The Boys Who Saved My Life

By Rose Panteli

A true-life story of my upbringing as a girl living with cerebral palsy and the discrimination that I've faced, not only by members of the public but worse still, by my own family, leaving me with a lot of heartache that led me to seriously think of ending my life as I saw no light ahead or future for myself.

That was until one day, just b

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rose Panteli
• Release date: Feb 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781914078699

Book preview

Part 1

Growing up, my life had never been easy, I can assure you, but if It was hard then, it paled into insignificance compared to what was to come and I am sure by the end of this, you will have come to understand and appreciate exactly why that has been the case.

I have had my ups and downs; after all who hasn’t? But for me, there have been more downs than ups. I had been forced to grow up far quicker than a child of my age should ever have to and learn some of the harsh facts that life tends to throw at you, the main one being that if you are different, as I am a prime example of that being a person living with what is at times a crippling condition called cerebral palsy, then that’s the way you are going to be treated by some small-minded individuals who make up parts of society not only in this country but many others too. That is the sad reality of the world that we live in. I have to say that it has been an eye-opener for me, to say the least, seeing all of the abuse, discrimination and challenges that people like myself have to face on a regular and, in some cases, daily basis. In an ideal world, this would never happen, but such a place, unfortunately, exists only in the figment of our imagination. We do have our differences, of course, be it nationality, religion, colour, language or disability; this without a doubt is true. However, we are all human beings who have feelings and should be judged on how we present ourselves individually and by the way that we treat others, not by the way that we look or on how we speak. At the end of the day, this is what should really matter above all else.

There are always some, though, who choose to have a black heart and turn a blind eye to what is right and what is wrong, but I don’t believe anyone is born evil. Good and bad exist in all of us; it’s which path we choose to follow that defines us as a person and not because someone is in some way different. It is a life choice that, in most cases, the individual makes willingly because they want to and they clearly don’t abide by common decency. This type of people enjoys making others’ lives a misery. They prey on anyone that they see as different to them and are unlikely to be able to stick up from themselves because that’s what bullies do - they pick on those that they deem as weak and therefore unlikely to be able to defend themselves. People like myself are the subjects of their amusement because, in their eyes, we have no right to be happy. They think we look funny, hence the mocking that comes with it.

Of course, this often stems from their own insecurities and the need to fit in somewhere, anywhere in fact, regardless of whether they are nice or not, just so long as they can call somebody a friend. I find that very sad but this happens so often, but being ridiculed and stared at isn’t a nice thing. People like this make me angry; nobody should have to accept this but unless they are caught in the act, and they never are, then what is ever going to change? Discrimination towards disabled people is seen as a normal and acceptable way of life to those who act in this disgraceful manner and this cannot be seen as acceptable in any way, shape, or form. All we ask is to be treated equally and with respect and to have the same rights as everybody else, no more no less. Surely that isn’t asking for too much, is it?

In my opinion, there are two different categories of people that do this and I have just spoken about the first.

The second, are those that are usually probably really nice people but their behaviour would, at times, suggest otherwise. Rather than coming over and asking me about my condition, they would whisper and stare only because they didn’t really understand what was wrong with me. Maybe this was because they felt it too rude to do so, however, judging by the way that they would choose to conduct themselves, they were being just that anyway. I would have been more than happy to explain to anyone who had asked me but that never happened. I am sure anyone living with a disability would prefer that someone just came up to them and politely asked the question as opposed to being stared at. I believe all they need is educating. Sadly, though, who is going to sit them down and make them understand that what they are doing is wrong? The likelihood is nobody, but as upsetting as these things were, at times, it was nothing compared to the treatment that I had suffered at the hands of the very same people that you would least expect it from and those whose responsibility it was to protect me from any kind of harm. I am, of course, talking about my family.

I was eight years old when they started to insult and hit me, giving me a slap here and there, and I had no idea why they were doing this to me. It was a classic case of Jekyll and Hyde; one day they treated me okay, but then the next I got abused and this was how it was until I was nine when it got much worse as the slaps turned into beatings and the insults were more of a daily thing rather than every other day or two. I was beaten and screamed at on a regular basis. The physical abuse was bad and often I was left in pain and covered in bruises, especially after my dad used the slipper or belt on me. Yet, as bad as the physical abuse was, the mental side of it was harder for me. Knowing that your family thought so little of you isn’t a nice feeling and being called things that no adult should say to a young child gives you an insight into what I had to listen to constantly.

