by Sidney Wood
The older men led the girls to the other truck, which had a camper shell but was smaller than the old yellow truck they had been traveling in. They began the re-loading process as before. The groping and harassment were liberal, while the actual helping was scant. Jen was the second to last into the truck. She had helped the little girl into the truck while the men were busy with others, and then quickly hopped up after. A pretty girl of ten or eleven was trying to step up into the truck when the oldest man grabbed her around the waist and drug her back to the old yellow truck. His younger partner laughed and followed eagerly. The other two men traded a few words and sat back against the tailgate casually to wait. One of them lit a cigarette and the two men smoked while the older men took turns with the girl in the other truck.
A few minutes later the younger of the two old men brought the girl back and shoved her up into the truck. She scrambled to the front of the truck bed and curled into a trembling ball and sobbed. Jen was beyond furious and clenched her fists. “You pigs!” she wanted to shout. “She’s just a girl!" Just then she realized she was still holding a rock from earlier. She threw it as hard as she could at the man and hit him square on the nose. A loud crack sounded as the rock broke his beak-like nose and he fell to his knees with a shout. The younger men burst out laughing and halfheartedly tried to help him up. He angrily brushed them aside and tried to climb into the truck after whoever had assaulted him. The younger men, who were stronger than their slim bodies portrayed, yanked him bodily out of the truck and shouted at him in Farsi. They closed the back of the truck and locked the camper shell.
Seconds later, the engine rumbled to life and the truck swung around and began re-tracing its path the way it had come. Jen hugged her knees and bowed her head against them. “Dear God, why are you letting this happen?" She felt hands upon her and she looked up to four of the girls smiling at her. One of them mimicked throwing a rock and the others giggled. Jen didn’t smile back. She looked at the girl curled up in the corner and shook her head. “Where are you God?”
Chapter Seven
Jen’s mom was on the ground at Tehran’s Imam Khomeini International Airport. She braced herself for the reality of being a woman in Iran and followed the other passengers down the aircraft isle toward the jetway. Part of her wanted to fight convention and refuse to dress as her heritage demanded, but she also knew that she needed help if she was going to see her Little Bird again. “How is it possible that human trafficking and kidnapping exist in this modern age?” she wondered. “I am asking that while standing in a country ruled by Ayatollah Ali Khamenei,” Fouzia shook her head. “Human rights mean nothing here where a woman has no value. It’s hard to believe that less than forty years ago women could vote and even be members of parliament. Now a woman must have permission to go outside and cannot even have custody of her own children if her husband dies.”
When Fouzia descended the escalator to the baggage claim, she saw Najid waiting for her. Tears flooded her eyes and she ran to him. Her knees gave out and she held onto him as all of her anguish came pouring out. Najid held her tightly and wept too. “Fouzia, I am so sorry,” he whispered haltingly in her ear. She hugged him tighter and stood.
“It is not your fault Najid,” she said with a firm voice. She looked him in the eye and repeated it even more sternly, “This was not your fault." They hugged again, and he gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“Let’s get your bags and get to Mahmoud’s. I want both of us to talk to Fatima. She was the last one to see Jena,” Najid said. Putting his arm around her shoulders, they turned toward the baggage carousel and waited for her luggage to come around.
Fouzia looked around at the people in the airport. Most seemed tired, but happy. The women, although dressed more modestly than many in the US, seemed otherwise quite similar. Makeup and jewelry was abundant, and colors were everywhere. “It’s like looking at a picture of Panama City, Panama and thinking everything is so pretty, but you can’t see the garbage and ruins of the old city hidden behind the big new buildings and makeshift walls.”
With all of her bags in tow, Fouzia and Najid made their way outside to the curb and hailed a taxi. Fouzia noticed a taxi driver in his car nearby with the in-service light off, waiting and watching while another taxi pulled out and ahead of him to pick them up. When the bags were loaded, Fouzia took one more look at the man in the darkened taxi before climbing in next to Najid. Something about the way he sat there in the dark, cigarette smoke slowly rolling out of the windows, made her feel uneasy. Fouzia shook her head and decided to focus on the upcoming talk with Fatima. She leaned her head against Najid and closed her eyes. She was not interested in seeing the city. She just wanted to find Jena and go home.
