by Judy Nunn
‘What is it, Jalila?’ he asked.
‘You save my life.’
‘I did what anyone’d do,’ he replied, then trying to make light of the moment, he added, ‘anyone who can swim anyway.’
But she had edged closer still, her breasts, so alarmingly evident beneath the wetness of her blouse, about to make contact with his body, and he realised that once again she was offering herself.
He backed away, shocked, but did not break eye contact, wanting desperately to get through to the girl. ‘Stop this, Jalila. Stop this right now,’ he said. ‘You’re offering payment for my saving your life, is that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t want payment: you must understand that. Do you understand me?’ he insisted, ‘I don’t want payment!’ He repeated each word emphatically.
She seemed puzzled. ‘You no want me?’
‘That’s right.’ He felt an irrational flash of guilt. Is that what she had been deciphering in him, the male lust to which she was obviously accustomed? Did it show? Was it readable? He’d not been aware of any such feeling himself, but he might well be denying the truth. ‘That’s right,’ he repeated firmly, ‘I do not want you. I want to be your friend.’
And then the moment he’d been waiting for. Finally and unbelievably it happened.
‘Is good,’ she said, and the perfect lips shaped into a fleeting smile, an infinitesimal smile, just for one brief second. If he hadn’t been watching closely he would have missed it. But it was there. ‘Friend is good.’
‘Yes,’ he said gently, ‘friend is very good. Now let’s get out of this wind and find somewhere warm.’
They left the windward side of the island and started back towards the settlement, walking comfortably side by side, their clothes wetly flapping. And as they walked Paul decided it was now safe to broach the subject.
‘May I ask you some questions, Jalila?’
Her nod was unequivocal.
‘You told me you’re Yazidi, that you come from a mountain and that your family are all … dead.’ It sounded shockingly brutal, but he knew the time was right, that he must ask her now. And unflinchingly she answered.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve done some research on the Yazidi people and their recent history,’ he said. He could tell she didn’t understand, but made no attempt to explain, getting straight to the point instead. ‘You come from Northern Iraq and the mountain is Mount Sinjar, am I right?’
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘How old are you, Jalila?’
The slightest shrug, she really couldn’t be sure. She hadn’t counted over these past several years. ‘Nineteen.’
Nineteen … That would fit the time frame, Paul thought.
‘Are you uncomfortable?’ he asked. ‘Do you feel cold? Do you want to get back to the huts and change your clothes?’
She answered all of his questions with one simple shake of the head.
‘Good.’ They were well away from the windward side of the island now. ‘Then let’s find a nice sunny spot and talk,’ he said. ‘I want to know about you, Jalila.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Not wanting to bump into the others, they stopped just north of the settlement and sat in a sunny clearing, the surrounding saltbush and chenopod shrubs forming a windbreak.
She looked at him expectantly, awaiting whatever questions he might wish to ask her, but Paul didn’t know where or how to begin. The only way, he decided, was to tell her what he’d found on the internet and see if it related to her.
‘In August 2014,’ he said, taking care to speak slowly, ‘Islamic State militants overran villages in Northern Iraq and massacred thousands of Yazidi people, the idea being to exterminate the entire minority group because they weren’t – you weren’t – Muslims.’
He paused, expecting some comment, but none was forthcoming. Perhaps she doesn’t understand, he thought, perhaps her grasp of English isn’t good enough. He continued regardless.
‘ISIS also took hundreds of Yazidi women and children prisoner,’ he said, wondering briefly how he should voice the next part, which was confronting to say the least, but there was no way he could soften the facts so he blurted it out anyway. ‘These women and children were held by the extremists as sex slaves. Some were given as gifts to the fighters.’
He awaited her reaction. Had she understood him? If his reasoning was correct and she was one of those taken captive it would certainly explain her subjugation to men, but his reminder of the fact was bound also to arouse some terrible memories.
