“Allo.”
He frowned as a voice spoke to him in English, then his face lit up in a smile as he realized who it was.
Hearing his voice, Warda came out of the house and looked at him with a question on her face. Mansur held up his hand and signaled for her to wait. For the next few minutes, he listened, nodded, and asked a couple of questions, all the while Warda watched him, wondering why he was speaking in English. Five minutes later, he ended the call and stared at his wife.
She waited for him to say something, but curiosity got the better of her.
“Man kan hatha? Who was that?”
“Mr. John.”
“Mr. John?” Warda looked puzzled for a moment, then recognition crossed her face. “Ahh, Mr. John. But why?”
“I must go to Dubai.”
“Dubai?”
“I’ll explain everything inside, habibi.” Mansur guided his wife back inside the house. “But first, let’s eat. I’m starving.”
28
Steve looked up as John walked in.
“Did he agree?”
“He did.” John placed his phone on the coffee table. “He’ll be here by tomorrow evening. He said he’d drive up.”
Steve did a quick calculation. “Should take him around seven to eight hours.”
“Good. You better let Ramesh know we need another set of documents. Mansur said he’d message a photo of his passport.”
The phone buzzed and moved across the table.
“That’ll be it now.” John picked it up and glanced at the messages. “Yup. We can start booking flights first thing in the morning.” He looked at the photo album on Steve’s lap.
“What are you looking at?”
“Mia when she was a kid.” Steve flipped a page, then looked up at John. “She was such a cute kid and sharp as a tack.” He turned another page, running his fingers over each photo. “She did so well at school.” He shook his head. “Such a bright future ahead of her, then... she met that prick.” He balled his hands into fists and closed his eyes.
John moved closer and put his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, we will get her out of there.”
Steve opened his eyes, relaxed his fist, and nodded.
“I need a beer, do you want one?”
“No, thanks, I’m good.”
Steve closed the album and stood up.
“Hey, you’d better send Mansur our location too. Much easier for him to find us.”
“Will do.” John shared the location, then leaned back in the chair and stared at his reflection in the darkened panes of the French windows. It was all beginning to come together, and despite the danger of the task ahead, he was feeling a buzz of excitement, something he hadn’t felt in a while. He saw Adriana appear in the reflection and felt her hand on his shoulder. She leaned down and kissed him on the top of the head and with her other hand, passed him a gin and tonic.
“It’s not Botanist, I’m sorry. Steve obviously isn’t a gin guy.”
“No.” John turned and smiled up at her. Her hair was pulled back in an untidy bun, emphasizing her cheekbones. His heart did a little jump as not for the first time, he marveled at how beautiful she was. The excitement he felt a moment before ebbed away, replaced with a kernel of fear. If things went wrong, he might never get to see her again.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” John shook off the thought and smiled. “I was just thinking about how much I love you.”
Adriana smiled back. “I love you too. Now come, dinner is ready. It smells delicious. Marisel’s a superb cook.”
“She is. Maybe we should ask her if she wants to come to Lisbon?” John winked and took a sip of his drink.
“I wouldn’t do that to Maadhavi.” Adriana held out her hand, and John stood, leaning forward to kiss Adriana below her ear. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“A surprise?”
“You’ll find out tomorrow,” he smiled and allowed himself to be led into the dining room.
29
Mia stirred, changing her position to ease the pain where her hip bone pressed against the concrete floor. She opened her eyes, forgetting for a moment where she was. The room looked familiar, but everywhere she had stayed in the last few months looked the same—a concrete floor strewn with rubble, windows devoid of glass, and no furniture or anything else to suggest who the previous occupants had been. She lifted her head and looked around. There were bodies sleeping on the floor with her, huddled together for warmth, and the memory of the previous night came flooding back.
It had taken them over three hours to walk the ten kilometers from Sarmin to the once-bustling market town of Idlib, although there was little left now to recommend it. They had stopped often, taking shelter when the sound of fighting appeared to be close. There were rumors of a ceasefire, but it didn’t seem to be in effect yet. They couldn’t afford to use light, for fear of being spotted by enemy aircraft or artillery. They stumbled and staggered along, some women weak and taking support from the others, but they got little sympathy from the fighters who herded them along, getting more and more impatient as the night wore on. Once in Idlib, they roamed the streets for another hour until they chose a building to sleep in.
The women collapsed, exhausted on the second floor of an abandoned building, and went to sleep as the fighters melted away into the night.
Mia looked down at Malak, who was still sleeping, her breath short and shallow. She felt her forehead, still hot, then with the corner of the blanket, wiped away the congealed mucus from under her nostrils. She sat up and noticed one woman watching her, an older lady, her hair covered in a headscarf.
Mia nodded, not sure what language to use. Despite her five years in Syria, she still wasn’t fluent in Arabic, but from the little she had heard them speaking the previous night, they appeared to be speaking another language.
The woman said something, but Mia didn’t understand. The woman tried again, then realizing Mia didn’t comprehend, she pointed at Malak and mimed putting food in her mouth.
