Every month, a different government member was attacked, whether Sunni or Shia, pro- or anti-American. Manal felt the country slip into anarchy. Iraqi women’s rights activists were terrified that their association with Women for Women would be discovered, that they would be attacked for “collaborating” with Western infidels. The gangs were now thriving in Baghdad, and kidnapping a foreigner was the fastest way to bring in tens of thousands of dollars in ransom.
“I am making little difference, and putting myself in danger,” Manal worried.
She began to think of leaving Iraq. Her office was a prison. She couldn’t leave without an armored car, couldn’t meet openly with women or visit their homes, couldn’t be seen going in and out of the convention center, couldn’t hand out literature with non-Arabic text. But still, leaving felt cowardly. She couldn’t abandon these women after leading them into the protests and activism that now threatened their lives.
She gazed out the window of her office, across the balcony overlooking the Tigris. The old house had been built by Zainab Salbi’s grandfather in the first half of the twentieth century, during the British mandate. It was a beautiful piece of Islamic architecture—a symbol of what Baghdad had once been and the beauty it had created.
As she sat there, women leaving her twice-monthly “rights awareness classes” passed by. The door to Manal’s office was open and they stuck their heads in.
“How are you doing?” one asked, concerned. Manal managed a smile. “Every night I pray to Mohammed and Allah to protect you,” the woman added.
The next day, more women came by. They were from one of Manal’s skills training classes.
Sitting on the pillows in the corner of her office, they smiled. “Manal, everywhere I go I tell women about the classes and how they are affecting our lives, and the lives of so many women.”
Each day, more and more women visited her to share a smile or give an encouraging word. Soon she realized what was going on. The women saw she was grieving. Word had spread that she was giving up hope.
“My daughter took your class on the importance of education, and she learned that women have a right to education. Now she is enrolled in school,” said one.
“Your trainer helped me find the medicine I needed for my husband,” said another.
Manal was in Iraq to help them, and she felt the support Women for Women provided circling back to lift her up in her time of need. More than anything else, the women thanked her for the skills training. Some had started their own businesses. One old woman told Manal she had opened her own fruit stand. Before, she had been a beggar who survived from handouts at the mosque, but after enrolling in a skills training class, she learned the basics of business, gained confidence from the support of other women, and started selling fruit herself. To show her appreciation, the woman had brought into class a watermelon to share. “If not for the center, I never would have done this,” she said. “Before I begged for watermelon, and now I can provide it to others.”
Manal felt humbled, and pushed to go on. She could barely handle one year of the life these women had suffered through for decades. She realized that gains came in small, invisible ways, through personal contact—not the erection of a glossy women’s center. They were small moments of victory—they didn’t make the news or merit a CPA press release, but they mattered.
She sat her staff down.
“Thank you for all you have done for me in the past few weeks. Your support has kept me going,” she said. She took a deep breath. “But I want to give you the option of putting the programs on hold. As much as we try to do, working with the programs puts you in direct danger. We can’t create a force field around us.”
A cry arose from her staff.
“Manal, how could you possibly crush the very hope we have spent so many months building?” They pointed to the six hundred women their program had helped. “We are making a difference, Manal. We work with these women every day—we cannot abandon them.”
Even Ahmed piped up. “These women had nothing and we’ve taught them women’s rights, how to stand up for themselves, how to have confidence, and to care about the elections. The center has been a place for them to get out of the house, sit and network and meet.”
“Even the money has helped them, Manal,” he said, smiling.
Manal smiled too. The prior year, she had decided to give the women who attended her workshops a stipend of fifteen dollars a month. Ahmed had resisted this, arguing it was too little to matter. “I saw how it helped the women,” he conceded.
Ahmed’s support meant the world to Manal. He was now her constant companion, keeping her spirits high by bringing her sandwiches and playing board games with her during the long evenings under curfew. And when Ahmed stayed late, so did his two coworkers, Mustafa and Fawaz, so Manal never felt uncomfortable in being alone with him.
Manal realized that just as there were human beings committed to wanton violence—both Americans and Iraqis—there was a majority in both groups who were dedicated to the humanitarian effort. She had to help that majority find a voice. She had to encourage their small hopes, not let them be extinguished. Yes, she thought, we will stay in Iraq. She would stay as long as she could.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE BLUE, GREEN, and gold lights of the bustling downtown twinkled at night. Students in headscarves milled outside McDonald’s and Burger King, and the skyline was ablaze with the well-lit names of five-star hotels like the Four Seasons and the Hyatt.
Feeling her time had run out in the Green Zone, Zia made a bold move. She booked a plane ticket to the neighboring country of Jordan. Zia had decided she would start over. Rather than dwell on feelings of betrayal, she forced herself to think optimistically: Maybe the Americans didn’t come through, but at least they opened the door for me to make a new life for myself instead of slowly suffocating under Saddam. She had twenty thousand dollars saved up from her IMN job and a vague plan. Jordan was a Muslim country, but afforded many freedoms to women, especially in the capital city, Amman. She would move into a small hotel until she found an apartment. She would look for temporary work and apply to universities in the USA and the UK. She might have to cut corners and do without, but, after years of hardship and prejudice in Iraq, she would finally have her pride, dignity, and freedom. This was going to be her new life. Every inch of her told her she’d made the right choice. Leaving Keith had been difficult, but it had become a matter of pride. She loved him and believed his relationship with his wife was, emotionally, over. But when he couldn’t say for certain when his divorce would be finalized, she felt ashamed of their relationship. She wouldn’t be the “other woman,” and she wouldn’t let herself become desperate. A woman had to be in control of her destiny and create choices for herself, Mamina had said in supporting her decision to go to Jordan. She was going to have a big career, and a new life of freedom in this new country.