‘Is right,’ she said in the most matter-of-fact manner. She may not have understood every single word, but Jalila had followed with absolute clarity the gist of all he’d said. ‘We is malik yamiin. Slaves. Hassan teach me that mean also in English “spoils of war”.’
He didn’t dare ask who Hassan was, not wanting to break the flow.
‘They take us to Syria. My sister too. My family they kill in Sinjar town. Is where I grow up,’ she added. ‘Many of our people run away, hide on mountain, but my family no. They is all kill. Only my sister and me. They take us to Syria, many other girls too. We is property of soldiers. I never see my sister again. I no look for her. She be dead now –’
‘That’s enough, Jalila – you don’t need to go on any further.’
She looked him squarely in the eye. ‘You are friend. You ask, I tell you.’
She did not appear upset, so he decided it was safe to continue. ‘How long were you held captive?’
Jalila was uncertain. The first soldier to own her had kept her for some while. He’d been proud that she was a virgin: virgins were greatly prized. But then things had changed and she’d been passed on to other soldiers who had wanted to buy her.
‘Soldier who own me sell me to other soldier who want me,’ she said, trying to piece together a sense of time. ‘Then that soldier he sell me to other soldier …’
Paul interrupted once again. He got the picture, and this really didn’t seem right. Reliving her experiences in such detail must be harrowing. ‘How did you get away?’
‘I am captive one year, more maybe,’ she said thoughtfully, her mind still on the previous question. ‘Last soldier, he sell me in market.’
Piecing together the past in clinical fashion had been no trouble for Jalila, at least it hadn’t so far. She had long since closed her mind off to the soldiers. But at this point she issued a warning to herself. She must not tell Paul why the last soldier had sent her to the marketplace for sale. She dared not say the words out loud. To do so would bring back the image she fought always to obliterate. She moved on to the next stage of her story.
‘At marketplace, Hassan see me,’ she continued, pictures suddenly and unexpectedly flashing through her mind, vivid pictures, sounds coming back to her too, and smells even. The slave market in Raqqa. Standing there with so many others, naked, a price tag around her neck. Men touching her, prodding her, opening her mouth with their fingers. Several in a bidding war, raising the price for her, Hassan one of them, determined to be the victor.
Memory of the slave market had never once returned to Jalila and she wondered now how she had been able to bear such humiliation. But of course she’d been a dead person by then.
‘Hassan, he buy me,’ she said. ‘He tell me he is my protector. This word he teach me. Yazidi speak Kurmanji, but Hassan he teach me Arabic, and he teach me English too. No more soldier, is good.’
‘So Hassan was kind to you then?’
Paul’s promptings caused the return of other memories, vague memories of months spent in a haze. A medical centre, Hassan insisting upon treatment to ensure she was clean; she had been diseased they said. Hassan acquiring the medicines that cured her and the contraceptive pills that ensured she would not become pregnant; Hassan buying her clothes and pretty things. She supposed all of this meant he’d been kind, he’d certainly been obsessed with her – he’d even told her he loved her. But that hadn’t stopped him offering her a
s part of a deal when it suited.
‘Hassan spend much money on me,’ she said. Hassan had quite a lot of money to spend; amongst his many enterprises he’d been a small-time but successful arms dealer. ‘I am good for business, he tell me. I am payment to friend for favour.’
‘… I see.’ God!
‘Hassan take me to Beirut,’ Jalila said. ‘He want come to Australia. He need escape from DAESH who say he rob them. He have friend in Sydney say Australia good place to live, can make much money. Hassan like money very much. So we come. But,’ she concluded with a shrug that said everything, ‘he is eaten by shark.’
Which is no more than the bastard deserved, Paul thought.
‘So there my story, Paul. Is done.’
Jalila lay back on the ground and stared up at the sky, her mind empty.
‘Thank you for telling me,’ he said. He could think of nothing else to say.
He lay back on the ground himself and they both stared silently up at the sky.
After a while he turned his head to look at her, but she was still gazing vacantly skywards as if seeing nothing. He wondered guiltily if his questioning had returned her to a dark place. With a past like that, he thought, it’s a wonder she’s still sane.
