M.F. Renée - Our Journey to El Dorado: Two Women, Two Immigrants, Two Worlds Collide— A True Story of Faith and Freedom from Human Trafficking

Copyright 2021 by M.F. Rene

All rights reserved. Published by The Cultural Story-Weaver.

No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, contact The Cultural Story-Weaver at www.culturalstoryweaver.com.

ISBN 978-1-7367253-5-1

Arabic Tears

For Those on the Frontlines

Part 1: Her Dream

Morocco Roots

1. My Morocco

2. Her Morocco

3. A Way Out

The Crossing

4. A Faustian Bargain

5. The Strawberry Fields

6. Drink! Dont Feel!

7. Mafia Terror

All For This?

Part 2: Her Rescue

8. Knock at the Door

Overwhelming Love

9. How Could I Say No?

10. You Speak My Language?

11. First Birthday Party

12. Freedom to Choose

13. Her Culture of Honor and Shame

14. Beauty From Ashes

Part 3: Her Story

15. The Translation Bridge

16. The Telling

Today, I Would Rather

17. The Treasure Box

18. My Reflections

19. The Three Roads of Immigration

20. Broken Women in the House

21. The Strawberry Fields are Calling

What Would You Do?

22. Dare to Trust Again

Part 4: Her Pain

23. The Lump and the Hearts

24. What is it?

25. Forgiveness and Sovereignty

26. The Tattered Tissue

27. Sartan!

28. Exposed and Afraid

29. The Sentence and Translation Ethics

30. A Trip to Morocco

31. Dear Habiba

32. Im Tired

33. Lament for Habiba

34. I'm Jealous!

35. A Sweet Reunion

36. Staring Cancer in the Face

Part 5: Her Life

37. Something to Hold Onto

38. Her Family is Starving

39. French Fries and Ice Cream

Mint Tea

40. Tajine, Beets, and a Tea Party

Mondays

41. Her Fate in Blurred Images

42. Flamenco and the Backwards Warrior

43. Wait For Me!

44. Menopause, Orange Juice, Gray Hair, and Bald Heads

45. Mommy, Whats a Safe House?

Broken Pieces of Your Story

46. The El Dorado Revelation

47. Tell Them!

48. Our El Dorado

Part 6: The Sad Reality and How to Make a Difference

49. A Person or a Project?

50. The Sad Reality of the Strawberry Fields of Spain

51. The Sad Reality of Sex Trafficking in Spain

52. Now That You Know, Go Make a Difference!

Jesus Loved Prostitutes

The Starfish Parable

T o m y beloved Habiba and all the women and girls around the globe who carry the same storythe same story of brokenness, trauma, and pain. To all the women and girls around the world who are still secretly enslaved. You are not forgotten. We will find you. We will rescue you. Stay strong while we tell your story, while we plead with people to help, while we scream loudly from the mountaintops the truth and sad reality of what happens in the darkness behind closed doors. I will be your voicethe voice of the Silent Ones. Most importantly, I dedicate this book to God, the Author and Finisher of our faithour story, our journey to El Dorado. I trust Him to write the last chapters and the end of this story.

THE PEOPLE IN THIS BOOK HAVE GIVEN ME PERMISSION TO TELL THEIR STORY. NAMES AND LOCATIONS HAVE BEEN CHANGED FOR EVERYONE'S SECURITY.

W ith that one phone call, the threads of our lives intertwinedforever.

We heard you speak Arabic. Can you help us with some translation? We have a new Moroccan girl who cant speak a word of Spanish.

Yes, I love Arabic.

Id heard about these women, the workthe difficult, heart-breaking work. Id also heard the statistics in Spainsome of the highest in Europe. Alarming...

I wasnt sure what I was getting into. I wasnt sure if I wanted to walk through the door that day.

It didnt take me long to love youa broken, hurting woman who had left everythingyour parents, your son, your land, your culture, your language, your life... your broken life in North Africa. Like all the other women sitting next to you in the boat that day, you crossed the Mediterranean to pick strawberries in the fields of Spain.

It was no El Dorado.

Sitting in that room, you begin to tell your storyin Arabic, the language I love.

Arabic. The onslaught of your pain, your trauma, your grief slam me in the face.

Arabic. It stings. I feel sick to my stomach.

Arabic. You speak so fast, sob so loudly. At times, I can hardly understand you.

Arabic. I dont want to ask you to repeat. I dont want you to say it again. I dont want to hear it again.

Arabic... But theres no one else. I am the only one in the room who can hear and understand your story, your words, your pain.

Arabic... a blessing, a burden.

Arabic... a language I love, a language I hate.

I try to listen, but your pain hits me hard. Tears stream down my face. I reach across the table and take your hand. I lean over and hold you.

You weep. I weep. I have never seen so many tears. I stroke my finger across your cheeks to wipe them away. I hand you a tissue. I hold one too.

The emotion is rawyours, mine.

Arabic... I listen carefully to your words, absorb your pain, your sorrow, your story.

Strawberries, promises, darkness, streets, alcohol, drugs, men, money, Mafia, secrets, torture, death...

I swallow hard. I breathe deeply. I turn to the other two women sitting at the table with us.

And I speak.

Arabic.

English.

Spanish.

Your sacred story travels around the table. I hear the trauma once, twice, three timesin three different languages. My head spins. My mind is foggy.

I weep. I hold your hand.

When I walk out the door that day, I carry your story with me. Its a story that is more than I can handle, more than I can hear, more than I can bear, more than I can carry.

The pain and grief are heavy. I can hardly breathe.

I beat my fists against the steering wheel, tears streaming down my cheeks.

God, I didnt ask you for this! I dont want to do this anymore! I dont want to use my Arabic like this! Find someone else!

But theres no one else. Arabic. Im the only one who understands your story.

Arabic... it feels used and abused... just like you, my sister.

I cry Arabic tears.

I sat alone in my car. It was April 2020, just after the COVID-19 pandemic had invaded the world. Spain was still in a period of total confinement. I had already been in lockdown with my husband and four sons for almost forty days. It felt like Noahs Ark; however, the rain was still pouring, and the waters were not receding.

It was only the second time I had been out of the house, the second time I had driven my car in over a month. It felt strange. I could finally breathe. I went to the pharmacy to pick up medicine for my son. After removing my face mask and washing my hands thoroughly with antiseptic gel, I sat in my car to escape and read for a while. No one at the house needed me.