Two Years On and Mother’s Day

It was two years ago yesterday that I escaped my traffickers for the first time. The last attack on me was just over three months ago. I have reported it all to the FBI. While it’s terrifying that they walk free in the same small town as me, I am far more confident, safe and reassured that justice will be served.

I am the proud daughter of a Vietnam Veteran. The lessons instilled in me by our service member family have helped me survive, escape and thrive under horrific circumstances. I have talked with numerous people who remind me of who I am and that my service member family has not forgotten me just as I haven’t forgotten them even through the trauma, amnesia and PTSD.

As a child my mom would have me go with my new dad to spend quality time together. He would tell my mom that he didn’t need a babysitter while apologizing to me. I agreed with dad but we both listened to mom. She knew best.

I was a highly intelligent and responsible child. I would secretly hide his car keys if he was having a few too many beers with the boys, as mom taught me. I sat beside dad and his fellow servicemen absorbing everything. When I was discovered, the boys panicked about what I had heard and what wife was going to be letting loose on them momentarily.

One day a veteran was talking to me and answering the difficult questions about war and in particular Vietnam. The others wanted to silence me, especially when I asked about the Hanoi Hilton. They knew some who were tortured and some never revealed that part of their service. They protected them fiercely. The veteran looked at the younger men and stopped them. He noted that I was not upset by the horrors of war. I simply wanted to know. He told them that I needed to know what happened because I was a military daughter. I needed to understand daddy.

It took a bit longer to convince mom that I didn’t need to be protected. I needed the truth. Whenever service members questioned my presence, my dad would say that it was okay. It’s just Darcy. They talked gingerly until they realized how different I am. Some became accustomed to me and taught me what even their sons called, “sick and twisted.” I wore it like a badge of honor. I was one of the boys.

I couldn’t serve for numerous reasons but I never forgot my family. During the war on terror, I approached every service member in hijab as quickly as possible. I thanked them for their service in my American accent so as to ease any discomfort or flashbacks. They were kind but I recognized the look of annoyance at another glad hander interrupting their day. I didn’t skip a beat before saying that my daddy served in Vietnam. They immediately thanked me for daddy’s service and that of my family and I. They would jump up to hug me but pause because of Islamic customs learned in their service. I would hug them and remind them that we are family.

My mom flew to see me every Mother’s Day. We would talk about what we wanted to do and see during her visit months in advance. In 2008 I didn’t have to ask. I was living in DC with my husband at the time who had just started working for the State Department.

The three of us took the metro to the National Mall. We made our way from the Washington Monument to Lincoln Memorial. We stopped at each war memorial along the way praying for those who served. We thanked every service member, veteran and family member we saw for their service. My hijab and the color of my husband’s skin were never noticed by them. We are family. Nothing else matters.

When we got to the Wall, we had to stiffen our spines. We couldn’t acknowledge each other there. We simply locked eyes and nodded through the tears. It took us time to be comfortable in the space. We went down the wall searching for daddy’s men. When we found the approximate spot, we began talking to those around us. It was like coming home. We all understood without saying much.

We phoned daddy and read the names in the area. We rubbed our fingers across them as we went and prayed for each. Daddy couldn’t forgive himself for surviving when they didn’t. He felt like he didn’t deserve anything good because of it. He said that he didn’t believe in God until the day he died. I knew better though. He thanked the three of us for praying for his men. He said that it meant a lot that we, who strongly believed in God did what he couldn’t. When he was dying, he told me that he didn’t know where he was going. I didn’t hesitate and let him know that he would be in heaven waiting for us.

I have screamed, cussed and dressed down service members my entire life. We are family and it is evident in all we do. We can’t hide it. The presumed FBI agent had me talking properly without me even knowing his service to our country. When he asked if I was a Marine while pointing to my Semper Fi sticker, I said that my daddy was while giving him the glad hander look. I then clarified that he was my stepfather. I couldn’t lie to a service member, even an undercover one. Daddy told the truth whenever he was caught by MPs or PD. He never forgot to thank them for their service either. Daddy raised me up right. Thank you for your service, Sir!

While mom gave me life, her greatest gift to me wasn’t just a dad but my daddy, the jarhead. He taught me everything I needed to survive the horrific realities of being taken by terrorists and enslaved. I’ve been training for this my whole life. I’m going to be just fine.

Oorah!

Now, I would appreciate it if y’all could just hurry this along. I know that I can never win an argument with God nor active duty though. I can only pray that you stay safe; look after each other and take care of each other as only our family does.

Allah, please protect our honorable service members and their families throughout the world during these difficult times and always. For you are all knowing and most merciful. Amin.

I love y’all. Watch your six because

Every life matters, especially yours.

God bless America and especially Her people.