He propped himself up on one elbow, watching her. She seemed oblivious to his gaze, her mind somewhere else altogether, but he was relieved to note she didn’t appear disturbed. After a moment or two he broke the silence.
‘What is it you want, Jalila?’ he asked. ‘What is it you would wish for more than anything in the world?’
She pointed at the birds overhead. She hadn’t been gazing mindlessly at the sky at all; she’d been gazing at the birds.
‘The birds?’ he queried, looking up at the gulls. ‘What do you mean? You mean you wish you could fly?’
She made no reply, her eyes following the easy flight of the gulls as they glided, then gave a brief flap of their wings, then glided again, playing effortlessly with the wind.
He waited so long for her reply he presumed she’d forgotten the question, or that she was ignoring him. Then …
‘Free,’ she said, ‘the birds, they is free.’
Of course. ‘You want freedom?’
She just nodded.
Paul lay back on the ground, hands behind his head, thinking of the future that lay in store for her upon the group’s inevitable discovery. Detention centre briefly, Darwin in all likelihood, then directly to Nauru for God knew how long, after which she might even be returned to her homeland, where she had no one and where her people continued to be persecuted. There was no freedom in sight for Jalila. Where’s the justice in that? he thought.
Having heard her story, Paul wished now more than ever that he could do something for Jalila, but he knew he was helpless. If only he could give her just a taste of freedom, he thought, something that might remain as a happy memory amongst the horrors of the past and the hopelessness of the future …
But maybe I can, he told himself. An idea was starting to form, an audacious idea, but it was feasible. A taste of freedom. Yes, he thought, yes, it’s possible. I could give her that.
Five minutes later he sat bolt upright, a plan clear in his mind. But he needed to check whether Jalila herself was interested. She might possibly find the prospect too daunting.
‘Would you like to come out with me for a ride on a boat, Jalila?’ he asked.
She sat up, instantly alert. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I would like very much.’ She would go anywhere with Paul; he was the only friend she had ever had in the whole of her life. ‘We go now?’ she asked eagerly.
‘No, no, not now,’ he said, ‘in a week or so. And not in Lou’s boat: a much faster boat, would you like that?’
‘Yes, yes.’ There was a light in her eyes, and once again that hint of a smile, perhaps even more than a hint this time.
‘I have an idea,’ he said. ‘It’s pretty bold, but it could work. Are you up for an adventure?’
‘Yes, yes.’ Jalila didn’t know what the word ‘adventure’ meant, but she was up for any idea Paul had.
He looked at his watch and stood. ‘We’d better be heading back,’ he said, ‘they’ll come looking for us soon.’ He and Lou had promised this time they’d stay for lunch. ‘I’ll tell you on the way, and not a word to anyone.’
By the time they got back the others were all gathered in the blue hut.
‘Sorry,’ Paul said, ‘hope we haven’t kept you waiting.’
‘Not at all,’ Hala assured him, ‘we’re just about to serve.’ She looked them up and down. ‘What on earth happened to you two?’
Their clothes were no longer sodden, they’d dried off to quite a degree, but they were still damply bedraggled.
‘We went for a swim,’ Paul said, with a look to Jalila, who nodded.
‘Oh I see, yes of course.’ Hala didn’t pursue the matter, but had her eyes deceived her? she wondered. Had she just witnessed an exchange intended to be humorous? Whatever it was, something extraordinary had happened. ‘Do you want to change your clothes, Jalila?’ she asked. ‘We’ll wait for you if you wish.’
‘No thank you, Hala. Is good.’
Throughout lunch everyone noticed the difference in Jalila. She was not talkative, remaining her usual quiet self, but she was no longer withdrawn from all about her. It was obvious she was taking an interest in things, paying attention, listening to conversations, even reacting a little now and then. No one commented on the fact, but they were all thinking the same thing. Jalila has been brought back to life.