Mahmoud and Fatima were waiting when they arrived at the house. Fouzia could not help but cry again when Fatima hugged her and sobbed how sorry she was. Just as she had with Najid, Fouzia firmly told Fatima that it was not her fault. Part of her wanted to shout at Fatima and blame her for being careless and losing Jena, but she could not. She could not blame anyone but the horrible man who had taken her daughter, and the government whose blatant disregard for women made this sort of crime so easy to perpetrate. Fouzia kept the last part to herself. She knew it would only come across as insulting.
When they were all seated, and each had coffee or tea to sip on, Fatima recounted the details of her day with Jena and Armand. She told them everything she remembered, from the moment she awoke to the moment she saw Jena being taken away in a taxi. She broke down crying often, and it was impossible for the others to not join in. It was emotional and exhausting for everyone, but Fouzia refused to go to bed until she had heard the story several times. She wanted to know and remember every detail.
“Come to bed Fouzia,” coaxed Najid with a whisper. She looked at him with red-rimmed eyes and nodded. Fouzia stood up and let him lead her up the stairs. When they reached the hallway at the top, Fouzia asked, “Where is Jena’s room?”
Najid sighed and pointed to the second door. Fouzia moved his arm from around her shoulders and walked softly to the door. She stood fixed in front of the closed bedroom door, suddenly unsure what she should do. She was about to knock, but caught herself and reached for the knob instead. The door opened easily and she immediately saw familiar things that belonged to Jena. Some of her clothes were scattered about, there was a brush on the dresser, and her matching luggage was near the closet.
Fouzia walked to the bed and sat down. She gathered the clothes to her and smelled them. She held them tightly and closed her eyes. “My Little Bird,” she thought. “If you can hear me, I am thinking of you! I love you, Jena." She lay on her side, on top of the covers, looking at Najid standing solemnly in the doorway.
“Would you like to sleep in here tonight, my love?” he asked. Fouzia nodded yes and closed her eyes as fresh tears streamed out of her eyes. A moment later, her suitcase was next to the bed and the door to the bedroom carefully closed. She was alone. “Are you alone too Little Bird?” she whispered. “Are you frightened?" She put her hand over her mouth and cried quietly for her daughter.
Fouzia fought sleep, but it finally overtook her.
As she slept, she dreamed of dark alleys and dangerous men with hot, stinking breath. She was a frightened little girl, much younger than Jena and unable to speak. Her parents were distracted and arguing about dinner when she was taken by a stealthy man and swept away on a swift riverboat. They didn’t even notice she was gone. Only one old woman saw her being carried away to the boat, and she said nothing. She just smiled and waved as if Fouzia was going on a whimsical trip.
When the boat finally docked, a grizzled old man with a bushy beard and curly black hair picked her up from behind and carried her up a hill and into an alley between stone buildings. There, in the darkness, he made her lie with crippled and degenerate men who smelled like decay and filth. She felt an unbearable pressure on her chest, as if the life was being crushed out of her. She tried to cry out for help, but the
pressure was too great and she couldn’t make any sounds.
Fouzia awoke with a start. It was still late at night and the house was still. She was sweating and her whole body was shaking. Frightened and ashamed all at once, she ran to join Najid in the other room. She climbed into bed without a word and clung to him until morning.
The next day, Fouzia and Najid took a taxi to the police station. Fouzia wore dark sunglasses and a black hijab. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying and a lack of sleep. Najid looked professional, as always, in a gray suit. Together, they rode in silence; each looking out opposite windows, yet holding hands in a small gesture of solidarity. Fouzia found herself thinking of the darkened taxi at the airport. “Was he one of these kidnappers?” she wondered. “Was he just on a break, or was he waiting unnoticed in the darkness for a vulnerable target?" She decided to ask the Police Inspector if they had any leads on the taxi driver Fatima saw.
