Dad is identified as OMAR JABAWI.
https://en-maktoob.news.yahoo.com/15-years-father-wife-beating-child-death-064135007.html
15 years for father and wife for beating child to death
Saudi Gazette – 14 hours ago
The General Court has sentenced a father and his second wife each to 15 years in prison and 1,500 lashes for abusing a child so much that he died, Al-Hayat reported.
A medical report showed the child died as a result of torture all over his body around two years ago.
The defendants told the court the child tripped and fell several times and tried to hang himself with a piece of cloth to imitate some cartoons he had seen on television.
They said they had to tie him up every night on the recommendation of a well-known sheikh because the child kept opening their apartment door to strangers at night.
Omar Jabawi and Rola Abu Shalhoob were arrested over two years ago in Riyadh following the medical report that put the causes of the child's death to bruises and contusions in the neck, face, chest, left shoulder, thighs, knees and left cheek.
The doctor said some of the injuries the child sustained were a few days old while some were older.
The main causes of his death were severe head traumas and contusions. Another report by the hospital proved the child sustained all these injuries because of torture.
Neighbors testified before the court that they heard the child crying many nights every night after 10 p.m.
The judge did not hand down a death sentence because there were insufficient conditions for such a verdict.
The child's biological mother, who was divorced and is Syrian, said her child moved in with his father seven months before his death and that she only saw him twice although she did not have a custody child certificate.
"My ex-husband and his second wife tortured my child and didn't let me see him," she said.
Fahd Al-Rokban, who taught the child at elementary school, said Abdullah's performance deteriorated after he moved with his father.
When asked why the school failed to spot the torture marks on Abdullah's body, he said most student counselors at schools are engaged in administrative work and do not perform any counseling duties.
Showing posts with label Syria. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Syria. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Jihadist dad abducts 18-month-old daughter, takes her to Syria (Lyon, France)
Seldom do we see the parallels between fathers rights and terrorism in such stark relief.
Daddy uses his religious "beliefs" to justify why he can terrorize/punish the mother and take her little girl away from her. Meanwhile, this nitwit is playing out his violent fantasies with no concern for the safety or well-being of his daughter by dragging her into a war zone.
Kind of hard to do potty training while blowing up stuff. So you can just about bet he dumped this child with somebody else and/or he's simply neglecting her. That's assuming he's not taking out his violent women hating on the child....
But for all these guys it's always about hurting the mother. It's never about loving the child.
Dad is identified as HAMZA MADHOUJ.
http://www.france24.com/en/20140410-france-syria-jihadist-baby-assia-nosra-war/
French jihadist defends decision to take his baby to war-torn Syria
FRANCE 24
Text by FRANCE 24
Latest update : 2014-04-10
The French father of 2-year-old Assia has denied kidnapping charges after he took the girl to Syria and joined an armed rebel group linked to al Qaeda, saying he has acted in accordance with Islamic law. His ex-wife is suing for custody.
In a telephone interview with FRANCE 24's sister station Radio France Internationale (RFI) on Wednesday, Hamza Madhouj said his decision to move to Syria with his daughter was not a kidnapping. “Assia is not a hostage. I took my daughter with me, that’s completely different,” he said.
On October 24, 2013, Madhouj left his home in Lyon with his 18-month-old daughter. He drove through Italy, Greece and Turkey and joined Jabhat al-Nusra, a Syrian armed group affiliated with al-Qaeda.
Madhouj’s ex-wife Meriem Rhaiem has not seen their daughter since then. Rhaiem is suing Madhouj for kidnapping and he is now on Interpol’s wanted list.
“In our religion, there’s a command called hijra – it's an obligation for all Muslims not to live in a non-Muslim country. Her mother refused to follow us,” Madhouj argues.
Rhaiem and other parents of French children taken to Syria by relatives held a press conference on Wednesday, calling on the government to help bring them back.
“Is someone looking after her?”
“The questions I have to live with every day are what is she drinking, what is she eating, is she keeping clean, is someone looking after her?” she told FRANCE 24 in an interview prior to the press conference. “I'm living in constant anxiety – in my struggle, every second counts.”
Rhaiem says her ex-husband told her he would rather see their daughter die in Syria than return to France.
Madhouj insists he is taking care of his daughter. “I never said I would rather my daughter died in Syria. I never said that, it’s not true,” he told RFI.
He added that they were near the Turkish border, away from the worst of the fighting. “She eats like every child and sleeps like every child. We are not in a war zone, there are no bombings, I’m not crazy enough to take my daughter into a war zone,” he said.
Daddy uses his religious "beliefs" to justify why he can terrorize/punish the mother and take her little girl away from her. Meanwhile, this nitwit is playing out his violent fantasies with no concern for the safety or well-being of his daughter by dragging her into a war zone.
Kind of hard to do potty training while blowing up stuff. So you can just about bet he dumped this child with somebody else and/or he's simply neglecting her. That's assuming he's not taking out his violent women hating on the child....
But for all these guys it's always about hurting the mother. It's never about loving the child.
Dad is identified as HAMZA MADHOUJ.
http://www.france24.com/en/20140410-france-syria-jihadist-baby-assia-nosra-war/
French jihadist defends decision to take his baby to war-torn Syria
FRANCE 24
Text by FRANCE 24
Latest update : 2014-04-10
The French father of 2-year-old Assia has denied kidnapping charges after he took the girl to Syria and joined an armed rebel group linked to al Qaeda, saying he has acted in accordance with Islamic law. His ex-wife is suing for custody.
In a telephone interview with FRANCE 24's sister station Radio France Internationale (RFI) on Wednesday, Hamza Madhouj said his decision to move to Syria with his daughter was not a kidnapping. “Assia is not a hostage. I took my daughter with me, that’s completely different,” he said.
On October 24, 2013, Madhouj left his home in Lyon with his 18-month-old daughter. He drove through Italy, Greece and Turkey and joined Jabhat al-Nusra, a Syrian armed group affiliated with al-Qaeda.
Madhouj’s ex-wife Meriem Rhaiem has not seen their daughter since then. Rhaiem is suing Madhouj for kidnapping and he is now on Interpol’s wanted list.
“In our religion, there’s a command called hijra – it's an obligation for all Muslims not to live in a non-Muslim country. Her mother refused to follow us,” Madhouj argues.
Rhaiem and other parents of French children taken to Syria by relatives held a press conference on Wednesday, calling on the government to help bring them back.
“Is someone looking after her?”
“The questions I have to live with every day are what is she drinking, what is she eating, is she keeping clean, is someone looking after her?” she told FRANCE 24 in an interview prior to the press conference. “I'm living in constant anxiety – in my struggle, every second counts.”
Rhaiem says her ex-husband told her he would rather see their daughter die in Syria than return to France.
Madhouj insists he is taking care of his daughter. “I never said I would rather my daughter died in Syria. I never said that, it’s not true,” he told RFI.
He added that they were near the Turkish border, away from the worst of the fighting. “She eats like every child and sleeps like every child. We are not in a war zone, there are no bombings, I’m not crazy enough to take my daughter into a war zone,” he said.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Mom brings home daughter abducted by violent dad (Limassol, Cyprus)
Sounds like an amazing book. Unfortunately, this kind of story is not as rare as we would hope....
For all the whining that the fathers rights do about Japan (which actually attempts to protect mothers), most of the world is more like the Middle East in its protection of violent criminal fathers and their ownership "rights" over women and children.
Dad is identified only as MOSTAFA.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2156850/Louise-Monaghan-book-A-mothers-journey-Syria-rescue-daughter-abducted-violent-husband.html?ito=feeds-newsxml
'They said I'd be stoned to death... but I still walked into a war zone to snatch back my little girl': One mother's journey to Syria to bring home the daughter abducted by her violent ex-husband
By Louise Monaghan
PUBLISHED: 16:24 EST, 9 June 2012 | UPDATED: 16:24 EST, 9 June 2012
Wednesday, September 7, 2011 is a day I will never forget. That day shattered the idyllic life I had been living for nearly six years in the resort of Limassol in Cyprus.
It started out like any other: there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. My six-year-old daughter, May, was excited because she was due to start ‘big school’ the following day.
Her white polo shirt, navy skirt and new shoes were placed on her bed. The previous night, her father had called to say he would take her to the beach in the morning. Mostafa, whom I had divorced a year earlier, had been given access to our daughter for a few hours each week.
