I will start by saying: these posts about my childhood trauma I’m telling you guys; is a heavy topic. Sensitive people and minors are advice to not read this. The content contains rape, violence, mental abuse, physical abuse, and death. Pedophiles, molesters and a lot of narcissism.
I write here to sort out my flashbacks and memories. But also, to leave something for investigation, in case something bad happens to me. I have survived a lot and it would be a shame to get this far and not be able to tell my story, just in time.
This is in Sweden.
(Remember the beach, because I do.)
Let’s be super clear! My brother was not my father’s son. Ali is the one who gave my father the chance to stay and live in Sweden. Ali is my family’s anchor baby. He has a personal identity number.
Ali was a sweet, sensitive and a protective older brother. He must have been around 2-3 years. We were living in Linköping. I know people who have a picture of him with me. (They told me by mistake.) He had long blond hair and blue eyes just like his Swedish dad. I thought he was a girl for the longest until I saw him peeing in the bathroom.
The short version of this is that my mother gained Ali’s trust. Night’s in a row she “played” with him. Forcing him to jump from a pallet. And finally tied a rope to his neck and made him jump for one last time. She made him hang himself in the bathroom above the bathtub right in front of her eyes. My dad and grandpa put him in a cardboard box, sealed it with duct tape. Then together with Ali’s biological dad, they threw him into the sea. The same day, my grandpa left us to go back to France.
Here is the long version:
Ali was handsome, well raised and a rebel at heart when he needed to be. My mother had told him to never talk to strangers and he didn’t. Guess what my grandpa was to him. (Guess what his own dad was to him.) Damn right he was a stranger to Ali, and the devil to me. He only looked up to my dad.
My brother defended me against my grandpa when he was raping me. Ali told him to rape him instead and my grandpa was like. “I don’t rape boys” when he had just raped him the day before. My brother flipped when they took him for a fool. Every time they tried to manipulate him, Ali acted out intensely. He became a challenge indeed.
My baby brother had a lot of toys but had little time to play with them. He was mostly a sex slave and when he wasn’t “working” he hid under the kitchen sink, on top of a bunk-bed, in boxes and behind furniture. He locked my mom outside the apartment. He locked her friends that followed him home outside as well. He made fun of them and embarrassed them in front of our family. He placed little mouse traps here and there strategically. Mom stepped on one of those mouse traps as planned. Yep, this boy was fierce.
Anyway, guess who had stolen that shit from the store, yep my grandpa. Annnd Ali’s own biological dad. They went into stores stealing things together. Imagine a blond and old man with a Turkish hat going into a store with two kids. Stealing and then threatening the workers and everyone around on their way out.
My grandpa, aka devil, was a thief, a liar and always blew things out of proportion. I remember him talking about faking his own death. People thought he was dead but I don’t understand what he meant exactly. He tried to impress my brother, but my brother remained unimpressed. Ali felt like he was the protector of the family. When the devil had entered, Ali felt that this sissy little “man” had stolen his mom.
We had our first sex class with this piece of shit for grandpa. Neighborhood kids were there too. We were very rowdy and giggly. Until the devil snapped and hit us all. He tried to turn this shit into something sophisticated? I don’t know. But it would always end up with someone shiting their pants and pooping all over the place.
I know kids who really think that being a sex slave is life. Thank God we knew better so young. We were oppressed. We felt and knew it. Thereof Ali’s rebel streak.
The devil tried to rape me as mentioned above. He was “showing” my father how to do it… Ali was inside in our parents’ room and he came out when he heard my cry. He shouted at my grandpa and everyone was mad at him like: how can you just disobey and leave your mother, you have “work” to do! They were in their sadistic mood. Ali told him to leave his sister alone and the devil snatched him really fast. Took him into another room to teach him a lesson. I heard them hitting him.
Ali had pictures of both my dad and the devil that he used to look at and hold. He kind of respected them still here. Until he got his ego-trips and ripped them down and threw them away.
I was taught helplessness. Ali had already been there and didn’t want me to go through the same shit he had gone through. So he fought against this silly devil. This devil used to shit on me and try to feed me his poop, thank God Ali was there and protested. He yelled at him to not shit on me.
I remember the devil, from carrying me he put me down on the floor, he went into my parent’s bedroom where Ali and my mom were and closed the door behind him. I was alone and heard the very loud music and thought to myself I want to be in there too. Why am I not allowed to?
Another time, I woke up in my own bed in my parent’s bedroom. Ali was there in the darkness. My grandpa was drunk and hitting my mother with a belt. My brother was sick of them. When the devil wasn’t drunk my mom would actually have sex with him. He was mostly an uncharming piece of shit that wouldn’t even knock on the door before he entered. He just went into her room whenever he tried to get some pussy.