When they arrived at the police station, Najid did all the talking. They had discussed it before leaving the house that morning. It was decided that the best way to get help from the police was to follow convention and let the father make all of the inquiries. “A mother does not really have rights concerning her children anyway,” thought Fouzia bitterly. “How could that be Allah’s will?" She held her tongue, but it was not easy.
The Inspector assigned to their case was decidedly plain. He seemed to lack personality, and for a little while, Fouzia took it for a lack of interest. Over the course of the day she found that her initial impression was wrong. He was actually quite intelligent, and seemed acutely interested in solving the case. He simply had no skill in expressing himself beyond factual statements and logical inquiries. From time to time, she would whisper questions or opinions to Najid, and he would present them to the Inspector as his own thoughts when appropriate. That is how Fouzia influenced the Inspector to investigate the taxi driver at the airport, although at first she thought he wouldn’t.
The police had already questioned several suspects and searched their taxis, but none of the leads had panned out. The Inspector was afraid the trail would soon go cold. When Najid mentioned the taxi at the airport that Fouzia had quietly described, the Inspector seemed to dismiss it and quickly moved to something else. It was already late in the day, and he urged them to go home and rest. Heartbroken and feeling helpless, Fouzia followed Najid out of the station and into another taxi.
The next day, the Inspector called and asked Mahmoud to bring Fatima to the station. They had a man in custody they thought might be the driver who took Jena. All four of them went to the station, and for the first two hours, Fouzia and Fatima sat in the hall, while Mahmoud and Najid spoke with the inspector. Finally, the Inspector and Mahmoud came out and Fatima was asked to follow them down the hall to see a line-up of suspects. Fouzia was invited to join Najid in the conference room while they waited. It was another hour before Fatima and Mahmoud returned and joined them. Fatima was crying and Mahmoud had to share the news.
“They have the man who kidnapped Jena,” he said with a shaky voice. He seemed near to tears, but he coughed and cleared his throat and was able to continue. “Fatima recognized him immediately. They will interrogate him and try to find out where she is." He leaned forward and reached across the table toward Najid and Fouzia with his hands open and palms upturned. He wore a pained expression as he added, “The Inspector says the man is probably just the first link in a long chain, and that by now she may be too far away." He choked and began crying. “Even now…even after they found the man who took her.”
“Was it him?” asked Fouzia sharply. “Was it the taxi from the airport?”
Mahmoud nodded and looked as if he wished he could somehow say something or do something more to help.
“They have to find her!” she shouted. “Beat him until he tells them who the next link is! Then do the same until they find the end of the chain and get my daughter back!” she yelled. Fouzia stood and started toward the door. A police officer peeked his head into the conference room to see what the commotion was about and quickly ducked back out when he saw Fouzia angrily walking toward the door.
“Fouzia!” Najid called after her and stood up to give chase. Mahmoud also stood and took her by the arm as she stormed by. She jerked her arm away and gave him a hard stare that said, “Back off!" He did. Fatima cried harder and covered her face with her hands.
Fouzia was walking through the door when the Inspector stepped in front of her and blocked her path. She pressed her lips together and took a deep breath. She looked the Inspector in the eye and slowly exhaled, trying to regain control. Somehow, she knew he understood her emotions, and felt as if she could trust him. She allowed Najid to take her by the shoulders and lead her back to her seat. They all sat down and the Inspector explained in greater detail what Mahmoud had quickly shared with them a moment before.
Fouzia tried to listen as the inspector briefed them, but her mind kept wandering to thoughts of a little girl in a dark alley. Soon an unbearable pressure crept into her chest. It threatened to squeeze the life right out of her. She remembered seeing Najid standing over her and looking concerned. He was saying something she couldn’t understand, and then everything went black.
