Why I'd invite Shamima Begum to live in my house.

 I live with three teenagers.

That means I also live with the glorious ideals of three teenagers who are. always. right.

My teenagers have a relatively stable home (throw in the odd shouty-mum moment) and they enjoy the privilege of being white and middle class.  They don't face racism every day.  They don't have to work extra hard to be given their place in society.  They just exist and it's given to them on a plate.

But they still love their ideals.  And the debates in our house range from LGBTQ+ rights to FGM to the legalisation of cannabis.  Their opinions are strong.

But so was I at their age.  These days my views, like my hair, are far greyer.

It's normal for teenagers to throw themselves, passionately and wholeheartedly into an ideal and act on it.  Most of us have, and regretted it later.  It's how our brains develop.

Imagine then, a teenager with this developing brain, being systematically groomed by a group with very strong, very attractive ideals.  This teenager hasn't had the privileges my boys have had.  She's faced inequality, covert and overt racism and injustice whilst growing up as a British muslim.  The groomers point all this out to her, telling her she's justified in fighting back.  They understand how she feels when nobody else does.  They can use her to fight for the cause.  She'll have purpose.  She will have ideals.  She is needed.  Little by little, her developing brain is changed by these infiltrating messages.  Grooming changes the brain.  It's a known fact.

It's not even subtle.  They weedle their way into her brain, exploiting her background and her teenage development.  Until eventually, she's all in.

And, at just 15 years old, she boards a flight to Syria.

In law, human trafficking must have three elements:

• The Act (recruiting, selecting, transporting, harbouring of a person)
• The Means (through force, coercion, deception, fraud etc)
• The Purpose (for forced labour, sexual exploitation, forced marriage, domestic servitude, organ harvesting, criminal exploitation)

I'm no expert on Shamima Begum's case but it smells strongly of human trafficking to me.  

Shamima was selected, recruited, groomed and deceived into joining ISIS in order to be married off, sexually and criminally exploited.

The level of trauma she will have both witnessed and endured is beyond our white middle-class imaginings.  Her brain development will have taken a huge hit.  Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is highly likely.  She might not even be able to remember all she has seen and done whilst an active member of ISIS.  Now separated from her family, living with this trauma, she finds herself stateless and living in a camp.  At only 21 years old, she has experienced the grief of losing three babies, losing friends and family and losing her citizenship.

I hear your murmurs about this being her choice...

But remember how the developing teenage brain works?  Which of us made choices in our teen years that we later realised were the wrong choices?  And remember how grooming changed her brain?  We can, perhaps, argue that she had no choice in this at all.  She was swept along in the excitement, endorphins and purpose of fighting for those she cared about - whatever the cost.

What would we offer to other young adults in her predicament right now?

Stability

Support

Therapy

Family and community

And this is why I, as a mum of teenagers and a host of survivors of human trafficking in the UK, would invite Shamima Begum into my home.  

I can't change all that she's been through.  I can't heal the wounds or her regrets.  I can't stop the nightmares and the flashbacks.  I can't take away any of the shame she may be feeling.  I can't bring back her precious babies.

But I could show her acceptance while she heals.  I could show her that there are people who love her, despite her mistakes - however huge they might be.  I could give her the stability of somewhere safe to sleep at night that isn't patrolled by gunmen, three meals a day and the odd dog walk in the sunshine.  I could play games with her, showing her that it's okay to laugh again.  

I know that Shamima Begum probably won't ever end up in my kitchen, but I'd like to think that if there were others like her; groomed, exploited, with a history of criminal behaviour, I would be able to welcome them to my tribe.  

Expelling people is never the answer.

Welcoming them, is.

An Introvert's Lockdown

I have to admit that I enjoy some aspects of lockdown.

Unlike my extrovert husband who is so desperate for conversation that the poor man fixing the shower was barely able to get on with his job because my husband kept interrupting him for a chat.

He is going slightly crazy without human interaction.