(That’s the thing with crazy cowards. They can’t just ask you to your face like decent people. Consent is not even a thing. They are entitled to do whatever they want to, to feel alive. God is with them. If you do something haram; God turns a blind eye to the situation and doesn’t care about you anymore. Your destination is hell and they will help you go there. So if you are a baby or under 7 years, drunk or mentally ill – God’s pen doesn’t work. He doesn’t count your sins or their sins. This is the Muslim rapist logic.
That’s not what Muslims do in my opinion. Muslims don’t play around with God like that, thinking they can outsmart him. He created your mind. By the way, stop blaming the Jews for exactly the same stuff you have been doing. At least they don’t rape their own children. Double standards and hypocrisy are your recipe for failure and you are the definition of unsuccess to me.
Cowardliness in generations is just fatal. To think that, rape, money, and murder is the outlet for your frustration and sex-addiction. Well, there is sure an outlet. If you are gay, go be gay (my dad). If you need therapy because of mental illness go see a doctor. If you are racist it means there is something about yourself that you don’t like about yourself. Self-hate is not cured by sex, money, and murder. The adrenalin kick won’t last. You are not entitled to other people’s pain to feel a bit better about your miserable life. Some people feel so good when they are bad. There must be something right with having a twisted kind of humor, knowing the right things to say to a child. Nope, you are still a coward. A crazy coward.
It’s just an escape from the real inner world you have inside. That you are truly and deeply a miserable shit. Stop! Stop pretending that rape is a legit thing, with the next generation! Don’t break humans just because your dad or mom broke you. Time to break all rapists out there! Who believe in cowardly culture.)
With God, there is no room for Ego!
Sometimes I would get a peak of my brother with my mother. She would hit his hands until he couldn’t carry his own “water” bottle. He was feverish and red. She would pull his hair and drag him around and force him to do things, he didn’t want to do, to her.
My big bro was strictly business and my mom would call her friends over so they got to see what he could do sexually to her. And that’s how she sold him and earned money. Her friends would take him home with them and let him return after a couple of days. Sometimes Ali would just leave them, come back home and lock the door. When he came back he was very hungry and not himself, as if he hadn’t had any food nor sleep. His pupils were really big too.
Oh, her disgusting friends didn’t only drug him. They must have had diseases as well because he would always come home and throw up in the bathroom. Fucking nasty people.
This is where he stopped playing with his friends and TV-games. And started playing with me.
Actually, Ali wanted to get rid of his mom after she had been with grandpa in front of us. So he chooses to be “with” me. I couldn’t stand up for myself to set boundaries. I just let people do whatever they want to me and didn’t protest. He had learned from these grown-ups the art of molesting.
Well, he had drugs in him I understand now. Because he was so different every time he returned from these sex-addicts. In our household, they had champagne and smoked marijuana. I don’t know what they did to him in other places. I did not recognize him. Our mom used to go out and leave us alone in the house. Ali would sometimes get his ego-trips and lash out even when no one had done anything. He used to play with knives and that scared me a bit.
My mom got jealous as if Ali had cheated on her with me, and she left him alone after that but she was still sneaking around trying to catch him doing sexual things to me. When she, later on, put him in the bathtub she used to ask him: “Don’t you love me anymore?”, “How could you be with Amina? Don’t you know you can’t be with your sister? You can only be with me.”
Ali was a real fast talker! He used to sing and he had one cassette he used to play a lot. He told my mom he would rap when he grows up. She asked what he would name the song and he said in a cocky tone he would name it after her. And talk about what she does to him.
(Ali in a nutshell)
I was in love with my brother. He was the only safe thing I knew, my protector and I dared to try new things; like talking. He was my true father figure. Ali took care of me, put me to sleep, gave me food, let me hold his hand and snuggled me. He showed me off to his friends. This little boy knew what true love was. Even though I was mean to him sometimes he loved me despite. He taught me about Karma, can you believe it.
My mom was pregnant and I had a fat tummy. So Ali thought I had a baby as well and got even more pissed off at me and my grandpa. (Triangle drama- post)
Once in the bathroom, he tried to reach the toilet paper but I was distrustful of him and thought he was going to do something to me. And I cried out… And there was my mom. I don’t know what she threw at him but she really did injure his head really badly.
She took a scissor and tried to cut his hair off but he fought her badly. They stitched his head up. Ali looked very scary to me. He was furious, desperate and had blood on his head with an ugly haircut that made him look like.. Just scary. (Me and Ali-post)
My dad had been away for months. He came back and took us out on a rape spree with his friends. He was suicidal and I perceived him as mentally unstable as if he was bipolar. Now I understand that it was only his hypocrisy. We couldn’t trust him about anything. My dad cried to his friends and told them about his problems. That he couldn’t take care of his “family” and he needed to get rid of one of us, the children. I was scared as hell of him. I didn’t know him. My grandpa was in the house and I thought that was my dad since him and my mom was intimate. I was confused as to how they could just change parents for me just like that. But I accepted it.
