I Am Not Your Slave

by Tupa Tjipombo

  We worked our way along the row of buildings bordering the Big Ground until we turned onto a paved road, where we were confronted by rows of buses parked outside a small food shop. Two long lines of men ran parallel to the buses, waiting to purchase either beer or whiskey. A man stood on top of one bus and shouted out, “This queue is for beer! This queue is for whiskey!” Other men were busy hauling boxes of alcohol from the buses to the front of each line. I noticed again how efficiently things were run.

  The man on the bus spotted us and called out, “Brothers! I think you know that these women are selling plenty of tharra.” His announcement elicited a low rumble of laughter.

  Waris turned her delicate frame and smiled. “You see, here tharra is more than just tharra.” She led us past the lines of men one more time before returning us to our building.

  Rakesh the taxi driver was waiting in the alleyway. He approached me and said quietly, “I have money for tharra.”

  Waris laughed breezily. “Very good,” she said, ushering us inside.

  * * *

  Rakesh visited frequently over the next month as I settled into my new life as a Big Ground girl. I liked Rakesh; he was polite and soft-spoken, even to the point of being shy. Sometimes he did not even want sex, preferring instead to sip his tharra, smoke cigarettes, and talk, mostly about his problems back in India. Parts of his story were familiar to me; I heard them again and again from every man who visited me: growing debts back home, problems with banks and moneylenders, suspicions about wives and girlfriends, and endless problems with employers in Dubai. And underlying everything was a potent mix of shame, frustration, and bitterness. After only one month at the Big Ground, I felt as if I could have written each man’s story. But Rakesh’s problems seemed to haunt him more than most.

  The life of a Big Ground girl was a simple one: to sell as much sex and alcohol as possible to an army of lonely and troubled men. They gathered on the Big Ground every evening after work, with the largest crowds forming on Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, but there were men on the Big Ground almost every evening. The entire operation was run by the mysterious D-gang, whose authority was reflected in day-to-day operations and the extensive network of men on the ground, each of whom had a specific role: vendors sold the alcohol, spokers marketed it, transporters—usually taxi drivers and bus drivers—delivered it, stashers cached and concealed it, spotters acted as lookouts, foodies sold food, and fixers negotiated with the police through an elaborate system of bribes.

  Girls were an essential part of this world. We were managed by a large and resourceful Kenyan lady known only as Queen Victoria. At any given time, the Queen oversaw between seventy-five and one hundred girls at the Big Ground brothel. Girls came and went, but the Queen remained a constant presence. Nobody knew for sure how long she had been there, but it was long enough for her to know everything about the Big Ground.

  The Queen also had considerable influence over the tharra business, a product she absolutely forbade us from drinking. She once warned me that it was made in part from radiator fluid and that a few men died each year from drinking it. I believed her; the men’s breath always had a gasoline-like odor—even after one small glass. The smell was so strong that I often felt dizzy myself whenever a man, drunk from tharra, pawed and panted over me. One time, I had to turn my head and vomit as a drunken construction worker lay on top of me. He did not seem to mind, however, and simply continued to force himself on me, breathing and snorting the heavy tharra fumes in my face.

  But the darkest part of the Big Ground activities occurred on Thursday and Friday nights, when groups of young boys were bussed in to satisfy the sexual appetites of a surprising number of men. The boys, most of whom looked to be under thirteen, were delivered early, before the crowds gathered, and immediately ushered to the top floor of the building. One girl told me that they were shipped in from Somalia just for this purpose. The “boy deli,” as it was known around the brothel, was never discussed in much detail, but like the Big Ground itself, it was an open secret.

  Rakesh continued to act as an intermediary for Almaz and me between the Big Ground and the outside world, relaying information from the twins regarding our situation. It was serious; the police were actively looking for us after Madame Dua’s accusations of attempted murder. In several parts of the city, flyers with our photos were distributed to shopkeepers and nightclub owners. A local newspaper highlighted the incident in its crime section, and the story was picked up by other media outlets. It included an interview with Madam Dua, who claimed we were practicing witches and HIV positive, among other things. The entire episode contributed to a crackdown on absconders and domestic workers who were in the country illegally. While plenty of girls who passed through the doors of the Big Ground brothel had run away from their domestic service jobs, few were on the police’s radar to such a degree or had an accuser as earnest as Madam Dua. Given all the attention, Rakesh advised us to stay put.

  I kept the American’s cell phone with me at all times, never letting it out of my sight. Almaz thought it was too risky to try anything for the time being and advised me to just hold on to it. But I was growing increasingly unhappy with our situation—much more so than my friend—and was desperate to find a way out of Dubai. I could never get used to this kind of life. So I decided to confide in Rakesh about the stolen phone.

  Rakesh examined the phone as I told him the story behind it. When I came to the part involving the video, Rakesh held up a hand. “There is no need to tell me or for me to see this video,” he said reassuringly. “Besides,” he continued. “There are other videos with other girls. This man has a large appetite.” Rakesh scrolled carefully through the American’s e-mails as he smoked his cigarette and sipped his tharra. Finally, he looked up and said, “This is an important man.”

