—

I never knew the conditions I endured would leave such deep physical and emotional scars—scars I would carry with me for the foreseeable future. At that time, I was just desperate to escape the nightmare I was living.

The son of the family had once mentioned that since the patriarch assaulted me, he no longer came to my sleeping quarters. But the son’s so-called “kindness” came with a price.

“You’ll have to pay for your freedom,” he told me one day. “But you’ll be paying in kind.”

One day, he arrived with something neatly wrapped. “I brought you a little something,” he said, handing me the package. “You’ll have to eat it, and then we can start planning your grand escape.”

When I opened the package, I froze in horror. It was human feces.

I felt nauseated and threw up immediately. But he didn’t stop there. He grabbed a spoon, scooped some of the waste, and struggled to force it into my mouth. I gagged and vomited again, but the more I resisted, the angrier he became.

“I’m not here to play games with you!” he shouted, slapping me hard across the face.

I whispered to myself, This is the kindness he was talking about?

I remembered from my school science class that human waste is full of harmful bacteria. It’s not something anyone should ever consume. Tears streamed down my face as he forced me to swallow it. I could see a cruel smile spreading across his face, and then he let out an evil laugh.

In that moment, I swore to myself: I would rather die here than continue to endure this horror.

The abuse didn’t stop there. Sometimes, he would sneak into my quarters and pour hot wax on my skin, burning my flesh. Other times, he would bite my nipples just for his amusement. The worst was the choking—he enjoyed it so much, taking me to the brink of unconsciousness. I could feel my soul leaving my body, but he always stopped just before it was too late.

Every day brought new torment. The abuse continued for a month, each day more dehumanizing than the last.

One day, he came to me and said, “Prepare yourself for your escape. Make sure no one finds out. If my father discovers you’re running away, he’ll either kill you on the spot or mutilate you. He’ll gouge out your eyes or cut off a limb—whatever he feels like.”

He instructed me not to pack any clothes, as a bag would slow me down. Then, he handed me a piece of paper.

“These are the directions to the safe house,” he said, shoving the paper into my hands. “Memorize everything, then tear and swallow it. I don’t want any trace leading back to me. Do you understand?”

I nodded, too terrified to speak.

“Good,” he said. “Wait for the signal. The fire in the courtyard will mean it’s time to leave. Avoid well-lit streets, stick to the dark, and trust no one.”

The days leading up to Friday felt like an eternity. I was torn between hope and fear—hope for freedom, and fear of the plan failing. I tried to act normal, going about my chores as usual, but my nervousness almost gave me away. My hands shook as I served meals, and I avoided eye contact.

Finally, Friday night came. I discreetly checked the courtyard throughout the evening, but there was no fire. I began to lose hope. Just as I was drifting off to sleep, I saw the flames.

My heart leapt. I grabbed my small backpack and crept out as silently as I could. At the gate, the son was waiting.

“Goodbye,” he whispered, handing me my passport and a new phone.

“This is a parting gift,” he said. “Don’t turn it on until you’re out of Oman. If you do, they’ll trace you, and they’ll find you. If they find you, they’ll kill you.” He mimicked slicing his neck with his hand.

I nodded, tears rolling down my face.

At that moment, I wondered if he had a split personality. This man, who had been so cruel, now seemed kind. But I didn’t dwell on it—I was too focused on my escape.

I ran as fast as I could. This was my do-or-die moment. I had memorized the directions, then chewed and swallowed the paper as instructed.

I avoided well-lit streets and hid whenever I saw a car approaching. After 45 minutes, I arrived at the location he had described.

I whispered the password at the gate, “Candy.”

The gatekeeper replied, “Candy,” and let me in.

Inside, I saw women from all over the world—each with fear and trauma etched on their faces.

“Welcome,” a woman with a soft voice said warmly.

Then I saw him—the doctor. My knees went weak, and my heart raced.

What if he betrayed me? What if he went back to the family and exposed me? My escape would be over.

Sensing my fear, he approached me calmly.

“Relax,” he said. “You’re safe here.”

Tears welled up in my eyes. “But I saw you with them,” I said. “You worked for that family!”

“No,” he replied. “I pretended to work for them to help women like you escape. If they found out what I was really doing, I’d be dead by now.”

His words reassured me. He wasn’t my enemy—he was risking his life to save others.

For the first time, I felt hope.