A 16 year old Muslim Apostate sends MARIAS her story
How would you expect a normal dad to react? Congratulate his daughter on reaching this milestone in her life? See her happiness and smile? Be thrilled at the prospect of future children, marriage, albeit slightly far ahead? Be nervous and hope it works out, wanting to protect her from heartache?
That’s what normal fathers do. I do not have a normal father.
“I do not have a normal father.”
I hinted during his numerous attempts to harass me I was dating by texting “I’ve met someone”. A fairly ambiguous statement. Not explicit. I was shaking, my breaths coming fast. I was more nervous than I was telling him this than my apostasy, which is saying something.
(Warning: This letter contains violent and sexually explicit references)
I was very young when it started.
I have a very fuzzy memory of the very beginning. My childhood friend remembers me being picked up from a primary school by an older man and being given ketamine, coming home completely out of it, with lots of new underwear, so it began earlier than I remember. My parents worked a lot, so they weren’t really around to notice anything. My friend did at some point tell my parents, but I’m not sure when she did that.
We ended up moving areas, but not too far, now my earliest clear memory starts at around 13/14. We had moved house and I was waiting to be accepted into a school, from what I remember. This man, the very same man picking me up from primary school came to my parents’ home while they were out working, and while my brother was at his school. It was a morning. His name was Jason, I don’t know if he was a Muslim. He was 28 or in his early 30s.
I was quite naive. He had come to take photos of me for a modelling portfolio — at least that’s what he said. They ended up being pictures in my underwear. Eventually he said we needed a different environment and asked if there was a bedroom we could use. I took him to my parents’ bedroom. I thought nothing of it, I didn’t realise it would get worse.
He took more pictures. Then he told me to take everything off and gave me some stockings to put on. I remember the feeling of my stomach turning over, I was really scared. But I did as I was told.
(Warning: This article contains explicit descriptions of violence and sexual abuse.)
My story begins at the age of ten. I had been sexually abused by a lorry driver, and although the police were involved, I was too young to give evidence and so the man walked free from court.
I was the youngest child and not very close with my siblings. This event caused me to be even more awkward and withdrawn. I felt increasingly isolated and as though I had no one to turn to.
Dad’s best friend
My Dad had a best friend and I used to call him ‘Uncle’. He seemed to know that I felt out of place and different. If I got in trouble he’d invite me to come and sit on his knee. He’d take all of us for rides on his motorbike and he’d let me sit in front of him on the seat, protected, in between his legs and his arms. All other passengers had to sit behind him. This made me feel special.
At age fifteen, I began acting out at home. I was being bullied at school and I was miserable. My parents never knew about this because I didn’t confide in them. One night, after being sent to bed early for fighting with a sibling, Uncle B, who was in our house at the time, told my Dad that he’d take me over to his house and I could spend the night there. He was my Dad’s best mate and he had a wife and kids of his own. What could go wrong? I was excited to have someone looking out for me and taking an interest in my emotional well-being.
A letter sent to MARIAS …
I have been very scared all my life of telling this story; but here it goes.
When I was around 11 or 12, I was taking a taxi from my Dad’s house to my Mum’s house which was around a 20 minute drive.
The driver was a Muslim man who had taken me on this trip on many occasions; I felt I could trust him so I always sat in the front seat.
(Warning: This letter contains sexually explicit references.)
I call these years the lost years …
… because that’s exactly what they were. I was 14, my dad was working 12 hour shifts & I hardly seen him. My mum was a bad alcoholic at this point as she couldn’t cope with the loss of her dad.
My older brother left because he couldn’t cope with her & I had had enough of wiping her sick away, changing her & listening to her slurs. I started to hang around with the local shop gang, smoking weed & drinking.
I was in trouble at school & always fighting. A lad older than me began to tell me I was pretty etc & I felt flattered & wanted. He was 21 & we began a relationship. He took me to a house where I was introduced to heroin as naive as this sounds I really didn’t know that this was what it was.
After a month or so I started feeling really ill & was told it was heroin I had been taking it was the only thing that would make me feel better & now I had to start paying for it myself. So my life of crime started. I stole, shop-lifted & burgled commercial premises for my fix.
At 16 I had my son. I split with his dad & tried to get clean but he was taken away by social services at the age of one & placed with a family member due to my addiction this made me far worse. I was homeless & slept wherever I could, stealing food & drifting in & out of different circles. Eventually I became wanted by Staffordshire police & the girls I went ‘earning’ with & myself turned our attentions to the West Midlands.
I met many girls who were pimped out by Muslim gangs …
… given nothing more than a plastic coke bottle full of water to wash themselves with in between ‘punters’ on the streets of Birmingham. One of the girls I knew ended up this way controlled by fear & drug addiction.
People ask me why do I do what I do.
I believe the following letter says why MARIAS exists.
It’s from a victim who is now on a journey to becoming a survivor.
This young lady is someone I have given support to for 3 years. When I first met her she was disillusioned by the authorities who let her down.
Since coming across MARIAS she finally lays the blame at the feet of those who let her down and no longer feels she is herself to blame for what happened to her or for it being ignored.