  “What should I do? Can you help me?” I asked anxiously.

  “I must do some more looking into this man first,” Rakesh answered. “But yes, I think I can help you. No problem. You have something over this man, and maybe you can use it. It could hurt him very much. But you must be very careful. I will help you.” Rakesh studied a photo of the American and his family standing in front of a large, beautiful house. He said quietly, almost as if to himself, “It is everything a man wants.” He stared at the photo for a long time, but to me his eyes seemed to be looking at something far away.

  The following week, Rakesh came back to me with news about the American. He confirmed that the man was very high up in the UN World Food Programme. “Higher than we thought,” he said. “He is a powerful man who meets regularly with Dubai’s political leaders. This man has much to lose. I have found out who his bosses are. And he has a big family back in America too. I think he would be ruined if people saw the videos on this phone.”

  Our plan was simple: We would send an e-mail to the man demanding enough money for me to get home and Rakesh to pay off his debts. If he did not comply, we would send the video to everyone on his contact list, including his family and his work colleagues. We would also tell him that we knew about the other damaging videos on his phone and were prepared to send those out as well. To prove that we had his phone and were serious, we would attach still photos from several of the videos.

  “We must also make copies of everything,” Rakesh said. “Just in case.” He asked if he could take the phone to an acquaintance who could back up the files and send the e-mail.

  I hesitated. I had never allowed the phone to leave my sight. But I trusted my instincts when it came to people now, a trait that had been tested and honed over the past couple of years. And there was something about Rakesh that told me he could be trusted. I gave him the phone.

  Rakesh returned the phone the next day. “It is done,” he said. “Now we must wait.” He laughed and added, “At least you know that you can trust me now.”

  * * *

  As I spent time with Rakesh, I learned more details about his life and how he came to Dubai. He told me that he had a fianc
ée back in India, in his home state of Kerala. Her name was Nishi, and he had known her all his life; he loved her very much and often described the time he spent with her as his only real joy. They had grown up together in the same village, played together, schooled together, and made their plans for the future knowing that they would always be by each other’s side. As teenagers, they had often walked along the banks of the Periyar River, chatting endlessly about their lives and dreams for the future.

  For Rakesh to make his plans with Nishi a reality, he needed to purchase a large plot of land. His prospective father-in-law insisted on it before paying the dowry and giving his daughter away. But Rakesh came from a family with four older brothers, and his parents were not well off, so inheriting land of his own was out of the question. He would have to find a way to make his own fortune. And like so many men from his village who faced similar circumstances, that meant finding work in Dubai. So Rakesh secured a loan from the bank and paid a local recruiter to find him his Dubai job. The lending conditions were severe, but, as Rakesh told me, at least he did not borrow money from the “blade mafia,” so called because of their cutthroat rates and violent enforcement strategies. As for the recruiter, his fees were substantial, but he assured Rakesh that he could pay off the loan within two years, buy a nice plot of land, and even have enough money left over to open up a small shop. This sounded perfect, so Rakesh committed himself to two years of hard work in Dubai, knowing that it would enable him to finally begin his dream life with Nishi. The recruiter congratulated him on his wise decision.

  Like so many men from his area, Rakesh harbored dreams of becoming a “Gulfan man,” a popular reference to those lucky Gulf migrants who hit it big and returned home fabulously wealthy. In his quiet manner, he explained to me just how powerful and alluring the image of the Gulfan man was back in his home village: it was widely promoted in Indian films and plays, told and retold in stories, and referenced countless times in everyday conversation. “As a Gulfan,” Rakesh explained to me once, “I would return home with gifts for everybody. I would be wearing designer shirts and gold watches and very expensive sunglasses. I would smoke American cigarettes and drive a nice car.” He closed his eyes, as if trying to imagine himself what that might look like. “Yesss,” he cooed dreamily, “I would make a very good Gulfan.” He explained how the image of the Gulfan man represented the aspirations of so many young men from his area that the very act of migrating to the Gulf and striking it big was now considered a necessary step toward becoming a full-fledged man.

  But upon arriving in Dubai, things went downhill for Rakesh right from the start. The construction company that hired him had been withholding wages from its workers for over six weeks, which led to a general strike among the men. Rakesh, who had only been there for four weeks when the strike began, had not received even his first paycheck. Things only got worse as tensions escalated. The company, in retaliation against its striking employees, canceled their work visas, refused to return their passports, and turned off the power and water to the labor camp. The place quickly degenerated into an open cesspit of garbage and raw sewage, causing the rat population to explode until they were literally dropping from holes in the ceiling and onto the men’s heads as they slept. The police were called in on several occasions and arbitrarily arrested whole groups of individuals at a time. They were brought to the police station and systematically beaten until they identified their ringleaders.