…
THE FIRST FEW weeks of living in Jordan were like a dream. Walking around the city freely without the fear of kidnappings or bombs was a pleasure in itself. Baba took a bus with Nunu and Mamina from Baghdad to join Zia in her two-bedroom apartment in the quiet University of Jordan neighborhood, Jubaiha. Baba returned immediately, but Mamina planned to stay for a month and then go back to teaching and to take care of Baba, while Nunu—who was on break from her university—would stay with Zia until classes resumed in October. Baba was happy to have the family in Jordan for a while. Although the man acting drunk had not returned, since Zia left they had been living in fear that the house would be bombed or Nunu would be kidnapped. Zia’s absence in the neighborhood was gossiped about, and Mamina and Baba had agreed to say she had accepted a job in Kuwait. But Zia’s employment inside the Green Zone had become a well-known secret, and gossip abounded that she was hiding or even dead. Mamina let such rumors spread—better the insurgents think her daughter was dead than try to come after her. Nunu, however, couldn’t bear the pressure of lying. At the university, she tr
ied to avoid the militias on campus but couldn’t escape the prying questions into Zia’s whereabouts by girls whose older siblings had known her. Nunu felt herself a terrible liar, and preferred to duck her head and race from class to class. Without her sister to confide in in the evenings, she increasingly felt isolated and alone.
In Amman, Nunu’s high spirits returned. Maybe things would improve by the time they returned, she wondered aloud to Mamina. Insh’allah, Mamina said.
While she was in Jordan, Keith called Zia several times a day. In August, he came to see her. They took a day trip to Aqaba, a picturesque seaside town in southern Jordan, that felt like a honeymoon—that was how Zia liked to imagine it. But it was merely a respite from the realities of their troubled romance. When he was back in Baghdad, every time she pushed him about their wedding, he pushed back. “Divorce takes time in California,” he said. “Sometimes years.” Keith’s brother Walter, backed him up, telling Zia that his own divorce in California had taken several years. After a while, she let the subject drop. She was too proud to ask him to marry her. She didn’t want to even risk the possibility that Keith or anyone else thought she was just “trying to marry a passport.” She didn’t want to believe she needed Keith. She had her family, after all. She told herself she could stand on her own feet and be an independent woman.
The only problem with this plan, though, was that as weeks went by Zia was finding Jordan to be a difficult place to be an independent woman. Her plan started with a hunt for a temporary job to earn some cash, but almost all of the jobs listed in the local newspapers said “Jordanians only.” A few people she called hung up on her when they found out she was Iraqi. Other job offerings were suspect. One position was described only as “Admin. asst.” for a private company. The man behind the desk told her, “Your job is to drum up business and please clients.” When he told her the hours were 9:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m., she left immediately. Another job offered only $150 a month, a pittance that wouldn’t cover half the rent. Another was for a secretary in a dimly lit basement office, a job she felt was depressing and beneath her. One potential employer tried to argue with her about IMN. “Saddam was a great man,” he said. “Why would you betray your country by working with the foreigners?” Zia picked up her purse and left.
Meanwhile, her plans to leapfrog over to university in America had also ground to a halt. She was shocked to discover tuition costs of between $15,000 and $35,000 a year, and she hadn’t realized master’s programs in business administration required two years in the USA, unlike the single year in the UK and Iraq. That was an extra year of tuition and housing before she could graduate and apply for jobs. Zia had come to Jordan with a vague plan to work, save money, and then move to Britain or the States until the situation improved in Iraq. She wasn’t particular about where she went, but she wanted to get her master’s degree and keep moving her life forward professionally. But each way she turned, the doors seemed closed.
Each passing day left her feeling more deflated. Occasionally, she and Nunu saw other Iraqi women in Amman at Internet cafés, employment offices, or at the embassy. She knew they were Iraqi by their accent. When she chatted with them, she realized they had sadder stories than hers: “My father was killed; my brother has no job and we have no money.” Others were even more desperate. In the food court of Amman’s Mecca Mall, she saw Iraqi women wearing lipstick, dressed in tight pants and high heels, strutting past the Kentucky Fried Chicken looking for clients. Whenever she felt sorry for herself, she remembered these women and prayed for them. While Zia was looking for a job, Nunu stayed inside the apartment watching Egyptian soap operas and episodes of Oprah, cooking, and cleaning. She didn’t like to venture outside by herself, as taxi drivers often made nasty comments to her. She had few places to go, anyway.
