Alone - a guest blog by transracial adoptee, Debbie Nahid

I was born in 1968. My mother had concealed her pregnancy for eight months when she boarded a plane in the Middle East bound for London. On her arrival, she visited a doctor in a Harley Street clinic and asked for help to give birth secretly. The doctor contacted a private adoption agency who agreed to place me with an adopted family in England so she could return to her homeland and escape the threat of an honour killing. If her family discovered she was pregnant with me, we would have been killed to protect their honour and reputation.

We spent ten days together in hospital before I was removed and taken into temporary foster care. My mother had signed all the relevant documents but she had named a father on my birth certificate and it was this that prevented my adoption into a family. At two months, I was handed over to the care of another foster mother who had been deemed unsuitable by social services and desperately longed for a baby of her own.

I was taken on a train to Suffolk and raised in a rural community of white English people. My mother was a single woman who did not have any extended family or partner to support her. I did not look like her; I had thick black hair, dark brown eyes and a tan on my skin that never faded. I felt like an outcast not only in my town but in my own home too.

My mother refused to tell me the truth about my birth and I was raised to believe that she was my biological mother. She also claimed that my father had come from Iran and apparently died before I was born. She did not have a photograph of him or myself as a newborn. I can remember questioning her many times but she would not discuss how I came to be in this world.

I grew up feeling extremely lonely and isolated, not just by my physical difference but also by her inability to be open about my existence. Social workers used to visit our house regularly but I was never told that I was the reason for these visits; I thought they were just being friendly when they asked about racial abuse I was experiencing at school. My mother used to tell me that the social workers were bad people who wanted to destroy her life and I believed her.

When approaching sixteen I discovered the truth. My mother woke me one night to tell me I was not her real daughter but she would not explain how I got there to be with her. In that moment, my whole world froze before me. I felt empty and frightened. I did not know who I was and I needed to find out. She told me that the name I had been known by for sixteen years was not officially mine.

A social worker came round to explain that I had a different name all along, a foreign name and that I was ‘a foreigner’. I wasn’t given any counselling or support during this period and it has set me up for a lifetime of mental health issues. I don’t think you will ever understand how it feels to discover you are not the person you thought you were. Everyone and everything becomes a lie.

I began to run away from home and each time I did this I was picked up by the police and taken back to the place I was running from. I eventually made it to London where I found the adoption agency and met with the woman who helped my birth mother. However, she didn’t want to help me and insisted I should drop any idea of searching because I would put my mother’s life in danger as the threat of an honour killing was indeed real. She also said that my mother had ‘moved on’. I was bereft, with no one to turn to and nowhere to go.

There is no help for an intercountry adoptee, which is essentially what I was - no helpful social worker, no access to records and no intermediary. The only way I was able to trace my birth family was by travelling to go in search of them, which at the time was to an extremely dangerous region, as a war and then later an invasion all hampered my efforts but didn’t stop me from pursuing the truth.

I found my birth mother when I was twenty four years old. She was married and had four children. I was afraid that she would reject me all over again, but she didn’t. She wanted to meet me. I wasn’t aware that my arrival would trigger her shame and guilt for having a child out of wedlock in a Muslim society. At the time, I was overwhelmed by my own feelings and it felt like rejection when she insisted on pretending I was somebody else. It was deeply upsetting for me to have found my birth mother after years of searching to then have to pretend I was someone else. It felt like another lie.

For the first time in my life, I was in the same home as my biological mother and my half sibling. I saw likenesses and mannerisms; I saw a physical resemblance that connected us all and yet they were strangers who had a different upbringing to me. They were raised in a different culture to the one I had been brought up in. It wasn’t just about colour, it wasn’t just about race, it was about a cultural identity that I found difficult to partake in because it was so unfamiliar to me. I may have appeared the same as them but my mindset was completely alien to theirs. My birth mother was a woman who had grown up in a restrictive society and this prevented her from openly acknowledging me because she feared the consequences.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get long enough to know her because she died quite suddenly and by the time I received the news, it was too late - she had already been buried. I would spend the years that followed trying to build a relationship with my half-siblings and trying to reach out to my birth mother’s relatives who did not want to build any relationship with me. They wanted to keep my identity a secret to protect their family honour, which meant rejecting my existence.

