ENGLISHWOMAN'S AWFUL ORDEAL

Auckland Star, Volume LXVII, Issue 235, 3 October 1936, Page 4 (Supplement)

ENGLISHWOMAN'S AWFUL ORDEAL

TRAGIC MARRIED LIFE WITH TURK.

Mme. Kemeid, formerly Miss May Duggan, of Ipswich, recently arrived in England- from France- Below she tells the story that led to her trial — and acquittal —for the murder of her Turkish husband. She admits that she fired the shot that killed him as he lay in bed at their Riviera villa —pleads his years of cruelty in extenuation. She tells the full story of their life together —haw she was reduced to the level of a harem slave; how her husband's persecution became deeper with the years. She tells how he brought his mistresses home, flaunted them in the face of her and her young daughter. Ours was an unnatural marriage: that is my only excuse. I tried to compromise with an Oriental code of living. I tried to impose my English background on a man who was too powerfully of the East. I shot my husband at our villa at Nice in the early hours of the morning, turned the revolver on my own head, ran bleeding and screaming into the street. For eight months I have suffered the hell of a French prison. I first met Khalli Kemeid in Ipswich 32 years ago. I was 18, just out of school, a normal young English girl, reasonably accomplished, with prospects in the district. Fascinating Turk. Khalli came with my brother. He was a fascinating, handsome Turk, 20 years older than I was. He offered me the glamour of a life in Egypt. He had charm, money and position. I fell deeply in love, and, to the horror of my family, promised to marry him. We went to Egypt—lived there for eight years. From the beginning he made me a slave. He locked me in the house, swearing violence if I left, even to post a letter. He was blind with jealousy. That I could bear, but gradually he developed a vicious cruelty against which my whole upbringing rebelled. He tyrannised me in every way.

At all hours of the night he would demand black coffee, order me to fill his hookah. He would keep me awake for long periods, serving him. Only the birth of my daughter, Leila, saved me from going mad. She is 30 now, a nun of the Sacred Heart, working in Newcastle. I tliink I shall follow her —the quiet and prayer of a convent appeal to me as repentance. In those early days I was in love with him. I tolerated everything for that and our homo, until 1013, when I could bear it no longer. I left, came to England and remained away from him all through the war. In 1919 we met again at Monte Carlo and began to live together. We settled in Nice and for the first few months life was happy—nearly normal. Then he began to be flagrantly unfaithful. Ho would bring his girls to Our house, flaunt them in front of my daughter, taunt me with their charms and demand that I serve them. My life became that of a liarcm girl. He sat all day smoking, sitting crosslegged on gaudy cushions, draped in robes. He persecuted me with a blinding, vicious passion. His jealousy was that of an Othello; his ambition was to tear down all my Western ideas of manners and morals. Why I Stayed.

But I stayed with him, because he was my husband, and father of the one thing I loved through it all, my daughter. She was a beautiful girl in body and spirit. His wickedness somehow never touched her. She lived a vague, ethereal life, above us all. At 17 she asked if she could go into a convent. My husband was staggered. I remember him so clearly, standing with his hands on his hips, laughing* softly and bitterly. . . . "A daughter of aiine, a nun!" Ho told licr to wait. "Make up your mind when you are 21, Leila." In all justice to him—and God forbid I should blacken him merely to defend myself—he adored that child. She was like him. Dark as a shadow, with deep, liquid blue eyes, a soft, pretty manner. In her strange, quiet way she returned his adoration. They were close together. Indeed, we all were. It could have been a very wonderful home—but . . .! In the 1920's—I cannot remember clearly, my mind is still jumping facts and dates—lie took to gambling. He had money: he made it in the war. I asked no question about that. We were always easy with money. But gambling was too easy an outlet for a man of his nervous, burning temperament. He lost and risked thousands.

