‘No. It’s worked in Zeena’s favour really, because she could never have returned home if he’d been out on bail. A warrant has been issued for his and the uncle’s arrest. All the airports and ports have been alerted, so if they do try and return to this country they will be arrested and detained. The downside, of course, is that while they remain in Bangladesh we can’t prosecute them, unless the Bangladesh police hand them over, which is highly unlikely. I’ve also made it clear to Zeena’s mother that she must have nothing to do with the family of the uncle who abused Zeena, or the friends of her husband who are suspected to be involved in the abuse. Norma is still looking for those other men and when she finds them, if there’s enough evidence, they’ll be prosecuted.’
‘Good. I hope she finds them,’ I said. ‘You wonder how many other girls they’ve abused or are abusing now.’
‘Exactly, and Norma is doing all she can to identify them.’
‘Zeena has been through so much,’ I said. ‘I worry if she’ll ever be able to move on or if it will haunt her for ever.’
‘It’s going to take time,’ Tara said. ‘But I think Zeena has the strength of character and determination not to let it ruin her whole life. I’ve arranged for counselling to start as soon as she returns home. I’ll arrange psychotherapy if it’s necessary. Her school’s counsellor is good too and she’ll be keeping an eye on Zeena. I’m also arranging play therapy for Zeena’s brothers and sisters. They’ve witnessed a lot of violence at home and the eldest boy’s behaviour at school has given cause for concern. It was Zeena’s decision to return home, and if it doesn’t work out I’ll find a foster family where she can still see her siblings.’
‘Thank you for explaining all of this,’ I said. ‘It’s helped put my mind at rest.’
‘You’re welcome. Thanks again for all you did for Zeena.’
‘It was a pleasure. She’s a lovely girl.’
‘She is,’ Tara said.
We said goodbye, and as I returned the phone to its cradle I thought that, against all the odds, Zeena’s story now had a very good chance of having a happy ending.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
More than I Deserve
The following day, Edith, my long-time absent supervising social worker, telephoned.
‘Are you better now?’ I asked politely.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ve returned to work full time. Sorry I wasn’t around during your last placement, but I will be with this one.’ She then gave me the details of a young boy the social services were planning to bring into care. She said she would be in touch again once she had a date for the move, and we said a polite goodbye. She wasn’t like Jill, my previous supervising social worker, and it would take time for me to get used to her and her different way of working.
Zeena stayed in the refuge for another week while Tara completed all the checks. We spoke on the telephone every day, and if she phoned me I always called her back so she could save her phone credit for calling her friends, whom she was now allowed to contact again. She, Paula and Lucy texted each other a couple of times a day. Then on Monday the three of us received the same text message and Zeena’s excitement was palpable: In Tara’s car on my way home!!! Wish me luck. Luv xx
We all texted back a good luck message, and then Zeena texted us again that evening to say she’d arrived home safely and all was well. She then got into the habit of texting us once a day, and we always replied, even though her texts said very little: I’m fine, hope ur 2. Or: On my way 2school. Or: Lots of homework this wkend, etc.
School broke up for the long summer holiday and Paula started her job. Lucy had taken a week’s holiday earlier in the year and had booked another week off in October. I had the photographs of Zeena and us printed and I texted her asking if she would like me to put her copy in the post. She texted back: Lets wait until we c each other. Will b in touch xx.
Great. I’ll look 4ward to it xx, I texted back.
At the end of August Zeena telephoned and I called her back straight away to save her credit. We chatted about general things, and she asked after my family, and I did hers. Then she said, ‘Cathy, would you like to come to my house during the week for a cup of tea?’
‘Well, yes,’ I said, slightly taken aback. ‘Is your mother happy for me to come?’
‘Yes,’ Zeena said. ‘She’d like to meet you again.’
I was surprised her mother wanted to see me, but I was willing to go, so we arranged for me to visit at two o’clock on Wednesday. When I’d met Zeena’s mother briefly at the end of contact, when Zeena had seen her brothers and sisters at their school, she’d done her best to ignore me. She’d come across as weary but also severe, and with little time for her children, but then I guessed she must have changed or Zeena and her siblings wouldn’t still be there, and she wouldn’t be inviting me. There was no compulsion for me as a foster carer to go. I was going because I wanted to and Zeena had asked me.
I mentioned the invitation to Lucy and Paula and they were surprised too. They said they were going to meet up with Zeena when they were all free, but not at her house, probably at the leisure centre.
That Wednesday morning I was a little apprehensive about going, but I bought a bunch of flowers each for Zeena and her mother, and some sweets for the children. I chose a smart summer dress from my wardrobe to wear, with a light, matching cardigan and medium-heeled shoes, and then drove to Zeena’s house and parked in the road. It was a mid-terraced Victorian house where the front door opened directly onto the pavement. As I pressed the bell the little faces of her brothers and sisters appeared at the downstairs window, smiling and waving, and then tapping on the glass.
‘Cathy’s here!’ they cried unnecessarily, for the front door was already opening and Zeena appeared.
‘Hello, love,’ I said. ‘Great to see you.’
