The Bracelet

by Roberta Gately

  Sold, Abby thought, and by her own family, just as Nick had described. “How awful,” she said.

  “Her family is very poor, but they are not bad, at least that is what this woman, and what most of the women, say, and it’s true. Many families are tricked into believing they are selling their girls to a better life, and this girl too thought she was going to a good job in India.”

  Nick wrote furiously. “What happened?” he asked, his head bent to his notebook.

  “After the floods in the north, her family was destitute and starving, and she was sold,” Zara said, “to a brothel in India. She was beaten and forced to have sex with strange men. She was trapped there for almost three years, and one day, she just fought back. Her owner cut her to teach her and the other girls a lesson.”

  “Did she escape?”

  “Not for another year, and then she jumped,” Zara said. “She saw an open window, and before anyone knew what was happening, she had jumped clear through it.”

  Abby shivered at the image of a woman jumping, and she pictured the woman in Geneva plunging through the air. Maybe she had jumped, Abby thought. Maybe it had just been a tragic accident. A dull pounding started up in her head, and she rubbed at her temples before turning back to Zara, who was still speaking.

  “Her leg was broken, but her spirit was not, and she managed to run. She ran until she collapsed in the street. Someone picked her up and took her to a hospital. There the nuns took care of her.”

  Abby felt her eyes well up, and she turned to look at Nick. He had stopped writing, his pen gripped tightly in his fist. “Were the traffickers arrested?” he asked.

  “No. They are still there, preying on the innocents.”

  Nick slipped his pen into his front pocket. “And we’re going to meet this woman today?”

  “We are. She works here in the camp two days a week, but she’s off today, and she’s agreed to speak with you this morning. She’s on her way here now, and while we wait, I’ll tell you about the rescue house, and about our program.” Zara’s voice was soft, and Abby strained to hear. “You know this woman and others like her live in a rescue house, the first stop in the rescue process for victims who are not so different from those in the photos in this tent.” Zara turned and gestured to the photos that covered every inch of space.

  “When we find someone who’s been trafficked or lost, or when they find us, as wonderful as that moment is, it is only the beginning of their long journey. For as much as they’ve suffered, there is more to come, and often they cannot go home. Their own family may have sold them, and beyond that, there is the shame and stigma, and no understanding or compassion for what they’ve suffered. They are often not thought to be victims; they are thought to be . . .” She paused. “What is the word, Nick?”

  Nick sat forward. “Complicit. People will think they had a hand in their own trouble.”

  “Complicit,” Zara said, repeating the word. “Ah, that’s it. In their home villages, people will believe they have been complicit, and there will be no sympathy for them. They will be outcasts, treated as whores or worse, and they would likely be killed to maintain the family’s honor. You understand? Honor is very important, more important than life. But if the family has sold them, and they return home, they will sell them again.”

  Nick nodded. “As awful as it sounds, it’s a complicated, miserable process. I’ve covered honor killings around the world, and I can tell you there’s nothing even remotely honorable about them. It’s a repulsive tradition that tyrannizes these women.” He turned to Abby. “And it happens everywhere, not just Pakistan and India and Saudi Arabia, but in the US. Not so long ago, I did a story on a young Iraqi woman in Arizona who was killed by her father for bringing shame on the family by forgetting who she was, and where she came from. He wanted to hold tight to his traditions and the ways of his country, and the poor kid just wanted to fit in.”

  “Oh my God,” Abby said, her throat tight. “It’s sick, it’s disgusting.”

  Nick nodded, his jaw firm. He turned to Zara. “So this house is a kind of halfway house for victims?”

  “That’s it exactly.”

  Nick looked around. “Which leads me to a whole new round of questions. Who came up with the idea?”

  “The Red Crescent and one or two of the international aid groups talked about it a few years back, but it fell through. So, the Pakistan Women’s Group, a small local organization, stepped in and opened the house just six months ago, and today we have three women living there.” A wide smile covered Zara’s face. “And it was the women here in Pakistan, the same women the world sees as powerless under their veils, who came to the rescue. The house was donated by a Pakistani family and furnished by local women. And now the victims have a safe place to learn new skills and to cope with what’s happened to them. The UN provides financial support and staff”—Zara pointed to herself—“to help. I teach English, and I’ll try to connect women with families who will take them back.”

