I Am Not Your Slave

by Tupa Tjipombo

  We staggered down a side street, moving parallel to a high brick wall surrounding a warehouse of some kind. Suddenly, a man emerged from a door directly ahead of us. Caught off guard, I froze with what must have been a look of terror on my face because the man immediately stopped and stared at us with intense curiosity. He looked at us in silence, still holding the door ajar.

  I quickly appraised the man: he was older, with a neatly trimmed white beard that stood out sharply against his light-brown skin. He wore a turban and a long, flowing shirt that made me think he was a foreigner. Taking a chance, I blurted out, “Can you help us? We are not from here and are running away from a man who has drugged us and treated us very badly. He will kill us if he catches us. We are just trying to get to our friends.”

  The man closed the door and looked past us down the narrow street. He motioned toward a taxi parked on the opposite side. “This is my car,” he said in an unfamiliar, melodic accent. “I will take you wherever you want to go.”

  We piled into the car, and the man passed me a cell phone. “Call your friends. Tell them you are on your way.”

  I knew it was best to remain quiet, but I could not help myself and asked, “Why are you helping us?”

  “I have daughters,” the man answered simply.

  I was not able to reach the twins, so after conferring with Almaz, who was quickly recovering her mental faculties, we had the taxi driver drop us on a side street where we knew they sometimes worked their “side jobs.” The street was lined with dingy nightclubs. We lingered near the entrance to one club where a group of drunken male tourists chatted up a pair of women in high heels and tight dresses. By chance, Almaz overheard a group of women speaking Amharic in the alley beside us. She approached them and learned they were just beginning a shift at the nightclub. They sympathized with their disheveled countrywoman and told us to wait outside the workers’ entrance as they ducked inside to find someone who could help us. Twenty minutes later, a young girl emerged and spoke with Almaz. She was knocking off and said she could sneak us on a shuttle bound for a nearby labor camp; the driver would just assume we worked at the club as well. She explained that most women from Ethiopia stayed in her camp, so we would most likely find our friends there. In any case, it was as good a place to start as any.

  We boarded the shuttle with little difficulty and were dropped off in the middle of what we soon discovered was Dubai’s largest all-female labor camp. The area was even more bleak and disheartening than the one we had just come from: garbage was strewn about everywhere, the streets were littered with potholes, and the buildings were giant, run-down cement structures with almost no windows. Laundry hung from all the balconies and dangled from windows, adding to the well-worn appearance of the place.

  The girl from the nightclub borrowed a friend’s phone so we could call the twins again. After several tries, we managed to reach them. They were at work but knew everything—the entire Kassab household was abuzz with what had happened. The police had come and gone several times throughout the day. As it turned out, we were now only several blocks from the twins’ flat. After several calls back and forth, we finally arranged for one of their roommates to come and fetch us.

  It was dark by the time we arrived at the flat, which was located in one of the bunker-like buildings that, without a guide, would have been impossible to identify. It was as drab and disorderly inside as it was out: the tiny front room was crammed from floor to ceiling with four sets of bunk beds, the walls were unpainted cement blocks that the girls had tried to brighten up with hundreds of glossy magazine photos and advertisements, and the drop-down ceiling had collapsed in several places, exposing a mess of tangled wiring. A lonely, feeble-looking light bulb that hung down to my waist provided the only light. Like on the exterior of the building, laundry covered every inch of available space, and some girls had hung sheets in front of their beds for privacy. But what really stood out was the oppressive, sweltering heat; within minutes, I was drenched in sweat. I was relieved to learn that we had to sleep on the roof; the room was simply too small to squeeze in additional bodies. Plus, there was a possibility the police would come looking for us.

  There must have been at least thirty girls sleeping on the roof. We found a spot on the far end and fashioned a makeshift bed out of a piece of tarp and some borrowed blankets. Exhausted, I immediately fell into a deep sleep the moment I hit the ground.

  12

  IT WAS STILL DARK when one of the twins woke us and led us past the sleeping bodies on the roof to the dusty street below, where a pack of mangy-looking dogs poked around an open pile of garbage.

  “Who are all those girls on the roof?” I asked.

  “Some just stay here,” she answered. “It is better to sleep on the roof because the rooms are too hot.” She glanced up and shrugged her shoulders. “You see there are few windows.” She went on as we followed her down the street, “Some girls are runaways or illegals who have nowhere else to go. Like you now. So maybe they are looking for work in the nightclubs or tourist bars. They move from place to place.”

  “But where are we going now?” I asked.

  “You cannot stay here,” she said as she turned onto a side street. “The old lady has informed the police about you. She told them that you tried to kill her, so they will surely come looking for you here because we work together. It is a big thing.”

  Almaz clucked her tongue and muttered something under her breath.

  Our friend continued, “They are looking for runaways and illegals now more than ever. Especially those who are said to be criminals. It has been a big thing now for the past several months. The police and sayyad are here now all the time.”

  “What is sayyad?” I asked. I felt as if I had just entered a whole new world.

