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Authors: Jeanne D'Olivier
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you back. I won’t give up.” He nodded still crying and shaking.
The Social Worker walked into the room. “Time to go now.” She said. M could barely stand up as he was led howling from the room and I was left with the torrent of his tears on my face from holding him close now mingling with the salt tears of the depths of my soul – the ocean of my love for him that gushed from me. I could barely breathe. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
My father was waiting in the car park and I climbed into the car sobbing hard. “Get me out of here quickly.” I wept. He drove to a nearby bar and took me in and bought me a brandy to steady my nerves. I poured out to him the horror of the situation, between sobs and the state M was in. We were both mortified but we were powerless.
We had been ringing lawyers right through the phone book without success. Either they could not take the case or felt they did not have the relevant expertise. I was also in touch now with the British Embassy, who were helpful to start with, but once they had contacted Social Services back home, were less so. It seemed wherever we turned we hit brick walls – each road led back the Island that had crushed our lives and the corrupt system that had demolished us. It was always my word, against a so-called professional and this terrible lie of coaching. I could not disprove it, any more than they could prove it. It was intangible but it infiltrated everything from the minute the first Welfare Officer made the accusation to cover the back of the Social Worker who had failed to investigate a genuine report of sexual abuse and the educational psychologist who had been appointed despite having seen the father privately and being already biased.
One person had picked up the baton and passed it on to the next – M and I had no voice – he was disbelieved and I was accused of putting words into this mouth. For what purpose? I had asked the Social Worker who had first been on our case when I had innocently gone to them seeking help and advice – "because women who have been left by men are usually vindictive". I was incredulous. His father had had uncontested contact for five and half years from the moment he had first wanted it when M was six months old. He paid school fees and reasonable maintenance and only visited the Island a few days each month – what on earth could be threatening in that? I made all of these points, but they weren’t listening. They had already decided that I had made this up.
My biggest regret was that instead of going to them for help, I didn’t just pick up M and run then, before they placed us under a Prohibited Steps Order, before they had had a chance to force M to see his father week in and week out- whilst he and the psychologist who was now supervising everything and was in total control, arrived together in her car – blatantly showing her allegiance to this child abuser – no one assessing the reason for M’s fear – one agenda only, force contact – force and force and force contact, to the point where M was on sleeping pills from the paediatrician. Yet, despite his tears, his incontinence, the urine infections that had started when overnight contact had begun, the medical indicators of sexual abuse – bowel problems, tummy aches – and very real upset and fear – the psychologist, a hard South African woman in her late fifties – who had the physique of a very tall man and the heart of tyrant – fabricated lie after lie about the contacts – suggested M loved his father and he loved him – laughed in the face of our pain and bullied my little boy endlessly – it seemed for sport.
Why did Iago poison Othello’s mind against Desdemona? We had been asked
The Social Worker walked into the room. “Time to go now.” She said. M could barely stand up as he was led howling from the room and I was left with the torrent of his tears on my face from holding him close now mingling with the salt tears of the depths of my soul – the ocean of my love for him that gushed from me. I could barely breathe. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
My father was waiting in the car park and I climbed into the car sobbing hard. “Get me out of here quickly.” I wept. He drove to a nearby bar and took me in and bought me a brandy to steady my nerves. I poured out to him the horror of the situation, between sobs and the state M was in. We were both mortified but we were powerless.
We had been ringing lawyers right through the phone book without success. Either they could not take the case or felt they did not have the relevant expertise. I was also in touch now with the British Embassy, who were helpful to start with, but once they had contacted Social Services back home, were less so. It seemed wherever we turned we hit brick walls – each road led back the Island that had crushed our lives and the corrupt system that had demolished us. It was always my word, against a so-called professional and this terrible lie of coaching. I could not disprove it, any more than they could prove it. It was intangible but it infiltrated everything from the minute the first Welfare Officer made the accusation to cover the back of the Social Worker who had failed to investigate a genuine report of sexual abuse and the educational psychologist who had been appointed despite having seen the father privately and being already biased.
One person had picked up the baton and passed it on to the next – M and I had no voice – he was disbelieved and I was accused of putting words into this mouth. For what purpose? I had asked the Social Worker who had first been on our case when I had innocently gone to them seeking help and advice – "because women who have been left by men are usually vindictive". I was incredulous. His father had had uncontested contact for five and half years from the moment he had first wanted it when M was six months old. He paid school fees and reasonable maintenance and only visited the Island a few days each month – what on earth could be threatening in that? I made all of these points, but they weren’t listening. They had already decided that I had made this up.
My biggest regret was that instead of going to them for help, I didn’t just pick up M and run then, before they placed us under a Prohibited Steps Order, before they had had a chance to force M to see his father week in and week out- whilst he and the psychologist who was now supervising everything and was in total control, arrived together in her car – blatantly showing her allegiance to this child abuser – no one assessing the reason for M’s fear – one agenda only, force contact – force and force and force contact, to the point where M was on sleeping pills from the paediatrician. Yet, despite his tears, his incontinence, the urine infections that had started when overnight contact had begun, the medical indicators of sexual abuse – bowel problems, tummy aches – and very real upset and fear – the psychologist, a hard South African woman in her late fifties – who had the physique of a very tall man and the heart of tyrant – fabricated lie after lie about the contacts – suggested M loved his father and he loved him – laughed in the face of our pain and bullied my little boy endlessly – it seemed for sport.
Why did Iago poison Othello’s mind against Desdemona? We had been asked
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