satisfied swagger. Grinning. Laughing, clapping his companion on the back as the next enters, fumbles with his buckle.
That motion, that moment, it is always the worst. I feel always the surge of disgust and fear when the client first fumbles with his belt, hating the jangle of metal on metal, forcing my writhe of disgust into a sensuous, seductive pose.
* * *
Operation Iraqi Freedom; Iraq, 2003
War is coming once more. Many years have passed.
I hate still and even more vehemently than ever what I do to survive, but Malik was right…all too right. It is impossible to stop now. Even if I wear the hijab to hide my blonde hair, they seem to know, as if I do indeed have "whore" tattooed on my forehead. They know and turn me away, unless it is to spend my whore money in their store. Never to work. Never to earn "honest" money. I have tried, a thousand times. Begged for work. Explained how desperate I am to find another trade, another job. No one will employ me, so I am forced to entertain clients to eat.
War is coming. I feel it. Another war. More death. More soldiers.
I venture out less frequently now. Fighting has come, ambushes, American soldiers, and some from other countries. Car bombs detonate. Bombs go off and men scream, curse in half a dozen languages, but mostly English. Sudden bursts of gunfire break the silence of night and the cacophony of day.
With the return of war comes the return of fear.
I am afraid. I refuse to show it, but it is there.
Like a boy, fear makes me angry.
Then the unthinkable happens: I am on the way home from buying food when I see Hassan. He is with a group of rebels, rifle on his shoulder. He sees me. Then one of them in the front lurches to the side, drops to his knee, jerks his gun to his shoulder, and fires at something I cannot see. Shouts echo, gunfire rattles, deafens. I kneel beside a door, watching Hassan scramble for cover, firing. I peer out and see a file of American soldiers, a patrol, accompanied by an armored car of some kind. The Americans are outnumbered, although I do not think they realize it yet. There are about twenty Americans that I see, and Hassan's troop is at least fifty, spread out. I watch them find positions, waiting for the patrol of Americans.
The American soldiers advance, doorway by doorway. Each motion is precise, each man covered by several others. My brother's men, by contrast, operate more as a group of individuals, no cohesion, no teamwork, no real leader. They find their own cover, fire in wild, undisciplined bursts. The Americans fire three shots, pause, shoot three more. They pick targets and aim. Hassan and his men fire almost randomly. Some come close to their targets, but most miss by a large margin.
I watch as one American falls. Then another. Hassan's men—I think of them as his men, although he is but one of many rather than any kind of leader—are dropping, dropping, dropping.
I hear the harsh voice of an AK-47 near me, hackhackhackhachack —then the crisper sound of an American rifle, the name of which I do not know, answering, crackcrackcrack . Bullets patter and spatter in the dirt, and against the wall inches from my head. I suppress a scream, huddle closer to the ground.
I peer out, the need to watch winning over terror: Hassan is out there.
The AK speaks again, the sound moving closer, and then I see him, Hassan, crouching in the doorway, rifle kicking at his thin shoulder, one eye closed to aim. He glances at me, grins a lopsided, too-casual smile, then goes back to shooting.
Time slows. My stomach coils into a knot, my blood freezes, and I know what will happen. I want to scream, but cannot. A gasp is all that comes out. A tear trickles down, even though he is still firing, firing, and I cannot breathe. It happens. He jerks backward, twisting sideways, red blossoms blooming on his chest and a wide blotch on his back, shapeless and spreading. He is gasping, now, cursing.
I
That motion, that moment, it is always the worst. I feel always the surge of disgust and fear when the client first fumbles with his belt, hating the jangle of metal on metal, forcing my writhe of disgust into a sensuous, seductive pose.
* * *
Operation Iraqi Freedom; Iraq, 2003
War is coming once more. Many years have passed.
I hate still and even more vehemently than ever what I do to survive, but Malik was right…all too right. It is impossible to stop now. Even if I wear the hijab to hide my blonde hair, they seem to know, as if I do indeed have "whore" tattooed on my forehead. They know and turn me away, unless it is to spend my whore money in their store. Never to work. Never to earn "honest" money. I have tried, a thousand times. Begged for work. Explained how desperate I am to find another trade, another job. No one will employ me, so I am forced to entertain clients to eat.
War is coming. I feel it. Another war. More death. More soldiers.
I venture out less frequently now. Fighting has come, ambushes, American soldiers, and some from other countries. Car bombs detonate. Bombs go off and men scream, curse in half a dozen languages, but mostly English. Sudden bursts of gunfire break the silence of night and the cacophony of day.
With the return of war comes the return of fear.
I am afraid. I refuse to show it, but it is there.
Like a boy, fear makes me angry.
Then the unthinkable happens: I am on the way home from buying food when I see Hassan. He is with a group of rebels, rifle on his shoulder. He sees me. Then one of them in the front lurches to the side, drops to his knee, jerks his gun to his shoulder, and fires at something I cannot see. Shouts echo, gunfire rattles, deafens. I kneel beside a door, watching Hassan scramble for cover, firing. I peer out and see a file of American soldiers, a patrol, accompanied by an armored car of some kind. The Americans are outnumbered, although I do not think they realize it yet. There are about twenty Americans that I see, and Hassan's troop is at least fifty, spread out. I watch them find positions, waiting for the patrol of Americans.
The American soldiers advance, doorway by doorway. Each motion is precise, each man covered by several others. My brother's men, by contrast, operate more as a group of individuals, no cohesion, no teamwork, no real leader. They find their own cover, fire in wild, undisciplined bursts. The Americans fire three shots, pause, shoot three more. They pick targets and aim. Hassan and his men fire almost randomly. Some come close to their targets, but most miss by a large margin.
I watch as one American falls. Then another. Hassan's men—I think of them as his men, although he is but one of many rather than any kind of leader—are dropping, dropping, dropping.
I hear the harsh voice of an AK-47 near me, hackhackhackhachack —then the crisper sound of an American rifle, the name of which I do not know, answering, crackcrackcrack . Bullets patter and spatter in the dirt, and against the wall inches from my head. I suppress a scream, huddle closer to the ground.
I peer out, the need to watch winning over terror: Hassan is out there.
The AK speaks again, the sound moving closer, and then I see him, Hassan, crouching in the doorway, rifle kicking at his thin shoulder, one eye closed to aim. He glances at me, grins a lopsided, too-casual smile, then goes back to shooting.
Time slows. My stomach coils into a knot, my blood freezes, and I know what will happen. I want to scream, but cannot. A gasp is all that comes out. A tear trickles down, even though he is still firing, firing, and I cannot breathe. It happens. He jerks backward, twisting sideways, red blossoms blooming on his chest and a wide blotch on his back, shapeless and spreading. He is gasping, now, cursing.
I
Similar Books