  Nick scribbled furiously as Zara spoke. “The house must cost some serious money. Is there a bankroll?”

  “A bankroll? I’m not sure what that is, but there is a wealthy European donor, a very generous man, who supports the house.”

  Nick’s ears perked up. “Do you have a name?”

  “No. We have been told he prefers to be anonymous.”

  “Zara,” a soft voice called from the doorway.

  All eyes turned and watched as a woman wearing a bright yellow shalwar kameez and a yellow scarf draped around her head appeared in the entryway, the sun at her back. She held her head down, and Abby sat up straighter. Something about the woman was vaguely familiar, and Abby looked closer. The woman stepped into the tent, a limp slowing her progress, and Abby narrowed her gaze. She was certain she’d met this woman, that bright yellow scarf, that slight limp. As the woman moved out of the sun’s glare, Abby tried to place her, and then she knew.

  Mariyah.

  Chapter 13

  When the woman raised her head, Abby’s hunch was confirmed. Mariyah blinked when she saw Abby, and she looked anxiously at Zara. Abby rose quickly to dispel any fears Mariyah might have. She kissed Mariyah on each of her scarred cheeks. “Salaam aleikum, Mariyah,” she said, gripping her hands. Abby turned to Nick. “This is my friend Mariyah. She works at my clinic. Mariyah, this is my friend Nick, a journalist.”

  Nick, who’d sat quietly as Abby greeted the newcomer, stood quickly. “I’m grateful that you’ll speak with me, with us. Thank you.”

  “Mariyah was worried,” Zara said, “about coming, about telling you her story. I didn’t realize that she worked with you, Abby. It is good that you are here.”

  Smiling, Abby squeezed Mariyah’s shoulder and felt the tightness there ease.

  Mariyah nodded and sat in a hard wooden chair, her back straight against the rigid frame.

  “Wouldn’t you like to sit here?” Abby said, motioning to the cushioned chair on which she sat.

  Mariyah shook her head, and Zara answered for her. “She has scars on her back, and she needs support. That is why she sits in the hard chair.”

  “I’d like to tape this.” Nick pulled a small recorder from his pack. “Okay?”

  Mariyah looked at Abby, who nodded. “Acha, okay,” Mariyah whispered.

  “Do you speak English?” Nick asked as he fumbled with the buttons.

  “Little.” Mariyah demonstrated with her hand.

  “She speaks English, but she’s nervous, and she may need a little help,” Zara said. Wrapping her arms around Mariyah’s shoulders, she whispered in her ear. Mariyah nodded and seemed to sit straighter. Abby sat forward, cupping her chin in her hand.

  A lone tear trickled from Mariyah’s eyes, and she took a long, deep breath. She looked right at Abby. “I nervous,” she said slowly, “but will speak.”

  Abby smiled in reply and moved forward to the edge of her seat. Only days ago, she’d wondered if Mariyah could speak at all, and here she was ready to
share her voice, her life.

  “I from small village in North-West Frontier,” Mariyah continued. “First daughter of small rice farmer. When big waters come . . .” She paused as if searching for words.

  Zara touched Mariyah’s hands and nodded. “I will say the beginning for her,” Zara said softly. She took a deep breath. “Mariyah is the eldest child of six daughters, a poor farm family in a very poor region in the north. They had no electricity, and no water taps like we have here in Peshawar. In the best of times, it is a very hard life, and when the floods came, the little they had was lost. Mariyah’s youngest sister and her mother were washed away in the waters that surged through the town. They have never been seen again.”

  Abby looked at Mariyah, whose eyes were wet with tears.

  Zara paused to run her tongue over her lips. “Their house, their animals, their small rice paddies, all of it swept away, gone. The family was starving, they were homeless, and it seemed they were about to die.” Zara glanced at Mariyah, who sat picking at the ends of her scarf. “A man came to the village one day and offered money to Mariyah’s father if he could take Mariyah away. He told Mariyah there was a position as a housekeeper with a wealthy family in Mumbai, in India. It seemed a miracle, a job, money, and the hope that comes with that, and her father didn’t hesitate—he sold her. But Mariyah and her father believed it was for a better life, a chance to support her family, and they rejoiced in their great luck, and though they didn’t know it then, the day Mariyah left with the man, her simple life was ended forever.”