‘And you,’ she said, giving me a big hug.
The little ones appeared in the hall, excited by my arrival and eager to meet me again. Zeena closed the front door and introduced them to me one at a time. I passed her the gift bag.
‘Flowers for you and your mother,’ I said. ‘And some sweets for the children.’
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ the children chorused politely.
‘Come and meet my mother,’ Zeena said, taking my hand and drawing me into the front room.
Her mother sat upright in a chair in one corner of the room, dressed in a light-blue sari, which I took to be one of her best.
‘Mother, you remember Cathy,’ Zeena said, a little formally.
Her mother nodded and threw me a small, rather stiff smile. I wasn’t sure if I should go over and shake her hand, but she wasn’t making any move to do so, so I smiled and said, ‘Lovely to see you again.’
‘Cathy’s bought us some flowers,’ Zeena said, showing her mother the two bunches.
‘Thank you,’ she said to me.
The children were now clamouring around Zeena to have a sweet, and Zeena gave them a chocolate bar each.
‘We’ll save the rest for later,’ she said. Clearly used to doing as she told them, they accepted this.
Her mother now stood and said quietly, ‘I’ll make tea.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
She left the room, followed by the older children who went off to play. The youngest two, girls aged five and three, sat with us on the sofa. I glanced around the neat and brightly furnished room, which had the air of being kept for special occasions and was possibly only used when they had visitors. The red patterned sofa and two matching armchairs, while old-fashioned, looked brand new, and the glass-fronted display cabinet containing china ornaments, fancy vases and framed photographs of the children was polished. Dotted on the walls were brightly coloured print pictures and a large oval ornate mirror. It was welcoming in a formal sort of way. I took the photographs I’d brought with me from my handbag and passed them to Zeena.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and began going thr
ough them and showing them to her little sisters. It was strange sitting in Zeena’s home and seeing these photographs when she’d been so ‘at home’ with us, as I guessed it was for her and her sisters. They kept pointing and saying, ‘Is that you, Zee, when you lived with Cathy?’ When Zeena came to the last photo she thanked me again and we began chatting while the girls sat quietly watching us.
‘It’s been great having them all off school for the summer holidays,’ Zeena said, referring to her siblings. ‘But I’ll be ready when we go back in September. It’s a very important year for me, I need to do well.’ Zeena was referring to the GCSE examinations she would be taking at the end of the academic year, the results of which would determine if she could progress to sixth form, and then go to university.
‘Will you be able to study here in the evenings?’ I asked her.
‘Oh yes. Mother is doing a lot more now,’ Zeena said. ‘We share the housework and looking after the little ones.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘You’ll need proper study time.’
She then told me she was now divorced. Apparently, when Farhad heard that her father had fled England he realized there was little chance of him coming, so he telephoned Zeena’s mother and told her he wanted to divorce Zeena. She didn’t object and he divorced Zeena as Norma had predicted, by saying to her, ‘I divorce you,’ three times.
‘So that closes another door,’ I said.
‘Thankfully,’ Zeena said, with a small sigh. ‘I’m free of him, and if I ever marry again it will be for love, and not for a very long time.’
Her mother returned with the tea and a plate of biscuits nicely set out on a tray with a lace cloth. The delicate bone-china cups and saucers were decorated with little roses and matched the teapot, sugar bowl and milk jug.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘This does look nice.’
She smiled and then said to the girls, ‘Come.’ They followed her out.
‘Doesn’t your mother want to stay and join us?’ I asked Zeena.
‘No. She’ll see you again before you leave,’ she said, and poured the tea.
We continued talking as we drank the tea and ate the biscuits, which were delicious – Zeena and her sisters had made them that morning. She told me that Norma had taken her and Tracy-Ann – the other girl abused with Zeena – separately to find the houses that they had been taken to. Subsequently they’d identified two men who had been arrested and charged, although their court cases wouldn’t be for some months.
‘There were more,’ Zeena said. ‘But I don’t know where they live or who they were.’
‘Do you still see Tracy-Ann?’ I asked.
‘No. She moved away with her mother for a fresh start, but I feel I’ve got a fresh start here.’
Zeena seemed very positive and I admired her strength of character. An hour passed as we caught up on each other’s news, and the little ones were kept out of the front room so we could talk. Then I felt I should make a move to go.
‘I’m so pleased everything is working out for you,’ I said. ‘You’re doing fantastically well.’
‘Thank you,’ she said shyly. ‘But I couldn’t have done it without you.’
‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘I didn’t do much but feed and clothe you.’
‘You don’t realize how much you did do for me,’ she said, placing her hand on my arm. ‘I was nothing when I came to you. You showed me how to start believing in myself again. You and your family treated me with such kindness and respect that I slowly began to realize that if you all liked me, then I should too. Without knowing it you gave me the strength to face my past; you were the start of my recovery. I couldn’t have done it without you, Cathy. You saved my life.’
I couldn’t speak for the lump in my throat. She put her arms around me and we hugged each other for some moments. Then we stood and she saw me to the front door. Her mother appeared in the hall and, coming up to me, she looked me in the eyes with sincerity.