Mia shook her head.
The lady rummaged in a bag and reached over, her hand open, three green olives nestling in her palm.
“Shukraan.” Mia took them from her.
The woman motioned putting them in her mouth, chewing, then moving them from her mouth to the baby’s.
Mia nodded her understanding. She stroked Malak’s face, whispering, “Wake up little darling, wake up. Mummy has some food for you.”
Malak’s eyes blinked open, and she pulled her arm out from under the blanket and rubbed her nose. Mia placed an olive in her mouth, separated the flesh from the seed, and spat the seed into her spare hand. She continued chewing the flesh, ignoring the growling of her stomach. She hadn’t eaten since the previous morning, only a piece of old bread. It was all she could do not to swallow the olive. She spat the olive paste into her hand, then laid Malak on her lap. With the fingers of her right hand, she took the paste from her left and held it close to the little girl’s mouth.
“Eat now, my baby, yummy yummy.” Malak’s mouth opened slowly, and Mia pushed the food inside. “Good girl. I’ll give you some more.” Mia glanced up at the woman and nodded her thanks before chewing on another olive. A younger woman sat up, and the older woman leaned toward her and murmured something in her ear.
Mia began to feed Malak the second olive when the younger lady spoke.
“English?”
Mia looked up in surprise. The only person she spoke English with was Naeem. “No,” She shook her head. “I’m Australian.”
The younger woman translated. The conversation woke the others, and they stirred and sat up, rubbing their faces, and stretching.
“Why are you here?” the young lady asked.
Mia frowned, “Here?”
“In Syria.”
Mia looked down at Malak and pushed a little more olive paste into her mouth.
“My husband.”
The young woman narro
wed her eyes, “Husband? Your real husband?”
Mia nodded. She heard the women talking amongst themselves.
“He is... one of them?” the woman gestured toward the window. “Al Qaeda?”
“Yes.”
Her answer seemed to displease the women, whose conversation became more animated. She looked down, not wanting to maintain eye contact. It was just her and Malak.
“Al Qaeda, they are shaytan... how do you say?” The woman paused, thinking of the word.
Mia looked up. “The devil.”
“Yes.”
Mia looked around at the women facing her, their faces filled with sadness, creased with worry and despair. Women who had given up any hope of finding happiness. She nodded.
“I know.”
“Then why you come? Why you marry your... husband?” The last word spoken as it if was a curse.
Mia looked down at her daughter, the only thing left in her life she loved. Why had she come?
30
Mia had just finished a class at Melbourne University and was walking across the South Lawn when she first saw him.
It was one of those beautiful early spring days, warm but not too warm, filled with the promise of the summer to come. The students were making the most of the pleasant weather after a dreary winter, shedding layers of clothing and reveling in the sun’s rays.
He was walking toward her with a group of friends. She had seen him before but not paid him much attention. He was just another guy on campus, but that day was different. He locked eyes with her as he passed and smiled, and her heart skipped a beat. For some reason, she could think of nothing else for the rest of that day and the next.
They met again a couple of days later, and this time, he spoke to her. His name was Naeem, a second-generation Lebanese Australian, and he made her laugh. They began to see each other regularly. He was happy, full of life, and made her feel special.
His parents had fled North Lebanon in the eighties, making a home in the North Melbourne suburb of Darebin. Naeem had been born there, and not once did he seem any different from the other Australian boys she knew. He played footy with his mates, enjoyed going to the pub at the weekend, and surfed in the summer. It was only later he changed. She didn’t notice at first, but by then, it was too late—she was head over heels in love with him and worshiped the ground he walked on.
It started with another student, a boy in one of his classes. He was also Middle Eastern, she never did learn from where exactly, but he convinced Naeem to join him at the mosque in Preston. Naeem stopped going to the pub, started commenting on what she was wearing, and seemed to be increasingly angry with the world.
Their time alone together was spent with him talking about the beauty of Islam, the wisdom in the holy Quran, the benefits of life as a Muslim, and she soaked it in. She wore a headscarf when they were together, and he taught her how to pray—anything to spend time with him. He told her he would call her Mahfuza, which meant ‘protected’ in Arabic, and he would always be around to protect her. She loved the idea, but it remained a secret between the two of them. She’d never had a boyfriend before, and the thought of losing him terrified her.
Then one day, he announced he was going to Turkey, and he wanted her to go with him. She was thrilled, she’d never been overseas before. In fact, she had only been out of the state once, when her parents had taken her to Sydney for a long weekend.
Naeem arranged everything—the visas, tickets, and the itinerary—all she had to do was convince her parents. They weren’t sure at first, but she eventually persuaded them, promising she would keep in constant touch. And she did, excited calls every day about the wonders she had seen—the Hagia Sophia, the Grand Bazaar, the mighty Bosphorus teeming with river traffic. It was exotic, noisy, colorful. She had loved it, never imagining such a magical place existed.
Then he convinced her into crossing into Syria. The romance began to wane that day, and every day since, until now, there was nothing left. Syria wasn’t the paradise he had promised. It was all a lie—he had tricked her. The light had gone from her life... until Malak was born.
