I Am Not Your Slave

by Tupa Tjipombo

  10

  WITHIN A WEEK of the Jackal’s return, plans were being made for one of his special events. Madam Dua had me try on my costume, which was little more than a short skirt and a pair of leather boots. The boots had such high heels that it took quite a bit of practice to walk in them. The old lady smeared various concoctions on my skin to mimic the effect of otjize—the red ocher mixture that Himba women used—before settling on a blend of oil, red henna, and one or two other ingredients. As an added touch, she had me wear clip-in hair extensions and an assortment of gaudy jewelry. There was nothing about the final ensemble that in any way resembled traditional Himba dress, but as Almaz said, “It is about making men believe in the picture they have in their heads—and that is all about sex. They do not actually want to fuck a Himba girl straight from the village. They want to fuck the picture in their heads.”

  Madam Dua made an effort to teach me the finer points of walking and moving about in a “stimulating manner,” but she ultimately delegated that task to Almaz, who also told me what to expect and how to act around white men. She thought it would be easy for me. “You are a very beautiful woman, and that is where their attention will be,” Almaz said. “Mostly you smile and speak with your body and your touch—not your words.”

  She told me that when it came to special events, all I could do was hope to be chosen by a good man who wanted me for the entire weekend, rather than a succession of men. But she warned me that good men were rare: “You should expect every man to have strange demands and desires and to do things to you that he would not consider doing to his wife.” She knew that I did not want to be any part of it, but she reasoned that it was all inevitable anyway, so I might as well be as prepared as possible. “They want your body, so you must learn how to speak with it,” she said. “Then you can make it work for you as much as possible. You must use it to influence the man. It is better than having nothing at all.”

  But Almaz also believed it would be some time before I attended a special event. “The Jackal will want you for himself for some time,” she told me. “The old lady is a fool. She knows he likes to taste his women first. It is what he usually does. And he will want you when he sees you, maybe for a long time. So you must be prepared.” Almaz hesitated and bit her lip, as if she wanted to say more. But she simply shook her head and repeated, “You must be prepared.”

  * * *

  One evening, without warning, Madam Dua grabbed me by the arm and demanded that I come with her at once. It happened so suddenly that nobody even saw us leave, including Almaz, who was working in another part of the house. To my surprise, the old lady led me outside to a waiting van and told me to get in. It was only the third time I had left the Kassab household since arriving in Dubai.

  We drove to the Jackal’s apartment once again, pulling around back to the alleyway as before. Without a word, Madam Dua led me through the winding corridors to the freight elevator and up to the apartment. This time, however, she rang the buzzer. An older man opened the door, nodding silently and stepping aside to let us in. Clearly, we were expected.

  The man disappeared as I followed Madam Dua to the bathroom off the master bedroom. I was familiar with the room—I had cleaned it during my previous visit. Still, I was struck by how large it was, guessing that it was half the size of my uncle’s entire house in Opuwo. Its surfaces gleamed as if they had never been touched before.

  Madam Dua turned to me. “Undress,” she commanded. “Get in the shower and scrub yourself well. Make certain you are completely clean.” She opened a cabinet under the sink and took out two bottles. “When you are finished, you must rub this oil all over your body. Everywhere.” She pointed to the second bottle. “Then I will spray you with this.” She turned on the shower. “Be quick but thorough. I will return in fifteen minutes.”

  Anxious as I was, I could not help but enjoy the shower. The water to the servants’ quarters at the Kassab household had been turned off for the past week so workers could upgrade the sprinkler system. Like all the servants, I had been taking sponge baths from a plastic tub. So now, I tried to prolong every second of my shower while trying to put any thoughts of what might be coming next out of my mind.

  I was still drying myself when Madam Dua returned. She looked put out and had me stand naked before her so she could apply the oil herself. She worked furiously, her bony hands scraping against my skin without care or hesitation. She then took the second bottle, which turned out to be a scented body spray, and sprayed me from head to toe. When she was finished, the old lady produced a pair of red stilettos and thong panties. “Now put these on,” she commanded.

  She led me into the master bedroom and stood me at the foot of the bed. It was a massive king-sized bed with an elaborately carved headboard and a beautiful, cream-colored comforter. “Now wait,” the old lady said before leaving the room.

  I must have waited an hour, maybe two. I watched the sun set slowly over the city; it left behind a brownish-red band on the horizon that dissolved into the night. I tried to prepare myself but did not want to think about who or what was coming for me. Focusing on my dreams, I pictured a large herd of elephants lumbering across the Kunene, moving nowhere and with purpose at the same time. It comforted me to think of their soft footfalls.

  The man who eventually entered the room was in direct contrast to any image I had in my head. He was short, with slight, reedy features, and moved in an odd, abrupt manner, as if he were in a rush to be somewhere else. He crossed the room and peered at me with large, dark eyes. His front teeth were too large for his mouth and jutted out slightly under his thick black mustache.

