Betrayed Read online

  When I woke one morning and went to the mirror to check on the state of my hair I reeled back in shock. My face was covered in red spots. They were all over my body, twice the size of pimples, but they did not itch. I had to wait patiently around the house, going about my chores as though nothing had happened, until my aunt arrived. It was in order for me to travel to the doctor with my aunt, because she was a married adult. I had covered my face, such an embarrassment, with the scarf so that only my eyes showed. People who saw me passing by in the car might have thought: ‘There’s a devout woman.’

  This time the doctor, baffled by my condition, insisted on taking a blood test, suggesting at the same time that not only was I depressed but I might also be lacking iron or vitamins. He said I should continue praying to Allah. I wondered whether he really knew what he was doing—particularly when, the following morning, I woke to find that the right side of my face had swollen up like a balloon. I looked a sight—balding, spotty and swollen faced.

  Studying the results of the blood test later, the doctor told me I was generally healthy but I was not getting enough sunlight. That much I knew.

  ‘What I would do is try to get more sun and—‘

  ‘… pray to Allah.’

  He gave me a look, but I was at the end of my tether.

  The communication between my Aunt Hadar in Baghdad and my father was through the phone at my neighbours’ house. One of the girls would run across the road and tell my father there was a call for him and when the next opportunity came to speak to her, my father told her of my condition. Listening to the symptoms, she agreed with the doctor’s initial assessment—nafcia.

  She made the long journey from Baghdad, without her sleazy husband this time, in the hope of bringing me some comfort and while it was lovely to see her, there wasn’t much she could do. Unless she could persuade my father to at least allow me get out and about she feared my condition would not only remain but get worse. Despite my cynicism, I had also been asking Allah during my daily prayers to make me better. I had by now fallen into a regular prayerful routine and while I had begun merely to quell my father’s anger I soon gained great comfort from falling to my knees on the mat in my bedroom. So far, my prayers had remained unanswered.

  ‘We’ve been discussing your problem,’ my father told me one day as I brought the food out while my aunt was still staying with us. ‘We will take you to the pond where the water will do you a lot of good.’

  I had heard of this special pond. It had a reputation like Lourdes in France, where the sick gathered to be healed. In a small way, the pond was said to have brought good health to the ailing but I remained sceptical. For a start, as it was winter and bitterly cold. Although the sun was shining, the water would be unbearable.

  ‘You have nothing to lose,’ said my aunt.

  So we drove for 20 minutes to the lake, which was fed by pure water from the surrounding mountains. A cruel wind swept across the plains and I had to force myself to step out of my father’s jeep. I was wearing a thick tracksuit with a dijasha over the top and at the urging of my father and aunt I jumped in—fully clothed, of course, in case there were prying eyes. The icy water, reaching up to my chest, took my breath away.

  ‘Wash your hair, bathe your face!’ they cried from the bank.

  I did as I was told and then clambered back, shivering uncontrollably as my father threw a blanket over my wet clothes while my aunt got dry clothes out of the car and then held up a large sheet as I changed. I was still trembling when we arrived back. I needed a hot shower and then had to sit beside a small oil heater in my bedroom before I could get any feeling back into my cold limbs.

  What a contrast the night hours brought. I woke before dawn, my body feeling as though it was on fire. I switched on the light and saw a terrible image peering back at me. The other side of my face had now swollen up, so my features were totally distorted. The spots were a deeper red and the bald patches showed through the tangled mass that was my hair. What a monster! I couldn’t face leaving my room to eat. I called to my father that I wasn’t well and would be remaining in bed. But I prayed fervently that day; oh, how I prayed to God for my health to return.

  Incredibly, the following morning, the spots had gone and so had the swelling on my face. I still had the bald patches, of course, but otherwise I had received what I thought was a miracle cure. Was it the power of prayer, the water, or the blast of winter sunshine I’d received at the pond? Who could tell, but the disappearance of my facial afflictions lifted my spirits.

  It was now February and I had been out of touch with David for weeks because I simply had not been able to use a phone to call him and he had no means of getting in touch with me. I certainly wasn’t going to risk another taxi ride to his house. In recent weeks, no less than four women had called on my father asking if he would give permission for me to marry their sons. I will say this about him—he at least showed me the courtesy of asking me, and each time I refused. His face always showed his disappointment and I worried about how much longer he would allow my refusals to continue before he took matters into his own hands.

  War was now inevitable. George W Bush was moving his navy into position. His battle commanders were talking to allied nations such as Britain and Australia, briefing the coalition of the willing. Countries were either for America or against them. Kurdistan could hardly wait for the war to start because the feeling was that this time it would be the end of Saddam Hussein. Even the local channels in our home were now carrying news about the military build up. My father seized every chance to catch the latest bulletins.