When he arrived, he was quieter than usual, following me around the rooms as I sorted May’s clothes for the beach. He was watching my every move, and it worried me. Later, as I sat at work still feeling uneasy, I dialled his number. His phone was off – something wasn’t right. I drove to the beach where he’d said they would be. They weren’t there. Then and there I knew. He had taken May away from me.
In a blind panic, I rang my sister Mandy in Dublin. ‘He’s taken her, she’s gone,’ I said. I kept ringing Mostafa’s mobile. Nothing.
At first the local police were of little help. I had been to the station many times before, reporting Mostafa over assaults, so I knew only too well what reception I would face: they told me to calm down.
Again, I tried Mostafa’s phone. I was shocked when it rang but sickened when I realised it was an international dialling tone. He answered and I felt my stomach churn. ‘Oh my God, Mostafa, I’ve been ringing you all day. Where are you?’
He replied calmly: ‘I am in Syria. I am taking May to Syria.’ I asked him if I could speak to her. I didn’t want to upset her, so I stayed calm. She said she was fine, but she sounded distressed. I asked her if she had been on an aeroplane and she replied: ‘Yes, Mama, I have.’
I cracked. My body collapsed from beneath me. The next thing I remember is waking up in hospital, panicking. I knew I had to leave urgently, so I signed myself out without treatment, feeling awful. I had been sick for a long time, and it had been recently confirmed that I had osteoarthritis. I needed both my hips replaced urgently and the doctors had found two large cysts on my hips that they suspected might be cancerous.
Mostafa didn’t seem concerned as I relayed my fears to him on the phone.
He said simply: ‘I am sorry, but you left me no choice. She was to start school tomorrow and you knew that I didn’t want her to go there.’
The reason for abducting May became clear. She was due to start school, and it wasn’t a Muslim one. The hypocrisy. Mostafa seldom went to mosque, yet here he was pretending to be devout. This was why he was turning mine and May’s world upside down.
People ask me all the time: ‘What did you see in him?’ Well, it wasn’t just what I saw in Mostafa; it’s what every woman who met him saw in him. In a good mood, he was absolutely charming. With a strong jaw line, rugged features, big brown eyes and beautiful black hair, he was a good-looking guy with a commanding presence. I suppose his charm was, despite the bad times, what kept me going back to him.
There was nothing charming about him now. If I ever wanted to see my little girl again, he said, I was to sell everything I owned. He ordered me to clear my bank account and bring him whatever money I had, so that we could live in a slum in Syria.
Somehow, I managed to keep him calm. I didn’t want him to worry that I might have reported him to the authorities. I told him I wanted to get there as soon as possible to be with May. He knew only too well that my life revolved around her, yet he still underestimated me. He hadn’t realised I would risk my life to get her back.
One of my aunts had contacts in Turkey, which borders Syria. She said a group of Turks might be able to snatch May from Mostafa’s house and bring her back across the border.
I knew they would be illegal people-smugglers, but I was ready to give every last cent I had. I had foolishly put my trust in the Cypriot authorities – which had been warned about the threat of abduction – and they had let me down.
I dialled the Turkish number. A man answered and when I told him what had happened, he said: ‘I will get some men over there and we will snatch her back for you.’
But I wanted a Plan B, too. I decided to head for Turkey – at least I would be nearer Syria. Mandy agreed to join me, so together we flew from Ercan airport in the occupied north of Cyprus to Adana, about 160 miles away from the Syrian border.
The next morning we took a taxi to the town of Hamam in Hatay province. I was less than 40 miles away from the border between civilisation and war. It felt like the dividing line between life and death. Without my little girl I might as well have been dead.
I contacted our Turkish ‘friend’ to tell him I was only a few miles from the Syrian border and that I would wait there until he returned with May. But he started to make excuses, saying the escape plan was proving difficult.
Mandy and I were worried. We decided I should ring Mostafa and tell him where I was. He sounded frantic and asked where I was. When I told him, he said: ‘You are only half-an-hour away from me.’
After warning me not to do ‘anything funny’ or he would flee with May, he finally agreed to a plan: I was to join him and our daughter. I wanted to scream but I had to stay calm. I had to play the game.
As I put the phone down, I looked at my sister and knew she was thinking the same thing: we might never see each other again. I was walking into a war zone, to an ex-husband who had beaten me many times over many years. But if I didn’t go, what then? May would be married off, probably to a cousin, at 14 and she would always think her Mama had abandoned her.
So I set off in a taxi. As we neared the border, I could see a refugee camp with hundreds of white tents filled with Syrians who had been caught trying to sneak into Turkey. It was heartbreaking to look at the children in their bare feet on the dirty, sandy gravel.
Up ahead I could see lorries and cars queuing at the checkpoint. My driver told me he could take me no further. He charged me €100 for a journey that took just 30 minutes.
At the border, I handed my passport to a guard. In English, he asked me where I was going. When I said Syria, he replied: ‘No, you’re not. Do you know what is happening there?’ I said yes, but that I had to go.
He said: ‘I can’t let you in, I’m sorry.’ I took out my purse and offered him money, yet he refused to budge. I then told him my ex-husband had taken my baby and that I needed to save her. With that, he took me to an outbuilding where three men were checking documents. As they all stared at me and my Irish passport, one man made a call. When he put the phone down, he handed the passport back to the man I now call my ‘angel’. It was stamped.
'He wanted me to sell everything I owned and live in a slum in Syria..'I climbed into Mostafa’s car – a maroon Kia – and asked him how May was. From the back seat he plucked a black hijab and a long black dress, threw them at me and said: ‘Put this on. This is what you will be wearing now.’
We drove through filthy streets until we eventually arrived in Idlib, near Aleppo in north-west Syria, Mostafa’s home city. I was hit with the strong smell of sewage. Rubbish and old clothing were strewn everywhere. It was the dirtiest place I had seen in my life. Men drove along in the dark on donkeys, whipping them as they struggled. I told Mostafa that I had seen what Idlib was like on the news because of the violence. He blamed it on media hype.
He pulled in opposite what looked like a fruit-and-vegetable shop and told me to wait. I pulled the scarf over my face to block the stench. Within minutes, there was a deafening noise and in the rear-view mirror I saw what looked like a 1,000 protesters, mostly men, waving flags and carrying a makeshift coffin.
I locked the doors. Women were grabbing their children and running. The car began to rock violently – for a brief moment, I thought it was going to be turned over, but after a few minutes, the crowd disappeared around the corner chanting: ‘Death to the president, death to the president.’
We then drove through army checkpoints and arrived at Mostafa’s village, Nairab.
One of the first things to strike me were the green lights on the top of three buildings – mosques. This was clearly a very Muslim area and home, perhaps, to extreme fundamentalists. The village looked like a compound, the tall walls covered in graffiti, but it was only afterwards that I learned how dangerous it was. The Syrian army shot people on the streets most days for protesting.
Mostafa’s house did, at least, look habitable. He had been sending money home when he was working in construction in Cyprus. He ushered me in – obviously no one was meant to see me.
I was elated to be reunited with my little girl. Yet as the door opened and she walked through, it took me a moment to recognise her. May’s long brown hair was tightly plaited and she was wearing a cheap pair of black trousers and red Arabic clogs. Her black and white top had cheap lace around the neck and sleeves. It was typical Arab village clothing.
She clearly didn’t know what to say. She looked nervously at her father before saying: ‘Mama, look. I told you I would mind my Nintendo for you. I kept it safe.’
I felt like bursting into tears. She treasured her game console and it had obviously been her lifesaver in this hellhole. She sat on my lap and Mostafa left the room. As soon as he was gone, we started to kiss and hug. May looked around and she whispered: ‘Mama, I’m really worried. I was meant to start school.’
I replied: ‘Don’t worry, love. I rang the school and I told them that you were on holiday.’
May relaxed. She told me how her father had told her they were going to a new shopping centre to buy a Barbie. She believed him. In fact, it was an airport, not a mall. He bought her a doll in the duty-free shop, but when she went outside she saw the aircraft and began to cry.
She told him that she didn’t want to go on a plane, that her Mama had said she was never to get on a plane without her. But he beat her repeatedly until she got on the flight, sobbing.