I think my life would have turned out differently if I had always known the truth about my adoption because it wouldn’t have been such a shock. I didn’t know then that I was led by trauma and living a traumatic existence. I was searching for honest people but I only found deceptive ones. I had a right to the truth because it is my history, my biology and my genetic code. From the moment I was born until now everyone who could give me information has tried their best to withhold it from me, using the threat of an honour killing as a justification.

Now I am a grown woman with children of my own and I am searching for the truth about my biological father’s identity, so my story continues....

A letter to... my little sister who has been missing for a year

Christmas is coming again and we don’t know where you are. You haven’t contacted me since January and your mobile is dead. I know you’ve been back to prison because some of your paperwork was sent here. I suppose it’s a good thing you know my address off by heart, but you haven’t used it since.

January was the first time I refused to give you money. I didn’t realise it would lead to not hearing from you for almost a year. I tortured myself for days for not sending the cash when it was below freezing outside, but I’d already sent so much and my husband was sceptical about what it was really for. I suppose I just got tired of being taken for a mug and resented being spun stories about why you needed a relatively small amount of cash in a hurry. Particularly as you barely included a cursory “how are you?” in your text. I suppose I realised how one-sided it all was. I’d travelled miles to visit you in prison, but you hadn’t remembered my birthday in over a decade.  

I’m not sure you got the message that I was expecting another baby. Your niece was born in July. I’d like you to meet her, but I worry it would make you think of your own babies, who you lost. I’m still in touch with them, you know. They’re doing well, so big now. I wish you would write to them, but you said you wouldn’t know where to start and how to explain. You said it gets harder as each year passes, but it gets harder for them too. 

Did you feel like an outsider from the start or did we make you feel like that gradually, day by day?

Your daughter called in tears last week asking for your phone number. For the first time I had to say I don’t have any way of contacting you. No address and no phone number. You’ve never used the email I set up for you and you’re not on Facebook. That stung. I felt ashamed, as though I’d let you slip through my fingers, although everyone else let you slip away years ago. As a consolation I said I’d send her some photos. I don’t have anything recent, but I thought some photos of you as a child would be nice. You were so cute; I loved having a little sister. Those classic 80s pictures of us in our matching pyjamas and goofy fringes. We look happy. But I stare at them, wondering when it all went wrong. Did you feel like an outsider from the start or did we make you feel like that gradually, day by day, until you no longer fitted at all?  

Dad won’t talk about you. He says he’s protecting Mum, but I think he’s closed himself off because he was hurting so much. It’s what men of that generation do. I’m still not sure it was right to “uninvite” you to my wedding but Dad got himself so worked up about seeing you that it seemed the easiest thing to do. Well, easier than having an EastEnders showdown on my wedding day. Selfish, I know. 

Are you still clean? I hope so, but if not I can see why and I don’t blame you. I phoned one of your old hostels and they said they’d keep an eye out for you. They spoke almost fondly of you, and I wonder if you’ll ever know or believe deep down that you’re likable. I’m so sorry if anything I said or did contributed to your lack of self-esteem.

Now that I’m a mum myself I’m sorry I didn’t realise how much you were struggling. It’s so bloody hard, I can’t imagine doing it by myself, miles from home with no money coming in. 

Christmas is a time for family, so I wonder if you dread it. You’ve lost more than your fair share of family members, it’s true, but, other than your birth mother who tragically passed away weeks before you were due to reunite, we’re all still alive. Bridges could be mended if you’d just pick up the phone. 

I hope you won’t be alone on Christmas Day. I’ll be with my in-laws this year, but I’ll spend all day hoping for a text from an unknown number: “Happy Xmas, babe.”

Sis xxx

This letter appeared in the Guardian weekend on 5th December 2015 and all submissions are usually kept anonymous. When I saw my letter had been published I was shaking. It gave me the boost to start this blog a few years later.

Photo by Eric Ward on Unsplash

9 things I would give my sister for Christmas

Would her own name, her own bedroom and a hell of a lot of support around attachment have stopped my sister becoming what they call in the trade “a bad outcome”?

As thoughts turn to Christmas, I don’t know where my sister is – again. Even with all the therapy and mindfulness in the world, I can’t always stop my obsessive thoughts about how she was failed by so many along her journey, including me. (With the caveat that many have helped too, although often after much of the damage had already been done.) 

