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
naïve and, after all, I really didn’t know them at all. I refused and said that I had to get home. Driving home, I was excited but trying to stay calm underneath. Fawzi had said he’d ring and, if he liked me, he would. There wasn’t much more I could do, and I certainly wasn’t going to chase him – that’s not my style.
After a few days elapsed, I was still wondering if I was going to hear from Fawzi but then he called me. Thrilled, I tried not to let the delight sound in my voice. We agreed to meet at his workplace. To earn extra money, I had obtained a second job at the NEXT clothes shop in The Trafford Centre, Manchester, and was working two evenings a week and every Sunday. Fawzi was working in a pizza place in Whiston, near Liverpool, and I agreed to drive over there after work.
As you can imagine, it wasn’t the most romantic of settings and he was at work, so it wasn’t an ideal arrangement for pursuing a relationship. Still, we had a pizza together and managed to chat. Conversation came easily to us but he was working late so I didn’t want to hang around and went home before he finished his shift.
We did this a couple of times and then one night I went back to his flat. Brian was there at first, but quickly disappeared. Fawzi and I had a few drinks and we went to bed. It was exciting and lovely, and he was very tender. As I drove home that night, I couldn’t contain my feelings and wanted to tell the world about him. He’d already got me hook, line and sinker!
We began to see each other more regularly and, as I was still living with my parents, I found myself staying at his flat most nights. Very quickly I realised that I was falling in love with him, although I was a little unsure about what I was getting myself into; I knew at some stage he’d be returning to his job and family in Libya, and then what would happen to me? Also, what was he expecting of me? Was I just a casual fling? I was in a quandary because I wanted to protect myself, but at the same time, the more I saw him, the more I felt involved. It wasn’t like me to throw myself in at the deep end, but my heart was beginning to rule my head.
After a few months, Fawzi surprised me by starting to discuss marriage. He told me that, ideally, his family would like him to be married before he slept with or moved in with anyone. Bit late for that, I thought. The trouble was, I soon discovered he wasn’t talking about marrying me; this wasn’t a proposal. It transpired that he was just considering the concept of marriage and how it related to his culture. Fawzi admitted that he hadn’t told his family about me, and I felt really let down. If he was really serious, why hadn’t he mentioned me to them? They probably didn’t even know I existed. I began to think that if he was serious about me then he should be introducing me to his family. At least he could have told them that he’d met an English girl, who he was fond of.
It was all very confusing and I tried not to think about what some of my friends had been saying: that he wasusing me and that any thoughts of long-term commitment or even marriage – especially marriage – would be a very convenient way for him to obtain a British passport, enabling him to stay in the country. In any case, I was too fond of him to think that our romance was a cynical ploy on his behalf. This was more to do with his culture: his Muslim background and his religious beliefs.
There was also something else weighing on my mind. Although I was only twenty-four, I was already worried that my biological clock was ticking. I suppose having had two brushes with cancer had made me think deeply about my future. Life must be lived to the full because you never know what’s around the corner. This may have pushed me to commit myself a little quicker than I might otherwise have done. The chemotherapy that I endured as a young girl might have caused me to be infertile. I was much too young to have my eggs frozen, something that could have been done then, had I been older. I’d been warned that I could start my menopause prematurely, possibly as soon as I reached the age of thirty. Now twenty-four, I desperately wanted children soon.
I couldn’t afford to wait too long to commit to a relationship. I was thinking about IVF and even adoption. Besides, I was smitten with Fawzi, wasn’t I? I explained to him about my medical history and the fact that I might not be able to have children; I didn’t want to wait until we got more serious only to discover that he wanted to back out. I felt quite comfortable talking to him about this – it seemed the right time and very natural.
By now, I had introduced Fawzi to my parents. A total gentleman, they fell for him almost as much as I did, and maybe even quicker. He charmed them and nothing was too much trouble when it came to helping them: he came over and made typical Libyan meals for us. He even took Mum shopping. Mum and Dad had no qualms about Fawzi being a Muslim and loved him to bits; he became part of the family. Both Stephanie and Andy liked him, too, and got on well with him. They only lived five minutes away from my parents’ house and so we all saw a lot of each other. There was a genuine mutual fondness, which made me even more certain about him.
I was still living at home, and Fawzi and Brian were still sharing their small flat, which was much too cramped for the three of us. Fawzi and I felt we needed more privacy, but I liked Brian and didn’t want to see him kicked out so it was agreed that we would rent a three-bedroom house together. I suppose there must have been some hesitation on my part not to live with Fawzi on our own, which would have seemed more intimate and certainly more of a commitment. In some ways, it didn’t seem like we were setting up home together, which was still a daunting idea, especially when it hadn’t worked out with Robert all those years earlier.
This arrangement worked out well for about a year and we were extremely happy. Looming over us, however, was the prospect that Fawzi might have to go back to Libya in order to return to work, although he told me that he really wanted to live in England in the future. He said that he would need to return home to see his parents from time to time. Of course, I agreed that it was important for him to maintain his family links.
Fawzi returned to the subject of marriage soon after we started living together, only this time it wasn’t a theoretical discussion: he was now talking seriously about the two of us getting married. He said his family were keen for him to start putting down roots, but he still hadn’t told them that we were living together. I was made up.
I told Fawzi that Dad would appreciate it if he went to ask his permission to marry me. He agreed that it would be a nice thing to do and, of course, I insisted that I was present too. My dad’s response couldn’t have been more positive – ‘That’s brilliant, we’d love to have you as part of the family!’
Fawzi then went and bought me an engagement ring; it was very simple with a small diamond solitaire. It wasn’t the most exciting or fancy piece of jewellery, but it was all that he could afford and I was thrilled to wear it. We wanted a quiet family wedding, and for our honeymoon we planned to go to Singapore. However, our plans were dashed in spring 2001 when Fawzi heard the news that his father had died suddenly. In Muslim culture, the deceased person has to be buried within twenty-four hours of death, and so, by the time Fawzi was able to return home to Tripoli, his father had already been buried and the funeral had taken place. He was distraught and particularly upset that he hadn’t been around to support his mother.
On his return to England, Fawzi insisted that we bring our wedding forward and that we should forego our honeymoon in Singapore. He told me that it wasn’t respectful for him to be seen enjoying such a lavish holiday so soon after his father’s death.
So, on 10 July 2001, which coincided with my twenty-fifth birthday, I married Fawzi Essid Abuarghub at Wigan Registry Office. Fawzi had a few friends attend the ceremony and two of his cousins, both called Mohammed, were ushers. I wanted to have as much family there as possible to celebrate with us and, to honour my dad’s mother, I wore the wedding ring that had belonged to my late grandmother.
Afterwards, we went for a meal in a pub in Hindley with a few friends. I have to be honest and admit that it wasn’t the glamorous and magical wedding day that I had imagined when I was a little girl. Still, I loved Fawzi and it was all that we could afford at the time. Fawzi had no savings and so my family and I paid for it all. In fact, he didn’t contribute to anything, but it didn’t seem to matter at the time.
Some weeks later, we wanted something more to mark the event and arranged a party at Wigan Pier. Before the festivities, we actually had official photographs