I didn’t know what to say except to tell her over and again how much I loved her and that nothing like that would ever happen to her again.
That night, we cuddled up and May fell asleep in my arms. I remember lying there, terrified to hear gunshots outside the window. It was a different, frightening world.
We had a chance to escape. I grabbed May and yelled 'Hang on and be brave'
I learned very quickly to be nice to my ex-husband. I had no rights. At any stage he could have beaten me to death and claimed I had been unfaithful. Thankfully, Mandy managed to keep the story from the British press and foreign TV stations, knowing Mostafa was volatile.
We lived on yogurt and rice, and when Mostafa’s cupboards were empty, his mother sent food. I wasn’t allowed to leave the house.
Every day I would struggle to look through the windows to the outside world, but there were bars and wire mesh on every window.
The lavatory – a hole in the ground – was horrible. Instead of toilet roll, there was a hosepipe coming out of the wall. The smell was horrendous, and the lavatory was right next to the kitchen.
When I turned on the kitchen tap, filthy brown water poured out. There was no way I would drink that, even if it was boiled.
I remember bursting into tears. I told Mostafa that I had spent all day listening to bombs exploding and gunfire and I was terrified. A huge row erupted, and I flung a chair across the room in fury and frustration. For the first time since I had met him, he just stood there and accepted it.
‘What’s done is done,’ he said. ‘I can’t change it. May will never leave Syria – never, ever – so get that into your head.’
I prayed the people-smugglers would come.
There was no fresh air in the house because he was so determined to keep me a prisoner. When I objected, he screamed at me, saying I wasn’t in Cyprus now, and he dragged me into the bathroom and punched me repeatedly.
I fell but he continued to beat me, hitting the back of my head and punching me in the side. May was watching from her bedroom and screaming: ‘I want my Mama, I want my Mama.’ Mostafa simply shoved me and said: ‘Die, you bitch.’
The next day, I rang Mandy and the first thing I said to her was: ‘Happy birthday, Sis.’ Her birthday was still important to me and May, I told her. I explained that I was hoping Mostafa would extend my visa for another 15 days – I had told him that if he let me stay longer, I would ensure that he was financially comfortable until I returned.
Mandy’s voice became very serious. She said: ‘Louise, no one’s coming for you. The Turkish guys have gone AWOL and it looks like the government has no powers to do anything. It’s just too dangerous. I hate to say this, but you are on your own.’
At this stage I was unaware that Mandy had paid the Turks €5,000 to get us out and they had absconded.
I heard Mostafa’s car pulling up. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘We are going into Idlib for your visa.’
We found a parking space some 300 yards away from the immigration office, he gathered the paperwork and got out of the car. I couldn’t believe Mostafa was leaving us on our own. As he walked away, he suddenly turned back and said: ‘I will leave the keys in the ignition and the car running as it is so hot. It will keep the air-conditioning on.’
Once he was out of sight, I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Mandy, saying: ‘I have a chance to run. No passport.’
A text came back immediately: ‘F*** it. Run.’
I turned to May and said: ‘May. We are going. Please hang on and be brave.’
We ran towards a taxi rank where three or four yellow cabs were waiting. I chose one driven by a man in his 50s with a kind face. I rang a contact in Cyprus and asked her to get someone who spoke Arabic. I told her our lives were at risk.
Within a minute someone called back. His name was Tariq. After a conversation with the cab driver on my phone, Tariq said: ‘You are in luck, Louise. This man will take you all the way to Damascus. But it is a five-and-a-half-hour drive and it is very dangerous.’
I didn’t know what exactly we would do once we reached the Syrian capital, but I was hoping he would take us straight to the Irish consulate.
We drove on dirt roads through areas I had never heard of – and some I had, including Hama and Homs, where people were being killed every day. I made sure that my hijab covered every hair on my head and that I made no eye contact.
After a few hours, we started to see signs for Damascus. One of them said it was 108km (67 miles) away. It might as well have said a million. May and I spoke to each other in whispers and said the Hail Mary together.
We came to yet another checkpoint. There were many soldiers, this time heavily armed. Some were clearly special forces, dressed in shirts and jeans. They were checking every single vehicle and making each car approach very slowly in single file. As we got closer, I could see a soldier staring in at me and May in the back of the car but he casually waved us on.
I saw the driver look in his rear-view mirror and smile. I knew this poor man could have lost everything, perhaps even his life, if he had been caught.
But just a few yards past the checkpoint, with mountains all around us, the car started to choke, smoke coming from the engine. I couldn’t believe it. I kept saying to the driver: ‘Yalla, yalla, yalla [move, move, move].’A soldier started to follow. But miraculously, we rolled away from him around a corner. And then the car just stopped. Dead.
There was a look of horror on the poor taxi driver’s face. In Arabic he just said: ‘Khalas [finished],’ and threw his hands up into the air. We were doomed.
The driver made some calls and a short while afterwards another taxi pulled in. Its driver attached a rope to our vehicle and started to tow us through this mountain range, a weird area covered in sand, with nothing else around – no birds, no animals of any sort, no noise – until, miles later, we could exchange cars.
Finally we arrived at a huge street with garages everywhere and shops selling spare parts. Damascus. We were safe. Our taxi driver opened our door and in Arabic said: ‘May God bless you and your beautiful daughter.’
I wanted to cry. I owe that man our lives.
The days went by in the safe house organised by Tariq. The Irish embassy was trying to locate the travel documents we needed to get us out of Syria, but without success. Then Mandy rang. She said: ‘Louise, I don’t know how to tell you this. This is the hardest phone call I have ever had to make.’ My heart missed a beat.
‘The Syrian government says you are wanted for kidnapping May,’ she continued. I felt weak. She went on to say that this was an extremely serious charge – if I was caught I would be imprisoned for life or stoned to death under sharia law. I didn’t know what to say. I had no words.
‘You are in severe danger,’ said Mandy. ‘Do not leave the apartment. This is very serious, Louise. Your lives are at risk.’
NEXT WEEK: Our terrifying journey across the mountains
Stolen: Escape From Syria, by Louise Monaghan, is published by Mainstream on Thursday, priced £12.99. To order your copy at the special price of £10.99 inc p&p call the Review Bookstore on 0843 382 1111 or visit mailshop.co.uk/books
For all the whining that the fathers rights do about Japan (which actually attempts to protect mothers), most of the world is more like the Middle East in its protection of violent criminal fathers and their ownership "rights" over women and children.
Dad is identified only as MOSTAFA.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2156850/Louise-Monaghan-book-A-mothers-journey-Syria-rescue-daughter-abducted-violent-husband.html?ito=feeds-newsxml
'They said I'd be stoned to death... but I still walked into a war zone to snatch back my little girl': One mother's journey to Syria to bring home the daughter abducted by her violent ex-husband
By Louise Monaghan
PUBLISHED: 16:24 EST, 9 June 2012 | UPDATED: 16:24 EST, 9 June 2012
Wednesday, September 7, 2011 is a day I will never forget. That day shattered the idyllic life I had been living for nearly six years in the resort of Limassol in Cyprus.
It started out like any other: there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. My six-year-old daughter, May, was excited because she was due to start ‘big school’ the following day.
Her white polo shirt, navy skirt and new shoes were placed on her bed. The previous night, her father had called to say he would take her to the beach in the morning. Mostafa, whom I had divorced a year earlier, had been given access to our daughter for a few hours each week.
When he arrived, he was quieter than usual, following me around the rooms as I sorted May’s clothes for the beach. He was watching my every move, and it worried me. Later, as I sat at work still feeling uneasy, I dialled his number. His phone was off – something wasn’t right. I drove to the beach where he’d said they would be. They weren’t there. Then and there I knew. He had taken May away from me.
In a blind panic, I rang my sister Mandy in Dublin. ‘He’s taken her, she’s gone,’ I said. I kept ringing Mostafa’s mobile. Nothing.
At first the local police were of little help. I had been to the station many times before, reporting Mostafa over assaults, so I knew only too well what reception I would face: they told me to calm down.
Again, I tried Mostafa’s phone. I was shocked when it rang but sickened when I realised it was an international dialling tone. He answered and I felt my stomach churn. ‘Oh my God, Mostafa, I’ve been ringing you all day. Where are you?’