With sensitivity to the fact that this is not my story to tell, and there are minors involved, here are nine things I wish for my sister:

1.   Her own name

All the reasons we were given about her name being changed were logical and seemed to add up. We didn’t question it. Now I know from speaking to other adoptees that having your name changed can bring a lot of issues. If it had to be changed, could she have been given a middle name linking her to her first family? 

2.   Better understanding of attachment 

My sister had some time without a primary care giver and I am wholly convinced it did irreparable damage. If we had understood this better we could have tried to support her more appropriately. Instead, we were all raised with the post-war “put up and shut up” model that my parents were comfortable with*.

3.   Support at school

My sister had huge issues at school, but was assessed as “on the border” which they rounded down to “doesn’t need support”. If I had a time machine I would get her to take that test again and lose one goddamn point. She needed and deserved so much more than any teacher at any school gave her. She was treated as a “normal” pupil who could and should be expected to adhere to school policy. 

Before I got back in my time machine, I would ask her teachers to read the stats around life outcomes for care experienced children who are excluded from school. And ask them to consider that exclusion is another rejection, another confirmation of unworthiness and dispensability.

4.   Her own bedroom

Having your own space is important for developing a sense of identity, particularly in adolescence. Our house wasn’t huge and two of my siblings shared a room. This meant when my sister most needed her own space, she literally had none. I cannot add any more here except to say, I was selfish and I should have agreed to a ‘timeshare’ of my room.

5.   A relationship with her birth mother 

Although originally thought to be unsafe, her birth mother went on to have a large, happy family. I do not know why the ‘rules’ cannot be updated if a birth parent’s situation changes along the line. I believe they would have both benefitted from some form of contact, as is more the norm today.

6.   A lifestory book

A lifestory book including photographs is something I would gift all us older adoptees, although I know many younger adoptees would say theirs are a load of rubbish. With more than one home before she came to us, the first few chapters of my sister’s life were blank. Without anything concrete, except a teddy with her original name, it may have felt that these chapters simply did not matter. It doesn’t take long for a traumatised brain to change that sentiment into “I don’t matter”.

7.   A friend

As I now have some understanding of attachment I can see why she had difficulty forming and maintaining friendships. And I am ashamed to say we weren’t good friends growing up, particularly not when she most needed one in our early teens. 

A good friend can be a lighthouse. If I could, I would gift my sister one good friend to understand her and see her through tough times. 

8.   A reunion with her birth mother

For reasons I cannot share, their reunion was thwarted and there won’t be another chance. 

When the reunion was first mooted, I could have got on a train to chaperone and support her. I didn’t. This makes me feel really shitty. I’m so sorry, sis. At the same time, there is not enough support in the UK for adoptees and care leavers undertaking delicate reunions. I believe the system that separated mother and child has a duty to support them during reunion and beyond.  

9.   A hug over a hot chocolate

I miss you sis, you crazy fool. Please hang in there wherever you are and don’t you dare go anywhere before I get to say all this to your face over a hot chocolate. (Definitely not a cup of tea; your teas are minging!) x

* Every time I mention my parents in a blog I literally seize up. I have written about the fear before, and it belies my age by about three decades! But I promised myself when I started this blog that I would not excessively compliment my parents in order to sugar-coat some of the challenges. None of my blogs are the whole story so please do not assume anything about my relationship with my family from reading a few blog posts.

Top 5 take-aways from The Open Nest conference 2017

Myths and Monsters of the Child Protection System: examining truth, identity and belonging through poetry, film and photography. 

This was my first adoption-related conference, and what a banger! Sombre surroundings in the Foundling Museum’s picture gallery, with a line-up packed with talent and courage. We heard from adult adoptees and care leavers, adoptive parents, kinship carers and Professors Anna Gupta and Brigid Featherstone – all wrapped up with an improvised, impassioned speech from Lemn Sissay.   

Here are my top 5 take-aways, with tips for adoptees and links for further reading:

1. The power of stories

Storytelling is part of the human condition. A great story is more powerful and persuasive than facts and figures. Yet the dominant stories we hear about adoption and child protection are not the whole picture. Those in control of the narrative – professionals, policy makers and adoptive parents, create them.

This is why it’s crucial that we, as adoptees, tell our stories. And not just us but first families too. Birth mothers, in particular, deserve better stories. As photographer Lizzie Combes said If you don’t see yourself reflected (or you don’t see yourself reflected positively) this can be hugely problematic. It creates stigma and is very damaging to self-esteem.

