Betrayed Page 11

  The sisters had a satellite dish TV and when their parents were away they would flick through channels looking for any kind of Western music. Even though such entertainment channels were blocked, sometimes music could be found and they would be totally engrossed in it. They had asked their parents for permission to search out music channels but had been told in the strictest manner that such things were ‘the work of the devil’.

  It was the same with my father. When he reminded me that my 22nd birthday was coming up at the end of that year of 2002, he asked me what I would like. Surprised, I said: ‘Getting a satellite TV link would be nice, so I could watch educational channels.’

  He saw through that one. He knew that the more I watched European channels the harder it would be to draw me into the Muslim world that he, and more particularly my mother, wanted me to be part of. Watching such programs would only increase my hankering to return to Australia, he correctly assumed.

  In my occasional ‘trips’ across the road to the girls’ home I made it clear to them that I was trying to return to Europe or Australia. The oldest girl, the one who was still praying for a husband, repeated to me what was general knowledge: the only way to escape was to get married and pray that the husband was prepared to leave Kurdistan with you. If he wanted to stay, then you had to stay too.

  On that Friday, the day after telling Zana I would do his spying work and while my father was at the mosque, I slipped across the street to the girls’ house and knocked on the door. My friend Shilan answered.

  ‘Is your father at home?’ I asked. It was our code for my telling her I would like to use their phone. I’d used it a few times to call David for a minute or so.

  ‘Are you going to speak English again?’ she asked, knowing that even that was shameful among Kurds in Dohuk unless it was absolutely necessary to use the language to converse with a foreigner. She could not understand what I was saying on the phone but she loved to listen to the language and, while feeling a little odd about having a listener nearby at first, I soon became accustomed to her sitting in. My excuse to her, in case she accidentally let slip about my phone calls, was that I was speaking to a Kurdish-American man about work.

  Their telephone, an old red ‘brick’ with square white push-button numbers was in the men’s room, so I had to ensure that not only was the girls’ father away, but also their two brothers. We all entered the men’s room and the sisters sat around me in a semi-circle to watch me, in my Arabian gown, ring David. They loved these moments, finding great excitement among themselves when they recognised a word or two like ‘okay’ or ‘coffee’. We had an agreement that if any of the men returned unexpectedly and found us in their room I would pretend to have called by to borrow one of the books that were kept there.

  My heart beat faster when I heard David’s voice. How wonderful it was to feel all my troubles fall away each time I heard him, for he had such a soft English accent.

  ‘I was just thinking of you, Latifa,’ he said, ‘but of course I can’t just pick up the phone and call you because you don’t have a telephone at home.’ He still called me at the office because I was the one who answered the phones, but I had to be very careful that no-one overheard me speaking English.

  ‘What were you thinking about?’

  ‘Oh, your beautiful smile,’ he said. ‘All the time I just see your smile. I’d like to see you again, if we can arrange it somehow.’

  ‘Me too, David. And have you had any further thoughts about how I can leave here?’

  I was praying that he would say yes, that he’d contacted the Australian embassy and things were in hand for my rescue.

  ‘I’m still working on that,’ he said

  ‘All I would ask is that you tell me immediately if you aren’t going to be able to help.’

  When I returned to my father’s house I was in an emotional turmol, playing mind games with myself, trying to guess the answers. Is he going to help you? Yes. Are you absolutely sure? No. Are you falling in love with him? Yes. Are you absolutely sure? Yes. Are you really going to spy on him? Probably.

  The company car with my aunt arrived shortly before 8.30 the following morning after I had taken my usual breakfast pickings of eggs from the chickens out the back, some salty cheese, bread and tahini paste. As usual, I had sat with my father and his mother, who had not said a word of greeting to me as if it was just too much trouble for her. These days when we sat on the floor around the breakfast tray I sat with legs crossed and my back perfectly straight, reaching forward with a straight back to pick up the food. I had not forgotten my father’s ‘lesson’ months before on how I should sit. There had been a family gathering for lunch in the first weeks of my arrival and I had been wearing a loosely fitting top. As I leaned forward to take some food, my father, noticing part of my cleavage, jumped up, walked around to me, grabbed my hair and yanked my head back.

  ‘Never sit like that again,’ he whispered, loud enough for all to hear. ‘Watch how your aunts are sitting and learn!’

  My grandmother’s lips were tight at that moment. I wondered if she were stifling a smile or just simply expressing her disapproval at my lack of respect. From the time I first started work at the company, my father would check me over to ensure that I was dressed ‘appropriately’. I was allowed to wear a pair of jeans I had been permitted to keep, although that was rather pointless because I had to wear the long kaftan-style robes over them to hide the shape of my behind. If he felt I was not dressed according to his wishes, he would insist I changed into something else before he would allow me to go to the office. Sometimes, in order not to increase his displeasure, I would wear the headscarf, with my long hair tucked up underneath, with only a fringe showing and the rest of the scarf would be thrown back loosely over my shoulder. I certainly wasn’t going to wear it pulled tightly around my face, like many of the women. I was also brazen in that I dared to reveal my toes in my open-toed court shoes! I had to meet most of my father’s wishes or he would put a stop to my office work and then it would be impossible to contact David. Even Zana would have no say over the wishes of my father.