He replied calmly: ‘I am in Syria. I am taking May to Syria.’ I asked him if I could speak to her. I didn’t want to upset her, so I stayed calm. She said she was fine, but she sounded distressed. I asked her if she had been on an aeroplane and she replied: ‘Yes, Mama, I have.’
I cracked. My body collapsed from beneath me. The next thing I remember is waking up in hospital, panicking. I knew I had to leave urgently, so I signed myself out without treatment, feeling awful. I had been sick for a long time, and it had been recently confirmed that I had osteoarthritis. I needed both my hips replaced urgently and the doctors had found two large cysts on my hips that they suspected might be cancerous.
Mostafa didn’t seem concerned as I relayed my fears to him on the phone.
He said simply: ‘I am sorry, but you left me no choice. She was to start school tomorrow and you knew that I didn’t want her to go there.’
The reason for abducting May became clear. She was due to start school, and it wasn’t a Muslim one. The hypocrisy. Mostafa seldom went to mosque, yet here he was pretending to be devout. This was why he was turning mine and May’s world upside down.
People ask me all the time: ‘What did you see in him?’ Well, it wasn’t just what I saw in Mostafa; it’s what every woman who met him saw in him. In a good mood, he was absolutely charming. With a strong jaw line, rugged features, big brown eyes and beautiful black hair, he was a good-looking guy with a commanding presence. I suppose his charm was, despite the bad times, what kept me going back to him.
There was nothing charming about him now. If I ever wanted to see my little girl again, he said, I was to sell everything I owned. He ordered me to clear my bank account and bring him whatever money I had, so that we could live in a slum in Syria.
Somehow, I managed to keep him calm. I didn’t want him to worry that I might have reported him to the authorities. I told him I wanted to get there as soon as possible to be with May. He knew only too well that my life revolved around her, yet he still underestimated me. He hadn’t realised I would risk my life to get her back.
One of my aunts had contacts in Turkey, which borders Syria. She said a group of Turks might be able to snatch May from Mostafa’s house and bring her back across the border.
I knew they would be illegal people-smugglers, but I was ready to give every last cent I had. I had foolishly put my trust in the Cypriot authorities – which had been warned about the threat of abduction – and they had let me down.
I dialled the Turkish number. A man answered and when I told him what had happened, he said: ‘I will get some men over there and we will snatch her back for you.’
But I wanted a Plan B, too. I decided to head for Turkey – at least I would be nearer Syria. Mandy agreed to join me, so together we flew from Ercan airport in the occupied north of Cyprus to Adana, about 160 miles away from the Syrian border.
The next morning we took a taxi to the town of Hamam in Hatay province. I was less than 40 miles away from the border between civilisation and war. It felt like the dividing line between life and death. Without my little girl I might as well have been dead.
I contacted our Turkish ‘friend’ to tell him I was only a few miles from the Syrian border and that I would wait there until he returned with May. But he started to make excuses, saying the escape plan was proving difficult.
Mandy and I were worried. We decided I should ring Mostafa and tell him where I was. He sounded frantic and asked where I was. When I told him, he said: ‘You are only half-an-hour away from me.’
After warning me not to do ‘anything funny’ or he would flee with May, he finally agreed to a plan: I was to join him and our daughter. I wanted to scream but I had to stay calm. I had to play the game.
As I put the phone down, I looked at my sister and knew she was thinking the same thing: we might never see each other again. I was walking into a war zone, to an ex-husband who had beaten me many times over many years. But if I didn’t go, what then? May would be married off, probably to a cousin, at 14 and she would always think her Mama had abandoned her.
So I set off in a taxi. As we neared the border, I could see a refugee camp with hundreds of white tents filled with Syrians who had been caught trying to sneak into Turkey. It was heartbreaking to look at the children in their bare feet on the dirty, sandy gravel.
Up ahead I could see lorries and cars queuing at the checkpoint. My driver told me he could take me no further. He charged me €100 for a journey that took just 30 minutes.
At the border, I handed my passport to a guard. In English, he asked me where I was going. When I said Syria, he replied: ‘No, you’re not. Do you know what is happening there?’ I said yes, but that I had to go.
He said: ‘I can’t let you in, I’m sorry.’ I took out my purse and offered him money, yet he refused to budge. I then told him my ex-husband had taken my baby and that I needed to save her. With that, he took me to an outbuilding where three men were checking documents. As they all stared at me and my Irish passport, one man made a call. When he put the phone down, he handed the passport back to the man I now call my ‘angel’. It was stamped.
'He wanted me to sell everything I owned and live in a slum in Syria..'I climbed into Mostafa’s car – a maroon Kia – and asked him how May was. From the back seat he plucked a black hijab and a long black dress, threw them at me and said: ‘Put this on. This is what you will be wearing now.’
We drove through filthy streets until we eventually arrived in Idlib, near Aleppo in north-west Syria, Mostafa’s home city. I was hit with the strong smell of sewage. Rubbish and old clothing were strewn everywhere. It was the dirtiest place I had seen in my life. Men drove along in the dark on donkeys, whipping them as they struggled. I told Mostafa that I had seen what Idlib was like on the news because of the violence. He blamed it on media hype.
He pulled in opposite what looked like a fruit-and-vegetable shop and told me to wait. I pulled the scarf over my face to block the stench. Within minutes, there was a deafening noise and in the rear-view mirror I saw what looked like a 1,000 protesters, mostly men, waving flags and carrying a makeshift coffin.
I locked the doors. Women were grabbing their children and running. The car began to rock violently – for a brief moment, I thought it was going to be turned over, but after a few minutes, the crowd disappeared around the corner chanting: ‘Death to the president, death to the president.’
We then drove through army checkpoints and arrived at Mostafa’s village, Nairab.
One of the first things to strike me were the green lights on the top of three buildings – mosques. This was clearly a very Muslim area and home, perhaps, to extreme fundamentalists. The village looked like a compound, the tall walls covered in graffiti, but it was only afterwards that I learned how dangerous it was. The Syrian army shot people on the streets most days for protesting.
Mostafa’s house did, at least, look habitable. He had been sending money home when he was working in construction in Cyprus. He ushered me in – obviously no one was meant to see me.
I was elated to be reunited with my little girl. Yet as the door opened and she walked through, it took me a moment to recognise her. May’s long brown hair was tightly plaited and she was wearing a cheap pair of black trousers and red Arabic clogs. Her black and white top had cheap lace around the neck and sleeves. It was typical Arab village clothing.
She clearly didn’t know what to say. She looked nervously at her father before saying: ‘Mama, look. I told you I would mind my Nintendo for you. I kept it safe.’
I felt like bursting into tears. She treasured her game console and it had obviously been her lifesaver in this hellhole. She sat on my lap and Mostafa left the room. As soon as he was gone, we started to kiss and hug. May looked around and she whispered: ‘Mama, I’m really worried. I was meant to start school.’
I replied: ‘Don’t worry, love. I rang the school and I told them that you were on holiday.’
May relaxed. She told me how her father had told her they were going to a new shopping centre to buy a Barbie. She believed him. In fact, it was an airport, not a mall. He bought her a doll in the duty-free shop, but when she went outside she saw the aircraft and began to cry.
She told him that she didn’t want to go on a plane, that her Mama had said she was never to get on a plane without her. But he beat her repeatedly until she got on the flight, sobbing.
I didn’t know what to say except to tell her over and again how much I loved her and that nothing like that would ever happen to her again.
That night, we cuddled up and May fell asleep in my arms. I remember lying there, terrified to hear gunshots outside the window. It was a different, frightening world.
We had a chance to escape. I grabbed May and yelled 'Hang on and be brave'
I learned very quickly to be nice to my ex-husband. I had no rights. At any stage he could have beaten me to death and claimed I had been unfaithful. Thankfully, Mandy managed to keep the story from the British press and foreign TV stations, knowing Mostafa was volatile.
We lived on yogurt and rice, and when Mostafa’s cupboards were empty, his mother sent food. I wasn’t allowed to leave the house.
Every day I would struggle to look through the windows to the outside world, but there were bars and wire mesh on every window.
The lavatory – a hole in the ground – was horrible. Instead of toilet roll, there was a hosepipe coming out of the wall. The smell was horrendous, and the lavatory was right next to the kitchen.
