Barefoot in Baghdad (2 page)

She was hiding. Then again, everyone seemed to be hiding. It was October 2003, eight months into the disastrous U.S.-led invasion of Iraq.

But she was practically a child. And her enemy proved to be more insidious—and heartbreaking—than the ones we read about and saw on television.

Getting to her was my first hurdle. That meant having to clear a checkpoint, one of thousands erected across Baghdad. These makeshift sites were thrown together like a neighborhood potluck, except instead of franks and beans, it was a somber medley of military sandbags, Iraqi and American police, and machine guns.

One of the police officers—an older one, with a thick trademark Iraqi moustache—stood to give me the third degree. Who was I? What did I want? The veil wrapped around my head did nothing to assuage his concerns. After all, Baghdad was teeming with American journalists and aid workers who wore the veil out of respect for local customs. He had no reason to believe that I was Muslim just because I said so.

Having to prove myself was nothing new to me. I am a Muslim American, an oxymoron according to some. Back home, I’d grown accustomed to pledging my allegiance louder and more often than my peers. But affirming my allegiance to Islam? This was a first.

The police officer leaned forward and demanded that I recite the first chapter of the Koran, something Muslims recited five times a day during prayer. It was like asking a Christian to say the Lord’s Prayer.

Yusuf, one of my colleagues, lit a cigarette and stared, curious if I would pass muster.

The semicircle of gun-toting men, combined with my light-headedness from abstaining from food and drink all day—this incident occurred during the holy month of Ramadan—was making it difficult to recall the seven verses. But I closed my eyes, and within seconds the words came spilling out.

My questioner—to borrow a phrase—was shocked and awed. He returned my passport and waved Yusuf and me through. But not before raising one salt-and-pepper eyebrow: “
Ikhtee, al bint moo raaha
(My sister, the girl is shady).” It was the worst thing a man could say about a woman, that she lacked honor. He, of course, was referring to the girl inside. But his words also served as a warning to me. He was suggesting that I should think twice before cavorting with such people.

I grabbed my passport. The chapter he’d chosen to test my identity—and my faith—was called
Al Fatiha
(the Opening). Indeed, it had served as my opening to gain access to the girl.

Once inside the police building, an Iraqi police officer and a U.S. Military Policeman (MP for short) practically tackled me in an effort to argue their case. Their words were a cacophony of conflicting reports. The Iraqi officer insisted that U.S. soldiers had no legal right to hold the girl in custody. He argued that she was underage, and should her husband or father appear, her male guardians could accuse the Iraqi government of kidnapping her. The American MP laughed at the mention of the government and stated that the United States was in power now. He believed the girl’s allegation that she’d be killed the moment she was released from the police station.

Both men were right. She would be killed if she were released. But the police had no authority, under Iraqi law, to hold her.

Luckily for me, I didn’t have to make any decisions. I wasn’t there to judge or referee. My sole purpose was to ensure that the girl was safe, clothed, fed, and healthy.

“I’m only here to speak with the girl. May I please see her?”

The Iraqi policeman stepped forward and pointed to a room behind him. I nodded to Yusuf, indicating that he should stay and try to get the Iraqi policemen’s version of the story.

I opened the door to a small room furnished with the bare essentials: stove, teapot, refrigerator, and square folding table. The girl sat in the opposite corner, her knees pulled into her chest, her chin resting on top. She rocked back and forth, barely noticing that I’d entered. I’m not sure what I’d expected, but the sight of her shocked me. Her skin practically hung from her bones, and the long, thick black hair stretching down her back emphasized her frailty. She was a child trapped in an old woman’s body.

I quietly walked toward her and sat next to her. I wasn’t sure how to begin, so I said hello and introduced myself.

She continued to rock, saying nothing.

The two of us sat together in silence for what felt like hours, but probably only a few minutes passed. She finally spoke and told me that her name was Kalthoum. Then she offered me tea.

When she stood, I realized why the Iraqi policeman said that he couldn’t protect her, not even against his own officers. The way she was dressed—in tight Capri jeans and a low-cut tank top—would have offended even the most liberal Iraqi men.

The elite women in Iraq refrained from donning the veil. The liberal ones wore jeans or short skirts. Kalthoum reached far beyond these bounds.

She needed new clothes. That was essential. I left her briefly to instruct Yusuf to go buy some.

When I returned, Kalthoum had poured two cups of tea. “How can you help me?” she asked, smiling. I was impressed that she could be so pragmatic at age sixteen.

She was less impressed with my response.

“I’m not sure I can. But before I can make that determination, I need to know exactly who you are and what’s happened to you.”

“I am sure they told you I am a prostitute,” she said sheepishly. “Those hypocrites out there. One of them used to be my client. That is why they are so eager to get me out.”

The man, one of the police officers, had used her for sex, and now he wanted her released and left for dead. This was not, as one might expect in the United States, because he was ashamed of having patronized a prostitute. To the contrary, in Iraq it was not uncommon for men to engage in such behavior. They did so openly and without remorse. But the judgment of a prostitute? Death. So the very man who had slept with Kalthoum wanted her to die because of it.

“Kalthoum,” I said, suddenly curious if that was her real name, “I’m not going to pretend to know what you’re going through. But I need you to tell me exactly what happened. Who were the men who were shooting at you? Also, do you have a place you can go, other than here?”

She shook her head as her eyes filled with tears. The men who’d chased her were her husband and brother-in-law. Three years ago her family had forced her to marry her cousin. She was thirteen at the time. She took a photo from her wallet and showed me a picture of her in a wedding gown next to a man old enough to be her father. On her wedding night, she did not want to have sex. So her new husband had beaten and raped her. This, according to Kalthoum, became their normal form of intimacy. He pulled her out of school and locked her in his house. She had considered killing herself.