My dad built tunnel labyrinth of cardboard boxes with Ali in our house. His friend asked what for and my dad said to let his children ease into cardboard boxes. He had a huge van where he would take us, our friends and their dads to rape us. They would kidnap other kids too and kill them in front of us. Mostly Somali people because these rapists are fucking racists as well. They would take their belts off to hit is with and put us on those boxes. Sadistically rape all of us as they passed us between each other.
My dad tried to run over my brother with the van. He told him to lay under the wheel thinking my brother is stupid. My brother listened and ran up when my dad started the engine.
I’m not sure how old I was. I could walk and understood what was being said. I could speak a little but didn’t. I didn’t dare too. Sometimes I teased my brother in the car. I said something and when he tried to tell the grown ups I could speak, I said nothing. They got angry at him, thinking he just wanted to distract them from their one main activity. Rape.
I remember this cuz we were in the car together and we knew what was about to happen and the both of us were terrified as hell. It was really hot in the car, and sometimes one of us would faint. But it made Ali happy that I could speak. Like finally, we will be able to talk with each other. My first word was ‘cheese’ because Ali always said that to me when he took some snaps of me with his toy camera. He and his friends used to hype that word up.
My dad used to talk to my brother about sex and money. Teaching him the art of hustling, promising Ali that he would get rich by doing this one day. He always lied to Ali and Ali knew it. Ali looked up at him but did not trust him one bit.
Once when Ali came back from one of my mother’s friends; Ali was not himself as I have mentioned above. Ali would act out and my dad’s solution was to put him in this van all alone in the dark. (I used to sit and wait for Ali to come back. Then I understood that he was locked away and couldn’t get home by himself. I was so worried that they had forgotten about him. And that he hadn’t eaten.) It went on for a couple of hours up to 2 days.
Every time Ali came back mad and hungry and even more determined to fuck everyone up. He was determined to create his own lane, learn this game and play it better than everyone. He started dissing everyone, talking back, dominate and take more room. At the same time, a bit scared and confused. No one was there to teach him in his frustration.
My dad used to bully my brother, telling him that he doesn’t have a father. That no one will take care of him. He didn’t love him. Ali was like, who are you then? And insisted that my dad was his father too. He really thought my dad was his father. My dad said in a condescending tone, “No I’m Amina’s dad only and I don’t like you”. He broke my brother’s heart. We both felt helpless because we were locked with him in that room. This went on for some days until Ali stopped crying. Stopped giving a fuck.
My dad likes it when kids cry. That turns him on. So every time Ali cried he got raped.
These women and men like to terrorize children to feel satisfied. They even go to the lengths of killing children in front of other children to rattle emotions of fear and chaos.
My dad talked as if I didn’t know what was going on. They don’t know that babies go on emotional intelligence the most at this time to survive. The both of us were in survival mood all the time. Mostly Ali. That made him look like a monster to them. That’s what you look like to blind eyes.
Ali’s dad – William
The last weeks of Ali’s life, Ali spent them in the bathroom chained to the bathtub and forced to sit in it in the dark. Ali’s dad has been invited mostly to see his own son’s bad behavior and maybe make my mom the favor of taking him away with him. My parents wanted to get rid of him because taking care of 2 children is way too much. Pff.
His dad came and saw him. He was dressed all in black leather. Motorcycle clothes from head to toe, with long blond hair in a braid. He was from the neighborhood and used to hang in the local pub nearby where he took my dad later on after they got rid of Ali together.
William still liked my mother.. so weird. Ali hated them both.
His dad checked his butt and realized that his son was being raped. At first, it bothered him, but then my parents sat down and had a chat with him about their religion. You could basically just have sex with anyone. Just like a typical Swede, Ali’s dad was confused but didn’t mind trying something new. This lifestyle was just an extension of his already fulfilling career of crime hood. So he went into the bathroom where Ali was chained. Took Ali’s cloth diaper off, took Ali’s hair down, and tried to rape Ali. Ali was furious and his dad had no control over him until my mom came in and showed him how to hit a child. Viola!
He talked down to his own son. As if he deserved what had happened to him and what was happening to him. Because he was a “bad” boy. Narcissist much? If you don’t know what that means yet, you have a homework. Ali didn’t want to be a bad boy.
Ali’s dad made us suck his dick. He used to visit late after midnight. He basically wished his own son was dead because he wanted to fit into this sect culture of authoritatively raping any child you want. But his own son would fight him and make him look nonauthoritative.
I don’t remember what for. But Ali’s dad used to use our washing machine a lot, like daily.
