Against the Loveless World

by Susan Abulhawa

  “You’re welcome. And you don’t need to worry about the doctor bills. I took care of it and that’s that,” she said.

  The contradictions of our relationship cemented. I felt affection for this woman who had blackmailed and prostituted me. The force of sharing unspeakable secrets created a closeness with her, at the same time that I had an urge to get away from her and never see her again. More paradoxical was that Um Buraq loved me, at the same time she used and exploited me. I can’t explain that, but I know it’s true.

  I resumed my life as I had done when Mhammad left me, as if the past had not happened, and I was simply carrying on uninterrupted. I went back to my school clerk job and picked up more evening hours at my retail job and more clients for eyebrow threading.

  Fridays were reserved for family, and a sense of contentment slowly crept into the physical exhaustion of my routine. My salary was much less than I had led my family to believe in months previous, and I was forced to use some of my savings to cover bills. But every day I made the same series of decisions, and life went on.

  It was Jehad’s final year of high school, and much of our home life revolved around ensuring him the privacy, quiet, and nutrition he needed to get through the grueling exams every quarter and also to complete university applications. At the midterm results, one bit of good news followed another. Jehad was poised to be in the national top five of his graduating class. Then came university acceptance letters from England, Italy, and Russia, and I was confronted with the cost of university. One year’s tuition was more than I thought all four years would be. The savings I had wouldn’t be enough.

  Mama and I took all our jewelry to get it valued, but selling would only cover a fraction of what we needed. Jehad had saved some money too, from working odd jobs here and there, and assured us that he could get a job wherever he landed to cover the rest. But it was an unrealistic plan that we all knew couldn’t work, given the amount needed. I tried getting a bank loan, but they said I didn’t earn enough to get more than a small personal loan of one thousand dinars.

  “I got the loan,” I lied to Mama, and she made us a celebratory meal for Jehad, the first person in our family to go to college. “The loan combined with the money I made investing in stocks will cover nearly everything,” I lied again.

  So I returned to Um Buraq, on the condition that I would only go to parties and dance, nothing more. No alcohol, no pills, no sex. I would just be a dancer. Only a dancer.

  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Men would pay gold just to watch you dance,” she said. “What happened was for the best, I think, because now you can’t go around telling people that I’m forcing you to do what you want to do anyway. You see, I only showed you those photos back then to ease your conscience about choosing what you wanted to do in the first place. I would never have revealed them. I wouldn’t do that to another woman. But you went and made a deal with the devil, and now the devil has those pictures. Anyway, what’s done is done. But let it be a lesson for you. Never trust a man, girl. Never trust a man.”

  I made only one exception to my new rule with Um Buraq, because I needed to show a large sum of money to legitimize the lie I told my family about the bank loan. I agreed to meet one more man. He came dragging his seventeen-year-old son to the apartment, instructing me to “take care of the boy.” He turned to his son with threatening, angry eyes, put money on the table, and left, closing the door with a soft thud that made his intensity all the more menacing.

  The boy looked near tears. “Do you smoke?” I asked, grabbing a pack of cigarettes I kept handy for times like this. He nodded. “I don’t usually allow people to smoke in here, but I’ll make an exception for you,” I said, and led him to the balcony.

  He lit a cigarette, and after a few puffs said, “Let’s just get this over with.”

  He wasn’t much younger than me, but I felt I could be his mother. It made me realize how much I had aged in only a couple of years. I was twenty-two but felt twice that.

  “I say when, and if, anything happens,” I said. “What’s your name?” I stepped into the kitchen and began filling the teakettle.

  “Mohsin.” He put out the cigarette and followed me.

  “Are you a virgin?”

  “No!”

  “Do you like boys?” I could see my question startled him and I took delight in that, but he didn’t answer.

  “Don’t worry. It’s not like I’m a holy woman. It’s okay to like boys, Mohsin. Everybody has a little bit of love for the same sex, some people more than others.” I hadn’t realized my own thoughts on the matter until I spoke them.

  “I didn’t say I was a homo,” he said.