  “Sayyad are hunters. People who are paid to hunt illegals, especially those who are said to be dangerous. The sayyad are all over now. Sometimes they are like us—foreigners—who are paid by the police or security companies. They get a little money for every runaway they find.” She turned to face us now, touched Almaz lightly on the arm, and carefully repeated, “It is a big thing now with you, with what has happened. You must go to another part of town where you can hide.”

  We walked for several more blocks before entering an alleyway where a taxi was waiting for us. The driver, a middle-aged Indian man with a thick black beard, leaned against the car smoking a cigarette. He stood up when he saw us, nodded his head politely, and opened the door. “Please come with me,” he said. “I will take you to Jebel Ali.”

  As we drove in the early-morning light, he glanced at us through the rearview mirror. “I am Rakesh,” he said amicably. “I will take you to Jebel Ali. You should not worry; you are going to a safe place. No sayyad. And as for the police, they are all in the pockets of the D-gang. You are under their protection. So no problem, no problem.”

  I exchanged looks with Almaz. We had no choice but to trust this man. We remained silent as he drove us with obvious familiarity through the narrow backstreets of Dubai. I stared out the window at neighborhoods fronted by rows of grimy shops and blackened industrial sites. It was a dreary, cryptic landscape that wound its way through the city like a snake.

  Seeming to read my mind, Rakesh smiled at me in the rearview mirror. “You did not expect such poor neighborhoods to be so plentiful in Dubai,” he said. “The government is very good at hiding them from the tourists and their citizens.” He explained how migrant labor camps in particular were built far away from the tourist areas. Most could not be found on any maps. Some camps, such as Sonapur, where Rakesh stayed—he noted with some bitterness that Sonapur translated in Hindi as “City of Gold”—were located in the desert as far as an hour out. Workers were shuttled to their jobs by 6:00 AM, where they worked eighteen-hour days before being returned late at night. Most had no idea what Dubai even looked like beyond the confines of their labor camp and jobsite and what passed before their eyes as they stared out the barred windows of the
stifling buses that took them back and forth. The camps and their occupants were meant to be silent and unseen, Rakesh said. “The camps are built to contain foreign matter,” he sneered. “To them, we are polluted.”

  Rakesh also seemed to sense my growing anxiety. He tried to reassure me. “You must trust me when I say that you are going to a safe place.” He blinked and gave a small laugh. “You are not the first runaway maids in Dubai. There are many . . . thousands, maybe. I have brought many like you to Jebel Ali. This is normal. No problem.” As he drove, Rakesh spoke about runaway maids and other migrant laborers—especially construction workers—and how they faced the same general problems: all were in debt to notoriously corrupt recruiting agents and moneylenders who had secured them their jobs through connections with unsympathetic employers whose power was reinforced by the kafala system. He described it as a form of debt bondage, which included a string of overseas recruiters and moneylenders who were in lockstep with local employers, or sponsors. Between trying to repay their loans, which quickly grew out of hand, and sending money back home to family members, Dubai’s foreign workers barely survived. Meanwhile, they were exposed to a barrage of exploitative labor practices and dangerous work conditions. Many individuals decided it was better to simply abscond and survive as an illegal than to work within an underhanded system specifically set up to ensure their continued indebtedness. “This is how they treat the people who clean and build their city,” Rakesh concluded with bitterness.

  Almaz, who had seemed lost in her thoughts all morning, suddenly leaned forward. “We are from Africa,” she said. “We want to go home. Can you help us get home?”

  Rakesh paused before answering. “I cannot help you myself, no. Maybe you can work a deal with the D-gang. I cannot say.”

  “Who is this D-gang?” Almaz asked.

  “They run things in Jebel Ali. But they are not . . . official. For you, because you are illegals who maybe have trouble, it is a good place to go.”

  Listening to Rakesh, I could not help but be reminded of the 28 and wondered if I was simply continuing a pattern of climbing out of one hole only to fall into another. It gave me a sick, sinking feeling.

  Rakesh drove to the edge of Dubai, where the somber-looking remnants of the city buffeted the desert. He left the road and followed a dirt path that skirted a row of graffitied apartment buildings. On our left, the desert sands stretched to the horizon. Plastic bags and other bits of garbage blew about in small corkscrews of swirling dust. Here and there, piles of empty beer cans and liquor bottles dotted the vast landscape. Rakesh drove gingerly over the rutted path, pausing at each narrow alleyway as it sliced into the faded buildings at regular intervals. Finally, he stopped in front of one opening and turned off the car. “We are here,” he said.

  A slight and very pretty black woman in a pink dress and headscarf materialized from a doorway in the alley. She tottered toward us clasping a bucket of water before emptying its contents on the ground. Turning her attention to us, she said in a wispy voice, “I am Waris. You are welcome.”

  “Go with her now,” said Rakesh. “It is OK. No problem.” He caught my eye and smiled. “I can come and visit you, OK?” I smiled and nodded absentmindedly.