  Zara took Mariyah’s hand and nodded. “Now, you,” she said.

  Mariyah ran her finger over the jagged scar that crossed her face. She wiped at her eyes before finally taking a deep breath and sitting forward. “Man who take me has another girl with him, and she is quiet like me, but I ask her, ‘Are you happy about India?’ And she looked at me like I crazy. I think she is the crazy one. I am happy. I sit in big car. I feel important. I have job. I am smiling. After long day in car, man stops and buys us food. We stay in hut on the road. No beds, no chairs, just empty place like stall for animals, I think. The man, he locks the door, and I am too tired to be afraid. I fall asleep on the floor, but the other girl stay awake. She wailing all night that he is bad man, and we are in big trouble.”

  Mariyah’s words were slow and halting, and her hands trembled as she spoke. She paused and murmured in Urdu to Zara.

  Abby glanced quickly at Nick, who was hunched over his notebook. He looked up and Abby caught his eye. “Terrible,” she whispered, her eyes wide. Nick shook his head before bending back to his work.

  Mariyah pressed her back into the chair and clasped her hands together. She looked at Zara, who smiled and said, “Mariyah is afraid she won’t know the words. She would like me to help.”

  Nick nodded and continued to write.

  Mariyah listened quietly.

  “They stayed that first night in the hut, and in the morning the man got them tea and bread, and Mariyah thought that he was a good man. They drove again all day. . . .”

  Mariyah tried to smile, her scar stretching as she spoke. “I see so many places, but they fly away quickly in the car window. Villages, cities, big cars, and crowds of people, more than I have ever seen in my life.” Her smile quickly faded. “But, girl with me, she still crying. She say we going so far, we never get home. I tell her to shush. We going to India, and she should be happy, but she not. She cry and cry, and I want her to stop.”

  Mariyah turned and motioned to Zara, who picked up the thread of the story. “They drove south to Lahore, and Mariyah thought she was in heaven. The beautiful mosque, the gardens, the paved streets. Have you seen it? Lahore is the jewel of Pakistan, and if you see it, you will understand why a poor girl was happy. When the man stopped the car and got out, Mariyah was sure they had arrived in India, her new home, and she was glad, but only for an instant.” Zara’s voice turned grave, and Mariyah wiped at her face with her scarf.

  “Mariyah had no way to know that she was still in Pakistan. Another man, fat and oily looking, and wearing a long frown, joined them. He leaned into the backseat and pulled Mariyah out. He put his hands all over her, and he smiled. Mariyah tried to pull away, but the man held tight, and she was finally afraid. She knew that something was wrong. The two men pulled the other girl from the car, and when she screamed, they hit her so hard, she fell to the ground. Mariyah heard her skull crack. The fat man kicked the girl as she lay on the ground. Mariyah wanted to scream too, but she kept her scream inside. And the girl was finally silenced. She didn’t scream again.”

  Abby studied Mariyah, who held tight to Zara’s hand.

  “The fat man gave the man who had driven them a roll of money, more rupees Mariyah thought than even a bank might have. And then, Mariyah and the girl were thrown into the back of a truck. A blanket was thrown over them, and they huddled together, afraid. The girl began to cry, but her cries were softer.”

  Nick looked up. “Does she remember this girl’s name? Or anything about her?”

  “No,” Zara said, and Mariyah shook her head sadly in agreement.

  “We lay on floor,” Mariyah continued, “banging and bumping as truck move very fast along road. No windows, no sunshine, no air to breathe. I think maybe something wrong, maybe girl was right. We stop at next town, called Wagah, and man pull over at side of road and tell us to get out. I breathe in the air and the sun and think acha, it okay now, but then man point to another truck with two men and he push us to them. One man kiss me and pull my dress and pants away, and then he put his hands up inside me. He make me sick with shame, but I not scream. I not want to be hit like girl.”

