Ik herinner het me nog goed: de stem aan de andere kant van de lijn was nerveus. “Mijn vriend zit vast in Afrika. Zijn ouders mogen nergens achter komen. Kunnen jullie helpen?”

Het ging om twee kinderen: een jongen die net achttien was geworden, en zijn zus van vijftien. Ze waren zogenaamd op familiebezoek gestuurd, maar hun moeder had andere plannen.

Het ging om een jong meisje dat vanuit Nederland naar Egypte werd gestuurd. Aan de buitenkant leek alles goed geregeld: ze mocht haar school afmaken, ze zou bij haar moeder wonen. Maar achter die façade leefde ze als een gevangene.

Ze reisde af naar het thuisland. Samen met haar man en hun twee kinderen. Alles leek zoals altijd: een familievakantie. Even weg van alles. Maar toen ze eenmaal bij zijn familie aankwamen, veranderde hij.

Ik begeleidde een broer en zus, twee kinderen die door hun moeder in hun thuisland waren achtergelaten. De situatie van moeder was hopeloos. Ze stond er alleen voor, zonder steun, zonder netwerk, en in haar wanhoop besloot ze haar oudste kinderen naar verre familie te sturen.

Mijn moeder en zus zaten verstopt in een klein kamertje. Ik werd geroepen om thee te brengen. Dat was mijn moment. Mijn kans om even naar hem te kijken. En dan moest ik zeggen: ja of nee. Maar eigenlijk… had ik natuurlijk nooit echt een keuze.

‘Als ik ooit een eigen huis zou hebben, dan zou ik eindelijk een plek hebben waar ik veilig ben. Waar niemand me nog weg kan sturen…’ Dat dacht ik, toen ik zestien was en ineens nergens meer terecht kon.

Ik groeide op in een gezin waar meisjes niet alleen dochters zijn, maar ook de eer van de familie vertegenwoordigen. Bij ons moest je maagd blijven tot het huwelijk. Vooral volgens mijn ouders.

Het was een situatie die mijn leven voorgoed veranderde. Ik voelde me kapot, maar ik móést blijven doorgaan. Niet omdat ik hoop had, maar omdat ik geen keus had. Ik ben geestelijk vijf keer doodgegaan, maar ik ben er nog steeds. En daarom weet ik dat ik sterk ben.

Het was alsof ik twee levens leefde, eentje waarin ik dingen mocht ontdekken, een beetje vrijheid had. En eentje waarin alles al voor mij was uitgestippeld. Waar ik niks te zeggen had. En geen stem had.

I remember it well: the voice on the other end of the line was nervous. ‘My boyfriend is stuck in Africa. His parents mustn't find out. Can you help?’ It was a boy of African descent, raised in the Netherlands, and he was desperate.

It involved two children: a boy who had just turned eighteen and his fifteen-year-old sister. They had supposedly been sent to visit family, but their mother had other plans.

It was about a young girl who was sent from the Netherlands to Egypt. On the surface, everything seemed fine: she was allowed to finish school and would live with her mother. But behind that façade, she lived like a prisoner.

She travelled to her home country. Together with her husband and their two children. Everything seemed normal: a family holiday. A break from it all. But once they arrived at his family's home, he changed.

I was helping a brother and sister, two kids who had been left behind by their mum in their home country. Their mum's situation was hopeless. She was on her own, with no support, no network, and in her desperation, she decided to send her oldest kids to distant relatives.

My mother and sister were hiding in a small room. I was called to bring tea. That was my moment. My chance to look at him for a moment. And then I had to say: yes or no. But actually... of course I never really had a choice.

'If I ever had my own home, I would finally have a place where I could be safe. Where no one could send me away...' That's what I thought when I was sixteen and suddenly had nowhere to go.

I grew up in a family where girls are not only daughters, but also represent the honour of the family. In our family, you had to remain a virgin until marriage. Especially according to my parents.

It was a situation that changed my life forever. I felt devastated, but I had to keep going. Not because I had hope, but because I had no choice. I mentally died five times, but I'm still here. And that's why I know I'm strong.

It was as if I was living two lives. One in which I was allowed to discover things and had a little freedom. And one in which everything had already been mapped out for me. Where I had no say. No voice.

My mother and sister were hiding in a small room. I was called to bring tea. That was my moment. My chance to look at him for a moment. And then I had to say: yes or no. But actually... of course I never really had a choice. I was fifteen when my father decided to emigrate back to Morocco. Leaving me behind in the Netherlands was not an option. Nor was taking me with him. In Morocco, he said, I would not be allowed to leave the house. So I had to get married. That was my future.

My mother and sister were hiding in a small room. I was called to bring tea. That was my moment. My chance to look at him for a moment. And then I had to say: yes or no. But actually... of course I never really had a choice. I was fifteen when my father decided to emigrate back to Morocco. Leaving me behind in the Netherlands was not an option. Nor was taking me with him. In Morocco, he said, I would not be allowed to leave the house. So I had to get married. That was my future.

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