  Rakesh left us with Waris, who stood before us still clutching her bucket. She seemed to appraise us for a moment before gesturing toward the desert. “This is the Big Ground,” she said. “It is a place where the men come to drink after work. They come from all the camps around here. There are many.” She turned and motioned for us to follow her back into the alley. “You are welcome,” she repeated softly.

  She led us into the building from where she had just come, passing down a few steps and into a narrow hallway constructed of bits and pieces of cardboard attached to scrap metal and chicken wire. The only light came from a series of dingy yellow bulbs that dangled from wires in random places, which gave the entire place a murky, dungeon-like appearance. A smattering of empty bottles and cans lay about the floor, as if blown in by the desert winds like the small drifts of sand that massed just inside the doorway. The smell of raw sewage hung in the air. Somewhere in the darkness somebody was cooking meat. The sweet, acrid smell, which I normally found inviting, now made me want to vomit. We passed a series of narrow doorways, most of which were covered by a towel or strip of cloth. Those that were left uncovered revealed small groups of young women and girls sitting on the floor. I noticed that they all had black or brown skin. They stared up at us with vacant expressions when we passed.

  Waris led us around a corner and through an open doorway into one of the side rooms. Like most, it was windowless and contained young women, in this case two girls who were squatting over a small cookstove on the floor. Other than several crude sleeping mats, the room was empty. Newspaper covered the walls except the back one, which was made from cinder blocks and appeared to be original rather than the improvised construction that characterized the rest of the place.

  The two occupants were from a town in Ethiopia near Addis Ababa. Almaz spoke to them for a long time in Amharic before passing on what she learned. She confirmed that we were in a place where men—mostly from India—came to drink after work. They gathered on the desert plain just outside, or what Waris had referred to as the Big Ground. The Big Ground was a place where large amounts of alcohol were available, including an especially strong concoction called tharra, which the girls sold from the building we were in now. After a glass or two of tharra, most men wanted sex, and the girls were there to oblige them. “Everything here is just about alcohol and sex,” Almaz said. “And the men who make money from it. They are part of this D-gang.” She said that a constant procession of girls cycled through the building as they moved between the Big Ground and bars or nightclubs or found work as domestic servants. Many were runaways like us, or what were officially known as “absconders,” while others did not have a legal visa to stay in the UAE, either because their previous employer did not return it for some reason, they had lost it, or they simply never had one to begin with. Almaz clucked her tongue and said, “Every girl has her story of suffering.”

  “But what if we just want to go home?” I asked, dreading the thought of an existence based on selling alcohol and sex in such an awful place.

  “I have told them about our situation and our wish to return home,” Almaz answered. “But these girls say it is better to stay quiet and out of sight. And then we might have time to think about it. They say if the old lady goes to the police, then we must remain here; it is the best place to hide.” Almaz studied her hands as she considered our situation. “I, too, would like to go home now,” she said softly. “But I think we should stay here for now. With God’s blessing we will find an opportunity to return to Africa together.”

  Later that evening, the Big Ground sprang to life. First, men came through the building distributing bottles of tharra, which our new roommates warned us not to drink. If we did, they said, we would almost immediately get sick. They claimed it took a long time for a person to build up their tolerance to tharra; it was extremely dangerous to drink more than a few sips at first. In any case, the girls were forbidden to drink it, and even when it was sold to men it was doled out in carefully measured amounts. Girls who were found drunk or with alcohol on their breath were beaten. I noticed a group of intimidating bouncers who seemed perfectly capable of carrying out such punishments. While there were no identifiable leaders among the so-called D-gang, there was an obvious force behind the whole operation.

  Later in the evening, we learned that we were “to go on parade,” an activity that entailed joining one of a number of groups—all girls—who walked among the men as they gathered on the Big Ground. Our roommates assured us that all we had to do was walk around, make eye contact, and smile. Everybody knew who we were and why we were there.

  Waris came for us when it was our turn to go on parade. We followed her outside, where I was astonished to see hundreds of men scattered about the previously desolate desert p
lain. They were all talking and laughing as they mingled about, some still in their work clothes. Everyone was drinking openly. A nearby group huddled together on the ground, playing a game on a crude board made of cloth. Here and there, hawkers sold nuts, eggs, bread, fruit, and fish, displaying their wares in neat little piles on blankets spread on the ground. I thought the entire scene looked like some kind of traditional gathering for men.

  Our little parade group consisted of myself, Almaz, Waris, and three other girls. We wove in and out among the men as we strolled around the Big Ground. A sea of eyes fell upon us, and Waris reminded us to smile and make simple greetings.

  “These men are all from India,” Waris said in her soft, almost silky voice. “They are all lonely. Alcohol and women are an escape from their lonely lives—if they have money.” She told us to be on the lookout for men who were suicidal, explaining that so many killed themselves that the Indian embassy had found it necessary to establish a hotline for them. “Please remind me to give you the number when we return from parade,” Waris said, as she floated like a specter between the men. “You will need it.”