Mia looked down at her daughter, Malak, her little angel. She smiled and touched her daughter’s cheek with her fingertips. Looking up, she realized the other women were still waiting for her answer.
Why had she come? Why did she marry him? Why was she still with him? Despite her unhappiness, she still didn’t think he was as bad as the other men, the fighters. Coarse, brutal men, who thought women were sub-human; in fact, thought any non-believer was sub-human. No, he wasn’t like them, but he wasn’t the same Naeem she fell in love with. She missed that Naeem, the happy-go-lucky boy with the dazzling smile.
Mia looked at the woman who had questioned her and pointed to her heart.
“Love.” She shook her head sadly. “I did it for love.”
31
The women talked among themselves, occasionally shooting glances in her direction. She couldn’t understand a word they said in a language she’d never heard before. Only one woman appeared to speak English as they had all looked to her for a translation.
Mia studied their faces and their clothes, trying to put a label on them as if knowing who they were would restore some order in her life. They were of varying ages, from mid-teens to middle-aged, and they shared similar features as if all from the same ethnic group. Their clothing was a rag-tag assortment of sweaters, cardigans, and long skirts. Unusually, not one wore a hijab or abaya, only covering their hair with a simple headscarf.
Malak licked her lips, having finished the small pieces of olive, then for the first time in days, called out.
“Mama.”
Mia smiled, leaned forward, and kissed her on the forehead as the women stopped talking and stared. One lady, perhaps the oldest in the group, slid forward and held out her hands. Mia looked down at Malak again, not sure, then slowly passed her over. The older woman broke into a smile and held Malak close, rocking back and forth, murmuring something in her language.
“What is her name?” the English speaker asked.
“Malak.”
“Angel.” The woman nodded, her eyes on the child. “In our language, we say Melek.” She said something to the other women that made them excited, and they all gathered around the child. “I used to believe in angels.” She shrugged. “But now...”
“Where are you from? I don’t understand your language.”
The woman regarded Mia for a moment and said, “Iraq.”
“Iraq?” Mia frowned. “How did you end up here?”
The woman said something to the others in her language, and they sneered, shaking their heads, some waving their hands. She turned back to Mia,
“You really don’t know?”
Mia shook her head.
“We are Yazidis. You know?”
“No.”
“These men,”—she gestured toward the door—“men like your husband,” she spat the word like it was a curse. “They came to my village... they killed all the men, my father, my brothers.” She paused and looked down at the floor. When she looked up, her face was blank, her eyes empty, devoid of emotion as if she was narrating something that happened to someone else,
“They made us line up... without clothes. They looked at us... touched us... asked if we were... virgins.” She nodded at two of the girls who must have been all of twelve or thirteen years old. “The young ones, they are worth more. Women like me?” She shrugged. “For them we are old, used, not worth as much. But... they rape us, anyway.”
Mia winced. “I’m so sorry.”
The woman stared at the wall over Mia’s shoulder, then snapped back to the present.
“Then they took us and sold us to other men, men who used us, then sold us again. They marry us, rape us, then sell us. Over and over.” She narrowed her eyes, “How many husbands have you had?”
The question puzzled Mia. “One.”
The woman sneered and again said something to the other women.
She pointed at one of them, a girl of around fourteen.
“Shayma has had five husbands.” The girl wouldn’t meet Mia’s eyes, gazing down at her fingers as she toyed with the end of her blanket.
The woman pointed at the older lady holding Malak. “My mother. She is fifty-eight.” She looked back at Mia and held up three fingers.
Mia shook her head. She knew the fighters treated women as second-class humans, but she had never known the reality of it. Naeem had kept her isolated for most of her time in Syria, and she had resented him for it. She had been unhappy and incredibly lonely until Malak was born, but now, she understood why he had kept her alone.
“The last man who... took me... he was old and fat…” Her voice trailed off. “He beat me with a belt...”
Mia swallowed and leaned forward to take the woman’s hand. She held it in both of hers, and they sat quietly, listening to the murmured voices of the other women as they watched Malak. After a while, the woman took her hand back.
“My name is Nadia.”
“Mahfuza... I mean, Mia.”
Nadia raised an eyebrow.
“Mia is my real name. How do you know English?”
“I learned at school. I was good at my studies. My father wanted me to become a doctor.” Nadia sighed. “So long ago now.”
“I wanted to be an architect.”
Nadia smiled. “Only Allah, subhanahu wa-ta’ala, knows what is planned for us.”
Mia tilted her head to one side. “Nadia, all of you are Muslim. Why did the men do that to your village?”
“They don’t like our Islam.” Nadia sighed and raised her hands and shoulders in a half shrug. “We are different, our beliefs are different. We believe in angels, too.” She smiled. “Malak. But they think we worship Al Shaytan... the devil.” She scoffed, “Those men are the Al Shayateen. They are the real devils.”
Payback - John Hayes Series 06 (2020) Page 7