Then the Americans invaded Iraq. That same week, Kalthoum ran away. An older woman found her on the streets and offered her food and shelter. The woman had nursed her back to health and gave her pills to ease her pain. Soon Kalthoum became addicted. At the time, she didn’t realize that the woman was the head of a prostitution ring.

I’d heard many similar stories. But hearing them firsthand from Kalthoum, a child, made me sick.

“I meant every word I said. I want to make sure you have food, shelter, and good health care. And if we can get you out of this place, and you decide to continue with the older woman, I want you to protect yourself from disease and unwanted pregnancies.”

“You are too late for that,” she said in a barely audible whisper as tears filled her eyes. She put her hand on her stomach to indicate that she was already pregnant.

I closed my eyes. The sun had now begun its descent. The city curfew would begin in a few hours. I, too, had to get out of this place.

I hugged Kalthoum and explained that I would return first thing the next morning. I asked if she would do me a favor and change into the clothes I had sent Yusuf to buy for her. She was ecstatic at the prospect of new clothes, if for no other reason than to get the Iraqi police to stop treating her like trash.

I hoped Yusuf had returned with the goods. When I went to check, the American MP stood in my way. “Sorry ma’am, you can’t go anywhere.”

“Excuse me?” I asked confrontationally.

He pointed toward the window behind me. I turned and looked outside. Dozens of men now swarmed the checkpoint. The MPs and most of the Iraqi police were blocking them, refusing them entry.

“The girl’s entire family is outside. Her husband, her brothers, and her father are all demanding that we hand her over. We’re not sure what we’ll do. But the Iraqi police tell me, if you go out, you’ll be the new target of their rage. Ma’am, you’re an American, and you’re my responsibility now.”

I glanced outside. Kalthoum’s family looked like they were out for blood. The MP was right. If they saw me, it would incite them. If they broke through and got to Kalthoum, there was no doubt that they’d kill her. Considering that Iraqi law protects the father and husband in such situations, they had nothing to lose. I had to hide, to get out of their sight.

We were all stuck.

***

The decision to go to Iraq was not mine alone. It was a family affair. When I first sat with my parents to tell them that I wanted to accept a yearlong job in Baghdad, they had stared at me in disbelief.

My father pointed out that I had a great job in Washington DC. It was a job, according to my mother, that anyone would kill for.

It was true. I had enjoyed working at the World Bank for three years, but I was ready to move on. As a former student of international relations, my goal had always been to directly help people in developing countries. Instead, I was sitting comfortably in a high-rise glass office building in the world’s most developed nation. I wanted to do more.

“Is this your way of telling us you were fired?” my mother asked, refusing to believe any sane daughter of hers would leave a prestigious multinational institution for a small unknown nongovernmental organization (NGO) job with half the paycheck.

I launched into an explanation one more time. I desperately needed my parents to try to understand that this was an opportunity of a lifetime. I had been offered the position of country director with Women for Women International, a group that helped female survivors of war to rebuild their lives.

Iraq had already played a monumental role in my own life. I started my career, back in 1997, in Baghdad. I was a reports officer with the United Nations’ Oil-for-Food Program. Fear of Saddam Hussein led to explicit orders that we were not to mix with any locals. This was more for their safety than ours. I’d always promised myself that I would return to Baghdad under different circumstances.

I explained to my parents that this was my chance to live out my dream of helping communities from the bottom up.

My father sat silently. Being a daddy’s girl meant never being denied anything. I said a silent prayer that Dad wouldn’t start saying no now.

“I get it,” he said. “I see why you would want to leave the bank. But I don’t think you should start with Iraq or any other dangerous place. We are still not over the scare you caused in Afghanistan last month. And I don’t think you should go with a small organization. This type of work needs a large organization that can support its staff in the field.” His tone was firm, indicating that this was his final answer and there was no room for negotiation.

Bringing up Afghanistan felt like a low blow. I had been in Kabul at the head of a delegation of American women for International Women’s Day when the United States invaded Iraq. The U.S. Embassy had ordered all Americans to go into “hibernation,” the official lingo for laying low. Translation: I hunkered down inside the Mustafa Hotel near Chicken Street, the most popular expatriate area in Kabul, and watched
Sex and the City
DVDs. Our biggest scare was the television conking out.

I ignored my father’s statement and continued to press my case, this time appealing on a more personal level. He’d heard me speak in the past about Baghdad’s beauty. I reiterated how I’d fallen in love with the city: the leisurely boat rides down the Tigris River, the bookstores lining Mutanabi Street, the strong Arabic coffee.

It wasn’t working.

“If you must help someone, help your own relatives in Palestine,” my mother shot back bitterly. “I just don’t understand. Your boss used to love you. Why would he fire you?”

I sighed. My mother was a lost cause. My father seemed slightly more persuadable. Then he shook his head. The answer was no. This didn’t bode well. He was a man of few words, and I knew they were final when he uttered them. He took his time to make a decision, but once he had decided, it was almost impossible to overturn his verdict. Almost. After all, I was my father’s daughter, and I had inherited the same determination.

Next up were my three brothers and my sister, Rula. Normally Rula was a staunch ally, but she couldn’t be depended upon in this go-around. She told me that she was unwilling to lose her only sister to a war with which we all disagreed.

Meanwhile, I continued meeting with the management of Women for Women. The main logistics officer was leaving for Iraq in the first week of June to begin preparing the groundwork for an office. I was to follow him a month later.