When I turned on the kitchen tap, filthy brown water poured out. There was no way I would drink that, even if it was boiled.
I remember bursting into tears. I told Mostafa that I had spent all day listening to bombs exploding and gunfire and I was terrified. A huge row erupted, and I flung a chair across the room in fury and frustration. For the first time since I had met him, he just stood there and accepted it.
‘What’s done is done,’ he said. ‘I can’t change it. May will never leave Syria – never, ever – so get that into your head.’
I prayed the people-smugglers would come.
There was no fresh air in the house because he was so determined to keep me a prisoner. When I objected, he screamed at me, saying I wasn’t in Cyprus now, and he dragged me into the bathroom and punched me repeatedly.
I fell but he continued to beat me, hitting the back of my head and punching me in the side. May was watching from her bedroom and screaming: ‘I want my Mama, I want my Mama.’ Mostafa simply shoved me and said: ‘Die, you bitch.’
The next day, I rang Mandy and the first thing I said to her was: ‘Happy birthday, Sis.’ Her birthday was still important to me and May, I told her. I explained that I was hoping Mostafa would extend my visa for another 15 days – I had told him that if he let me stay longer, I would ensure that he was financially comfortable until I returned.
Mandy’s voice became very serious. She said: ‘Louise, no one’s coming for you. The Turkish guys have gone AWOL and it looks like the government has no powers to do anything. It’s just too dangerous. I hate to say this, but you are on your own.’
At this stage I was unaware that Mandy had paid the Turks €5,000 to get us out and they had absconded.
I heard Mostafa’s car pulling up. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘We are going into Idlib for your visa.’
We found a parking space some 300 yards away from the immigration office, he gathered the paperwork and got out of the car. I couldn’t believe Mostafa was leaving us on our own. As he walked away, he suddenly turned back and said: ‘I will leave the keys in the ignition and the car running as it is so hot. It will keep the air-conditioning on.’
Once he was out of sight, I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Mandy, saying: ‘I have a chance to run. No passport.’
A text came back immediately: ‘F*** it. Run.’
I turned to May and said: ‘May. We are going. Please hang on and be brave.’
We ran towards a taxi rank where three or four yellow cabs were waiting. I chose one driven by a man in his 50s with a kind face. I rang a contact in Cyprus and asked her to get someone who spoke Arabic. I told her our lives were at risk.
Within a minute someone called back. His name was Tariq. After a conversation with the cab driver on my phone, Tariq said: ‘You are in luck, Louise. This man will take you all the way to Damascus. But it is a five-and-a-half-hour drive and it is very dangerous.’
I didn’t know what exactly we would do once we reached the Syrian capital, but I was hoping he would take us straight to the Irish consulate.
We drove on dirt roads through areas I had never heard of – and some I had, including Hama and Homs, where people were being killed every day. I made sure that my hijab covered every hair on my head and that I made no eye contact.
After a few hours, we started to see signs for Damascus. One of them said it was 108km (67 miles) away. It might as well have said a million. May and I spoke to each other in whispers and said the Hail Mary together.
We came to yet another checkpoint. There were many soldiers, this time heavily armed. Some were clearly special forces, dressed in shirts and jeans. They were checking every single vehicle and making each car approach very slowly in single file. As we got closer, I could see a soldier staring in at me and May in the back of the car but he casually waved us on.
I saw the driver look in his rear-view mirror and smile. I knew this poor man could have lost everything, perhaps even his life, if he had been caught.
But just a few yards past the checkpoint, with mountains all around us, the car started to choke, smoke coming from the engine. I couldn’t believe it. I kept saying to the driver: ‘Yalla, yalla, yalla [move, move, move].’A soldier started to follow. But miraculously, we rolled away from him around a corner. And then the car just stopped. Dead.
There was a look of horror on the poor taxi driver’s face. In Arabic he just said: ‘Khalas [finished],’ and threw his hands up into the air. We were doomed.
The driver made some calls and a short while afterwards another taxi pulled in. Its driver attached a rope to our vehicle and started to tow us through this mountain range, a weird area covered in sand, with nothing else around – no birds, no animals of any sort, no noise – until, miles later, we could exchange cars.
Finally we arrived at a huge street with garages everywhere and shops selling spare parts. Damascus. We were safe. Our taxi driver opened our door and in Arabic said: ‘May God bless you and your beautiful daughter.’
I wanted to cry. I owe that man our lives.
The days went by in the safe house organised by Tariq. The Irish embassy was trying to locate the travel documents we needed to get us out of Syria, but without success. Then Mandy rang. She said: ‘Louise, I don’t know how to tell you this. This is the hardest phone call I have ever had to make.’ My heart missed a beat.
‘The Syrian government says you are wanted for kidnapping May,’ she continued. I felt weak. She went on to say that this was an extremely serious charge – if I was caught I would be imprisoned for life or stoned to death under sharia law. I didn’t know what to say. I had no words.
‘You are in severe danger,’ said Mandy. ‘Do not leave the apartment. This is very serious, Louise. Your lives are at risk.’
NEXT WEEK: Our terrifying journey across the mountains
Stolen: Escape From Syria, by Louise Monaghan, is published by Mainstream on Thursday, priced £12.99. To order your copy at the special price of £10.99 inc p&p call the Review Bookstore on 0843 382 1111 or visit mailshop.co.uk/books
Monday, February 20, 2012
Mom, kids who fled abusive dad in France must now face new refugee hearing (Ottawa, Canada)
What few concessions were won for abused mothers and children over the last few decades are being eroded away. Soon there will be no legal way to save your life or the lives of your children.
Remember how we used to be told that women needed to get an education so they could support themselves and their kids and wouldn't "need" an abuser dad as a breadwinner? This woman is a civil engineer, her husband appears to be a deadbeat. But since the authorities refused to prosecute him for his violence, what good does it do her? Divorcing him in France would be useless, because Dad would have had visitation with the kids--the same kids he had threatened to murder (thank you, fathers rights....). And then there's the impossibility of immigration....
Dad is identified as GEORGES ABBOUD.
http://www.ottawacitizen.com/health/Mother+children+fled+violent+abuser+France+must+face+refugee+hearing/6176008/story.html
Mother and children who fled violent abuser in France must now face new refugee hearing
By Don Butler, The Ottawa Citizen
February 20, 2012 8:41 AM
OTTAWA — Omaima Makdesi and her three children fled to Canada in 2008 to escape a violently abusive husband who regularly beat and threatened to kill them. Last year, the Immigration and Refugee Board granted them protection as refugees.
It’s a common enough story. Desperate women regularly turn to Canada when authorities in their own countries are unable or unwilling to protect them.
The twist is that Makdesi and her children were living on the island of Martinique, a territory of France, and are dual citizens of France and Syria. While Syria is seen as a place where domestic abuse goes unpunished, few would say the same of France.
That places Makdesi’s family in the category of refugee claimants who’d be less likely to succeed under reforms unveiled last week by Immigration Minister Jason Kenney.
Under the proposed changes, refugee claimants from countries designated safe by the minister — including France and most other EU countries — will be processed within 45 days, severely curtailing their time to prepare their cases. And if their claims are rejected, they’ll be swiftly deported, even if they apply for judicial review by the Federal Court of Canada.
Makdesi’s case also highlights the disconnect between the way the law handles refugees and the real-life perils many face. As the recent Shafia trial graphically demonstrated, even a democratic state can’t always protect vulnerable women and children from family members bent on mayhem.
In his decision, Gilles Guénette, the Ottawa-based IRB member who approved Makdesi’s refugee claim, acknowledged that France normally would be expected to protect its citizens. But in Makdesi’s case, he said, “the normal state protection that a French woman could obtain in France disappeared, was simply not there.”
Guénette’s ruling triggered an application for judicial review by the government. And last month, Federal Court Judge Richard Boivin emphatically quashed it and ordered a new hearing before a different IRB member.
Boivin found that Guénette — a lawyer and unsuccessful Ontario Progressive Conservative candidate in Ottawa-Vanier in 1988 — got pretty much everything wrong.
His findings on the availability of state protection in France were “unreasonable, were based on irrelevant considerations and were made without regard to the evidence,” Boivin wrote.
He said Guénette also applied the wrong legal test when assessing whether Makdesi and her children had a viable “internal flight alternative” — another place within France they could go to escape their abuser.