  “No, you didn’t.” I poured us some sweet mint tea. “But I’m saying that strict heterosexuality is probably a small minority of humanity. If you take society and religion out of the equation, we’re probably all a little homo.” I went all-in with my theory, making it up as I went along, amazing myself.

  Mohsin smiled at that. We went back on the balcony, where he lit up another cigarette and watched life on the street ten stories below. We spent two hours like that. I lectured him on the dangers of smoking, imparting the Western conspiracy to poison us all, though I wasn’t sure I believed that any longer. He told me how his father had caught him in the act with an older man. It was my job as an expert in matters of love to assure his father that his son was not a faggot but an insatiable lover and admirer of the female form. Mohsin found in me a place to unburden his soul.

  “Can you just assure him that I’ll make my future wife a very happy woman or something like that? And, I don’t know, maybe hint that I just have a lot of hormones and always need it … but say it … maybe in a crude way so he believes?” His brown face got redder as he spoke.

  I put my hand on his. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect your secret and convince him you’re a ladies’ man.” He smiled, relieved, and thanked me. No therapist or clergy can substitute for the confidence of a whore, because whores have no voice in the world, no avenue to daylight, and that makes us the most reliable custodians of secrets and truth.

  “You know my biggest secret. Tell me one of yours,” he said.

  I gave him a side glance and a smile. “Son, we are not friends, and this is not a secret-sharing session.”

  “Please.”

  “Why do you want to know my secrets?”

  “Not all of them. Just one. I’ll never tell anyone.”

  I thought for a moment and told him a nonsecret secret. “I have three names. Almas, of course. But I’m also known as Nahr and as Yaqoot.”

  “Which one is your real name?”

  “One secret. That’s it.”

  He smiled. “I’ll never forget you,” he said.

  As I found out years later, he was true to his word, and would do a remarkable favor for me in turn.

  Jehad graduated from high school in June of 1990 and chose Moscow State University from the list that accepted him. He told me that Moscow used to bring hundreds of Palestinians to study in Russia free of charge, but all that changed when the Soviet Union dissolved. He felt it was only right that he go there instead of a Western country. His first year would be spent learning Russian and taking basic classes in culture, or he could do an intensive language course in Amman for half the cost, then go straight to university in Moscow.

  In addition to the supposed loan of five thousand dinars, I revealed a ten-thousand-dinar savings account. I named a random company at the top of the stock exchange, which I had read about in the newspaper. “I bought stock in it two years ago and it tripled my investment,” I said.

  Jehad picked me up and twirled me around. Sitti Wasfiyeh pulled me to her and kissed my face. But Mama reacted differently. “Who gave you a stock tip?” she asked.

  “Um Buraq.” It was the first name that came to mind. Mama seemed to relax.

  “I can’t figure out if that woman is a devil or an angel,” Mama said.

  “Who cares
? Jehad is going to university!” I said, wrapping my arms around her.

  Mama kissed me, tears welling in her eyes. “My darling daughter. You have done so much for this family.”

  The past year of working two jobs—three, if you count freelance eyebrow-threading and dancing at clandestine weekend parties—was worth it to see my family so happy. Mama was also relieved that she didn’t have to suffer the humiliation of asking her brothers for money, as she had had to do in the years before I was able to pitch in.

  Jehad decided to do his language prerequisites in Amman, instead of Moscow, to save money. He set off in mid-July for a summer course that began in August. The money I had was still not enough to support us, plus all four years of Jehad’s university, so I continued to dance at parties, determined my brother would become a surgeon, the first ever in our family. As I say this, I know it wasn’t my only motivation. It’s true that I lived my own dreams through him to some extent. But I liked dancing at these illicit parties. There was something alluring about living on the margins, in secret disrepute. It freed me from the drudgery of respectability—the low-paying jobs, social pretenses, children. I could have some autonomy without a husband. I could be my family’s breadwinner, the powerful woman who took care of others. And all I had to do was what I loved most of all: dance.