I, on the other hand, am enjoying wearing my 'day pyjamas' every day, pulling on old muddy jeans for dog walks and then changing again when I arrive home.  I can't remember the last time I wore proper clothes.  I only brush my hair once a week, if that, usually either wearing a hat indoors (yes, our house is that cold) or scraping my hair back into a messy ponytail.  

I love the relief of not having the make excuses about why I don't want to go out or the guilt of making plans and then cancelling them at the last minute because I'm just too peopled out.

I love the fact that I can only leave the house once a day, and that's for a dog walk.

And although zoom calls highlight my triple chins and can drain me like our leaky gutters, I love that I can be in my day pyjamas, wonderwoman beanie hat and slippers and I don't have to travel anywhere.  I love the authenticity of it all.

But, even I, am now finding lockdown tough.  There are so many things I miss.  And they might be different to the things my extrovert husband misses.

Children.  

I know this makes me sound a little bit weird.

But when you are only surrounded by teenagers who regularly roll their cynical all-knowing eyes at you and comment on how childish you are for laughing at a video of a hippo flicking his poo everywhere with his tail (if you know, you know) then you realise how much you miss the delight and innocence of littlies.  

In The Before, I would meet with my church family every week.  I could chat with the littlies about dinosaurs, building snowmen and the tooth fairy.  And they'd laugh with me about farts and bogeys.  These days I just have to giggle to myself and endure the withering-teenage-looks.

An Empty House

Oh my goodness, how I LONG for an empty house.

In The Before, my husband would enjoy travelling, my boys would be out at school or with friends and I sometimes had several hours of an empty house.  

No interruptions.

Nobody asking me 'Mum, have you seen my phone charger?' or 'Mum, what's wrong with the wifi?'

No loud, blaring music from different rooms in the house.

No tinny squeak of video-watching.

No x-box game shouting.

These days, The Noise invades EVERYTHING.  

A Clean Kitchen

Sometimes our dishwasher is loaded and unloaded THREE TIMES a day.  

It makes no difference how often we clear the kitchen of the locust-debris, half an hour later someone is cooking again. 

The pans, plates, bowls, cups, empty pizza boxes and pot noodle pots just never stop piling up.  And when we come downstairs in the mornings, it sometimes looks as though our fridge, freezer and cupboards have been pillaged.

At least these days the locusts mostly pile up their empties in the vague direction of the sink.  

In The Before, we could actually see the kitchen worktops.  We'd clear up after our evening meal and it generally stayed that way for several hours.  The dishwasher was only used once a day.  The recycling mountain didn't need to be flattened every day.

These days?  Not so much.

Hugs

I haven't ever gone this long without hugging my Mum and Dad.  And on the rare occasions when we do see them, it feels wrong not to hug them.

And there are other people too whose hugs just bring relief, healing, the chance to breath out and for a second feel like everything is going to be ok.

In The Before, I was a hugger.  I touched people a lot.  (Oh, I'm sounding weird again)  Hello hugs, Goodbye hugs, Celebration hugs, I'm Your Friend hugs, I Know You're Sad hugs, It's Going To Be Ok hugs, You Can Cry On Me hugs and I'm Going To Cry On You hugs.  

So. Many. Hugs.

And I miss them.  I have a husband who hugs me and one son who finds me wherever I am in the house wraps his arms around me when he wakes up in the mornings  afternoons, so I am grateful.  (The two other sons are currently ironing-board-huggers but even they don't escape my octopus hugging arms sometimes).

But still, there are so many people I miss hugging.

The Sea

Our family life over the last few years hasn't been easy.  

In The Before, I had just discovered the relief and need of time away.  And one of the places I love to find that respite and soul-healing is by the sea.

Not only do we probably live the furthest away from any possible coastal area, but not being able to travel has meant that I can't see the sea with it's fresh, salty air, hope-filled horizons, stretches of sand and the relief of the endless in-and-out-waves.

Staring at the sea changes my perspective on life.  My soul misses this.

I'm making sure to enjoy my simple pleasures of my comfy day pyjamas, mornings cups of tea in the quiet, sleeping house and dog walks in the fresh air and occasional sunshine.  

But when I can hug again, you'd better prepare yourselves.