(This is a true story. Last night someone phoned and asked me to write and share this story, so that she could add to the growing awareness of these issues. I have changed the names and locations in order to protect everyone involved)
Warning: Content extremely triggering
Her name is Tahlia. She is a teenage girl currently sat at Deborah’s humble dining table in a small home with wood plank floors and a thatched roof.
Today is like any other day here—hot, humid, and rainy with occasional thunder—except that today is also not like any other day.
Deborah leans back against a makeshift kitchen counter, one hand tucking her hair behind her ear, the other hand behind her back, shaking, as she tries to hide the horrified expression creeping across her face. Tahlia’s return and condition is beyond her ability to process for now.
The whites of Tahlia’s unblinking eyes are shadowed by a deep darkness; her curly hair gathers just above her brows in mismanaged braids; her arms hang slack at her sides. She is slumped forward as though she no longer inhabits her physical body and is merely floating above it connected by a fine, thin thread. Her mouth has remained opened as though stuck in a silent scream. And shockingly, she soils herself, seemingly to repel Deborah from coming any closer.
Tahlia was dumped at Deborah’s house just minutes ago by an unknown person from a village some distance away. Deborah’s heart is battling between compassion and anger: compassion for Tahlia’s plight, and anger towards the people who stripped her of her dignity, her childhood, her sense of self, and then (once she was of no more use to them), chose to discard her like a piece of trash.
Before reaching for the bucket of water, shower scoop and soap, Deborah pulls on plastic gloves, snapping them into place around her arms. Tahlia jumps.
“Shhh, it’s ok, Tahlia,” Deborah says gently as she lifts Tahlia’s shirt off to reveal more festering sores on her body, along with various other signs of long-term abuse. Deborah dry-heaves inwardly as the stench of the abuse and intense neglect assault her senses. But she won’t let Tahlia see this. She deserves to be treated right.
Tahlia’s compound traumas began when she was an infant—not more than fourteen months old. Her aunty, Triv, visited her and her parents one day and all was well until (while Tahlia’s parents weren’t watching), Triv kidnapped Tahlia and secreted her away to a village.
Triv had a lot of power in the village, and a lot of wealth for the area in which she lived. If there was ever to be a true mafia-type set-up in a village, Triv would surely have been the head of it. Deceitful, murderous, controlling, abusive; she existed as a soulless modern Jezebel-type figure.
Heart-sick and broken at their daughter’s kidnapping, Tahlia’s parents desperately tried to find her but could not. Her Aunt hid her. Villagers lied about her whereabouts. And when her parents finally reported her kidnapping to the police, because they were corrupt the police didn’t do anything to help.
After many intermittent searches spanning years, Tahlia’s parents eventually gave up hope of ever finding their daughter alive again.
During her time in the village, Triv sold Tahlia to adult men for money–another name for what Triv did, is human trafficking. The very people who should have been protecting Tahlia, treated her in the exact opposite manner, perpetrating s*xual abuse, r@pe, and multiple other forms of abuse against her. And then after each traumatic “meet-up”, Tahlia was dragged back to the lair of the woman who should have been nurturing her, but who instead, continuously gaslit and betrayed her. This was all Tahlia knew of life… that is, it ‘was’ all she knew of life.
When Tahlia was suddenly dumped on Deborah’s doorstep by someone from Triv’s village, Deborah was flooded with sudden emotion.
“Here is your lost niece,” they’d said. “Her Aunt used her to make money.” And then they’d left.
“Wait! What? Who are you—?” Deborah yelled out. No response. She turned back to the silent teenager now standing at her door. “Tahlia?” said Deborah gently. “Is that your name?”
The teenager nodded.
Deborah’s world tilted.
Deborah gently cleans Tahlia’s skin, ensuring she is slow and deliberate–no sudden movements. She has an obvious fever. Raised red blotches have either broken out or are in the process of breaking out on her body. It is most likely HIV AIDS and has obviously been attacking her immune system for some time. There is likely nothing more than can be done, but Deborah will take her to the hospital and have her tested. She will pay for Tahlia’s full treatment.
On occasion Tahlia flinches but Deborah reassures her: “You’re home now if you want to be, Tahlia.” Tahlia doesn’t respond. She can’t.
Deborah dresses Tahlia in some oversized clothing and then removes her gloves to phone my friend to arrange for new underwear and fresh clothing, as Tahlia has nothing to her name.
Tahlia’s death is probably not too far away. The enemy mostly fulfilled his plan for her life and stole, killed and destroyed, ‘but’ Deborah is determined that her long-kidnapped niece will experience nothing but kindness, love and dignity for the remaining chapter of her life.
Deborah’s love is patient. It is kind. It isn’t self-seeking and it looks for ways to intentionally reflect into Tahlia’s world that there is gold inside of her, and that she is safe now… she is covered.
**Photo by Khashayar Kouchpeydeh