I have heard many people say that the mental abuse is worse than the physical and I couldn’t agree more. Bruises, in time, tend to fade away, however, the mental scars don’t. Things can and do get better but like anyone else who has suffered abuse of one kind or another, they will know only too well that no matter how hard they try not to relive it, the past has a nasty habit of catching up with you. At times, it can be very hard but I also try to look at it from another perspective, whereby, if I hadn’t gone through everything that I did, then maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t be the strong person that I now am or have the life that for so long seemed to be nothing more than just a young girl’s fantasy. It will forever be tucked away at the back of my mind. I don’t fool myself into thinking otherwise but the combination of positive thinking and the love that now surrounds me makes any dark days I have more bearable than times gone by. But no matter what, I refuse to allow it to rule my life. I try not to dwell too much on the past, as painful as it was, because I want to be happy and it changes nothing.

My only wish, however, is that in a safe environment and under supervision, the opportunity would have presented itself whereby I could have asked my mother and father the questions that I wanted answers to. The first and most important of these was the most obvious one to ask; why was I treated differently to my brothers? And why did they believe that anything that I may have said or done could have been justification for what they did to me? I have never put it down to being a girl although there may have been a bit of that, and I say that because, in my culture, a lot of men think that a woman’s place is in the kitchen and they are expected to do all of the chores, no questions asked, but my dad never expected that of my mum. She did the chores because she felt it was her duty as that was the way she had been brought up. So, in my opinion, that was never the issue.

As I was growing up, it became quite evident that being different played a major part. After all, I am sure the last thing that my mum and dad expected when they were having me was that I would be born with a debilitating condition. It must have been some shock to the system when they were told that, no doubt. As for my behaviour, I am the first to admit that I was no angel and, like any child, I had my moments where I would act up. Also, as I got a little older, I would at times answer back when I perhaps shouldn’t have, but don’t all children do that sometimes? However, that said, my brothers never received the same treatment when they were cheeky so it was obvious that it was used as a good excuse for them to do what they did so often and that was to hurt me. You can be forgiven for thinking that life wasn’t fair when I was the only one being punished most severely, time after time, for doing exactly the same things as my siblings, while they were getting away with it without so much as a bad word. Where is the fairness in that? They didn’t care what was or wasn’t fair and they would never admit to what they had done. If it had happened just once, or even twice, then perhaps you could say that they actually believed what they did was right even though it clearly wasn’t, but they knew what they were doing was wrong. Hence why I was made to wear clothes to cover up all of the bruises; they were calculated and cruel and deep down, they knew it.

They knew that I wouldn’t tell anyone, I was too scared of the consequences if I did. Also, they were not stupid; the bruises I had were left in places that would not have been seen by Joe Public as I would be made to wear long-sleeved tops to cover my arms. The same applied to my legs where I had to wear trousers and dresses that concealed the evidence. This would never raise suspicion - I mean, why would it? Everyone does this and, in my culture, they don’t like their daughters having their arms and legs on show. This is the norm so nobody was any the wiser. It was a case of keeping my mouth shut or suffering more of the same.

Over time, I became used to being hit and beaten, as unpleasant as it all was. How can it be right, though, when someone so young becomes used to something as horrible as that? There can be no excuse ever good enough for a parent or any adult to inflict this kind of punishment on a child, but alarmingly, it is something that is happening all too frequently., So, when I look back, I have no doubt that I was treated in this way mainly because I was different to my three brothers and, because of this, they enjoyed punishing me in the harshest of ways. Also, to add insult to injury, they had the audacity to blame it on my behaviour which I knew wasn’t true because nothing I had ever said or done could warrant what they had put me through.

Although I was always convinced that I knew all of the answers to my questions, I would have liked to have heard it from their own mouths. When I look back now, it comes as no surprise to me that I never got that opportunity and I now know that I never will. It wasn’t nice being stared at and ridiculed by people. The whispering and laughing behind my back were irritating and upsetting at the best of times but I learned in time to ignore them. However, it isn’t so easy to do that when it’s family that you are living with who are treating you so despicably. If they don’t look after and protect you then who will? They should love you unconditionally. Now, I am not saying that my mum and dad never loved me, but from the time that they started to abuse me, any love they had for me was in short supply. Actions speak louder than words and theirs suggested that they didn’t, well, not as much as they should have anyway, because when all is said and done, you don’t abuse those that you are supposed to love. This was just a taste of my life back then; a tip of the iceberg and it is not something that I look back on with much fondness or many happy memories.