  What would David be doing as the scent of war drifted across Iraq and into Kurdistan? I was desperate to talk to him but it was out of the question. Out of the question, that was, until one of my aunts Whaffa, put a proposal to my father. Seeing how unhappy I was, she suggested to him that I could work for the company where she was employed. With my father listening, she told me that the company was in need of people who could read and write English. There was an opening for someone who could convert documents and feed the data into a computer. I was more than eager to take up the job, but there was a condition. It would be an entirely voluntary position—I would not receive any pay. I nodded my head in agreement, trying not to show how overly excited I was at the prospect of being away from the house for much of the day.

  Next, Whaffa had to talk to my father alone, discussing the pros and cons of the work. They were together for an hour before she came into my room; I was hired! Another of the conditions I had to adhere to was clothing. She would be responsible for choosing what I wore to work. I guessed what was coming, and I was right. She selected the most drab, colourless outfit she could find in my closet, so that when she came to collect me the following morning I was dressed in a long grey coat over a baggy kaftan. I felt no need to complain, though. This was relative freedom!

  The offices of the company, which manufactured pipes and agricultural machinery in a nearby factory, were housed in a typical white-painted building in the centre of Dohuk. The boss, Ahmed Zumar, was a portly man in his 50s who greeted me warmly and described the kind of work they were involved in. He mentioned in passing that sometimes they dealt with the UN, discussing various projects for the future. My heart leaped—could it be that David might call by one day? Wishful thinking, I told myself.

  I was led into what would be my office, a small, cheerless room, where a 28-year-old man who introduced himself as Diyar was crouched over a computer. He was, I was informed, the company’s computer whiz and while he knew everything about the machines he wasn’t able to read the English language documents that had to be typed into them. That was to be my job.

  With his jet-black hair and Johnny Depp lips, which broke into a smile when we were introduced, I took an instant liking to Diyar as he began to show me the paperwork and discussed the work I would be doing.

  What a relief it was going to be working with someone as personable as him. My aunt had already told me, a
s we drove in, what an adorable young man he was and I wondered at the time whether she was already thinking of the word that worried me so much: marriage. Well, I was determined I would give this person, whoever he turned out to be, no encouragement. Now, in the office alone with him—although the door was kept ajar—I could see why she might have been thinking he was the perfect partner for me. His family, it transpired, were well off and he had the good looks that parents of brides look for.

  Any fears I had, however, began to melt away as he began to tell me that his parents were trying to arrange a marriage between him and a cousin. He had been told that as he had failed to find himself a future bride, it was time one was chosen for him. They had selected a pretty girl, he said, but he just didn’t want to marry her because she reminded him of his sister. The pressure, though, was increasing because they had been trying to get him wed for the past three years. So, I thought, it works that way for the men as well as the women.

  Ahmed came into the office and explained that I would probably only be working for him for three weeks or so, when the pile of documents had been translated and the data fed into the computer. After that, there would be no more work for me. Nevertheless, it would be three weeks when much of each day would be spent away from that grim house where my grandmother lurked.

  ‘I’m sure we can get it done very efficiently,’ Diyar told his boss, adding with an emphatic smile towards me, ‘now that we have an English genius among us!’

  In following days, as he busied himself with the workings of another computer and I typed up the data, I told him a little about my life, with a few twists. I didn’t want him to know all my business so I explained I had decided to come to Kurdistan to live with my father, who had decided on a patriotic return after years of living in Australia.

  I could tell that the work was likely to stretch beyond the estimated three weeks because I could only be at the office when my aunt was there. As soon as her day was over, so mine ended. It was a mirror image of my first job with Zana, from whom I had heard nothing. So much for sworn vows on the Koran. But like that first job, my presence depended on the presence of an aunty.

  Much time slipped away as Diyar and I talked about my background in Australia and about his in Dohuk. He told me that in terms of life’s experiences ‘we Kurdish people are amateurs compared to people like you from Australia’. I assured him that was not the case, but failed to add how much I hated the culture and the way women were treated. Diyar was a great practical joker, if not a little childish. Staring from the window, he would suddenly cry out something like: ‘Oh look, Michael Jackson’s just arrived!’ and I’d be on my feet hurrying towards him before I realised he was having me on.

  Diyar’s tribal background was different to my own Misseri. He was a Bamerny, from beside the Turkish border, whereas my family’s tribe was from further south and was influenced more by Arab culture. Within my Misseri tribe is the Brifkani clan, who are regarded as coming from a holy land within the Kurdistan region. In fact the body of a respected holy man lies in our region and attracts many visitors who hope to receive a blessing there. Such discussions kept Diyar and I distracted and very little work was getting done, although we always made out we were busy when we heard footsteps approaching from the corridor.

  Much of my work involved typing in information about village populations, the number of houses, how many water metres were connected, that kind of thing, but I needed Diyar to help me understand how to use Excel, a totally new program for me.

  ‘Do you pray?’ he asked me one day.

  ‘Yes, five times a day.’

  ‘You, who grew up in Australia, pray five times a day! I thought foreigners were not into religion. Let me hear you recite part of the Al-Fatihah.’

  Was this a test of my honesty? Or did he just want to listen to a foreigner reciting the opening surat, which gives thanks to God of whom there is only one. I recited it and his face was a huge smile.

