By Lara Sabanosh
“Throughout history, it has been the inaction of those who could have acted; the indifference of
those who should have known better; the silence of the voice of justice when it mattered most;
that has made it possible for evil to triumph.” —Haile Selassie
On Jan 9, 2015, Christopher Tur, a civilian worker at Guantanamo Bay’s Naval Base, went missing. On Jan 11, his body was found. As his wife, I was left to deal with the aftermath of what took place at the time, and the events leading up to that moment, forcing me to examine more than twenty years of abuse — and the denial and deceits that occur in all households subjected to domestic violence.
As with nearly all trauma, there is a measure of healing to be gained in the sharing of my story—healing for myself, my daughters, and hopefully others who live in the shadow of domestic violence. Here is some insight into what I went through in order to finally rebuild my life.
Starting a new job and making a friend
In the Spring of 2015, my daughter, our big, potato of a dog, and I board the plane out of GTMO and head to Pensacola, where a new job awaits me.
When we arrive, the base informs me there is no more housing, the government stops paying for our transition, and I am on my own dime with zero assistance. We find a hotel close to the base, and it’s disgusting, but after having to rent a car and now pay for a hotel, it’s all we can afford. I have five days to get my daughter enrolled in school, figure out housing, and get settled as a single mom. We feel alone, though my mom comes down for support.
On April Fool’s Day, I walk into a job where everybody already knows me, but I know no one.
Well, they don’t really know me. They know what they’ve seen and read in the news. I feel awkward—on display. I don’t imagine any of the forty people in this building haven’t seen The Today Show, NBC Nightly News, or read the Navy Times. I feel the stares, smell their curiosity, and hear the quiet chatter throughout the day.
Although I carry the burden of headlining media stories, I have done nothing wrong. My work record is flawless and filled with praise. I have given no one any reason to doubt my ability to do a great job. I recognize that the only thing I must focus on now is my job. I want to rebuild my life and move on. And while it seems so many have already made up their minds about me, there is one exception, a blessing, and she is my new officemate. We develop a close relationship, her compassionate nature propels me forward, and she turns into a great friend. This closeness gives me hope during a dark season.
Getting help and learning where to let go
I know I am completely wrecked and need help to navigate what has happened to me. I am angry, and I know I have to deal with it or it will kill me. Every time I close my eyes, I relive the entire month of January, especially the night Chris went missing. I relive the last moment we had together when he tackled me on the sofa in the restroom. I relive the horrors of the past six months, and I just can’t make the flashbacks stop, so I avoid sleep. I know I can’t keep living like this. I seek counseling and visit a doctor for my increasing number of migraines and sleep issues.
Going to work is my escape. I go to forget for a bit about everything swirling around me.
I don’t want my daughters to have to take care of me, so I vow to parent from an emotionally solid place. They must also deal with their feelings, wanting to respond to all the unfair and inappropriate social media posts. But I convince them to let them go. Stooping to public battles and responding to such immaturity will only prolong their agony. “It’s not for you to handle” I urge them. I don’t realize I’m stifling their voices until much later. I am only trying to protect them and help them move on with their lives. I don’t yet understand they need a place to release their own anger and fear.
Dealing with anger
I think I’m somehow proving to the world that no one can hurt me, but in reality, I feel pancaked by the betrayal, injustice, abandonment, suspicion, and my kids’ pain. I know I am acting passive-aggressively when I post certain things on social media, but it’s out of a place of fear and anger.
There is a long investigation of Chris’s disappearance and death, and his family tries to lay much of the blame on me. In December of 2015, I appear before the grand jury. I’ve never been in front of a grand jury before—never stepped foot in a courtroom or even had a traffic ticket—and I don’t know what to expect, perhaps a TV-drama-style courtroom? Even without expectations, what I encounter is odd and intimidating. I know I’m not on trial, but I get the sense that no matter what I say, everyone has already made up their minds about me. It’s an awful place to be. Caged again.
In the saddest moments, my daughters and I create laughter. In frustration, we make jokes. Much like surgeons hovering over their operating tables, we make light of serious times just to survive. It’s a temporary coping mechanism, which eventually turns into part of our daily routine.
Protecting family from prying eyes and gossip
My deepest desire was to protect my children. Chris’s family continued to use their images without their consent and privacy became a lost commodity. Our emails, texts, phone calls, and every part of our lives were constantly under scrutiny. We believed someone was always listening since we were forced to turn over our phones, laptops, iPods, iPads, and other electronics. We lost trust in communicating through social media or any other online outlet. We lost all privacy for no good reason at all. None of us were under investigation; we were just rolled into the entire death investigation.
The Tur family continued to feed their narrative to anyone willing to listen, including a Facebook page “dedicated” to military corruption, similar in style (and truth) to The National Inquirer. My oldest daughter didn’t want to be associated with the Turs any longer. She legally changed her name. I followed suit and legally changed mine back to my maiden name. My youngest forged a different path. Her opinion is that the Tur name is what she was born with and no one, no matter how ridiculous or unjust they act, should be able to steal that from her. “It’s not about them. It’s not about dad. It’s about me.” She chose to keep the Tur name.
I applaud both girls’ paths. They are fiercely independent thinkers, and I am grateful they have found their voices.
Renew and rebuild
One night, the girls sit me down. “Mom, we want you to know something,” they say. “We are going to move on eventually, and we don’t want you to be alone. We have our whole lives ahead of us. You don’t need our permission, but if you’re waiting for it, we want you to know you can start seeing other people. It’s okay. We want you to be happy.”
I am struck by their hearts for me. I haven’t dated since I was nineteen years old. They introduce me to dating apps and even teach me how to stay safe. I laugh. My girls and I grow closer with each passing month.
I am not looking for a tomorrow, only for a today where I can remember what it’s like to have fun again. Sometimes, I am afraid that I’ve forgotten how to enjoy life. Personally, I am learning how to manage all these lows in my life without letting one or two suffocate me. I believe I’m getting better at compartmentalizing. My work is work, and my home life is filled with family and friends. I finally have a healthier mindset.
I see things more clearly and can task life better. Emotionally and physically, I’m whole again. I have a different outlook on life, one that I had been thinking was impossible. Now, I’m making it a reality. I’m no longer a victim living in a victim’s mindset. I’m me—a survivor who was victimized but is now able to view myself with empathy and compassion. I snap out of all the negative thinking that once held me back. I’ve stopped putting so much weight and significance on the things I can’t change and focus on what is important to me—what makes me happy. This is the type of role model I have always wanted to be for my daughters.
Lara Sabanosh grew up in various parts of the country and for a time, lived overseas in Guantanamo Bay (GTMO), where she was an education service facilitator at the Fleet and Family Support Center and became acting director in December 2013. She spent much of her adult life as a wife, mother, and student, eventually completing two doctoral degrees. Six years in the making, her new book, Caged, is an honest and introspective memoir detailing the never-before-told another side of an international, headline story, taking readers through the first twenty years of her tumultuous marriage to Christopher Tur, to events as she lived them on the night he went missing, and the aftermath. Sabanosh is currently retired from government service, residing quietly in Pensacola, Florida, surrounded by her loving family, dogs, and grand puppies. For more information see Lara Sabanosh.