Free Hidden Girl: The True Story of a Modern-Day Child Slave by Shyima Hall Page A

building, only to reappear a few minutes later in underwater suits. Then they went into one of the tanks and swam with the dolphins. My job was to videotape them while they were in the water. I had never used a video camera before, but The Dad turned it on and handed it to me. I then looked through the viewfinder and recorded the girls having a ton of fun.
    Years later this video became one of the videos that was used in the legal case against my captors. While I was not seen on camera, my voice could be heard, and the video and audio clearly showed that I was not “part of the family.” My captors told authorities that I was.
    Either The Mom or The Dad taped other events from that day too. In one shot I was sitting next to their kids, and I laughed along with them at the antics going on in the pool. My captors used that one single instance of me being a normal kid to try to persuade the United States government that the family had treated me well. Thank goodness authorities could see my captors for who and what they were.
    The Mom and The Dad did not seem worried about my being out in public during these special family days. After all, I knew only three words: “hi,” “dolphin,” and “stepsister.” I didn’t even know the meaning of the last word. I had been taught how to say it in case anyone ever asked about me. What trouble, my captors must have thought, could I bring upon myself with those three words?
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    One of the many rules in my captors’ house was that only Arabic was spoken. I do not know if that was so the kids would have more of their own culture around them, if it was because The Mom and The Dad felt as if this little jaunt to the United States was going to be short and they’d soon head back to Egypt, or if it was to keep me from learning any English. In any case, I understood the twins well one day when they said in Arabic, “Mom, that stupid girl is being mean to us.” The result was that she slapped me hard across my face. This was one of several times when The Mom slapped me. Usually it was The Dad.
    In this instance, though, my tone had been somewhat sharp with the twins, out of frustration. It was in the evening. I had gotten their toothbrushes out and had put the toothpaste on, as I always did, but when I said, “Boys, it’s time to brush your teeth,” they ignored me. One of my many responsibilities was to keep the twins on a schedule. Bedtime was at eight thirty every evening, and I knew The Mom and The Dad would be unhappy with me if the boys did not get to bed on time.
    “Boys,” I said again. “Bedtime. Time to stop watching television and brush your teeth.” The third time I repeated the request, they told The Mom I was mean to them.
    The slap hurt. The first thought that went through my head, however, was that I should have yelled at the boys as loud as I could. If I was going to get slapped that hard for trying to do my job, then the slap for letting my temper loose on the boys couldn’t have been that much harder.
    Another time The Mom accused me of doing something with regard to the boys that I hadn’t done. When I tried to explain, she called me a liar, grabbed me by the shoulder, and pushed me. Hard. Slapping, pushing, and screaming were part of life in that house. Both The Mom and The Dad yelled at me constantly.
    Whenever I didn’t get something done fast enough, or thoroughly enough, I’d hear, “This is your job! Who else gets up to do your job? This is not my job. It is your job, stupid girl!” This would usually be followed by a stream of derogatory words, such as, “You’re nothing, nobody. You’re stupid. You’re lucky to be here. No one else would want you.”
    The Mom was a master at making many of the people around her feel like dirt. In fact, she addressed me in a yelling tone of voice more often than she spoke to me. Her kids were spared her temper, but they were often on the receiving end of The Dad’s anger. In fact, I