A generous man, as most gamble are, he became irritable in tiny thin demanding explanations for expenditure, censoring every m luxury. All this sounds aa if j bitter—as if I hated him. Td n In my heart now there is only reL5 I wish only to state my case tn the story that led to my shootin e 3 husband. He had many fi n 6 A?? I will never forget them. The one deep consolation I lai fe life of wretchedness was my dauiS in the Convent of the Sacred Heart ?! away from it all. I should have'g him then. I know that now. r«hS have run away before he drove ij§: madness. 15 Yet for me he still held a *&»!§■ fascination and, after all, he wis ffl He needed me to look after him ! was burning himself up—living onlrS his nerves and his passions. °l Vd nurse him many times. He accents my services, all day and night :aPI& bedside, with heart-breaking castfalnejgI was worn down with lack ofspread out over years. Mr cracked. I planned to kill iiksW could see no other way. easy—an end to us both—with' Un, happy and safe. A week beforehand I took np MsmJr examined it closely. I presaedftX muzzle to my heart; practised getim* it right over the heart beats so that there should be no mistake. . , I chose the day. I spent the previous day looking through our bills. I settled them, and came out with a little money to our good. All thlt night I wrote letters. In a queer sort of way I was icy calm. But it was an unreal, state of mind. I sat on. ... • He rang the bell. The gnu was at his side. I shot him in his bed. It was a brainstorm. My head was lot turning and spinning. I shot again! I remembered I had to kill myself. I forgot how. The bullet went into my head, yet I was still alive. I rushed out for the police. They say the blood was streaming down my face. I toll the police the whole story—no lies, no subterfuge.

One-cell GaoL I have given them the property to sell to cover their gifts. Then I was moved to a one-cell prison. I paid for my food—and it was expensive. Yet it had a lesson for me. It taught me that I could live without many things I had formerly regarded as essential. I prayed every day for long hours, certain that I was going to die, resigned to it. They kept me in gaol for nine months. I thought I had reached the end of m,V strength and sanity. They tell me I was a wreck. It was decided to put me on trial. They feared that if they kept mo another three months I should lo se my reason. The trial lasted one clay. I said all I had to say. Told them everything, just how we lived. ... I told them of my sorrow. I loved him, and he lingered four days. It is hard to think of, hard to try to shift the blame fro' ll myself no matter what the provocation. He had his virtues. The jury were out 17 minutes deciding whether I should be punished. They set me free. I had hoped for it, yet I could not believe it. House Sealed. Everyone congratulated me. I waS rushed to an hotel with my sister, MrsMorgan, who came from England to look after in;, Our own house was sealed, and I could not get the few things I needed, so I left with a suitcase. I cannot get away from the nightmare of the past twelve months. That is the end of 1113' life with Khalli Kemcid. It was wrong from the beginning; a deep, natural wrong, and not all my care_a.no patience and devotion could put it right. There is left to mo this one tiny consolation—l tried.

MADE TO ACT AS HAKEM SLAVE — FORCED TO WAIT ON HUSBAND'S LOVERS — DRIVEN TO DESPERATION, MURDER P FOLLOWS — PRACTISED WITH GUN TO SHOOT HIM ' I ACQUITTED BY FRENCH JURY. ~~ V 11 I ?i

i- ■ I could have said it was a quarrel, tat i C wanted to die. They took mo to prison, • locked me up with other women. They l put a pad on my head, but would not ; allow me to rest on the bed. They kept ! me walking, out in the yard with the " cold hammering down on my wound. It was agony. For three months the wound : had to be kept open. I mixed with strange women, one a cocotte, who lived by dragging money from men. When I asked her why she said, "What do you think I am here for? To give to the poor?" She shook with drags. With, one I made friends ... a nice woman. The food was uneatable. My daughter sent me money. She is an angel. Her letters to me were my greatest comfort. The nuns, too, stood behind me, believing always in my acquittal. They gave me money for my defence, supplied a solicitor, prayed with me and consoled me. "i