‘Thank you for the flowers,’ she said. ‘And thank you for looking after my daughter. Zeena has told me how kind you were to her. I’ve been a very wicked mother, but I am changing now. I am grateful that Zeena is willing to give me another chance.’
Her eyes welled and Zeena slipped her arm around her mother’s shoulders. ‘It’s past,’ Zeena said. ‘It’s the future that counts now.’
‘That’s right, the future is yours,’ I said. Then to her mother: ‘Look after Zeena well. She’s very special.’
‘I know,’ her mother said. ‘And far more than I deserve.’
As I said goodbye I saw a woman who appreciated just how close she’d come to losing her children, and an incredible daughter who was willing to forgive her mother and move on.
Epilogue
Deserves the Best
Zeena and her siblings stayed on the child-protection register (now called a child-protection plan) for nearly two years. Once Tara was satisfied that they were no longer in any danger, their names were removed and social services’ involvement ended, but Zeena’s counselling continued.
As a result of Zeena’s and Tracy-Ann’s testimonies, two men were successfully prosecuted and are both serving prison sentences. When they are released one will be deported and the other will be placed on the sex offenders register for life. Shockingly, both men were married and had children of their own.
Zeena passed the exams she needed with excellent grades and continued to sixth form. She is now at university, studying law. The police file remains open, and if her father and uncle ever return to England they will be arrested. If other abusers can be found they, too, will be prosecuted.
Thank you for allowing me to share Zeena’s story with you. She’s a lovely person with a very kind and gentle nature who deserves the best in life. I feel very privileged to have known her.
For the latest update on Zeena, please visit www.cathyglass.co.uk.
Contacts
If you have been affected by the issues in this book or know someone who has, here are some useful contacts:
If you are in immediate danger telephone the police: 999 (UK); 000 (Australia); 911 (USA and Canada)
UK Government Forced Marriage Unit: www.gov.uk/forced-marriage
Karma Nirvana: www.karmanirvana.org.uk. Supports victims of honour crimes and forced marriage.
Forced Marriage Net: www.forcedmarriage.net
Australian Federal Police support for victims of forced marriage: www.ag.gov.au/CrimeAndCorruption/HumanTrafficking/Pages/ForcedMarriage.aspx
Tahirih Justice Center: www.tahirih.org. US NGO supporting immigrant women and girls fleeing abuse.
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Chapter 1
It was a hodgepodge setup, that classroom, not unlike the rest of my life at the time. The room was huge, a cavernous old turn-of-the-century affair with a twelve-foot-high ceiling and magnificent large windows that looked out on absolutely nothing worth seeing: a brick wall and the chimney stack of the heating plant next door. A hefty chunk of the room had been partitioned off with gray steel industrial shelving units, used to store the school district’s staff library. The L-shaped area that was left, was mine. Windows ran the length of the wide, long arm of the L, where the chairs and worktable were; the narrow, shorter arm of the L contained the chalkboard on one wall and the door at the far end. It was an adequate amount of space; I had taught in considerably more cramped conditions, but it was a quirky arrangement. The blackboard was useless because it couldn’t be seen from the work area. And short of standing like a sentry at the junction of the two arms of the L, I could not monitor the door. Most eccentric, however, was the district’s decision to combine a classroom for disturbed children with a staff library.
This was to be the first official self-contained classroom in the district for E.D.—emotionally disturbed—children since the mainstreaming law had come into existence back in the seventies. I was
called a consultant resource person in my job description; the children were termed behaviorally disordered; and the classroom was known, on paper, only as The Center, but we’d come full circle. For me, walking back into the schoolroom that late August morning, having been gone from teaching almost six years, had provoked a sense of intense déjà vu. It seemed simultaneously as if I had been away forever and yet had never left at all.
I hadn’t meant to be teaching again. I’d been abroad for almost two years, working full time as a writer, and I intended to return to my life in Wales, to my stone cottage, my dog and my Scottish fiancé. But family matters had brought me home, and then I’d gotten embroiled in the interminable red tape involved with gaining a permanent British visa. Every conceivable problem cropped up, from lost bank records to closed consulates, and one month’s wait stretched out to three and then four, with no clear prospect of the visa’s arrival. Disconcerted and annoyed, I traveled among friends and family.
A friend of a friend rang me one afternoon. I’d never met her, but she’d heard of me, she said. And she’d heard about my problem. They had a problem of their own, it seemed, and she was wondering if maybe we couldn’t help one another out. One of their senior special education teachers had been taken unexpectedly and seriously ill. There were only ten days left before the beginning of the new school year, and they had no immediate recourse to another special education teacher. Would I be interested in some substitute teaching?
No, I’d said immediately. I was waiting for this stupid visa. If it came through, I wanted to be able to leave instantly. But the woman wasn’t easily put off. Think about it, she said. If my visa did come through early, I could leave. They could find another substitute, if necessary. But otherwise, it would be a good way to spend my time. Just think about it, she urged.
Still I’d said no, but by the time the Director of Special Education contacted me, I had mellowed to the idea. Okay, I said. Why not?