Part 1 of 3: The Invisible Tape: What My 11-Year-Old Self in a Headteacher’s Office Taught Me About Trauma

Can a builder build a house without having the building materials? Can we unlock our voice without having the voice materials?

Let me tell you a story.

When I arrived in the UK from Somalia in 1993, I was nine years old. I did not speak a single word of English. Less than two years later, during my first year at secondary school, an incident occurred that remains vividly etched in my memory.

I was eleven years old, in Year 7. I cannot remember what sparked the confrontation, but another boy and I had a disagreement that erupted into a physical fight. We were in the school playground, surrounded by a tight ring of children egging us on, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle. We wrestled back and forth, neither of us gaining the upper hand. After what felt like an eternity, a teacher sliced through the crowd, grabbed us both, and marched us straight to the Headteacher’s office.

Sitting there, I felt sick with worry. I was painfully shy and could hardly string sentences together in Somali, let alone speak English. I felt I had an invisible strip of heavy tape had been slammed over my mouth. I dreaded the moment the Headteacher would ask me to speak.

When the Headteacher came into the room and started speaking to me, I could hardly comprehend what he was saying. I sat there looking at his lips as they moved. His facial expression was stern, and his voice was authoritative, sharp, and powerful. While my ears heard his voice, I felt my hearing was completely redundant. I could hear but not hear. I could process the sound, but there was no meaning behind it that I could ascertain.

I could not comprehend his words, but I felt and could read everything through his body language, tone, energy, and the situational context. I could imagine the type of questions that I would be asked. Here is how the interrogation went:

Headteacher: "Hassan, tell me what happened?"

Hassan: “...uh... mmm... aaah...”

Headteacher: "Hassan, did you start the fight?"

Hassan: “...uh... mmm... aaah...”

Headteacher: "Speak up, Hassan. I cannot hear you."

Hassan: “...uh... mmm... aaah...”

Headteacher: "You will get detention and get into a lot of trouble if you do not speak up and tell me what happened."

Hassan: “Aaaah... I...”

Headteacher: "You are in trouble, Hassan. The other boy said you started the fight. Tell me what happened. Did you start the fight?"

Hassan: “I... no... English.”

Headteacher: "What!"

Hassan: “...I... no... English.”

Headteacher: "What language do you speak? I will ask another student who speaks that language to interpret for you."

Hassan: “Somali.”

Headteacher: "Wait here."

After about five minutes, the Headteacher returned with an older girl in Year 8 or 9 wearing a headscarf. He asked her to speak to me. She turned to me and began to talk.

But the words coming out of her mouth were Arabic—a language I did not speak, and understood even less than I did English.

I was stunned. I had clearly said "Somali." I thought 'How could that possibly be interpreted as Arabic?.'

I sat there trapped in a bizarre nightmare. To my right was the Headteacher, staring at me, utterly perplexed, unable to get through to me. To my left was the girl, also staring at me, equally perplexed.

I looked at the girl and said, completely exasperated: “...Aaah... No Arabic.”

In that heavy silence, a strange wave of realisation hit me. I actually felt sorry for the Headteacher. I could see that despite all his intelligence, authority, and power, the language barrier had made him completely powerless in that moment. Even with his best efforts to find a solution, the person he brought in was entirely unable to help him, me, or herself. There was no one else in the entire school who spoke Somali; I was the only child from Somalia in the school at the time. I could feel that the Headteacher was completely unused to feeling powerless. He wanted to resolve the situation, one way or the other, as soon as possible.

I felt sorry for the girl, too. She had come with the genuine intent to help, but ended up feeling trapped in that same powerlessness. And I felt sorry for myself—and utterly powerlessness.

The Headteacher lost his remaining patience. The final moment came down like a hammer:

Headteacher: "Hassan, the boy said you started the fight."

Hassan: “Aaaah... oh... I...”

Headteacher: "You are in trouble and you are the one getting detention."

I was stood up and escorted out to face my punishment.