William put on some very loud music. Popped champagne bottles in the bathroom before he raped him and made us suck his dick. He made Ali drink some too. They all used to give Ali champagne in a feeding bottle. The most dangers people in my belief are the insecure ones. Because they would do anything, I mean anything, just to seem cool. By any means fit in.
He slapped his own son, hit my mom and pulled my hair. He tried to tame his own son and succeeded. My mom liked William when he was abusive to their son. You da man!
They had sex. But not as often as their own son had to have sex with them. I really don’t understand.. as a grown up you are not made for that much sex, but you are as a kid?
Having one criminal dad is hell. Imagine having two. His biological dad and a criminal step dad. That’s what Ali had to deal with. Plus a whore for a mom, that don’t mind killing her own son.
(William needs a post of his own even though he is dead.)
The devil filled the bathtub with ice and raped him in it. He wouldn’t let him go. I guess the ice was to reduce the inflammation or something. The devil wasn’t a thing for Ali, that’s way Ali had no respect for him what so ever and that drove my grandpa even more crazy. He tried to beat some sense and collaboration into Ali’s mind. But Ali refused and tried to dominate back. Ali looked so tired as if all he wanted to do is take a nap.
My mom lets him starve. It was also one of her punishments to not give him any food. He didn’t want to eat her food. And when she made something that he liked and he wanted it, she didn’t give him any. Instead, she would eat in front of him and be harsh to him if he wanted it. She did this for days. And when he further refused to eat she just didn’t care. These were his last days on this earth.
My mom and grandpa used to wear scary Halloween masks and scare the hell out of Ali. His dad was violent as well. Even when he was obviously sick, they didn’t give him a rest. I was scared of Ali so I didn’t dare to go into him. But the door was open and I used to crawl in front of the door. Worried about him, missing him. Wishing he got better soon.
Ali saw me and called me. Tried to reach me but he was chained. He was himself again, that’s when I went into him.
She never listened to him. She was the only one allowed to speak. Oppression? Yes. Everything was his own fault. He was a prisoner in her bathroom and needed to take the consequences for acting out. For not peacefully letting them rape him and treat him as dirt. He was mentally sick and couldn’t control his own mind. He started losing his mind for real. He was the real case of bipolar and not my faking dad.
All he really needed was love and comfort. That’s what he found in his little sister and he got better the more time we spent together. Unfortunately, he would lash out at me out of nowhere and my mom deemed him chronically sick after this.
She only saw him or heard me cry when he wasn’t so nice. She missed all the times he would hug me, kiss me, try to bring me toys so we could play. The times we laughed and danced as if there was music. When we fought and I gave him his things back and told him to take them and leave. He would drop them and carry me away instead.
Before he was in the bathroom and we used to play in the hall and I wasn’t talking. He used to come with his little red car toy. Take my toys and put them underneath his seat, I would cry. He would carry me and put me in his car and drive off. He made it a ritual of picking me up with his car and I enjoyed it when I got the hang of it.
He taught me how to play with his toys. How to use his gun toys, bowling set, beach tennis, squirt guns, hid and seek. He built forts on the couch and beds. He made paper planes and built planes with legos. He used to ask his mom what the different dinosaurs were named. He had a lot of friends and his name was popular on everyone’s tongue. He was a gentle gangster. How can you not fall in love with that? How can you not keep that? He was my friend, my brother and my loving father figure.
When he left it was awfully empty and quiet. I missed him every day. I missed him even when he was alive too because our time together was very limited. She used me to gain his trust.
God gave them a sign. I believe the wound on Ali’s head is a sign of how torn apart Ali was inside. His outbursts, strong mind, restlessness and protective behavior. All these traits were a reflection of how he felt and his hope for a better future. Everyone in his life had turned into a huge disappointment. He fought through his mental illness all on his own. Like a lion with a golden heart.
God put him there to spread fear in weak rotten hearts.
Hmm, I just realized that it’s Ali that my dad used to tell me about when I was 4 years. He used to tell me about a blond boy that haunted him and swung at him with a knife and laughed at him in his nightmares. He used to ask me if I remember Ali. Guess what, I do now. Ali, you have only one job now: hunt that bitch.
I’m sorry. See you in heaven, best bro ever.
Thank you for reading through!
(Note that my parents are not real parents in my view. They just pretend to be. I call them mom and dad, but the meaning is hollow since childhood. They are not the same people outside as they are at home. They are not the same when they are in Sweden or Tunisia or Sundsvall. It all depends on how powerless you are. The less power you have, the more they take their masks off. The crueler they are.)
Picture of the day that was sent to me by my mom:
Mom – “I feel hurt”.
Me: “You are scared!”
(I’m 7 years here in Uppsala mosque. One of the meeting place for this rape sect. Cheese!)
Send me some more pictures.