Chapter Eight
Jen awoke to the sound of the engine cutting off. Unlike the other stops as they were traveling through the desolate wilderness, this time there was commotion outside. Jen heard the sounds of many voices, vehicles in the distance, and dogs barking. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and took the last drink of water from the plastic bottle she cradled. The camper shell was opened and the tail gate was dropped. The same two young men, who had shepherded them since the switch several nights before, stood at the end of the truck and beckoned the girls to get out. Although these younger men protected the girls against the old man when Jen struck him with a rock, they were not kind. They did not try to molest the girls, but they had no patience or understanding. The girls were hit or kicked when they did not immediately obey. They were hit or kicked if they looked at the men, or if they spoke without permission.
The girls quickly disembarked from the small truck and stood in a tight group, looking at the ground. Jen glanced about as she hopped down, but then joined the others in obediently looking down. She had her share of bruises for disobeying, and did not want any more. Before she cast her gaze down, she saw many men dressed in traditional Muslim garb, four single level buildings made from stone and earth, and a few small wooden shacks. Dust from a vehicle passing slowly by made her cough. There was no grass or pavement nearby, only dust and more dust.
Jen and the other girls were herded toward the nearest building and ushered inside. As they went inside, each of the girls slipped her shoes or sandals off and left them by the door. Jen followed suit and joined the others on the floor against the far wall. They were not there long before a woman in a black burka walked swiftly in and spoke firmly to the group in Farsi. Jen did not understand, so she watched the others to see what how they responded. They stood and got in line according to the woman’s instruction. Jen began to worry that she would be discovered if she didn’t figure out what pattern they were following. She didn’t want to let on that she was American. Panic was setting in when the little girl with light skin took her hand and walked her to the front of the line, just behind the tallest girl. Jen looked back at the others. “Oh! We’re going tallest to smallest,” she realized. She squeezed the young girls hand and let her go back to her own place in line.
She swallowed as the woman in black said something sharply and the line began shuffling forward. Jen stepped with the others and followed the woman in black to another room within the building. In the next room there was a young girl, also wearing a black robe, but she wore a hijab rather than the full face covering. She stood by two boxes. One contained folded black cloth and the other had underwear. She handed each girl a pile of the black cloth and one pair of panties as they passed by. Jen took hers and filed after the tall girl to t
he next room. The tall girl began stripping down and changing into the given clothing. The black clothing was a full length burka, just like the woman and young girl wore. “Oh great.”
When all of the girls were dressed, the young girl came in and took all of their discarded clothing. The older girls wore burkas and the younger girls wore open face hijabs. Jen wanted to protest having to wear a burka, but knew that would give her away. She watched the girl take her clothes into the room they had just come from. The old woman snapped another order and the girls followed her to yet another room.
The fourth room was narrow and long. The girls were lined up along the wall and made to stand still. “What is this place?” wondered Jen. “I feel like a slave in a slave market.”
The old woman stood next to the doorway and watched like a hawk. She snapped at them each time someone lifted their gaze or made a sound. The room was deathly silent when a shadow crept through the doorway and caught everyone’s attention. It was followed closely by an average height man dressed in a brown robe. He had a curly black beard, sharp features, and piercing eyes. Jen quickly looked down as soon as she saw him. His demeanor demanded respect, and he seemed to exude authority.
The man was followed by two others, who seemed to be little more than servants or body guards. He did not speak to them and they followed immediately each time he moved, but at a respectful distance. The woman looked at the floor when he walked past her to inspect the girls. He stood in front of each girl, lifting her chin and staring into her eyes before moving to the next. He spoke to some of them, eliciting a response that Jen could not understand. “Please don’t speak to me,” she thought.
The man stepped in front of Jen and lifted her chin. He stared into her eyes with his piercing brown eyes and Jen was immediately frightened. She felt as if he could see her thoughts and knew exactly what she was hiding. She tried to look away, but he held her face firmly in is hand and then he did what she most feared. He spoke softly, a few gentle words in Farsi. “Oh no!” Jen thought. “He will know!” She swallowed and her eyes darted back and forth, trying to discern the meaning of his alien words. He frowned and his eyes narrowed. “Please, God! Help me!”