In that room, I felt entirely unseen. That invisible tape around my mouth, my voice, and my soul grew tight and unrelenting. I knew exactly what I wanted to say, but I was completely paralysed because I lacked the vocabulary. I realised that no matter how pained, emotional, angry, or upset I felt, without the raw materials—the words to express my thoughts—I was entirely powerless. Redundant. I felt like a brick, a stone, mute and dumb.

The Universal Truth: No One is Coming to Rescue You

I share my childhood story of having a literal language barrier to illustrate a much deeper, universal truth. It introduces a vital concept from psychotherapist Nathaniel Branden, who famously wrote:

"No one is coming to make life right for you; no one is coming to solve your problems... The dream of a rescuer who will deliver us may offer a kind of comfort, but it leaves us passive and powerless."

I always knew my inability to speak English was temporary. Indeed, I learned to speak English shortly after, and never required an interpreter since. However, what was infinitely more painful was how trauma compromised my physical and psychological ability to express myself and find my voice—a prison that lasted three decades.

"No one is coming" or came to save me from myself, or reveal to me how I was trapped by my trauma. Even though I had a strong feeling throughout those three decades that there was something "wrong with me," my dream of a rescuer who would deliver me offered a false kind of comfort. Ultimately, it just left me feeling passive and powerless.

The quicker you realise that no one is coming to save you, the quicker you regain your power. Please do not make the mistake I did. No one is coming to rescue you. You must listen to your inner voice, ask for help, and save yourself. Remember, organisational psychologist Dr Tasha Eurich found that 80–85% of people are not truly self-aware, leaving only 10–15% who possess genuine self-insight.

Trauma did not just leave emotional scars; it fundamentally altered and hijacked my mind and body suppressing my capacity to communicate, connect and express myself in high stress situations.

Learning about my biological and mind limitations during my healing journey completely transformed my perspective. It increased my self-awareness and gave me the precise strategic insight that enabled me to find the treatment I needed to heal.

1. The Neurological "Shut Down" (Broca’s Area)

I learned from Dr Bessel van der Kolk, in his groundbreaking book The Body Keeps the Score, that brain imaging studies show that when a trauma survivor is triggered or reliving a painful memory, activity drops sharply in Broca’s area.

• The Science: Broca's area is the specific region in the left frontal lobe responsible for transforming abstract thoughts and feelings into spoken words.
• The Result: When trauma reactivates, this speech centre goes completely offline. This explains why I experienced a literal physical inability to speak or find words in high-stress moments.
• The Workplace Trap: The survival mind cannot distinguish between a dangerous playground fight and a corporate presentation. Because the stress response is identical, I found myself struggling to speak confidently during a meeting, despite being a subject-matter expert. This was utterly bewildering, leaving me feeling conflicted and unable to direct my own fate.

2. The Physical "Choke" (Vocal Cord & Muscle Tension)

Because the larynx (our voice box) is incredibly rich in nerve supplies connected directly to the emotional centres of our brain, mental stress manifests there immediately.

• The "Lump in the Throat": Clinically known as Globus Hystericus, I lived with a permanent feeling of carrying a heavy lump in my throat for three decades. I had a massive "Aha!" moment when I learned that this wasn't a universal physical trait everyone carried around—it was a direct physical symptom of my trauma.
• The Blueprint for Release: In addition to Gestalt therapy and EMDR, what truly helped me dissolve this restriction was Voice Journaling. When done consistently during moments of happiness, sadness, or entirely neutral states, it allowed my nervous system regulation to be fully regained. I became aware how when my body was relaxed and my mind was psychologically safe, my throat muscles relaxed, allowing the power of my authentic voice to unlock. I learned how to relax my body and mind during stressful situation.
• My Medicine: I am grateful to Zafrir more than he will ever know for helping me release the lump in my throat. I found his method to be the single most effective tool available. I repeated it countless times over the course of months, treating it as a daily prescription for my freedom, and return to it regularly.

Please go to YouTube and search for his video: "Globus Hystericus (1) | Amitai Technique to Release Anger & Anxiety and the Lump in your Throat by Zafrir Amitai."

Tomorrow, in Part 2, I am going to reveal the connection between our voice, consciousness and soul. How in order to find our voice, we need to learn how to live in the moment and connect with our emotions.