  Despite his small stature and odd appearance, he carried himself with an air of confidence—or perhaps just arrogance—as if he owned everything before him. He probably did, I thought, since I remembered him now from a family photo at the Kassab house and realized that this could only be the Jackal. Balancing a drink on his lap, he sat on the edge of the bed and continued to stare at me in a piercing and completely uninhibited manner.

  “Walk back and forth,” he said, in a voice that was surprisingly high. I walked to the bathroom door and back again, essentially naked before this strange man—my new owner. Sitting back on his elbows on the bed, he sipped his drink and continued to issue commands, making me pose in different positions. I did everything in silence; he never asked me a question or expected me to speak. I knew he was making himself hungry. I could see it in his eyes.

  He ordered me to walk toward the window. I was almost there, trying not to look down because the height still frightened me, when I glimpsed his reflection in the window approaching me from behind. I closed my eyes just before he was on me.

  I can only say that what the Jackal did to me that night—and all subsequent nights that I was called to his place—was on a whole different level; it was an entirely new kind of pain and humiliation that I had not yet known existed. It made me realize that the rapes I had experienced or witnessed up to that point were all done by amateurs—simple, foolish men who could not control themselves. Like baboons, their urges simply overpowered them and they did things without thinking. But the Jackal was a professional. He loved to be a giver of shame and pain; there was a grotesque pleasure in it for him. While I had met many rapists and abusive men by this point, I never knew one who enjoyed going about it in the slow, methodical manner of the Jackal. It was like he learned to control his urges by channeling them into prolonged stories of misery and degradation. I do not know how or where a human learns these stories. It is not important. The details are meaningless. I just know the Jackal was the sickest and cruelest of them all. As for myself, I learned thresholds of pain that I did not know I had. I learned what I could endure because I had no choice.

  * * *

  Over the next six months, my routine became one of endless work punctuated by sudden, violent episodes of abuse at the hands of the Jackal. Each time I was summoned to his place, I prepared myself for a night of unspeakable cruelty, unti
l each revolting act, each sexual deviance, became part of the routine, something to be endured to make it through the night. In that sense, the next morning was always a good thing because it represented the beginning of a period when I was not being abused. I tried to imagine myself as being on a long trek through the desert, having to endure brief yet intense intervals under the sun in order to reach the next village or water hole or shade tree, the next place of relative safety. The trick was to train myself to endure the heat by knowing that at some point it would not be there, even if just for a moment or a night or a few weeks—there would be a period of relative comfort. “Just keep walking,” I would say to myself during those nights with the Jackal. “The shade tree is there in the distance. Just keep walking.” Elephant steps, I thought.

  And eventually I would reach it. After he was finished with me for the night, the Jackal sent me home—usually around 3:00 or 4:00 AM—at which point I was expected, as always, to work another sixteen-hour shift. The day after an episode with the Jackal was always difficult; my body was so racked with pain that I spent much of my time trying to hide from Madam Dua and members of the Kassab family so I could be sick and take short naps. I became adept at sleeping for a few minutes at a time, even if it meant leaning against the wall as I scrubbed the floor. I marveled at the human body’s capabilities, how it could keep moving as the person inside slept.

  There were several special events during this time, but I did not attend them. Almaz approached me after I had experienced a particularly bad night with the Jackal. “I should have prepared you better,” she told me, shaking her head with a look of shame and pity. “It is like I said before, the Jackal likes to taste his women before he makes them available. It is normal. And what he does . . . how he enjoys hurting . . . it is normal too.” She advised me to accept my circumstances and try to be strong. She told me that things would get better once the Jackal tired of me and moved on to the next woman. “It is his usual practice,” she said. “Eventually, soon maybe, he will throw you away and make you available as just another girl for his special events. You will be with more men—powerful men—and they will treat you much better than the Jackal. It will be easier for you then.” Since special events were made up of close business associates of the Kassab family, she warned me to be careful and submit to everything they wanted. “You do not want to get a bad review,” she said. “It would make the Jackal angry, and you do not want to make that one angry.”

  No, I thought, I do not want to make him angry. Though I had never seen him angry, the Jackal still left me with a battered, aching body. I could only wonder what such a man was capable of when truly angry.

  * * *

  Eventually, things turned out as Almaz predicted. The Jackal called on me less frequently until the day came when I learned that I was to be included in the next special event. I felt relief more than anything else, hoping that it represented the end of my personal sessions with the Jackal. Yes, other men would rape me now, but perhaps they would be nicer to me. Nice rapists, I thought, and almost laughed.

  On the morning prior to the special event, I climbed into a van full of women. In addition to Madam Dua, Almaz, and the twins, several white women were part of our group. I asked Almaz who they were.

  “They are from Europe,” she replied. “I think they are Russian. They are regulars at all of these events. You know some men prefer white women. And the Jackal likes to have a selection of women from around the world. These events are . . . known to be like this. That is why so many men wish to attend. But the Jackal only includes men who help him with his business interests. These events are special. They are . . . what is the word?”

  “Exclusive,” I offered.

  “Yes,” Almaz confirmed. “They are exclusive events.”

