Betrayed Read online

  On the way home, I told my father I still wasn’t 100 per cent sure about starting a course. I made the excuse that I felt the university course wasn’t advanced enough for me and it could possibly drag me back. He seemed to understand that, but I hoped he wouldn’t try to pressure me again some time.

  Three days later there was a knock at the door. When my father wasn’t home I was not allowed to answer anyone who came calling. I heard my grandmother call out to me to see who was there. Fine. I had permission to see who was calling. The woman who stood there was in her 40s, neatly dressed in Muslim attire and holding a box with a pink ribbon tied around it. She asked for ‘the woman of the house’. I showed her to the women’s room, relatively bleak as it was, but I had no right to take her into the comfortable men’s room. I called for my grandmother as the visitor settled down on a cushion staring at the turned-off TV, which, when not in use, was covered with a crocheted drape. When I had first seen it I had had to stifle a laugh—the TVs had to wear a veil.

  I went to my room as the two women talked for about an hour. I had found a new pastime for the hours when I was alone in the bedroom. I had learned to knit and was now busy producing a pair of baby socks for one of my pregnant aunties. I wondered what Ojo would think if he could have seen me. Would he have laughed his head off, or cried for me? I think he would have cried. Eventually my grandmother called for me and introduced me to the stranger.

  ‘This is a relative of ours. You have met her son at the university.’

  As she said this the visitor proferred the box she had brought, which I presume held sweets, the traditional greeting gift. My hands were half-way towards receiving it when my grandmother continued.

  ‘Her son was very fond of you and he would like to ask for your hand in marriage. As your mother is not here, she has asked me to put the question to you.’

  I lowered my hands. ‘What do you expect me to say?’ I replied. ‘I don’t know this lady, I’ve met her son for a few minutes at the university and now he wants to marry me? This is nonsense.’ I turned to the visitor: ‘I mean no disrespect to you but my answer is no. How can I possibly marry someone I’ve met for only a few minutes?’

  Both women could have easily answered that by pointing out how lucky I was to have even met the boy. The first time many girls had come face to face with their husbands was when they were standing before the Imam. The disappointed mother left.

  ‘You are not getting any younger,’ my grandmother said. ‘Girls are getting married at the age of 15 and as each year goes by your value is decreasing and you will end up with a less desirable husband.’

  I railed on her. ‘Can’t you get it into your head? I am not going to be married off just because I’m an “old woman” at the age of 21. And how dare you speak of my “value” as though the only thing that matters to a man is how old his bride is. Have you ever heard of the word “love”? I doubt it. Because I certainly haven’t seen any of it coming from you!’

  I stormed off to my room, threw myself onto the bed and let the tears flow. That mother may have been the first to call but I knew she wouldn’t be the last. There had been invitations for me to go to weddings, friends of relatives or cousins or nieces, and each time I had managed to cry off, saying that I had a headache. I would remain at home with my grandmother, her scuttling around in the kitchen and me in my room or out in the garden talking to lizards. The day would come, though, when I wouldn’t be able to refuse.

  Towards the end of 2001, as the winter snows turned the distant mountains white and after my birthday passed without much celebration in the house, the city came alive with news from the USA. America had launched a revenge attack on Afghanistan with the intention of destroying Osama bin Laden’s training camps and removing the Taliban from power. There was jubilation all over Kurdistan for, although the attacks were against Muslim brothers, it was the Arab faction that was being hit—and the Arabs had never been kind to the Kurds. History was witness to that.

  My father joined in the hope that the war against the Taliban would see them turfed out and peace return right through the region. He and the other men of the city believed that if America could put on a display of its military might in Afghanistan, the despot who was Saddam Hussein might just get off his high horse and show compassion to his people.

  Khalid continued to press me to think again about university, but I had now found a legitimate reason for rejecting the notion. Almost all the classes would be in the Arabic language, which is totally different to the Kurdish, which is a mixture of Persian, Indian, some Turkish and a little Arabic. There would not be much I would be able to understand because my knowledge of Arabic was limited. However, I was improving it. Relieved that he finally saw my point of view, the ongoing problem of being asked to marry a man who might have noticed me, or heard about me, was always present. Although I managed to avoid every invitation to attend someone’s wedding, the day came when my grandmother was also a guest and they were not going to leave me alone in the house. As my aunties gathered there in preparation, I put up my usual excuse of having a migraine—which was true in any case—but this time I was told: ‘Take an aspirin. You’re coming with us.’

  The wedding of a cousin who had met her husband, another cousin, only a few times, was at the new husband’s house near the centre of Dohuk. It was a typical affair with the women, and with the poor bride in her virginal white gown (I prayed for her sake that she was a virgin!), sitting in their room while the men relaxed with the groom in their more comfortable surroundings, smoking through hookahs and chatting. When it was time for food, the men, who had by now moved to a large table in the garden, were served first. They had the pick of the best parts of the meat and all the other trimmings. When they had finished, the remainder of the food was served to the women and the children.