  Every day, Khalid was working at turning me into a modest Muslim woman and each time, while I complied with his dress requirements, I fought him mentally. I was not going to allow him, or his mother or his sisters to beat me down with their rules and how they thought I should behave. If I did not fight them, my defences would fall and the next minute I might find myself standing with a husband in front of the Imam. I felt like I was in a kind of Catch-22. In order to win my freedom, I had to make myself a prisoner.

  My aunt was equally modestly dressed on this particular morning, showing no flesh at all except her hands and her face. And very little colour in her clothing. Red, in particular, was banned from everyday clothing. It was, they had made clear to me, a colour that only ‘tarts’ wore. Red lipstick was also a no-no. Jewellery was approved of, as long as it was worn in a modest amount. Surprisingly, my mother had sent me some gold bangles and while at first I was shocked by this act of kindness—was she feeling guilty at last?—I realised the true intent. She knew that I preferred silver to gold, but all the women in Kurdistan wore gold. This, I was convinced, was another move to pull me into the culture, removing me further from all that I had loved in the West. She would send more gold pieces as the months went by and my earlier suspicions turned into convictions. What was also bizarre was that there was never a letter with these gifts, not even a note. Just my name on the outside of the package. Nothing about my little sister, who she knew I loved, or about my brother’s progress with his studies. The most recent package carried a telling message…

  In Australia and Germany she had always bought me a nice leather diary for each coming year. This time a diary had arrived. But it wasn’t just for the coming year of 2003, but also for 2004. It was obvious to me that she expected me to be still in Kurdistan for at least the next two years. I could almost hear her mocking me ‘You’re stuck there girl. Get used to it’.
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  When I arrived at the office on that Saturday morning I could see Zana through the glass window of his office chatting away with one of President Barzani’s relatives, who was a joint owner of the company. My aunt went to her office and I to mine. A pile of paperwork had been left for me with a note on the top instructing what was required of me. The office tea ‘boy’, Saigvan, who was in his late teens brought in my tea as usual with its three lumps of sugar in the small glass, and spent a few minutes grumbling about various things, including the old guard on the front gate. I took the opportunity during these brief encounters to give him five words of English to learn each day. This time I was simply going through the motions, waiting to be called to Zana’s office, a call that I knew would surely come.

  Finally, when my aunt had received her instructions from him and had set off from the office to one of the city’s building sites, Zana put his head around the door and beckoned me to follow. The Barzani relative had left his office. We sat opposite one another across his desk.

  ‘So, Latifa, two days have passed,’ he said. ‘Is your answer still the same? You’ll do this work?’

  While I had told him—and myself—previously that I would, a flash of doubt hit me.

  ‘Zana, I’ve been badly betrayed more than once in recent years and I wouldn’t be able to face another let-down. If I do this work for you, can you promise me that you will help me leave?’

  ‘I’ve given you my word, haven’t I? And I would have hoped that, even without this reward that you are asking, you would be happy to help the country of your birth, just as your mother has.’

  ‘I would not be doing it just because my mother did it,’ I said, trying to control the anger in my voice. ‘I will do any thing to help the Kurdish people without needing to follow in my mother’s footsteps. Particularly the women. If anything I do will help them get some kind of freedom, even in the smallest way, I’ll do whatever you ask. But yes, I do seek a reward. It’s not money, it’s not houses—just your help in getting me out of here.’

  He nodded in agreement. ‘In good time, you’ll be on your way. Only you, Latifa, can do this—find out what the UN is up to because we believe they are heavily involved with the Saddam regime in some way. Any names you can give us, any plans, any documents, we want to see them. At the end of the day, Latifa, indirectly, you will be helping girls like yourself. We need to overthrow Saddam because in doing so, doors will be open. Curfews will be lifted, goods will flow in through the whole of Iraq. Just imagine it.’

  ‘I can imagine it,’ I said, ‘but I’m dealing in reality. I need to get out. How can you assure me that you will keep your promise?’

  ‘Wait.’

  He left the office and returned with the Koran. He placed it on his desk and put his hand on it.

  ‘On this Holy Book and the word of God, I swear I will not break the promise I have made to you, Latifa.’

  I was convinced. I heard enough stories about the terrible fate that had befallen those who had broken promises made on the Koran, or who had defiled it. They had been blinded, wounded, lost their minds. My parents had once told me of a Turkish woman entertainer who used to dance on the Koran as part of her act—before an earthquake split the building in half and even split the Koran right through the middle. It sounded apocryphal but, at my young age, the story made a big impression on me.

  ‘Your aunt must not know about our arrangement,’ said Zana. ‘Tomorrow we will start to make preparations.’

  ‘What preparations?’

  ‘Tomorrow, you will be brought to the office as usual. Your aunt will be away on an inspection and we can start to prepare you.’