  Workers began abandoning the camp after a few weeks. Rakesh joined one group and eventually ended up living in a makeshift cardboard camp in the desert almost three miles outside of Dubai. There was no point in returning home since he would never find a job in Kerala that would allow him to repay the bank loan. Besides, he explained to me, he would be returning as the village failure, a prospect so shameful that he could not imagine facing Nishi, let alone his family and friends, all of whom had such high expectations for him. In fact, returning home as anything other than a Gulfan man was considered such a sign of abject failure that it was shameful not only for the man but for his entire family as well. And the stereotype of the failed Gulf migrant was almost as prevalent as that of the successful one. “Gulf victims” were the pathetic figures who could not support their families, buy drinks for their friends at the neighborhood bar, put up money for a dowry, or pay off their bank loans. For many, the only option was to borrow money and go deeper into debt in order to return to the Gulf. Doing so offered them one more chance to make it big while escaping their problems at home. As Rakesh explained, that was why so many men from Kerala migrated again and again to Dubai, engaging in an endless cycle of long stints in the Middle East punctuated by brief stays back home. For these individuals, the image of the Gulfan man existed only to mock them. It became the measuring stick by which to assess their failure as men.

  Eventually, Rakesh managed to find a job as a taxi driver. His taxi was part of a fleet controlled by the D-gang, who also used their vehicles to haul alcohol, cigarettes, and a few other goods. Since Rakesh did not have a work visa or even a passport at this point, it was one of the few jobs available to him. But the pay was only a fraction of what he would have made as a construction worker.

  “So, here I am,” Rakesh sighed in conclusion one night, as he leaned against the back wall of my room. He took a long drag from his cigarette and flashed a weak smile. “I have been driving a taxi now for three years. And what do I have to show for it? I am deeper in debt than I have ever been. I cannot go home like this. I would shame my family.” He stared blankly ahead and exhaled. “I would shame Nishi,” he said emptily, his eyes fixed on the opposite wall as if he were watching another, happier life unfold there. “So, here I am,” he repeated.

  * * *

  I was beginning to worry; it had been a week, and I had not seen or heard from Rakesh. He usually visited the brothel a few times a week, and on each occasion he never failed to greet me. I wondered if the American had somehow used his power and influence to find him. My mind raced through all the possible scenarios.

  Finally, I approached another taxi driver—a man I recognized as a friend of Rakesh’s—and asked him if he had any news on his whereabouts. The man cocked his head and studied me. “You are his friend from Africa, yes?” I nodded my head as the man fumbled around in his pockets and took out a folded envelope. He presented it to me with a strange, self-conscious look and said flatly, “Rakesh is dead . . . by his own hand. He hanged himself.” I stared at the man in shock, who gestured toward the envelope I held in my hands. “He wrote that letter to you.” He paused before adding, “He also wrote a letter to his mother and father and to his . . . woman . . . in India.”

  In the letter, Rakesh apologized for not being able to help me more. But he had sent the e-mail to the American and provided me with the username and password to the account. He acknowledged that we were both living lives we did not want or desire, but he believed my situation was different because I was young and smart and had a real opportunity to change my life. Toward that end, he encouraged me not to be afraid to force the American’s hand. He had faith that my future would be full of freedom and joy one day. As for his own future, there was no hope; Nishi had written him and informed him that she was engaged to be married. It was the last straw. He ended by writing, “I don’t blame her for this. There are stronger forces in the world that prevent men like me from achieving my dreams. But how does a man cast blame on these things? How do I fight these things? But they are there and there is nothing more I can do. I am sorry.”

  13

  SINCE ARRIVING AT THE BIG GROUND, Almaz had been having second thoughts about returning home to Ethiopia. If she went back, she knew it would be difficult to earn enough money to support her children in the manner she wanted, so doubts and uncertainties slowly crept back into her mind. Like so many women who ended up at the Big Ground brothel, she began to see the place as a temporary shelter until she could find another, better-paying job in Dubai. She was thinking of sharing
a flat with several other ladies from Ethiopia and finding work in one of the nightclubs that catered to foreign tourists. I noticed that many girls, once they became used to the surroundings at the brothel, began networking with one another and making plans to work in Dubai’s nightclub scene, which was thought to be a step up from the Big Ground brothel and its more modest clientele.

  But things changed for Almaz one evening after one of our parade sessions. It was getting dark, and she lingered behind to talk with an Indian man who promised her a big tip after flashing an unusually large amount of cash in her face. He seemed like any other worker from the Big Ground but insisted on having sex at his place, which he claimed was just around the corner. Eyeing the wad of cash, Almaz could not resist. Tips, which were rare to begin with, were typically handed over to Queen Victoria. In this case, however, Almaz planned to keep the cash for herself. It was against the rules for girls to go off by themselves with any man, but she reasoned that if this one lived right around the corner, as he claimed, then she could have sex, collect the money, and be back at the brothel before anyone noticed.

  As they walked together down the alley to the man’s apartment, he stopped and turned toward Almaz. Thinking he wanted to kiss her, she also paused and faced the man. But before she knew what was happening, the man swung his arm up and punched her in the face. She fell to the ground, dazed, staring up at her attacker as he towered above her, fists clenched, poised to strike again. Thinking quickly, Almaz closed her eyes and turned her head, feigning unconsciousness. She could feel the blood trickling down her cheeks and into her mouth. She suspected her nose was broken. She must have looked in bad shape because the man stepped away to make a call on his cell phone.