Since his appointment to the IRB in late 2006, Guénette has consistently approved more than 80 per cent of the refugee claims he hears — among the highest grant rate of any IRB member. Kenney reappointed him to a further five year term in 2009.
In a brief interview, Guénette declined to comment on Boivin’s judgment or offer an explanation for his unusually high rate of refugee claim approvals.
Boivin’s decision leaves Makdesi and her children in limbo. If the new IRB hearing goes against them, the family, now living in Ottawa, will likely face removal from Canada — and an unwanted reunion with Makdesi’s seriously disgruntled spouse.
Makdesi, a highly educated civil engineer, wed Georges Abboud in an arranged marriage in 1991 in their native Syria. Abboud didn’t graduate from high school and deeply resented his wife’s education, Makdesi told immigration officials in a 2008 statement.
It wasn’t long before Abboud began to assert his control. “He acted as if he owned me,” Makdesi told immigration officials. “It became routine for him to hit and insult me.”
Abboud moved to Martinique in 1997, and summoned his family to join him in 2000. The physical abuse resumed. Both Makdesi and the children were targets.
Makdesi finally went to the police in Martinique in 2004 after Abboud beat her so badly that she was bedridden for eight days. The police arranged a mediation session, but allowed Abboud to act as interpreter, since Makdesi’s French was poor. No charges were laid.
Makdesi lost confidence in the police after that. The IRB’s Guénette cited the handling of the 2004 assault to justify his conclusion that state protection by France did not exist “at that particular moment.”
Boivin found that a single incident was “not sufficient in and of itself to rebut the general presumption of state protection,” which, he said, “need not be perfect, but adequate.”
In 2008, Abboud’s behaviour worsened, according to Makdesi. After an argument with his daughter, Marina, he put a knife to her throat and threatened her. When his son, Mario, tried to protect his sister, he was stabbed in the arm.
A month later, Abboud again threatened Marina with a knife. When Makdesi told him she wanted a divorce, she says he threatened to kill her and “would not be responsible” if anything happened to their children.
In a tearful interview at their east-end townhouse, Makdesi and Marina described a virtual reign of terror.
“Every time we heard his car coming,” Marina said of her siblings, “we used to hide in our room and lock the door. My brother was afraid that he’d kill my mom.”
Makdesi, speaking through an interpreter, said her husband told her that, if she didn’t obey him, “I’ll kill you and drink a glass of your blood.”
In the weeks prior to the family’s escape to Canada, Abboud withheld the keys to the family car, cut off their cellphones, gave them no money and refused to let his children — all top students — attend school. “He had this face I’d never seen before,” said his daughter. “It was like a monster.”
Desperate, the family searched for a way out. Fleeing to another part of France wasn’t an option, because under French law, Abboud would have visitation rights with his minor children.
Returning to Syria was a non-starter, said Makdesi, who’s from Homs, the city now under bombardment by Syrian troops. If she’d taken her children there, she said, her husband could “just shoot us in a minute. He would say that it’s a case of honour, and nobody would say anything.”
Makdesi came to Canada because she has a brother here who offered to help. “We were emotionally exhausted,” said Marina. “We needed a solution and fast, as the situation at home was getting worse and worse.”
After they fled, Abboud returned to Syria and confronted Makdesi’s father, demanding to know where she and the children had gone. He wouldn’t tell him, but Abboud has since found out they are here.
When Guénette approved their refugee claim last year, the family was ecstatic. “I was like, ‘Oh, my God, this is ours now,’” Marina cried, gesturing at the plainly furnished townhouse. “We can walk on it and feel like we can stay here.”
But a month later, they received a letter informing them that the government would be challenging Guénette’s decision “and the earth started changing,” Marina said.
Marina, 20, now works for the City of Ottawa’s translation services branch, and is highly regarded there. Last year, a supervisor described her in a letter to Citizenship and Immigration as “exactly the type of employee that every Canadian employer would be privileged to hire, retain and promote.”
Her brother and sister are attending high school. Makdesi, who places a high value on education, is learning English. “Going to school here in Canada,” she said, “is a gift from God.”
Ottawa lawyer Rezaur Rahman, who represents Makdesi, acknowledged that the odds are stacked against his clients at the new IRB hearing. “On our shoulders, the decision of the Federal Court will be hanging like a very heavy weight.”
He will marshal his best legal arguments. But he hopes the IRB member who hears the case will bear something else in mind, too.
“At the end of the day, there’s a human being.”
Remember how we used to be told that women needed to get an education so they could support themselves and their kids and wouldn't "need" an abuser dad as a breadwinner? This woman is a civil engineer, her husband appears to be a deadbeat. But since the authorities refused to prosecute him for his violence, what good does it do her? Divorcing him in France would be useless, because Dad would have had visitation with the kids--the same kids he had threatened to murder (thank you, fathers rights....). And then there's the impossibility of immigration....
Dad is identified as GEORGES ABBOUD.
http://www.ottawacitizen.com/health/Mother+children+fled+violent+abuser+France+must+face+refugee+hearing/6176008/story.html
Mother and children who fled violent abuser in France must now face new refugee hearing
By Don Butler, The Ottawa Citizen
February 20, 2012 8:41 AM
OTTAWA — Omaima Makdesi and her three children fled to Canada in 2008 to escape a violently abusive husband who regularly beat and threatened to kill them. Last year, the Immigration and Refugee Board granted them protection as refugees.
It’s a common enough story. Desperate women regularly turn to Canada when authorities in their own countries are unable or unwilling to protect them.
The twist is that Makdesi and her children were living on the island of Martinique, a territory of France, and are dual citizens of France and Syria. While Syria is seen as a place where domestic abuse goes unpunished, few would say the same of France.
That places Makdesi’s family in the category of refugee claimants who’d be less likely to succeed under reforms unveiled last week by Immigration Minister Jason Kenney.
Under the proposed changes, refugee claimants from countries designated safe by the minister — including France and most other EU countries — will be processed within 45 days, severely curtailing their time to prepare their cases. And if their claims are rejected, they’ll be swiftly deported, even if they apply for judicial review by the Federal Court of Canada.
Makdesi’s case also highlights the disconnect between the way the law handles refugees and the real-life perils many face. As the recent Shafia trial graphically demonstrated, even a democratic state can’t always protect vulnerable women and children from family members bent on mayhem.
In his decision, Gilles Guénette, the Ottawa-based IRB member who approved Makdesi’s refugee claim, acknowledged that France normally would be expected to protect its citizens. But in Makdesi’s case, he said, “the normal state protection that a French woman could obtain in France disappeared, was simply not there.”
Guénette’s ruling triggered an application for judicial review by the government. And last month, Federal Court Judge Richard Boivin emphatically quashed it and ordered a new hearing before a different IRB member.
Boivin found that Guénette — a lawyer and unsuccessful Ontario Progressive Conservative candidate in Ottawa-Vanier in 1988 — got pretty much everything wrong.
His findings on the availability of state protection in France were “unreasonable, were based on irrelevant considerations and were made without regard to the evidence,” Boivin wrote.
He said Guénette also applied the wrong legal test when assessing whether Makdesi and her children had a viable “internal flight alternative” — another place within France they could go to escape their abuser.
Since his appointment to the IRB in late 2006, Guénette has consistently approved more than 80 per cent of the refugee claims he hears — among the highest grant rate of any IRB member. Kenney reappointed him to a further five year term in 2009.
In a brief interview, Guénette declined to comment on Boivin’s judgment or offer an explanation for his unusually high rate of refugee claim approvals.
Boivin’s decision leaves Makdesi and her children in limbo. If the new IRB hearing goes against them, the family, now living in Ottawa, will likely face removal from Canada — and an unwanted reunion with Makdesi’s seriously disgruntled spouse.
Makdesi, a highly educated civil engineer, wed Georges Abboud in an arranged marriage in 1991 in their native Syria. Abboud didn’t graduate from high school and deeply resented his wife’s education, Makdesi told immigration officials in a 2008 statement.
It wasn’t long before Abboud began to assert his control. “He acted as if he owned me,” Makdesi told immigration officials. “It became routine for him to hit and insult me.”
Abboud moved to Martinique in 1997, and summoned his family to join him in 2000. The physical abuse resumed. Both Makdesi and the children were targets.