  Appraising my fellow passengers again, I said, “These are all very beautiful women.”

  “Oh yes,” Almaz agreed. “That is what makes it exclusive.” She motioned toward the white women. “They are professionals. Sex is their business.”

  “Prostitutes?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Almaz said. “But high-end prostitutes. They do not work on the streets like other girls. And they are very expensive. They only work events such as these and only serve very rich men.”

  This time we drove in the opposite direction of the city center, passing residential neighborhoods and small shopping centers until the buildings tapered off and vanished altogether, leaving behind a vast desert landscape. The air inside the van became thick and heavy. As I stared out the window at the endless sea of sand, I realized just how isolated I was in Dubai. Even if I attempted to run away, I thought, it would be difficult to get anywhere. I understood the harsh realities of the desert and knew that traveling by foot depended on an intimate knowledge of the land. And the environment that passed before me now was the most unforgiving one I had ever seen.

  We drove for several hours before turning off the paved road and onto a dirt track that wound its way between enormous sand dunes, the largest of which threatened to overrun the road completely. Eventually, we crested a small rise and came upon a lush oasis of tall grass and palm trees. The contrast was so sudden and dramatic that it prompted small gasps of astonishment from the van’s occupants. Speckled among the trees and tall grass was an array of large white tents with conical roofs that gave the place a festive, almost dreamlike appearance. At the far end, an enormous tent with two square cupolas dwarfed everything else, towering above the trees and commanding the entire scene.

  As we exited the van and followed a narrow trail to the nearest tent, I caught a glimpse of an emerald-green pond at the center of the oasis. It was all so beautiful that I almost forgot why we were there.

  Inside the tent, a dozen women were already busy putting on makeup, fixing their hair, or mending costumes. It was obviously a preparation area for the night’s entertainment, or at least one facet of it. I could not get over how beautiful the women were. “These women are mostly from Iran,” Almaz said. “They are in high demand by the white men. They all want to taste a Persian queen while they are here.” She motioned to several girls sitting together at one table. “Look at these ones. They are very young girls, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old. But see? They are already professionals.” The girls were chatting happily as they fixed their hair and applied their makeup, seemingly unfazed by their surroundings. One girl glanced sideways at me and snickered.

  We found an empty table and sifted through a massive array of cosmetic items. There must have been enough for hundreds of women, I thought, though there were only about twenty-five in the tent.

  When it came time to don our costumes, Almaz gestured to the other women and said, “You see? They are dressed like they come from all over the world. As I said, that is a big part of these events. The Jackal wants to display to his associates his selection of exotic and beautiful women.” She repeated how his special events were well known among a certain discerning crowd.

  I asked Almaz where the men came from. “They are from all over the world too,” she answered. “Some are from here, but most, as you will see, are white men. Many are working for the United Nations here in Dubai or visiting from other bases around the world. They are very powerful men. Like I said before, they work on human rights during the day and fuck young girls behind their wives’ backs at night.”

  As she fixed her hair, Almaz explained how a growing number of men who visited Dubai’s brothel scene were from the United Nations or organizations associated with the humanitarian and international aid sector. She said it was a direct result of the government’s efforts to transform Dubai into one of the largest humanitarian centers in the world. Toward that end, and in true Dubai fashion, an entire section of the city—the International Humanitarian City—was constructed from scratch. Since then, humanitarian and international aid workers had been pouring into the city and, quickly following their arrival, patronizing its infamous sex industry. Brothels and nightclubs directly catered to them
; one famous brothel even described itself as the “United Nations of Prostitution.” Escort services targeted these individuals by marketing their women as “sophisticated” or “worldly” and as being able to satisfy the demanding needs of global professionals. It was common for humanitarian organizations to provide their clients with girls in order to get contracts signed, close deals, and conclude lucrative business transactions. The international aid sector supplied such a huge number of clients, Almaz claimed, that there was even a term for them: “humanitarian johns.”

  “Yes, these humanitarians”—Almaz practically spit out the word as she inspected herself in the mirror. “We are all having angels and demons inside of us,” she said under her breath.

  As the women dressed, I could see that their costumes were meant to represent different parts of the world. Each costume was so scant, however, that there was hardly anything to work with; some were little more than strategically placed bits of cloth in the national colors of some mysterious foreign country. Almaz’s costume consisted of an extremely short and very revealing white skirt—if it could be called that—with a matching top that was not much wider than a belt, which she tied somewhat futilely around her ample breasts. She caught me staring at her and shrugged. “It is not the traditional dress of my people; it is only a . . . suggestion of one.” Staring at my own costume, she said, “Yours, of course, is the same—a suggestion.”

  I looked down at myself. Like the other costumes, mine was basically nonexistent and intended to be as revealing as possible. My breasts were completely exposed. With Almaz’s help, I covered my body with the red mixture that was meant to simulate otjize. Madam Dua popped in and out of the tent all afternoon and seemed pleased with the results. She nodded assent before moving on to upbraid a girl who was struggling with her hair extensions.