Many American companies contracted to work in Iraq were moving their offices, conferences, and meetings to Jordan because of the terrorism in Iraq, so Amman was thriving financially, which made it even more frustrating for Zia that she couldn’t find a job. An enormous billboard was erected on the highway from the airport promoting the country as a place for those with Iraq contracts to live and work: “Jordan: established rule of law; thriving private sector; competent labor force; gateway to the Middle East.”
Yeah, that used to be Iraq’s dream, Zia thought sadly, only a year ago.
After five weeks of rejections, in her last and final attempt at a job, Zia enrolled in a stewardess-training class advertised in the newspaper. Stewardess was not the career she had dreamed for herself, exactly, but she had always loved clouds and the thought of flying felt freeing. The class was full of young, pretty women from Chechnya and Moldova with big dreams and vague personal histories. Some shared apartments in Jordan. The teacher was an unkempt Jordanian man who said he had worked for Royal Jordanian Airlines, and would teach them to hostess for airlines. She and the other women each paid him one hundred dollars. He taught them the flight-safety message and they went over emergency exit procedures. By the fifth class, however, the teacher became crude. He cursed and talked about his relationship with his Mexican wife.
At the end of the six classes, the teacher said they were ready to take an exam, but there would be an additional fee of one hundred dollars for their certificate. This fee could be waived if the young women signed a contract to work for his company for a year. When Zia learned the details of his company, she quickly realized the whole thing was most likely a scam. He flew charter flights for pilgrims going to Mecca in Saudi Arabia. Pilgrims were often religious radicals, and, she knew, the stewardesses were often prostitutes. Once in Saudi Arabia—or wherever the plane landed—any unaccompanied young women on board could be kidnapped or trafficked. A single woman in Saudi Arabia has few rights. If she was raped, the government could punish her, even kill her, for the crime of traveling without a male relative, which they believed was forbidden in the Quran. Although many of the other girls signed up anyway, Zia decided the class was no longer for her and didn’t take the test.
Still, she thought she had the training to become a stewardess, so she took her receipt and set up an interview with human resources at Royal Jordanian. The minute she stepped into the office and opened her mouth, the woman snapped at her, “You’re not Jordanian. Only locals can apply.”
Zia knew that Royal Jordanian hired stewardesses from around the world, but the woman just shook her head and repeated herself. Furious that they were rejecting her for being Iraqi, Zia wanted to scream at the horrible woman that this job was beneath her anyway, and she had worked with the U.S. government, as a transmissions site manager, with people from the White House. How dare she treat her like this? Before the tears could rush to her eyes, she swiveled on her heels and stormed out the door.
BY ZIA’S THIRD month there, Amman started to feel dirty, congested, and noisy. She fell into a deep depression and spent nights crying in her bed. Nunu tried to comfort her, but she had little understanding of Zia’s ambitions or professional disappointments. “If God wills it, you will be with Keith” was all she could think of to say. Zia missed Keith, but she also really missed her old job. When she remembered the early days at IMN she broke into tears. Good dreams don’t last long, she thought. She had worked for a year, trying to prove herself and get promoted, but it had all been for nothing. Occasionally, someone would email her, needing something, and she’d reply instantly with the item’s exact location. She could walk into that office blindfolded and find anything. That was her office. It’s not mine anymore, she reminded herself. It’s theirs now.
Instead of her being part of the team, now all the people who had talked about helping her either weren’t returning her emails or had disappointing news. Even her former supervisor wouldn’t help. There was a branch of her company in Amman, and Zia wanted to apply there. But instead the supervisor wanted to talk to Zia about her relationship with Keith, of which she disapproved. When Zia defended it, the emails stopped.
What was she fighting for now?
she wondered. She had left behind her country, her job, and her real love, thinking she would find something better and be able to move up and out on her own. But Jordan didn’t want her, no one would hire her, and things with Keith were only making everything worse, on all fronts. In late September, Mamina and Baba came to fetch Nunu, and brought Zia a new package from a matchmaker. Inside was a long letter and a passport photo. A Jordanian man in his forties, who ran his own business and lived most of the time in the States, was looking for a young bride who would be willing to stay in Jordan and manage the domestic end of his business. Had it come to this? Zia stared at the photo stapled to the letter. He wore a cheap white button-down shirt and a sports jacket. He was pale and balding. Nunu laughed. “You will become a Catholic nun before you marry this man.”
But Zia felt much more serious about all of this now than she had just a few months ago. What if this were her last offer? Soon, Zia would be twenty-three. Her aunt in London wouldn’t send another prospect after the debacle with the London PhD, and no Iraqi man would marry her without first snooping around her neighborhood asking about her reputation. By now, all the neighbors knew she worked for the Americans, and it was possible they also knew about Keith. Once a suitor uncovered that news, he would certainly withdraw the offer.
And yet she knew she could never be happy in a marriage that began like this. Since the Americans had come, her expectations were higher. She wanted to marry in the Western way, where the couple become friends first and fall in love. She knew what she was telling herself. Really, she wanted to marry Keith. She loved him. But what if Keith never divorced? What if her supervisor had been right, that he was using her? More than a broken heart was at stake. She would end up a spinster, or married to an old, penniless widower. She wondered which fate was worse, to be a spinster or a slave?
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