For the Love of Nadia - My daughter was kidnapped by her father and taken to Libya. This is my heart-wrenching true story of my quest to bring her home. Sarah Taylor
After we had been going out for about five years, and when I was twenty-one, we decided to buy a house together. We visited a show-home on a new estate and fell in love with the design. Our house hadn’t actually been built, but we immediately made an offer. We moved in some months later and, with a lot of help from our families, bought everything we needed to set up our first home. It was very exciting to be moving into my own house.
Unfortunately, we had only been cohabitating for about a year when things started to go wrong. Robert and I had been together for seven years and, although neither of us got ‘the itch’, our relationship had become a little stale. I’m still not entirely sure why we split up. There were no major issues, or much arguing, but we had been boyfriend and girlfriend since our teenage years and perhaps we had become slightly bored with each other. We didn’t seem to have anything to talk about, and we stopped having sex. Later, Robert told me one of the reasons why it didn’t work out was because he was too young and he felt that he didn’t have any space for himself. In retrospect, obviously neither of us felt strongly enough to make it work, so we agreed to part. Robert moved out and I stayed on at the house for a little longer until it was sold before moving back in with Mum and Dad.
Although the split had been a mutual decision, I was knocked back and, for a while, my confidence was affected. Fortunately, I had my family around me and friends to cheer me up. My friend Linda had recently separated from her husband and the two of us would go out quite a lot, enjoying ourselves. We met a few guys but there was nothing serious. I had just come out of a long-term relationship and wanted to have some fun and stay unattached. After all, I needed to make up for lost time!
Of course –and not for the first time – once things were on a seemingly even keel, I received another shock. Not long after returning to my parents, soon after the New Millennium celebrations, we were out having lunch when I rubbed my neck and it felt as if there was a bit of a lump there. Although I mentioned it to my mum, I wasn’t going to do anything about it, but she insisted that I get it checked out. I had blood tests that were all fine and then a voice test. Nothing sinister was discovered, but because of my medical history it was agreed that I should have a biopsy and have the lump removed.
I was terrified that the cancer had come back and I was going to have more treatment. Unfortunately, my worst fears were realised when the results came back and showed that I had cancer of the thyroid. I remember the doctor saying that, if he had to choose a cancer, it would be this one as it is slow growing and can be sorted out without too much difficulty. Although this helped a little, I couldn’t believe that I had been struck down again. Was I ever going to be rid of this evil disease?
After being admitted to The Royal Manchester Infirmary, I had surgery to remove my thyroid and both glands. I have always wondered if the thyroid cancer was caused by radiotherapy because the metal jacket I had worn all those years earlier to protect me during the treatment didn’t cover my neck. I guess I’ll never know, and I suppose it doesn’t really matter now.
Shortly after the op, I returned to work at the Inland Revenue and resumed ‘normal’ life. At the time, I used to go out every Thursday night with my friend Lyndsey, who was an ex-work colleague. Both single, we’d go into town, taking turns to drive so that one of us could drink. We always started our evenings at a venue called the Chicago Rock Café because it was the first pub we stumbled upon on our way into town. It was a popular meeting place, very lively and played the sort of 80s music we liked. More importantly, there was a better chance of meeting someone there than in some of the other venues in town. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t desperate: if I met someone, then okay, but if I didn’t, I didn’t.
One night, in October 2000, Lyndsey and I headed out into town. She was driving so I didn’t have to worry about sticking to the limit, although I’ve never been much of a drinker. On this particular night, the pub was especially busy but I managed to work my way to the bar to order the lagers. As I looked across the bar, I noticed a man looking at me. Mmm not bad, I thought. Although the lighting in the pub was dim, I could tell that this tall, dark stranger was also clean-cut and very handsome. A really good-looking guy, he couldn’t possibly be giving me the eye. I could never attract someone like that.
Avoiding his gaze, I took the drinks to our table. Excitedly, I told Lyndsey that the guy seemed to be interested in me. I tried to play it cool but I couldn’t stand it any longer and so I glanced back in his direction. Oh no, he wasn’t there! He’d gone. I’d blown it. Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked up and it was him. Not as tall as I first thought, but still pretty gorgeous.
In broken English, which was a little hard to decipher, he said: ‘Where are you from? You look Italian. What is your name?’ Well, that was flattering for a start.
‘Actually, I’m from here – I was born in Wigan,’ I told him, all the while hoping that my answer wouldn’t kill any possible romance.
I asked him where he was from and he replied, ‘I was born in Libya.’ That didn’t help much – I’d never heard of Libya before.
‘Where’s that?’ I asked.
‘It’s in North Africa,’ he said, smiling. ‘I am twenty-seven and a surveyor, but I’m here studying English at Wigan College.’
Charming, handsome and with a good job, this is going well, I thought.
He offered to buy me a drink and after a little conversation, he then enquired if I could help him with his English studies. I replied that I wasn’t a teacher but I would be more than happy to help if I could. We swapped telephone numbers and he told me his name was Fawzi. He promised to call me in a day or two. I remember thinking that I would try not to build my hopes up. Maybe we would just be friends. If he wants to see me, he’ll ring me. If he calls, he calls. If he doesn’t, then I’ll move on.
Of course, my reaction was quite different when Fawzi rang a couple of days later. I felt much more elated than I had expected – I was excited at the prospect of getting to know this foreign guy and learning more about him. We agreed to meet on the following Saturday afternoon, back at the Chicago Rock Café. I arranged to meet him in the afternoon because I thought it would be safer if he turned out to be too lecherous. Also, it would be less crowded and noisy, and I would be able to hear and understand him better.
When he arrived, I was pleased to see that he was as attractive as I’d remembered from that first meeting. He seemed at ease, talking about himself, and told me that all his family lived back in Libya and his property company had sent him to study in England. He added that he was a Muslim, and asked if that would be a problem. ‘No problem,’ I replied. I told him that we had a relative in Singapore who was married to a Muslim, and so I knew a little bit about the religion. It didn’t seem to matter at this stage which religion he followed – after all, it wasn’t as if I was planning to marry him.
Fawzi asked me if I wanted to go out that evening and, if so, could he bring his friend. I wasn’t quite sure why he wanted to bring a friend along for the date – I assumed we were going out on a date – but I agreed. Although I didn’t feel particularly nervous or insecure about the arrangement, I said that I would drive. That way, I could make a quick getaway if there was any nonsense.
I met Fawzi and his friend at a pub in the centre of Wigan called Berkley Square. The friend turned out to be his flatmate, Ibrahim, who had adopted the English name of Brian. Fawzi and Brian had been studying in England for about eight months. I liked Brian immediately and felt quite pleased with myself to be going out with these interesting and attractive men.
The three of us then went to a nightclub, where Brian busied himself by chatting up women, so Fawzi and I were left to our own devices. We danced and had a few drinks, although I was a little surprised that Fawzi, a devout Muslim, downed quite so much Jack Daniel’s. Still, it was none of my business and we were having fun. We enjoyed our first kiss and I have to admit that I was already quite taken with his flashing dark eyes and dark handsome features.
Afterwards, I offered to chauffeur Fawzi and Brian to their home, which was a converted flat in a terraced house near the town centre. They invited