University and just learned that I won a full scholarship, which means my tuition will be waived for the next five years.  I plan to study mass communications, and may want to do something with computers, considering they are literally what saved me.

Regardless of what I end up doing for a living, the thing that makes me the most excited is that I get to choose — what I want to wear, who I want to date, or even marry, and ultimately, who I want to be.

THE END

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