My family would hate me telling you any of this but they no longer have a say in what I say or do. Their control over me is, thankfully, a thing of the past. For years, I had to keep my inner feelings to myself, and it’s never good to bottle them up. I knew this but if I had said what I truly felt, well, let’s just say that it doesn’t bear thinking about. Now, though I don’t have to worry about what comes out of my mouth because the fear of a punch, kick, slipper, belt or a full-on beating is no longer there. I am free to speak honestly from the heart and I have a lot to say starting right now. If by reading this, it helps just one girl or boy out there, then I will be happy! Let me tell you a bit more about myself.

I am a Muslim girl born into a typical strict Muslim family and I have a disability that I am sure most of you have heard of called cerebral palsy. It is a condition that I was born with but I wasn’t diagnosed until I was a year old. It affects sufferers in different ways. There are four types: Spastic, athetoid, ataxic and the fourth type being what is called a mixed type which is all four rolled into one. It is a permanent movement disorder that appears in early childhood and symptoms vary among people and over time. Often, symptoms include poor coordination, stiff and weak muscles and tremors. There may be problems with sensation, vision, hearing, swallowing and speaking and some can get worse in time as they get older.

My mum and dad were really happy when they found out that they were going to have a baby. Mum and Dad have told me a little about those times. I was to be their firstborn and they were very excited and happy when they learned that my mum was pregnant. They planned ahead by buying loads of clothes and my auntie and uncle gave them some that their older children had previously worn. In my culture, they didn’t believe in finding out the gender, as Muslims believe that you should be grateful for what God gives you. My parents were no different; they were of the opinion that as long as the baby was healthy, then that is all that matters and, in that respect, they were no different to any other parent of any race or religion.

However, I certainly wasn’t the kind of baby that they were either expecting or wanting and this was something that they were unaware of until I was a year old. It was the Health Visitor that told my family of her concerns that I wasn’t walking at all or talking as much as I should have been. I don’t know if my mum and dad noticed this but I was referred to the hospital for tests and when the results came back that I had a disability called cerebral palsy, they were shocked, confused and devastated. My mum had told me the good thing was that at least now they knew what was wrong with me, as it lifted the worry of not knowing, but it was the last thing that they were expecting. They found it hard to accept or understand to begin with, even when the doctors were explaining everything to them, and it was something that would take a long time for them to get their heads around and for it to properly sink in.

As I was growing up, they became different. They wanted me to have some kind of independence even at such a young age, even as early as two years old, so they didn’t pamper me and allowed me to crawl around the house and climb up the stairs and bum-shuffle down them. It was a different story when we were outside, though. At that time, it wasn’t just me that my mum and dad had to look after because I now had a baby brother called Usman who also needed a lot of care and attention. So, it must have been good for them that at home, I was learning to do things for myself. Having said that, though, they did have some help from my grandparents which must have been a relief and a welcome break for them at times, but not everything was so rosy at the beginning.

It has to be said that some of the wider family were ashamed that I was disabled, and would worry about what other people would think. This, I am afraid, is what happens in Muslim society. I have come to learn, not just from my parents but as I was growing up, that this is the way that the cookie crumbles in our communities. It’s not nice but, in time, I learned to live with it. The shame that, in their eyes, I brought on the family by being different was too much for them. In their minds, I was somehow to blame for having a disability. Anyone with a rational mind would know that these people lacked common sense. I mean, there are foolish people and then there are them, and these are some of the small-minded and uneducated people I was talking about. The mind boggles sometimes, it really does. How anyone who knows nothing about my condition and can come up with no reason whatsoever as to why I have it, can conclude that I had done it to myself, I ask you, are you for real? At times, I had to laugh about it because if I didn’t, I would probably cry. I believe that if these imbeciles had their way, they would have locked me up somewhere far away and thrown away the key, but thankfully, they were just an irritating noise that, in time, would fade into the distance.

The shame factor is all too common in our culture. It’s a way of life when you are a Muslim; instead of looking after your family and rallying around them and saying to hell with everybody else, some of them care about the thoughts of outsiders and say and think stupid and outrageous things, as in my case. In essence, they should have told them to mind their own business and either support my mum and dad or leave us alone, but it never, ever worked out that way. Sadly, too many people outside the family circle would stick their noses into our affairs if there was just a whiff of gossip or controversy. It’s just the way that it was and the way that it has always been. Unfortunately, like I said before, I have come across many narrow-minded bigots and my grandparents from my father’s side were prime examples of this. They always treated me differently to their other grandchildren. If they needed help cooking or cleaning or with preparations for a family celebration or any other family gatherings, they would never involve me. I felt totally left out of things. It was like they were saying that I was useless and I wasn’t capable of doing anything. Actions really do speak louder than words and that was certainly true where they were concerned. They never attempted to hide it either but the good thing for me was that at least I was able to see them for what they were. It was