  Abby shifted uncomfortably in her seat, the soft cushion suddenly more confining than cozy.

  Across from her, Mariyah pulled her legs up on the chair and hugged them in close. She was so tiny, her whole body fit on the small chair. She rocked herself for a minute before turning to Zara. Mariyah shook her head.

  “I’ll fill in the next part,” Zara said. “The men at Wagah handed over money to the fat man and then bundled Mariyah and the girl into the back of their truck. Somehow, they passed through the border station to India and arrived in Amritsar. You know it, Nick? The tourist city?”

  Nick put down his pen and nodded. “I do. It’s a straight shot from Peshawar on the Grand Trunk Road. It’s filled with Sikh temples and shrines and watering gardens. Beautiful place, but with a seamy underside. Anyplace tourists flock attracts the sex trade, and Amritsar is no different.”

  Zara nodded her head vigorously. “Yes, yes, that’s it. Mariyah and the girl were taken to the Good Luck Hotel, but the only luck they found there was bad. The owner or maybe she was just the manager was an Indian woman with bright red lips, and a bright red spot on her forehead. The place, Mariyah says, was filthy, long hallways with small, dark rooms along each side. In each room, the only furniture was a stained mattress, no sheets, no tables, nothing, and that first night Mariyah and the girl were thrown into a room. The door was locked, but at least they were together.”

  “I talk a little,” Mariyah said. Zara smiled and held her hand out to Mariyah. “Good Luck Hotel, not good—bad, bad smells, bad sounds, bad place. But girl and I sleep that night. Girl quiet, no crying. Next morning, skin of girl blue, and she cold, not moving. She dead. I screaming, and big man come in. He hit me, say I kill girl. I not.” Tears slipped from Mariyah’s eyes. “She my only friend. I not kill her, but I think girl is lucky to have escaped. She not be hit again.” Mariyah wiped at her eyes. “I not know her name or her village. Her family never know she dead. They happy for her big, important job.”

  Nick turned to Abby. “The fall?”

  “Head injury, bad enough to cause a subdural, I’d guess,” Abby said. “Poor thing, she must have really hit her head when she was hit.”

  “Man hit me hard after they take girl away. He hit my face, my head, my back. He pull my clothes off and pull his pants down, and then . . .” Ma
riyah grimaced and covered her mouth with her hand. “He push his man part in my mouth. I gag, he choking me, he killing me. Now I know I dying.”

  Mariyah closed her eyes, and a sudden chill rippled through the tent.

  “He say he teaching me, and he hold my head and that thing stays in my mouth until he push me down on the floor. He get on top of me, and he put that thing inside me down there. He give me big pain, and he make me sick, and I wish I dead like girl.” Mariyah started to cry, and her scar curled downward as soft sobs escaped from her lips. “He say I still virgin and to keep my mouth shut or I in big trouble. I already in big trouble, I think, but I not want more trouble so I do keep my mouth shut, but I feel such shame,” Mariyah said through her tears.

  Nick had stopped writing, and Abby wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the sudden chill in the air. She wanted to throw up, but instead, she took a deep breath. “Mariyah, you have nothing to be ashamed about, and you don’t have to continue or tell us more if it’s too hard for you.”

  “No,” Mariyah said. “I must to tell story, and you must to tell people so girl with no name will be remembered.”

  Nick put his pen down. “You are very brave. It’s telling your story to me that will save others. You understand?”

  Mariyah bit her lip and nodded. “That first night, the Indian woman, she color my face and lips and give me red sari, but nothing to wear under. I look like whore, and then men come, and I know I am whore. I want to cry, but I afraid so I keep my cries inside. Every night after that, the same. Red color on my lips and face, and loud men with rupees, and my job is to give the men big pleasure. I pray to God to get out, but I always locked in. When I ask other women there, they say if I ask too much, I disappear, so I shut up like they say.”

  “What about the other women? Were you allowed to speak with them, maybe get to know them?” Nick asked.

  “We talk, but they not like me. They are from India and Nepal and Bangladesh. I from Pakistan—they say I dirty.” Mariyah ran her hands over her dress. She cast her glance downward, and a single tear fell onto her lap.