Makdesi finally went to the police in Martinique in 2004 after Abboud beat her so badly that she was bedridden for eight days. The police arranged a mediation session, but allowed Abboud to act as interpreter, since Makdesi’s French was poor. No charges were laid.
Makdesi lost confidence in the police after that. The IRB’s Guénette cited the handling of the 2004 assault to justify his conclusion that state protection by France did not exist “at that particular moment.”
Boivin found that a single incident was “not sufficient in and of itself to rebut the general presumption of state protection,” which, he said, “need not be perfect, but adequate.”
In 2008, Abboud’s behaviour worsened, according to Makdesi. After an argument with his daughter, Marina, he put a knife to her throat and threatened her. When his son, Mario, tried to protect his sister, he was stabbed in the arm.
A month later, Abboud again threatened Marina with a knife. When Makdesi told him she wanted a divorce, she says he threatened to kill her and “would not be responsible” if anything happened to their children.
In a tearful interview at their east-end townhouse, Makdesi and Marina described a virtual reign of terror.
“Every time we heard his car coming,” Marina said of her siblings, “we used to hide in our room and lock the door. My brother was afraid that he’d kill my mom.”
Makdesi, speaking through an interpreter, said her husband told her that, if she didn’t obey him, “I’ll kill you and drink a glass of your blood.”
In the weeks prior to the family’s escape to Canada, Abboud withheld the keys to the family car, cut off their cellphones, gave them no money and refused to let his children — all top students — attend school. “He had this face I’d never seen before,” said his daughter. “It was like a monster.”
Desperate, the family searched for a way out. Fleeing to another part of France wasn’t an option, because under French law, Abboud would have visitation rights with his minor children.
Returning to Syria was a non-starter, said Makdesi, who’s from Homs, the city now under bombardment by Syrian troops. If she’d taken her children there, she said, her husband could “just shoot us in a minute. He would say that it’s a case of honour, and nobody would say anything.”
Makdesi came to Canada because she has a brother here who offered to help. “We were emotionally exhausted,” said Marina. “We needed a solution and fast, as the situation at home was getting worse and worse.”
After they fled, Abboud returned to Syria and confronted Makdesi’s father, demanding to know where she and the children had gone. He wouldn’t tell him, but Abboud has since found out they are here.
When Guénette approved their refugee claim last year, the family was ecstatic. “I was like, ‘Oh, my God, this is ours now,’” Marina cried, gesturing at the plainly furnished townhouse. “We can walk on it and feel like we can stay here.”
But a month later, they received a letter informing them that the government would be challenging Guénette’s decision “and the earth started changing,” Marina said.
Marina, 20, now works for the City of Ottawa’s translation services branch, and is highly regarded there. Last year, a supervisor described her in a letter to Citizenship and Immigration as “exactly the type of employee that every Canadian employer would be privileged to hire, retain and promote.”
Her brother and sister are attending high school. Makdesi, who places a high value on education, is learning English. “Going to school here in Canada,” she said, “is a gift from God.”
Ottawa lawyer Rezaur Rahman, who represents Makdesi, acknowledged that the odds are stacked against his clients at the new IRB hearing. “On our shoulders, the decision of the Federal Court will be hanging like a very heavy weight.”
He will marshal his best legal arguments. But he hopes the IRB member who hears the case will bear something else in mind, too.
“At the end of the day, there’s a human being.”
Monday, March 15, 2010
The Jihadi Feels Persecuted--His Aggression is Self-Defense
A very insightful commentary by Phyllis Chesler on the Jihadi-batterer mindset.
http://pajamasmedia.com/phyllischesler/2010/03/14/the-jihadi-feels-persecuted%e2%80%94his-aggression-is-self-defense/
March 14th, 2010 2:16 pm
The Jihadi Feels Persecuted—His Aggression is Self-Defense
Whores Turn Him Down, Battered Wives Walk Out, Western Journalists Harass Him
The other day, a pediatric nurse in New York City refused to dance with Mbarek Lafrem, a Moroccan man, in a New York City bar. What did Lafrem do? He followed her into the women’s bathroom where he attempted to rape and savagely beat her. The woman was found unconscious and is now hospitalized. She required 50 stitches to close just one of her lacerations; she also suffered a broken eye socket, a broken nose, skull fractures, and a busted jaw.
The media pointedly refrain from telling us that he is a Muslim, but with a name like “Mbarek” or ‘Mubarak,” what religion are we talking about? Lafrem now claims that she started it, that the nurse “berated him when he barged into the women’s restroom shortly after she’d rebuffed him on the dance floor.”
To a certain kind of man, from a certain kind of culture, women are always supposed to say yes, and when they say no they are provokers and deserve a beating. More: If the woman is a naked-faced infidel and dances with strange men in a public setting—she is, by definition, a prostitute and is not entitled to say no. Saying no is a “provocation” and deserves a beating. Or worse.
Now, let’s shuffle off to Buffalo, where Muzzammil ”Mo” Hassan—remember him?–is about to stand trial for beheading his wife, Aasiya Zubair Hassan. Guess what this monster’s claiming? That he’s the victim, that he was a “battered husband.” Guess what this crafty self-promoter has been doing from his jail cell? Writing letters to the media in his mother’s name in which he paints himself as the “abused” spouse. Mo’s letters also refer to an “epidemic” of battered men.
Thank God for journalist Sandra Tan of the Buffalo News who, today, reveals the extent of Mo’s depravity. According to a 21-page statement that Aasiya wrote to the court, she “painstakingly chronicled her years of torment.” In addition to numerous beatings and threats, Mo “made (Aasiya) sign memos authorizing him to punish her if she talked with the police and Child Protective Services and threatened her with the loss of her children whenever she tried to break free.” In truth, Mo used his size and weight against the much smaller Aasiya; on separate occasions he literally sat on her, imprisoned her, punched her repeatedly, drawing blood, dragged her down the driveway, tried to run her off the road in his car, and refused to allow her to seek medical treatment for her injuries.
In addition, Mo wrote emails to Aasiya’s court appointed psychologist in Aasiya’s name and from her computer account. As Aasiya, he denies being battered. “What nonsense. Complete hogwash. I have always been a strong woman and a high achiever.” Mo also drafted letters as if the psychologist had written them which he states that “Aasiya does not have the personality of an abused wife.”
Mo’s attorney, Frank M. Bogulski, has claimed in open court that his client was a “battered spouse,” and he promised a “revolutionary defense.”
A third and final example.
Over the weekend, I spoke with J. Mark Campbell, a Florida Security Council videographer who was assaulted on March 11th (the day the nurse was beaten), a day which had been designated as Muslim Capitol Day in Tallahasee. Campbell was assaulted by Professor Bassem Alhalabi who stalked Campbell but who nevertheless claimed that he, Alhalabi, was “being harassed.” Many police were present and security tapes were running. Thus, Alhalabi was charged with “simple battery.” Twice—because he also assaulted another journalist too.
According to Tom Trento of the Florida Security Council, “Alhalabi is a professor at Florida Atlantic University, a director and co-founder of the Islamic Center of Boca Raton, and, in 2003, was found guilty of illegally shipping a $13,000 military-grade thermal imaging device to Syria. His associate, Ahmed Bedier, the former executive Director of CAIR-Tampa and a spokesman for Sami al-Arian, was present at the event. You can see them both in the video here.
Investigative journalist and chairman of Americans Against Hate, Joe Kaufman, was also separately assaulted by Alhalabi the same day. And why? Quietly, respectfully, Kaufman and Campbell were covering the event. They had done their “due diligence” and were not behaving in an intrusive or unpleasant fashion. But they were journalists and citizens exercising their First Amendment rights. Nevertheless, Alhalabi (who was also a supporter and associate of convicted terrorist Sami al-Arian, and who is, himself, a chemical engineer) felt “pestered” by their presence. Their very existence got on his nerves. Or was it the fact that Campbell and Kaufman were documenting what Muslims were doing on American public property that bothered him?
Surely, that’s provocation enough. Alhalabi kept finger pointing. He had people block Campbell’s camera. He kept advancing and “swatting at” Campbell’s camera. He had an associate take his camera and shove it up close into Campbell’s face. He “punched” at Campbell’s camera and face. According to Campbell, Alhalabi “physically pushed and shoved me.” He had previously done the same thing to Kaufman.