  I could feel the eyes of every man upon me in those moments when, inevitably, the two groups crossed one another, for such gatherings, I came to learn, were the true happy hunting grounds. Several men said hello, but I knew there was hidden intent behind their greetings. I tried to reassure myself that I was being silly… paranoid even. Surely it was reasonable for someone to glance my way or make me feel welcome.

  My intuition was correct, however. The following day a woman came to the door with a small white cardboard box tied with ribbon. I didn’t even need to ask who she was: the mother of one of the bachelors from the wedding, calling to ask my father or mother, or whoever was ‘the woman of the house’ for my hand in marriage. It was my father who received her this time and once again I shook my head. I didn’t even know who her son was, let alone commit the rest of my life to him over a cardboard box of sweets.

  My depression intensified. How I wished I could hear Ojo’s voice, but I believed by now he had probably given up on me. I had promised to call him on my arrival in June and it was now December. He could hardly go to my mother in Germany and ask where I was. Although she had heard that I had a ‘black friend’—I still recalled her spiteful words to me about him before we came to Kurdistan—she did not know who he was. In any case, Ojo, aware of my determination to keep his identity from my mother at a time when I was expecting to be settling down with Mikael, would be keeping well away from her.

  Things had to change. My father knew I could not sit around moping and I was waiting for the next drama that would be cast upon me.

  ‘I’ve been thinking what to do about you,’ he said and once again I braced myself. Would it be another marriage proposal—one that he, not I, had agreed to?

  ‘I’ve arranged with your Aunt Vian for you to work at her company,’ he said. ‘They have room for a secretary and I think it would be good for you. You will only be there when your aunt is there. When she goes to work, she’ll pick you up and bring you back when she leaves.’

  While I realised that once again this would open me up to more proposals from any unmarried man in that company, at least it would help the days to pass towards my unknown destiny. I could
never have imagined the assault on my emotions or the turmoil that lay ahead.

  EIGHT

  My aunt worked as an engineer for a construction company. It was a converted house, with the living room used as the reception area and other rooms used as offices. There was an old bodyguard with a long grey beard sitting on a chair outside with an AK-47 gun on his lap. He smiled at us when we arrived, then took another sip of his tea from a small glass. I wondered how effective he would be if the place came under any kind of attack.

  I was introduced to my immediate boss, Zana, although I was to learn in time that the owner was a relative of none other than the Kurdistan President, Massoud Barzani. Zana, in his 40s, was a stocky man with a small moustache and a very sharp brain. He had travelled on business through all the European countries and spoke reasonably good English. I wondered during our introduction, with my aunt telling me proudly of his background in his presence, what a man with so much intelligence and experience was doing working for a construction company—he should have been a high-ranking politician, I thought. But perhaps the money was good.

  With my aunt happy to leave me alone with him in his office, he asked about me. It was obvious that my aunt had not told him very much, for he did not even know that I had grown up in Australia. I saw no reason to hold back the fact that my mother had brought me to Kurdistan and had left without me. I explained I wanted to leave but I had no passport and my days were being wasted just sitting around. I did not tell him about the loss of my virginity. There were only three people in the whole world who knew about that. Mikael, Ojo—and me. I had learned to trust no-one else with my secret. Even with Mikael, I feared he might start spreading the word through the Kurdish community in Germany because with me being away the threat I held against him, to reveal to the police his warehouse of stolen goods, might no longer hold good. All he had to do was get it emptied and close it down and he would hold the advantage.

  As for Ojo and myself, what if he had now given up on me, believing that I had deserted him? I did not know whether he, too, might have revealed to any of his male friends how he had fallen for me and I had lied to him about going away ‘for a short holiday’. Would he have told them that I’d be in trouble if I went off with another man? Would that gossip have spread through the Kurdish community in Germany? All these thoughts had haunted me as the weeks went by and now I had come face to face with another man, my new boss, who was asking questions, innocent though they were, about my previous life. Would he tell his bachelor friends about my ‘availability’? So many questions, each one enhancing my fear.

  The office work I was given was easy enough and although there was a computer—I had learned to use one in Germany—it was old, with a dark screen and a flashing green cursor. My first thought when I saw it was that I’d be able to send out SOS emails to every friend whose address I could remember. That hope was quickly dashed. There was no internet connection; the computer was good only for typing up documents and printing them. Every dream vanished as quickly as it came.

  I fell into a comfortable routine, travelling in with my aunt each day, returning with her towards the end of the afternoon. At least I wasn’t sitting around with my grandmother.

  A new project was in the pipeline—literally. The company was invited to join with others in Dohuk in expressing an interest in building an ambitious $US2 million water pipe that would run from a lake in Syria to the poor villages of Kurdistan. The scheme was being run under the control of the United Nations, which had an office in Dohuk. Zana asked if I would attend a meeting that had been arranged for all the interested construction companies. As I could speak Kurdish and English, I would be perfect as an interpreter for the British UN representative who was holding the meeting in the UN compound.