What the bloody hell did you do, Paolo? Lou wondered, sitting on his milk crate beside Rassen and gazing at his grandson.
‘Who won the poker game?’ Paul asked.
‘Your grandfather,’ Rassen replied. ‘To my shame I must admit defeat on all fronts. Massoud remains the current chess champion and now Lou has claimed the poker title. It’s really most humiliating.’
Hala laughed as she handed around the bowls and the spoons. ‘Well you’ll just have to lift your game on both scores, won’t you, my darling.’
Hala was happy Rassen had found peace within himself; this sojourn on the island was doing him the world of good. They both knew the road ahead would be hard, they’d discussed the matter often enough, but they’d agreed they would be eager to offer their services wherever they might be sent. Personally, Hala couldn’t wait to serve a purpose. She knew Massoud felt the same way; they too had talked a great deal. An activist like herself, Massoud longed to rejoin the fight for human rights. Besides which, she thought, he’s a young man, an intellectual who needs to socialise and exchange ideas. Unlike the others, she and Massoud were beginning to stagnate just a little there on the island.
No matter, she thought as Sanaa and Azra brought the steaming bowls of food to the small table in the centre, right now the friendship that bonds us is all that counts.
Along with the lamb stew and vegetables, Sanaa had cooked tadig. She had cooked it especially for little Hamid, not only because it was his favourite, but in order for him to practise his English. He wanted very much to impress Paul, who, they were all quite sure, had never tasted tadig.
‘This dish is named tadig,’ Hamid announced, standing beside Paul and enunciating each word very slowly and with great care, exactly the way Massoud had taught him. The little boy’s English was more advanced than that of the other non-English speakers, and in order that he shouldn’t be held back Massoud had taken over his personal tuition while Rassen taught the rest of the group.
‘It is a ta–’ Hamid paused. This was the tricky bit. ‘It is a ta–’ His eyes darted to Massoud.
Massoud broadly mouthed the word, separating each syllable, his hand conducting along with the beat as if the child were a symphony orchestra.
‘Trad-i-tion-al,’ his comically exaggerated mime spelt out.
‘… A tad-i-tion-al Persian dish.’ Hamid completed the phrase, nearly getting the word right and Massoud, bursting with pride, led
them all in a round of applause.
‘Good on you, mate, well done,’ Paul said, joining in the applause.
He stared dubiously, however, at the large bowl of crusted, brown rice that Sanaa was starting to dish out to them all and wondered how he could ask for a small portion without appearing rude; it looked most unappetising.
Lou gave him an encouraging nod but didn’t say anything, remembering how he’d been served the same dish as a welcome on the very first day, and how he’d been equally dubious.
Everyone watched as Paul took his first mouthful. Then as he chomped away …
‘You like, yes?’ from Karim.
‘This food good, yes?’ from Hany, determined to outdo his friend, both men eager to show off the English they’d acquired.
‘Yes,’ Paul replied to both. ‘I like it very much. This food is very good.’
Another round of applause, whether for the success of the tadig or the English, no one knew or cared.
Lunch continued like a family affair, which indeed they seemed to have become, the two fishers and the disparate group of refugees. And why shouldn’t we be family? Lou wondered. We’re all the same really, aren’t we? Just people.
The usual farewell followed an hour or so later, everyone waving from the end of the jetty as the old Princess chugged away. This time Jalila was there too, and this time she was waving along with the others.
‘So what bloody miracle took place?’ Lou demanded when they were well under way. ‘What the hell did you do to the girl?’ He made no attempt to couch the question delicately – what was the point? The whole bloody group had noticed the difference in Jalila, and they’d all bloody welcomed it what’s more. The boy should feel proud. But remembering how defensive Paul had become during their previous discussion, Lou awaited the backlash anyway.
There was none.
‘We’ve become friends,’ Paul said. ‘She trusts me.’
Then he proceeded to tell his grandfather Jalila’s story; she wouldn’t mind, he was sure. Besides, he intended to tell Lou also of his plan, as he would need Lou’s support in carrying it out.