  On the night of August 2, 1990, Um Buraq sent three of us to a party at a beach chalet where high-ranking Saudi military officers were visiting. We arrived after midnight to find a gathering of eleven men, most already drunk. I had a bad feeling immediately. The chalet was secluded. Armed guards greeted us at the door, perhaps a normal thing for important military men, I reasoned. The host, an intimidating man, was irritated to see only three of us and complained that he had requested “at least fifteen girls.”

  “Yes, I know. I heard you tell her to spare no expense at all. You are her most generous customer.” I flattered loud enough for all his guests to hear. This pleased him, and his guests chimed in about his hospitality.

  Um Buraq was always clear that I was there only to dance, and the hosts honored her conditions. It was rare that Um Buraq did not accompany us, but this time she was home ill, and her absence may have emboldened the men to be more aggressive. It seemed our host had also lied to Um Buraq about how many men would be there. She would not have sent us had she known. The girls and I exchanged quick glances and surveyed the room for bathrooms, windows, doors. But it was no use. With sober guards outside, there was no way to leave.

  The variety of booze on hand was more than the usual black-market scotch. Wine, beer, vodka, and many other liquors I’d never heard of filled the bar. The other women already had glasses, but I refused, requesting sparkling water instead. The men laughed, but one of them brought me a glass of water, which I did not drink. The two women and I communicated with our eyes. We would go along to buy some time, and they would slip Valium into the men’s drinks. Drugging them to slip away was a stupid plan, because there were still guards by the doors, but it was better to be stuck there all night than be mauled by drunk, offensive men. I did my part and got up to dance. One of the women dropped a pill into one of their drinks, and I began to believe the threat would pass if we could subdue them through the night. But before too long, four men surrounded me, pawing and pushing up against me.

  I could not fight them off. Nor could the other girls help. I had always wondered if such a day would come, though I didn’t believe it would. I began silently praying, begging God, the angels, the heavens for help. The men ripped my clothes and pinned me down. Four or five of them. One of them lifted his dishdasha, lowered his sirwal, and pushed himself between my legs. His dishdasha fell over my waist, concealing his limp member as he pretended to thrust himself in and out of me, while the others fondled my breasts and pushed their erections against my face. I heard the other girls crying, beseeching God, begging them to stop. Memories flashed through my mind. All the choices and circumstances that had brought me to that moment.

  I thought I was going to die that night and lashed out with all the force I could, digging my long, manicured nails into someone’s skin enough to draw blood. “Whore, daughter of whores!” one of them cried, slapping me so hard the room spun. It was no use. I stopped fighting, thinking I had a better chance if I didn’t resist. I lay there, tears falling down the sides of my face. I watched the second hand of a clock on the wall jump fitfully from one second to another, round and round. The clock watched me back. And I began to count.

  One hundred thirty-two seconds ticked on the clock until it read four minutes past 2 a.m., when new voices, slamming doors, ringing phones, and alarmed faces began to fill the room. The men were scrambling, fleeing out the doors. I thought it a police bust and panicked, though I didn’t move. But the police wouldn’t dare go against such powerful men. I lay there, frozen, eyes and legs wide open. One of the girls finally came in and pulled me off the sofa.

  “Almas, the men are gone. We have to get out of here,” she said. “Saddam Hussein is invading Kuwait! Iraq’s army is in the streets!”

  II.

  IRAQ

  THE CUBE, WEST

  VISITORS AND GUARDS have told me that the Cube is a technological marvel, the first of its kind. As an almost completely automated solitary cell, it has made me famous in “security circles”—private prison corporations, surveillance tech companies, and various ancillary suppliers of bondage.

  The bedposts are concrete, but the bed platform is made of thick plastic straps attached to the posts. There are no springs. In fact, there’s no exposed metal, except the door. They say there’s not even a metal screw. Gray sheets and a gray blanket cover a thin foam mattress wrapped in plastic, a cream pillow stained yellow from my body’s oils.