  I tried to act normally when I got home that evening. I did not want my father or my grandmother to notice any change in me although my heart was pounding with both excitement and fear. What had Zana meant when he spoke of preparing me? I dreamed up a scenario of lying in bed with David and asking him what kind of work he did for the UN. I also saw myself in my imaginings, creeping out of bed and rifling through his briefcase. Was that what Zana was going to encourage me to do? But no, of course not, I assured myself. Such scenarios suggested that he knew I was not a virgin, or was at least prepared to sacrifice my virginity, my reputation and possibly my life in exchange for my freedom.

  On my arrival at the office the following day and after my aunt had been despatched on her latest round of building site inspections, Zana led me out to his flatbed four-wheel drive, with the name Toyota across the back. Everyone drove one in Dohuk because they were sturdy vehicles for tackling the stony tracks to mountain villages or negotiating slippery roads when the snows fell.

  We headed north east, towards the mountains that separated Kurdish Iraq from Kurdish Turkey, turning off the road onto a dusty track just short of the small town of Zawita. He then stopped and told me to change places with him and get into the driving seat. I told him I couldn’t drive. That was why I was here, he said. To learn.

  ‘You are going to need to know how to drive—just in case.’

  ‘In case of what?’

  ‘In case of anything at all. It’s better to know how to drive than not to know.’

  I told him that I knew that no woman was allowed to drive in Kurdistan but he insisted that it would be to my benefit to learn. And so my lesson began. He explained the principles to me, what the foot pedals were for, how the gears worked and how to change them. Then, with a wide open space of packed hard desert sand in front of me, I started up the car and jerked forward in first gear, the vehicle leaping like a bucking hare and swerving in all directions. No wonder he chose such a wide learning ground. Now and again he would slap my leg and shout ‘Clutch!’ or grab my hand and drag it onto the gearstick to change gear. For once I had no impression that his grabs at me were of a sexual nature. I knew that Zana was married and that his wife was in Europe—another spy?—but I felt no threat from him.

  But for every mistake I made, he would punch my arm and yell ‘No, no, no!’ His instructions were driven brutally and at one stage I hit back at him, striking him in the face.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this shit!’ I cried. ‘You’re hurting me every time you slap me. I bruise easily. Just stop hitting me.’

  But ignoring the pain I must have inflicted when I hit him, he just said: ‘Do it! Keep going. Don’t give up. This is not just for me, Latifa. This is for you, too.’

  He led me through all the stages of driving—speeding forward, breaking without skidding, reversing. Once or twice he reached over and took my chin in his hands and twisted my head towards the rear, vision mirror. ‘See that mirror. It’s not to look in to see what you look like. It’s to see what’s behind you. Use it! Use it every 10 seconds or so. Always be aware of who’s behind you.’

  In between sips of water and a snack he had brought for us, I persevered. I learned how to drive extremely slowly, in first gear, without stalling and even managed one successful handbrake turn at speed like you see in the movies with the vehicle spinning its rear around to face the opposite direction and ready to race off again. What a sight it must have been had anyone been watching—a woman in a kaftan spinning and weaving around the desert with an angry man beside her. But by the end of the day I felt quite confident behind the wheel. I even managed to imagine myself sweeping along a freeway in Australia, heading towards Sydney.

  We arrived back at the office after lunch, Zana at the wheel to take us back into town. He needed no excuse for being away with me. He told other staff members that we had been out looking at building sites and certainly the dusty state of his car bore testimony to that.

  If I thought my driving lessons were over, I was mistaken. The following day, it was the same routine. My aunt was despatched to a further round of inspections while I was despatched to the desert again. Zana said if I did well this time we would not need to return.

  ‘I thought you said I did well enough yesterday,’ I said.

  ‘You aren’t going to be driving across wide op
en spaces every day, if it ever comes to you having to use a car. And remember it may not even occur. These lessons are just a backup. Today we’ll be following along a track. Get used to it, treat it like a track and treat it like a city road.’

  So I learned how to keep to the right and how to signal in advance of a turn. I knew that such manoeuvres took days or even weeks in Australia, but I had acquired the basics in just two days.

  After a lunch snack, Zana said there was one more lesson. He ordered me into the driving seat and to start the ignition. Next he told me to drive slowly enough for him to be able to walk beside the car. That was easy enough. I was now proficient at driving at a snail’s pace. I stared ahead at the vast desert, the mid-summer heat creating illusions of expanses of water; the mirages that I had read about in novels.

  Suddenly a loud crack that made my eardrums ring exploded beside me. I jammed my foot on the brake. The car stalled because I had not used the clutch. I swung my head around in great alarm to Zana. He was standing there with a pistol that he had fired into the air.

  ‘That, Latifa, is what I mean about driving under distraction. Imagine a situation where someone is firing at you and you have to drive away. What are you going to do. Stall the car so they can run up and shoot you in the head?’

  ‘What are you talking about!’ I screamed. ‘What are you getting me in to? I’m never going to be in a position where people are going to be shooting at me, for God’s sake. Take me home, Zana. Take me home this instant!’

  He shook his head. ‘No-one’s going to be shooting at you. What you’ll be doing won’t be dangerous like that. But the day might come when you’ll thank me for this. Regard these lessons as backup. Nothing else. An advantage you’ll have over every woman in Kurdistan and over very many men.’