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

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


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was little communication between us and he began to initiate arguments that would give him the excuse to storm out of the house; that way he wouldn’t have to talk to me. It wasn’t much of a relationship. I understand that men often feel excluded around this time and they play second fiddle to the baby, and I’m sure that Fawzi felt he was not getting any attention from me but he gave me very little and I suppose we were in the middle of a vicious circle that was growing ever wider.

      All this frustration led to another bust-up. Fawzi had a fiery temper and, every time we argued, he would say the worst possible things in order to hurt me. He had, yet again, accused me of having an affair and this time I replied, ‘You know it’s rubbish – in any case, you were the one accused of rape!’ At the time I was carrying Nadia and he pushed me, nearly knocking her out of myarms. Because of the previous incident – when he punched me – I immediately called the police.

      Two constables arrived; one officer took him into the dining room while the other remained with me. I didn’t know what was said, but, when the two of them came out, the officer told me that Fawzi had calmed down and they had advised him to go out for a while. The policeman told me that I should not hesitate to contact them again if I needed to. I was frightened that Fawzi might really hurt me and now I had to think of Nadia too. When the police left, I told Fawzi I would call them again if he ever threatened me with violence. I think that must have done the trick because, although he shouted a lot, it was the last time he was physically aggressive towards me.

      They say love is a flower that turns into fruit upon marriage. Well, mine was rapidly turning rotten. At night I lay awake, tormented about what I should do. On a number of occasions, I seriously thought about ending the relationship. I wasn’t prepared to play the role of the victim, but I was frightened that he would try to kidnap Nadia. It wasn’t that I had read much about kidnapping, or knew an awful lot about children being abducted by their fathers, but by now I knew Fawzi all too well. I could match him verbally and return as much abuse as he dished out; however, he knew that I loved Nadia far more than I loved him and he realised the only thing that I could never recover from would be if he were to take her away from me. The thought was always on my mind.

      After six months, I returned to work and Nadia started nursery. Fawzi worked on and off at a pizza place in Leigh, which was a little nearer home, but he had also been travelling back and forth to Libya for long periods of time. He had never been able to hold down a proper job or provide financially for us; I had always kept the home going by paying nearly all the bills. Believe it or not, we drifted on like this for two years. In retrospect, I was very naïve and kept thinking that things would get better. There was the odd day when we would go out as a family, which I loved and hoped that Fawzi felt the same way and it would change his behaviour. Mum and Dad knew how I felt and how unhappy I was, but I didn’t unburden my problems on anyone else. It was only because I felt that Nadia needed her father that I kept working hard at maintaining the relationship.

      * * *

      In May 2005, when Nadia was nearly two, my mum’s fiftieth birthday was fast approaching. She was keen to visit some family members in Singapore and so we arranged to travel to the Far East to celebrate. Surprisingly, Fawzi seemed enthusiastic about the idea and even offered to pay for himself, Nadia and me to travel there.

      I was a bit surprised when Fawzi’s friend, Khalide, turned up to see us off at Manchester Airport, so I questioned Fawzi: ‘Why are you here? Are you married to Khalide or to me?’ I didn’t quite know why Khalide was there and was even more puzzled when Fawzi gave him an envelope containing some money, which he said was to pay some bills while we were away.

      However, despite his initial eagerness to join in the celebrations, once we arrived in Singapore, Fawzi was very remote from the very outset. Clearly, something was on his mind that was occupying him. I asked what it might be, but he denied anything was wrong – ‘Nothing. Nothing – everything is fine.’ He wouldn’t join in with the family’s activities and couldn’t even bring himself to take a dip in the hotel’s luxurious swimming pool – instead, he sat on a lounger beside the pool, drinking cocktails and cutting a solitary figure. He said he couldn’t be bothered to join in; he wasn’t paying Nadia, any of the family or me any attention.

      After a few days, I couldn’t put up with him or his behaviour any longer; I’d simply had enough. And there was another thing preying on my mind – Fawzi had received a fair number of texts since we had arrived, and when I asked who had sent them, he replied, ‘Oh, it’s just Khalide.’

      ‘What does he want?’ I asked.

      ‘He’s just checking that I’m all right,’ Fawzi replied.

      ‘Well, of course you’re all right,’ I snapped. ‘You’re with your wife and family! Why wouldn’t you be all right?’

      ‘I know – I keep telling him that.’

      But I knew there was more to it than that. Why would Khalide keep phoning or sending texts? I couldn’t believe that he would be so concerned about Fawzi’s welfare; something was up. The day before we were due to fly home, I told Fawzi that I wasn’t feeling well and I wouldn’t be going for breakfast. I asked him to take Nadia down to the dining room and said that I would join them later when I felt better.

      As soon as they left to go for breakfast, I checked Fawzi’s phone, which he had left behind. I checked his text messages first and there was one which immediately sent a chill down my spine: ‘Call me urgently, or else I’ll tell Sarah.’

      I was furious that something was being kept from me.

      What was all this about? What exactly did this person have to tell me? I took a note of the number and other numbers that I didn’t recognise. Although hurt and angry, I assumed the text was sent by a woman so I decided not to make a scene and spoil my mum’s birthday trip – I would just have to wait until we returned from Singapore before confronting Fawzi.

      When we arrived home, I was surprised to see lights on in the house. I was even more surprised to see Khalide lounging on the couch, watching television. In fact, I was gobsmacked. Fawzi said that he had just called around to check everything was in order but it was clear to me that he had been staying in the house without my knowledge while we had been away. I am quite open to friends staying over, but why was all this kept from me? It was our place after all. We had barely put the cases down in the hallway when Fawzi said he had to go out and, before I could say anything, he and Khalide were out the door.

      Immediately the front door slammed, I dialled the mystery number on Fawzi’s phone. After a few rings it was answered. My worst fears were confirmed: it was a woman’s voice.

      ‘I believe you’ve got something to tell me,’ I said.

      ‘Who is it?’ The woman’s voice was slightly anxious.

      ‘This is Sarah, Fawzi’s wife,’ I replied firmly.

      The phone went dead.

      I called Fawzi on his mobile and told him of my discovery. He was back in the house within ten minutes. At this point, I redialled the woman’s number and put the phone on loudspeaker. The woman answered and I said, ‘There’s someone who wants to speak to you.’ I handed the phone to Fawzi, who reluctantly took it from me. He looked as if he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him, but he managed to say, ‘Hello, I can’t speak – she’s got it on loudspeaker.’ He went into another room, but I followed him. Then he turned off the loudspeaker so I couldn’t hear what was being said on the other end of the line. It mattered very little because he ended the conversation quickly and abruptly, saying, ‘I’ll call you back later.’

      Calmly, I asked Fawzi what this was all about. He said he’d explain later and then just left the house. I didn’t try to stop him or tackle him; he was so good at worming his way out of situations and very clever about thinking on his feet. No doubt he would come up with some devious explanation. I didn’t think there was any point in accusing him of having an affair until I had some proof.

      A few days later, I opened another letter


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