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
home when a letter dropped through the letterbox. The note was addressed to Fawzi and it was clearly official. I opened it and, to my horror, read that he was due to appear in court: the charge was that he was under suspicion of committing rape.
Fawzi was in bed and, although obviously desperate to know what was going on, I waited for him to get up. I then asked him, very calmly, whether he had something to tell me. No, he didn’t, he said. So I showed him the letter. ‘It’s no big deal,’ he told me. ‘It has nothing to do with me – someone has set me up.’
He explained that one night, while working late at the pizza shop in Chorley, where he was now employed, one of the guys had taken a young woman upstairs and, a few minutes later, she came running downstairs, crying and distraught. She had accused him of attacking her and, unbeknown to him at the time, the man had apparently told her that his name was Fawzi. That’s how he became implicated.
I was unsure whether or not to believe him as he was always good at worming his way out of things. I was angry with him for getting into such trouble, but didn’t know whether he was capable of such a crime. When his court appearance came up some weeks later, I insisted on accompanying him because I knew he wouldn’t tell me what had happened. He was more than surprised but he didn’t try to stop me – I think by now he realised that I wasn’t some sort of traditional housewife who was going to be blindly loyal and stick by him, whatever he did. Neither was I someone who would let things rest; I’d take on the fight – something he found to his cost in the years to come. I didn’t tell Mum and Dad about the court case, as I thought it would only scare them out of their wits and they would worry unnecessarily about my safety.
Eventually, the case was dropped due to a lack of evidence. I had always believed in the principle of innocent until proven guilty but, with hindsight, I think he may have paid off the girl. It seemed strange that the case was dropped, just like that, but I still didn’t know for sure whether Fawzi was indeed innocent of any wrongdoing. I contemplated leaving him then, but I knew what Fawzi was like and, if ever I really upset him, I knew he might punish me – and that might take any form.
A few weeks before I was due to give birth, Fawzi announced that he needed to return home to Libya to visit his mother, who was seriously ill. Naturally, I was sympathetic and fully supported my husband in his decision but I told him that he must come home within two weeks as I was due to have his baby and his responsibilities lay in Wigan, not Tripoli.
Ever since I had become pregnant it seemed that Fawzi had been struggling with the idea of commitment. Of course I was concerned for his mother, but it seemed to me that he just wanted to get away at such a crucial time. Although this may sound cynical, I noticed that his mother was at death’s door whenever Fawzi may have felt trapped or vulnerable. And you know what? She always made a complete recovery!
Unfortunately, while Fawzi was away, I suffered complications in my pregnancy. I was still working about two weeks before my due date but one afternoon I had a routine appointment with the midwife. As usual, she took my blood pressure, but then her expression changed; I knew instantly that something was wrong. She fetched another nurse to double-check but she obviously reached the same conclusion. It transpired that I had developed pre-eclampsia (a medical condition which can cause hypertension) and my blood pressure was sky-high.
Apparently, I could have passed out at any time. They immediately rang for an ambulance, although I said I had just driven from Preston and could easily drive myself to hospital. I felt absolutely fine and refused to lie down on the stretcher, or go in the wheelchair. It was only in the ambulance, on the way to hospital, that I realised just how serious this could be; they were monitoring my baby’s heartbeat and I was suddenly very scared that I was going to lose my child. My friend Lynette told Mum and Dad what had happened and they met me at the hospital.
In hospital, I was given medication in an attempt to bring my blood pressure down, but this was unsuccessful so the medical staff decided that my condition was serious enough to intervene. On the evening of 9 May 2003, I underwent an emergency caesarean. My mother was at my side but I was totally conscious throughout.
I had already given our baby the name Nadia while I was still carrying her. I’d seen the film American Pie and in it there is a beautiful actress, Shannon Elizabeth, whose real-life father was an Arab and her mother European. The character’s name was Nadia. I’d always liked the name and, coincidentally, it turned out that Nadia was also an Arabic name. I told the medics what we had planned to call my daughter, and so, when my darling baby was about to appear, the doctor called out, ‘Here’s Nadia!’ Hers was a truly wonderful arrival.
My gorgeous daughter had masses of dark hair and was tiny, weighing only 4lb 11oz. There were lots of tears and my mum, who supported me throughout, was absolutely thrilled. She rang my dad immediately and he was equally excited. I had dreamed of having a baby since I was a little girl; this was an experience that almost every woman is desperate for, and one that I thought I’d never have. Nadia was a miracle baby. She was exactly how I’d imagined her to be, and I was already in love with her. I just kept looking at her and picking her up – she was perfect, and she was mine!
Although desperately tired, I was too excited to sleep and I couldn’t wait to tell Fawzi about his beautiful daughter, who had arrived nearly two weeks early. The nursing staff were incredibly helpful and let me use my mobile on the ward. That night I rang him but was unable to get through – not that unusual as it was often difficult to connect to Libya. However, four days later, I was still trying to get hold of him, which was proving impossible. No matter how many times I rang I could never obtain a ringing tone or even a voicemail response, so I couldn’t even leave a message. It finally dawned on me that he had actually switched his mobile off.
Five days after Nadia was born, I was well enough to go home and my mum moved in to look after me. Fortunately, Nadia was a brilliant newborn and immediately slept right through the night, which made life a lot easier. Mum stayed a few days until I insisted she go home – I realised that I couldn’t rely on my mum for the foreseeable future, and also, it wasn’t fair on my dad. Besides, I needed to be independent.
Nearly a week after Nadia was born, I finally got through to Fawzi.
‘I’ve got somebody here… it’s your daughter.’
I was very emotional and, through tears of joy, informed him that his gorgeous little girl had been born, but he seemed very unfazed by the news and not at all excited. He didn’t even ask how we were, even though I told him about the C-section. I told him that I wanted him to come home as I still wasn’t feeling well and needed help. He did at least say that he would try to get a flight as soon as he could, but I was really upset by his reaction and couldn’t believe he could be so unfeeling.
I spoke to him the following day when he rang to tell me that all the flights from Tripoli were full and there was no way he could get back to England. Once again, I was really upset, but I believed him – I was sure that he would be doing all he could to get back to England. I tried to ring him again, a number of times during the next week, but there was no reply. Finally, I got through to him only to be told that he was still unable to secure a flight back. I knew Mum and Dad were pretty disgusted at Fawzi’s behaviour, but weren’t openly critical of him. They made sure that I knew that I would never be on my own and they would always support me.
Fawzi finally returned to the family home when Nadia was six weeks old. One night, at midnight, without any prior warning – not even a phone call – he just turned up. Nadia was asleep. Fawzi wanted to wake her and hold her, but I was so angry with him that I refused. I told him in his absence Nadia had developed a routine, which I wasn’t going to disturb; she usually woke at five in the morning and so he would have to wait until then to meet his daughter. He wasn’t cross, but didn’t ask about the birth or much about Nadia.
For the first six months, I was on maternity leave and I did everything for her. Fawzi showed little interest and I don’t remember him once changing her nappy – I don’t think it had much to do with his culture; he was just too lazy or not interested. He barely played with her; he would give her about five minutes of his time until he became bored and, if ever Nadia started to cry, he