‘Yes?’
‘Good afternoon!’
‘Good afternoon!’
‘How are you today?’
‘Fine, and you?’
‘Fine. Don’t you recognize me?’
‘No, who are you? Is it one of the boys you want?’
‘Do you really not recognize me?’
‘No!’
‘It’s Rasul.’
She stared at me, speechless, drew her breath in sharply and fell unconscious to the floor. She couldn’t have recognized me! How was she to? A good eighty-five kilos and burnt brown when I left, I’d returned fifty-five kilos and as pale as a piece of Gouda. Eighteen months of hardly any bread and no sun at all had changed me beyond recognition.
I swear on the Amnesty — this miracle needed another miracle in order to really save me. The miracle of the chance to flee Iraq. As expected, the gods and devils of the government wanted me behind bars again — or, better still, hanging from the ceiling. They sent me an official letter, demanding that I end my studies and report to the army. I was also to report to the security police. I decided to flee. I had no desire whatsoever to go ‘behind the sun’ again.
I left our part of town and went into hiding with relatives. There were so many policemen in the streets, you’d have thought they were a people in their own right. But thanks to my friend Abba, I could still be out and about. For the next few months, he supplied me with fake ID more than fifteen times, with just as many names and professions. Each time, I had to learn by heart my new name and all the details that went with it. Even today, I wonder which one of them I really was. And who they all were.
The day finally came when I could leave all those names behind and sail the seas, using my real name. Getting a passport in Iraq wasn’t easy but I managed. Two official documents were required — one confirming you’d done your military service, the other that you weren’t subject to a travel ban. The whole thing cost a million Iraqi dinars, or a thousand American dollars. Even with the best will in the world, I couldn’t meet all three requirements. Of course, I hadn’t reported to the army. Of course, I was subject to a travel ban. And, of course, I didn’t have a million dinars to spare.
An acquaintance of my elder brother worked as a policeman and wasn’t short of contacts with various Baghdad authorities. He offered to alter the data the authorities held on me and to arrange a passport that would enable me to flee to Jordan. He would need two thousand dollars from me, though. Two thousand dollars! Where would I get that kind of money? This time, it was the women in the family who saved me. My sisters sold their jewellery and my mother sold her brother her part of their father’s house. Though my family had barely enough to live on, I managed to get the money together.
Within a week, the policeman managed to alter my data. Eighteen months in jail for political reasons became eighteen months of military service, and a drifter, about to abscond, became an art-college student. Finally, I had a passport with my real name. Even the travel ban vanished from the records for forty-eight hours, giving me two days to leave the country for Jordan. Once all the bribes were paid, precisely thirty dollars remained. The policeman returned them to me — a gesture, to help get me started.
I said goodbye to my family and boarded the bus. It crossed the Iraqi border and continued towards Amman. Even now, I can’t believe I managed to leave Iraq. Years later, I still have dreams about the Iraqi police arresting me at the border and I begging them, in tears, to release me.
On the other side of the world, in Jordan, two men in uniform suddenly boarded the bus. Sat down behind me. Oh God, no! What do they want me for? They’re armed. Should I get off the bus, make a run for it? They’re just Jordanian soldiers. But soldiers are soldiers. Maybe the Iraqi government has put them on to me!
With these, and similar thoughts, I passed the many long hours until we arrived in Amman. I took my bag, got off the bus and ran. Like a world champion. After a while, I stopped — I was sweating — and turned round. No one. The people in the street stared at me as if I wasn’t quite right in the head. An old man, standing outside his food shop, beckoned me over. ‘What’s wrong, my son? Why are you running like that?’
‘Nothing!’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Iraq.’
‘I see. Come, drink some water.’
He gave me a glass of water and a pat on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. This is not Iraq but Jordan.’
I swear on all fake documents — I didn’t plan these miracles. They always just happened, at the end of long cruel periods.
When I landed in Africa, I lived there for years without a single miracle. All my attempts to cross the Mediterranean failed. I took on all kinds of jobs, just to survive, until the day I met Miriam. I can still remember her scent. The smell of the sea in the evening. She was in her early twenties, perhaps, a round white face and red lips, as if it was chilli she’d used, not lipstick. We first met in the Grand Tourist Hotel on Omar al-Mukhtar Street in Tripoli. She worked as a chambermaid. Every morning, she’d come into my room, empty the bin, say ‘Hello’ and ‘Welcome to the Grand Tourist Hotel!’ Then smile and leave. Was she mad? This hotel had nothing to do with tourists. An old building, six or seven floors. Full of foreigners, gays, whores, alcoholics, dealers and criminals. And filth. And a toilet in the corridor, fit for everything but going to the toilet.
Miriam was both a chambermaid and a whore. I paid her for the first night. Told her I just wanted to talk, not fuck.
‘How come?’ she asked, surprised. ‘I’ve never paid for sex.’
We did sleep together, all the same, that night. The second night she gave me my money back. Suddenly, it was something like love — like many of those strange feelings you don’t expect and can’t understand. I was with her for a month. She even wanted to pay for my hotel as I didn’t have much money left. Though it cost only a dollar per night, I couldn’t afford it. ‘With the others, I’m doing my job,’ she explained. ‘But with you it’s because I want to.’
She never would tell me why she sold her body. All she told me was that she was from Morocco and had been working in the hotel for the last two years. The hotel belonged to a police commander, also well known in Tripoli as a pimp. ‘Policeman or pimp — there’s not much of a difference here,’ she said with a shrug.
She had to give her pimp a percentage of her earnings. ‘There’re some things you’re better off not knowing. They can be very dangerous. You can be sure, though, that behind every whore and every nun, there’s a sad story.’
I was trying to find work again but could only find odd jobs on building sites. My Iraqi passport was causing me concern too — it was valid for only another month. Having it extended at the Iraqi embassy wasn’t an option. I knew what to expect there. A few difficult and worrying weeks followed. The Libyan police could deport me to Egypt at any time. The Egyptians would then deport me to Jordan. And the Jordanians to Iraq.
But then came the night that changed everything.
I was walking along the beach one evening, watching the boats and ships before returning to Omar al-Mukhtar Street to get something to eat. I crossed Green Square and continued towards a falafel stand. Suddenly, five men blocked my path. I couldn’t see their faces. They beat me until I was lying on the ground, motionless. What was this all about? What was happening? I had no idea until one of them hissed, ‘Fucking Iraqi! You’re dead if we ever see you with Miriam again.’