  A concrete sink sits partially inside the western wall (opposite the wall where light enters from the glass-block window, which I decided was east), under a hole that delivers water when I press a small button next to it. It runs for three seconds at a time and the button can be pushed up to ten times a day before it stops working. I stick my finger inside the hole sometimes. I wish I could put my head under it and drink directly from the hole, but the sink opening isn’t big enough.

  The shower abuts the sink. This is the truly revolutionary part of prison technology. There is no visible showerhead, just a horizontal slab that juts overhead from the wall, like a corner shelf with small holes from which water emerges, much the same concept as the sink. This shower rules my life. It is my friend, my lover. I named my shower Attar. I have no way to turn him on or off. Before water falls from his small concrete holes, a red light will buzz, its glow tinting the whole of the Cube. I don’t think of it as a light anymore. They are Attar’s eyes, his warmth, his arrival and presence. I watch it sometimes, waiting. And when his eyes make my body and the room one in red, I quickly remove my clothes and stand to receive him. I never know if his water will be cold or warm or hot or scalding. Before he was Attar, when he was it, the strange shower, I would stand away, my hand stretched to feel the water temperature. Now I don’t care. I love him whether the water is hot or cold. When it is perfect, I imagine Attar loves me. But it does not last. Attar stays only seven minutes. I counted the minutes several times. I never know when he will return. Sometimes he is absent for days. Sometimes he comes while I am sleeping, and I rush to disrobe.

  I have one bar of soap. Occasionally guards push small shampoo bottles through a slit in the metal door. I have not given a proper name to Metal Hole.

  I tried to keep a sleep and waking regimen, to structure and account for my days, but that’s not the nature of time in here. There are no days or nights. Light and dark, just like Attar, come and go randomly.

  I dance. Attar just came and left, and I am still wet, dancing. Music plays in my head as if at a wedding with my family, or with the men who paid to watch me dance, then to touch and own me. Those men, I hated them all. Maybe I loved them too. I pitied them. Perhaps predators in particular deserve pity, if only for
the spiritual sewage of them.

  A journalist was here the last time Attar came on and my hair was clean. He asked about the lines I had drawn on the wall, not the ones marking days, those had already faded.

  “The paths of ants,” I explained. “They roam in single file.”

  He looked back at his questions and changed the subject to Iraq’s occupation. I wonder if there might be some being somewhere tracing the journey of my small life, as I do the ants’.

  “Are you still with me?” the reporter asked, stretching his neck to my line of sight.

  People think Iraq’s occupation of Kuwait was some kind of massacre, but that isn’t true. The real horrors happened when Iraq left, and I suppose it hasn’t stopped. I tried to explain to the interviewer, but he wasn’t interested. He even argued: “But surely you understand why Kuwaitis would be upset with Palestinians? Yasser Arafat betrayed them by siding with Saddam Hussein.”

  I find that reporters and writers who come here don’t actually want to listen to me or hear my thoughts, except where I might validate what they already believe.

  SIX MONTHS

  KUWAIT BEGAN AS a village in the Basra Province of the Ottoman Empire, which reigned for more than six hundred years. Realizing Kuwait’s potential for oil, the French and British carved it out as a small, independent country they could easily exploit. That’s what Jehad told me. He tried to explain the illegality and human rights aspects of Iraq’s occupation of Kuwait, but I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t care if Iraq had a right to invade, whether Kuwait had been slant-drilling for oil under the border, or if Yasser Arafat was a son of a bitch for siding with Saddam. All I knew was that Saddam Hussein had saved my life that night, and for the duration of Iraq’s presence in Kuwait, I was a liberated, happy woman.

  Kuwaitis used to look down on us foreigners. Whereas Kuwaiti policemen sometimes took liberties with female drivers they identified as non-Kuwaiti, Iraqi soldiers gave me a sense of camaraderie and empathy. They did not stare at my breasts and tilt their heads toward my ass upon seeing my ID card. It wasn’t because Iraqi soldiers were better men. Rather, because they didn’t want to be in Kuwait. They were a tired army that had just come off the battlefields against Iran, and the soldiers I met were simply homesick.