This is going to take some time to heal.
Good thing we ship out soon.
THREE
RANIA
Iraq, 1993
I clutch my stomach and try not to moan. The food and money I got from the soldier lasted me more than two months. Now it is gone, and I am hungry again. Desperation ripples through me.
I hunch against the wall as a troop of uniformed Iraqi soldiers march past. Official government soldiers. Hard-eyed, rough, merciless. I hate them.
My home is gone. A stray bomb or mortar or something. I have nowhere to sleep. Nowhere to go. No one to help me. Hassan is nowhere to be found. I have looked. I do not feel in my heart that he is dead; he has just found a better life for himself.
An idea is percolating in the bottom of my belly. I have ignored it for days. I cannot do it. I will not do it. But my hunger, my thirst, my need to survive, to not give up, this drives me. I wait for dawn and then sneak across the city, looking for a specific building. I find it, eventually. I huddle in an alley across the street, watching, hoping they will be there, hoping they will not be.
Night falls. My stomach growls and rumbles and expands, empty, gnawing at my ribs.
I see him, striding down the street, cigarette tip glowing like a moving orange star through the shadows. My legs are moving before my brain has time to stop me. He sees me coming. His eyes are not unkind, but he still eyes me with the hungry, lustful look that I have come to understand.
"You should not be here, girl." He sips his cigarette and speaks between puffs of acrid gray. "What do you want?"
"I..." Words fail me. "What you gave me, it is gone. I am hungry."
He frowns. "You made it last all this time? Girl, that wasn't enough to feed a rat for a week."
"I do not need much."
"What do you want from me? I do not have enough to just give you food or money all the time."
I do not know how to say it. The words will not come. Instead, I reach up and unwrap my hijab. I shake my hair out and look up at him through the waves of black. "Please?"
He sighs and flicks his cigarette away. "No. That was a one-time thing. I was drunk. I did not mean to turn you into a prostitute."
I shrug. "I do not know how else to get food. No one will give me a job. I have looked. I almost got caught stealing. He almost cut off my hand."
"It is no way for a girl to live." He looks uncomfortable. "I felt bad, after you left."
"What choice do I have? Should I just lie down and die? I do not want to do this, you know. But I do not see how else to survive."
He blows a breath out through his teeth. "All right. Fine. Where do you live?"
I shift uncomfortably. "Nowhere. My house got destroyed."
He curses. "There are plenty of abandoned houses around here, girl. Come on. I'll find you something."
He stalks ahead of me, mumbling something to himself. Eventually he finds a house that is empty and in reasonable condition. It is next to a bombed-out mosque. The window has no glass, the door is broken off its hinges, and the electricity does not work. But there is running water. A real shower. A real toilet. The soldier fidgets around the house. I do not know what he is doing, so I get to work clearing the dirt and debris. The kitchen, living room, and bedroom are all one room. The kitchen part has some cabinets, a stove, an empty refrigerator. I hear a crackle and a hum, and then the single bare light bulb in the ceiling flickers to life.
He comes back, wiping his hands on his pants. I stare at the bulb in awe.
"I was an electrician before the war started," he says by way of explanation.
"Thank you."
He shrugs. He fixes the door, then stares around at the little room. "It is not much, but it is something. The mosque next door is not used, obviously. You could...work there. Sleep here. It helps to have somewhere safe to go."
I laugh. "Safe? What is safe?"
He laughs, too. "True. But it is better than the streets."
The silence is awkward. I do not know what to do. Neither does he.
"Are you serious about this?" he asks. "Once you start, I do not think it will be very easy to stop."
"Do you have a better idea for me?" I say. "I told you, I do not want to do this. It makes me sick to think about. But...I don't have any other choice. I have tried everything else. I have not eaten in a week. I stole a piece of bread a few days ago, and almost got my hand chopped off for it. No one will help me. I do not know what else to do. You...you gave me money and food for—for that. Maybe someone else will, too."
He rubs his face with both hands. "What's your name?"
"Rania."
"Rania, I'm Malik." He takes a step closer. "You are a very pretty girl, Rania. I am not your father or your brother or your husband. I cannot tell you what to do. I am just a soldier. I would not want a girl in my family to do this."
"You would help her, though. If she was desperate."
"Yes, I would."
"There is no one to help me. You have helped me. I do not want to, but I have to, to eat."
"I guess I get that. I wish it did not come to this for you. I like you. You have spirit. You are very beautiful."
He takes another step, and I force myself to hold still. His eyes look me over, head to toes. His hand drifts up to touch my hip. I refuse to shudder. He is nice about it. Not forceful, not moving to make me before I am ready.
"I do not know what to do," I say.
"You will learn, I guess."
I hear it, the sound that will become my life: a belt jingling.
It is not so bad this time. It does not hurt like it did the first time. He is gentler now that he is sober. I close my eyes and hold still. It is over quickly.
He gives me money before he leaves. He stops and looks at me. "Rania, if you are going to make money doing this, you have to pretend to like it. It will go better for you." He rubs his face like he did before. "I will send someone to you, for work. A client."
He turns away.
"Thank you for helping me, Malik."
He shrugs. "I will not be back. I have no conscience left, I thought, but this...it is too strange for me. I did what I could for you. Perhaps Allah will forgive me, perhaps he will not."
"Do you believe in Allah? I do not think I do."
"I do not know,” he says. “I want to, but the things I have seen make me wonder. I do not want to think an Allah who loved us would let a nice girl like you have to resort to such things as this."
"That is why I do not believe. I was a good girl. I went to mosque. I prayed facing Mecca. I wore the hijab. I respected my parents. But here I am. A prostitute, now." It hurts to say those words. I say them again to make it hurt less. "I am a whore."