The police finally asked Campbell and Kaufman—not Alhalabi– to leave. Not because they’d “done anything wrong” but because, said the officer, “your presence is offensive to this group. We must tell you to leave to keep the peace.” And, the local media (WTXL-TV) which promised to cover what had happened, backed down. They interviewed Campbell and Kaufman but, according to Campbell, after promising to run the interview, never did so.
Let me understand this. Danish cartoonists can’t draw cartoons that “offend” some Muslims—please understand, these people have been “offended,” they feel as if they’ve been “attacked,” “provoked”; if they stage riots, kill people, even try to kill the cartoonist—well, the cartoonist started the fight. Salman Rushdie threw the first punch too when he published a novel which “offended” Khomeini and his followers. And, if two American journalists and bloggers want to cover a Muslim Day event in a public setting (in the State Capitol Building)—they deserve to be shoved, pushed, threatened, and thrown out.
Likewise, if a naked-faced woman refuses to do whatever it is that a Muslim man from Morocco wants her to do—such a woman deserves to be beaten within an inch of her life. Her actions have provoked his deeply socialized, totally justified rage. And, if a Muslim woman refuses to be beaten and terrorized any longer by her Muslim husband and not only dares to leave but plans to keep the house and children too—then “beheading” her is the only option, isn’t it? Poor Mo. A violent man has had his cruelties towards his wife and children publicly exposed for all to see. He has been shamed. Is this not “abuse?” By definition, wasn’t Mo Hassan “abused” by any wife who would dare to throw him out? He killed her in self-defense. All those years of being battered by her led to this showdown.
Folks: This is how terrorists think, feel, and behave. See the pattern? Watch out for it. Strategize how to defeat it because it’s all over us now.
http://pajamasmedia.com/phyllischesler/2010/03/14/the-jihadi-feels-persecuted%e2%80%94his-aggression-is-self-defense/
March 14th, 2010 2:16 pm
The Jihadi Feels Persecuted—His Aggression is Self-Defense
Whores Turn Him Down, Battered Wives Walk Out, Western Journalists Harass Him
The other day, a pediatric nurse in New York City refused to dance with Mbarek Lafrem, a Moroccan man, in a New York City bar. What did Lafrem do? He followed her into the women’s bathroom where he attempted to rape and savagely beat her. The woman was found unconscious and is now hospitalized. She required 50 stitches to close just one of her lacerations; she also suffered a broken eye socket, a broken nose, skull fractures, and a busted jaw.
The media pointedly refrain from telling us that he is a Muslim, but with a name like “Mbarek” or ‘Mubarak,” what religion are we talking about? Lafrem now claims that she started it, that the nurse “berated him when he barged into the women’s restroom shortly after she’d rebuffed him on the dance floor.”
To a certain kind of man, from a certain kind of culture, women are always supposed to say yes, and when they say no they are provokers and deserve a beating. More: If the woman is a naked-faced infidel and dances with strange men in a public setting—she is, by definition, a prostitute and is not entitled to say no. Saying no is a “provocation” and deserves a beating. Or worse.
Now, let’s shuffle off to Buffalo, where Muzzammil ”Mo” Hassan—remember him?–is about to stand trial for beheading his wife, Aasiya Zubair Hassan. Guess what this monster’s claiming? That he’s the victim, that he was a “battered husband.” Guess what this crafty self-promoter has been doing from his jail cell? Writing letters to the media in his mother’s name in which he paints himself as the “abused” spouse. Mo’s letters also refer to an “epidemic” of battered men.
Thank God for journalist Sandra Tan of the Buffalo News who, today, reveals the extent of Mo’s depravity. According to a 21-page statement that Aasiya wrote to the court, she “painstakingly chronicled her years of torment.” In addition to numerous beatings and threats, Mo “made (Aasiya) sign memos authorizing him to punish her if she talked with the police and Child Protective Services and threatened her with the loss of her children whenever she tried to break free.” In truth, Mo used his size and weight against the much smaller Aasiya; on separate occasions he literally sat on her, imprisoned her, punched her repeatedly, drawing blood, dragged her down the driveway, tried to run her off the road in his car, and refused to allow her to seek medical treatment for her injuries.
In addition, Mo wrote emails to Aasiya’s court appointed psychologist in Aasiya’s name and from her computer account. As Aasiya, he denies being battered. “What nonsense. Complete hogwash. I have always been a strong woman and a high achiever.” Mo also drafted letters as if the psychologist had written them which he states that “Aasiya does not have the personality of an abused wife.”
Mo’s attorney, Frank M. Bogulski, has claimed in open court that his client was a “battered spouse,” and he promised a “revolutionary defense.”
A third and final example.
Over the weekend, I spoke with J. Mark Campbell, a Florida Security Council videographer who was assaulted on March 11th (the day the nurse was beaten), a day which had been designated as Muslim Capitol Day in Tallahasee. Campbell was assaulted by Professor Bassem Alhalabi who stalked Campbell but who nevertheless claimed that he, Alhalabi, was “being harassed.” Many police were present and security tapes were running. Thus, Alhalabi was charged with “simple battery.” Twice—because he also assaulted another journalist too.
According to Tom Trento of the Florida Security Council, “Alhalabi is a professor at Florida Atlantic University, a director and co-founder of the Islamic Center of Boca Raton, and, in 2003, was found guilty of illegally shipping a $13,000 military-grade thermal imaging device to Syria. His associate, Ahmed Bedier, the former executive Director of CAIR-Tampa and a spokesman for Sami al-Arian, was present at the event. You can see them both in the video here.
Investigative journalist and chairman of Americans Against Hate, Joe Kaufman, was also separately assaulted by Alhalabi the same day. And why? Quietly, respectfully, Kaufman and Campbell were covering the event. They had done their “due diligence” and were not behaving in an intrusive or unpleasant fashion. But they were journalists and citizens exercising their First Amendment rights. Nevertheless, Alhalabi (who was also a supporter and associate of convicted terrorist Sami al-Arian, and who is, himself, a chemical engineer) felt “pestered” by their presence. Their very existence got on his nerves. Or was it the fact that Campbell and Kaufman were documenting what Muslims were doing on American public property that bothered him?
Surely, that’s provocation enough. Alhalabi kept finger pointing. He had people block Campbell’s camera. He kept advancing and “swatting at” Campbell’s camera. He had an associate take his camera and shove it up close into Campbell’s face. He “punched” at Campbell’s camera and face. According to Campbell, Alhalabi “physically pushed and shoved me.” He had previously done the same thing to Kaufman.
The police finally asked Campbell and Kaufman—not Alhalabi– to leave. Not because they’d “done anything wrong” but because, said the officer, “your presence is offensive to this group. We must tell you to leave to keep the peace.” And, the local media (WTXL-TV) which promised to cover what had happened, backed down. They interviewed Campbell and Kaufman but, according to Campbell, after promising to run the interview, never did so.
Let me understand this. Danish cartoonists can’t draw cartoons that “offend” some Muslims—please understand, these people have been “offended,” they feel as if they’ve been “attacked,” “provoked”; if they stage riots, kill people, even try to kill the cartoonist—well, the cartoonist started the fight. Salman Rushdie threw the first punch too when he published a novel which “offended” Khomeini and his followers. And, if two American journalists and bloggers want to cover a Muslim Day event in a public setting (in the State Capitol Building)—they deserve to be shoved, pushed, threatened, and thrown out.
Likewise, if a naked-faced woman refuses to do whatever it is that a Muslim man from Morocco wants her to do—such a woman deserves to be beaten within an inch of her life. Her actions have provoked his deeply socialized, totally justified rage. And, if a Muslim woman refuses to be beaten and terrorized any longer by her Muslim husband and not only dares to leave but plans to keep the house and children too—then “beheading” her is the only option, isn’t it? Poor Mo. A violent man has had his cruelties towards his wife and children publicly exposed for all to see. He has been shamed. Is this not “abuse?” By definition, wasn’t Mo Hassan “abused” by any wife who would dare to throw him out? He killed her in self-defense. All those years of being battered by her led to this showdown.
Folks: This is how terrorists think, feel, and behave. See the pattern? Watch out for it. Strategize how to defeat it because it’s all over us now.
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