  Fifteen representatives from the interested companies gathered in a board room with a large round table in the compound. The UN representative, who I will call David, had been with the organisation for a number of years, travelling throughout the Middle East. Even as I set about interpreting for Zana and my aunt, who were both present, my mind was racing. This handsome man, aged in his early 40s I estimated, was from London. If I had the opportunity to explain my plight to him he would surely understand and try to do something to help me. He worked for the UN, after all. I began to assure myself that they would have to help. Although formalities were the order of the day, I managed to speak to him afterwards, with my aunt standing close by, for she wasn’t going to allow any informal discussion. Even so, aware that he was a foreigner talking privately to a ‘local woman’, we managed a few words. In fact, it was he who approached me and asked where I was from because my knowledge of English had impressed him. When I told him I was from Australia ‘originally’—that word was for the benefit of my aunt, if she happened to overhear—he seemed surprised that I should now be here in a small place like Dohuk.

  ‘Look, why don’t you and your aunt come for some tea with me at the Jyan,’ he suggested, referring to the biggest and best hotel in Dohuk.

  ‘I’ll ask her,’ I said. But I already knew what the answer would be.

  ‘No. Now is not the time,’ she said.

  I told David that we had to get back to work to start working on the outline plans he had asked all the company representatives to submit. He handed his business card to each of us, but made sure that everyone else in the room received one too. He gave me a look as he handed me his card and I could feel him watching as I left the room.

  The following day, when I answered the phone at the office, I recognised his voice immediately. He didn’t identify himself, asking to speak to Zana. When I said he wasn’t available, David said: ‘Perhaps just as well because I really wanted to say hello to you.’

  I thanked him for the compliment. He went on to confirm what I expected, that it had been a relief for him to be able to speak to a woman whose natural tongue was English. But I also picked up that it was more than our shared language that had provoked his call. He didn’t say so directly, but I suspected he would like to meet me again. He would have known, as I did, that the likelihood of that was just about zero.

  A few days later, he called again, asking for Zana, but telling me before I put him through that he had arranged for our company, along with others, to visit a site where the pipeline would be laid. The proposals that the various companies could put forward after visiting the site, would lead to him picking one of them for the work.

  ‘Make sure you come as the interpreter,’ he urged.

  Although it was now the spring of 2002, it was on a bleak, windy and chilly landscape that we gathered to look at the area where the proposed pipeline would run. Rugged up against the weather, my aunt, Zana and I, along with the two other company representatives, were greeted by David before we began wandering around over stones and sand. I pretended for my aunt’s and Zana’s benefits to be focused on the discussions but I was once again thinking about how I could ask David to help me. Apart from that, I found it such a relief to be able to chat to someone in English.

  He wasn’t going to miss an opportunity either and extended another invitation for me, my aunt and Zana to join him for lunch at the hotel. This time, with Zana present, my aunt agreed it would be all right. In the dining room, David arranged it so that he would be sitting next to me and we would be able to slip in the occasional conversation about Australia. He mentioned that he was ‘Down Under’ just a year ago and was looking forward to the time he could return. How I wished I could jump on the same plane with him!

  I couldn’t help it—I felt tears well up. I hoped my aunt and Zana didn’t notice, but David did. He shot me an anxious glance but did not say anything. In order to break my mood, he asked Zana about the company, how long it had been in operation and as I had to interpret his question and the answer I was able to remove myself quickly from thoughts of Australia to where I was at this business lunch. Or perhaps I should say the ‘fake’ business lunch, for I was convinced that David had arranged it so he and I
could chat a little more.

  The next time he called, it was as though I was expecting his next words.

  ‘Latifa, is there any chance we could meet away from your aunt and your boss… Just you and me for a short time?’

  My heart leaped. I hadn’t been able to get him out of my mind. Not only did I like him, feel some affinity to him given our backgrounds, but I also believed he could be the one person who could help me leave Kurdistan.

  ‘How can I possibly meet you? I can’t get away from here. I can’t get away from my father’s house, either. And you definitely cannot come to me.’ I was almost inclined to add the jokey remark that he didn’t even have a mother to send around to me, but I immediately told myself that there was nothing amusing about my plight.

  ‘I could get one of my drivers to pick you up and perhaps you could tell Zana that there were some papers that I wanted to give him in relation to the pipe project. Do you think that would work?’

  I thought about it. It would only work if my aunt was absent. Zana would probably agree to it because he would think the company was getting close to winning the project.

  ‘I won’t be able to stay long in your office,’ I told David. ‘It will have to look as though I’m just picking up documents—and please have something ready for me or everyone here will be suspicious.’

  ‘Uhh, Latifa, you cannot come to the office. There are too many people around here who would talk. They might think that you have come to pay me a bribe, anything like that. It’s too much of a risk for you and for me. Will you come to my house, which is near the compound? It will be far safer for both of us. My driver can be trusted.’