Malik cringes. "Yes, I suppose you are." He looks at his dirty thumbnail rather than me. "There are worse things to be."
I stare at him. "Like what?"
"A soldier. A killer." He pauses, staring at his dirty thumbnail. “It is worse to be dead, too.” He is gone, then.
I buy food, blankets. I set up a little nest in a corner of the mosque, in the shadows. It is dark, so I find candles. Malik is true to his word and sends a friend, an officer in the government army. He is not so nice as Malik. He is not so gentle. I try to pretend to like it, although I am pretending to do something I do not know anything about. He does not seem to notice, and he gives me money. As he leaves, he tells me how much I should charge for the next time, since I did not ask, and the amount seems a lot. The next man who comes, another officer, I charge him that amount, and he pays it without complaining.
I am no longer hungry.
Now I only wear the hijab when I go out, so people do not ask me any questions. I feel like everyone who sees me knows what I am. As if it is written on my forehead in bold black ink.
Perhaps it is written on my soul, now, and they can see it in my eyes, those windows to my soul.
* * *
I do not see Hassan for a very long time.
I am sitting outside my home, waiting for my next client, as I call them. I have told the clients my name is Sabah. No one has heard the name Rania in a long time now, for there is no one who knows me except as Sabah.
My hair is down, now. Long black waves hiding my face. I see the man striding down the street, a young man, youthful, skinny, confident. I do not look at him, but take his hand in mine and lead him to the mosque. Something about the feel of his hand in mine seems strangely familiar. I turn to peek at him and my heart stops.
We are at the nest of blankets and I can feel his hard manhood pressed against my hip. My flesh crawls in disgust, and I move away from him. I turn, push my hair back away from my face.
Hassan curses, eyes wide. "Rania? What the—what the f**k is this? I thought—Sabah..."
I tilt my head up, refusing to be ashamed. "I am Sabah."
"No. No. You...you cannot be. I have heard the officers talking about Sabah. How...what they did with you." He seems about to vomit.
"And you thought you would try her for yourself." I push past him and walk back toward my home next door. "Go away, Hassan. Forget you saw me."
He follows me. "How could you do this? Rania, this is wrong, you are my sister, you should not be—I cannot let—"
I spin around and slap him across the face. Rage is boiling in me. "You turned your back on me, Hassan. You chose to be a soldier. I was starving. I had to survive somehow. This is how. Go away."
"No, Rania. I cannot believe..."
"There is nothing to believe. Can you afford to keep me alive? Can you give me enough money to let me stop?"
He frowns, seems about to cry. He is still only fifteen, after all. "No...no. I cannot."
"Then go away. Do not tell anyone you know me, or my name. Do not come back." I keep walking. "I am not Rania, anymore. I am Sabah."
He turns and stumbles away. He looks back at me over his shoulder, confusion and horror and pain and a welter of emotions too many to name cross his face. I watch him, hiding my shame behind impassive eyes.
When he is gone, I let a tear slide down, for Hassan. For the family that I had. I know I will not see my brother again.
Rania...she is no more. She did not die; she just does not exist anymore. I am Sabah now. Sabah is strong. Sabah knows what men like and how to give it to them.
I have money enough, now. Enough to eat, to have clothes. I buy some hair dye and turn my hair yellow, like an American girl. When I am done, I do not recognize myself. I have found a broken mirror and taped the sharpened edges, fixed it to the wall. Men pay more if I wear makeup, so I wear makeup. Men pay more if I wear clothes that show my flesh, so I wear a harlot's garb.
In the mirror now, I see only Sabah, the prostitute. Slender waist, full br**sts shown by a sleeveless shirt, hips flaring and legs long and bare beneath a tiny American-style miniskirt. No panties, because whores do not need them. I am not a Muslim girl anymore. I am not an Arab girl anymore. I am only a prostitute, without religion, without any god but money. It is to survive, I tell myself.
It is not because I enjoy what I do. I hate it. I mask my utter disgust every time I draw an officer or soldier into my work nest. My skin crawls when they touch me. My heart shrivels into a smaller, harder knot of callous hate every time they leave and I must clean myself and pretend to smile for the next one.
They love me. Sabah...Sabah. She is confident, smiling a seductive smile. It is a game. An act. I hate them all. I would as soon kill them as do what I do. I cannot think the words. I do it, but I cannot speak of it, think of it.
I am paid for sex. Ugh. My stomach clenches as I think the words, sitting at my glassless window, waiting. I am Sabah, the prostitute. Flaxen-haired, naked on the nest of blankets, surrounded by candles, a scruff-bearded officer kneeling above me, soft, fleshy body touching mine, his flabby belly on my thighs, his slimy hands on my br**sts, his rough manhood striking into my soft, dry womanhood. I am Sabah, near to vomiting as he finishes and tosses a sweat-wet wad of money on the bed next to me, striding away with an arrogant, 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.