  ‘And for Ramadan, did you fast?’

  ‘Of course.’ I did not tell him that no food had been available each day during that observance even if I had wanted to eat. Between the rising and the setting of the sun, it was forbidden to have anything.

  ‘My, you are a real Kurd!’ And he broke into a gleeful laugh, clapping his hands.

  There came a day when I knew he would ask the inevitable question.

  ‘Are you engaged to be married?’

  He would have already known that, I suspected, from what my aunt might have told her boss, Ahmed, but I gave him the answer, anyway, that I was not and had no intention of getting married unless it was to someone I really loved. I could sense that he was ‘moving in’ on me, but I was determined to put up my defences, constantly aware of my ‘terrible’ secret. A further hint came from my aunt as we drove to the office one morning.

  ‘What do you think of Diyar?’ she asked. I told her that I thought he was very nice and had a good sense of humour.

  ‘Well, they are all from a strong Islamic family and very well off. His father teaches the Koran in schools, you know, so Diyar is very religious. He impresses me with his devotion to God. Yes, Latifa, I agree with you—he is a very nice young man.’

  If that wasn’t a strong hint to encourage Diyar I didn’t know what was.

  At the office on that particular day Diyar was much quieter than usual, almost glum.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, Diyar? You’re always so cheerful.’

  He hesitated before replying. ‘I have things on my mind.’

  ‘Tell me, what things?’

  ‘Just things… well, okay, I’m afraid of rejection.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ Then he walked from the office and I heard him pacing up and down in the corridor. I wondered what the other workers might have thought because they would surely have seen him. When he returned he came and stood right beside the chair where I was typing.

  ‘I want to send my mother to your house,’ he said. I couldn’t prevent the intake of breath. I had suspected this was coming, but now that the words had been spoken I didn’t know how to react. With anger or gentleness. Should I tell him that it was preposterous to make a marriage proposal to someone after just a few days? Or should I peacefully kill off his hopes before they were allowed to rise any further?

  ‘Diyar,’ I said. ‘I’ve become used to mothers calling around at my house but this is the first time a man has asked me directly. I’m flattered that you’ve asked me. But, well, it’s just too soon.’

  I thought that was the easiest way of telling him no.

  ‘I’m in love with you,’ he said. ‘I want your hand in marriage.’

  This was too much pressure.

  ‘I feel your energy, your presence,’ he continued. ‘I’ve never met any woman who makes me feel this way. You are the true representative of a good, holy and modest Muslim woman.’

  Oh dear, I thought. If only he knew my true background. If only he could see the turmoil within.

  ‘I want to walk through the city with you as my wife. You would make me so proud.’

  ‘Diyar, we’ve known each other for just a few days. As much as I like you, I cannot even contemplate marriage. Please don’t send your mother around to the house. I’m still a young woman. I’m not ready.’

  ‘I know how old you are. You are nearly 23, so you are not young.’

  ‘Who told you how old I am?’

  ‘Your aunt. She has told me so much about you. Twenty-three is not young. The girls here are getting married at the age of 13 and I want to show my love to you before you get much older.’

  This extraordinary conversation was taking place with the office door ajar. I wondered if our voices could be heard in the passageway. The concrete floor of the office would have bounced the sound out through the door and I asked him to speak more quietly.

  ‘I’m not ashamed of people hearing. I love you.’

  I had to keep him at bay witho
ut hurting his feelings. He had impressed me at the start of being a fun-loving young man and the last thing I wanted to do was turn him into a woeful wreck by rejecting him. It was obvious he was infatuated with me—but love?

  ‘We have only a short time here together, Diyar, before my work will be over,’ I said. ‘Let’s not spoil our friendship with any kind of emotional tension. I’m sure that after I leave we’ll be able to continue our friendship and then, who knows…? In the meantime, you must concentrate on your work. Do you want to get fired?’

  ‘They won’t get rid of me. I’m their computer whiz,’ he said, and the thought of his value to the company seemed to distract him from the topic of our conversation.

  That night I contemplated the latest drama that had enveloped me. How could I spend another two weeks in that office with Diyar? He would certainly not give up now that he had revealed his feelings. The following day he said nothing of our conversation and seemed to be his normal friendly self as he worked on his computer. But I was aware of his eyes on me throughout the day and occasionally he would mutter to himself, but loud enough for me to hear:

  ‘Focus—I must focus on my work.’

  Then he would jump up from his desk and walk out into the corridor where I could hear him pacing up and down. ‘Focus, you must focus’, I heard him telling himself. His aftershave filled the room, a scent that had not been present on the day I had started. He seemed to me even more groomed than when I had first met him. This was pressure of the highest order. I was trapped in a cell at home and now I was trapped in an office cell with this obsessed young man.

  One day he brought in a box full to brim with papers and placed it on my desk. He asked me if I could have a look for a particular document and as I leafed through the papers I arrived at a small velvet box, purple in colour, with Arabic carvings around it.