The Open Nest project with birth mothers was incredibly powerful and I would love to see the Poem Portraits in a public exhibition, if not on a bus or tube poster. I’d also like to hear from first fathers, who rarely appear on mainstream programmes such as Long Lost Family.

2. The importance of language

For many looked after children, the only information they have about their early years is in their file. A file is a collection of documents written by strangers using professional wording (aka jargon).

Families can be misrepresented if social workers are not careful about the language they use in meetings and reports. This is people’s lives, history and heritage we are talking about. Once something is written down, it becomes more credible even if it is not a fact.

When negative language is used about birth parents, children can grow up fearing this “lurking” presence, which can bring on feelings of shame. If my birth parent is a bad person, does that mean I am too?

The advice for social workers is: remember the human in front of you. Can you switch to assuming the positive rather than assuming the negative about this person?

3. Movement and creativity can ease trauma

Trauma is held in the body, and in order to live fully we need to get it out. Rebekah Ubuntu said moving her body is not a “nice to have”, it’s what keeps her alive. She recommended sport and dance as good examples. I would add yoga to this list, and I would love to hear how you use movement to deal with trauma and anxiety.

Rebekah Ubuntu leads questions and answers

Creativity was one of the themes of the conference, and Lemn Sissay stressed the importance of art in all its forms. He said creativity is not “for someone else” or “just for artists”; it’s at the heart of who we are. Many of the speakers used poetry, imagery and Rebekah Ubuntu showed a heart-breaking film shot at her mother’s graveside.

4. All families are dysfunctional

I could have punched the air at this point. What a refreshing, freeing statement. Thank you Lemn Sissay!

As Lemn said, let’s not kid ourselves that adopted children are going from dysfunctional birth families into functional adoptive families. That all families are in some way dysfunctional is a universal truth that is not acknowledged.

So why haven’t some people made this connection? It’s too scary to admit we are all fundamentally the same.

5. Keep talking and hugging

Silence + shame = a dangerous combination. That the two are a lethal mix seems obvious, but both are incredibly pervasive in adoption. Lemn later added: “silence is not resilience”. It’s damaging to grow up in a family where adoption is rarely discussed; the elephant in the room.

Silence is the enemy / Clogged into throats

@anneghemwall

When Lemn Sissay went to live in a children’s home he was not hugged. Worse than that, he said, was the lack of acknowledgement that what he needed was a hug. Imagine the emotional resilience of a child who lives without touch. 

Now, if you’ve read this far go and give someone in your dysfunctional family a big hug.

Thomas Coram peeking out from behind Lemn Sissay in the Foundling Museum picture gallery

The Open Nest founders and trustees have big open hearts and I am so happy the charity exists. Please support them if you can, this is incredibly important work that truly makes a difference.

Useful resources:

Brene Brown is amazing on stories

AdopteesOn is a podcast where adoptees speak about the adoption experience

Lemn Sissay's Origin Stories on Radio 4

Kristen Neff on common humanity and self-compassion

Six Word Adoption Memoirs

The Primal Wound, Nancy Newton-Verrier

The Open Nest conference tomorrow!

Super excited about my first adoption/fostering conference, The Myths and Monsters of Child Protection (bit of a scary title?!) on Monday 16th October. It's run by charity The Open Nest and the venue couldn't be more apt - the Foundling Museum in London.

The theme of the day is so close to my heart: examining truth, identity and belonging through poetry, film and photography. Speakers and attendees will include adoptees, adoptive parents, birth/first parents, foster carers and social workers. Best of all? The awesome Lemn Sissay is presenting - would it be too embarrassing if I brought my Foundling Museum tea towel for him to sign? 

I've been following the Open Nest for a few years and I love the quote in their website tagline: "Coming to anything organised by The Open Nest is like having a big long comforting hug." I'm always one of the first to give out hugs at the adopted adults' support group I attend, and I'm sure I'll be giving (and receiving!?) a few on Monday. 

Can't wait to report back on how it goes. I'll also be tweeting and gramming on the day so make sure you're following.

P.S. I'm expecting to be triggered left right and centre, so will be taking lots of tissues. But you know what they say, better out than in! Or as Brené Brown puts it: "We cannot selectively numb emotions, when we numb the painful emotions, we also numb the positive emotions."