Rat trap

 The street was busy, sudden gusts swirling into corkscrews of opacity, covering the pedestrians in a film of beige dust, and temporarily obscuring vision.

That is when they approached me for the first time. 

 They must had been studying me for quite some time before this, assessing their target, their potential victim, their prey. They made their moves with practiced ease, working in tandem and communicating without words. No rush, no need to hurry, they had all day if necessary. They were friendly enough at the start, a coffee, a beer, broad smiles, always smiles -hyena, shark. Cold calculations showing in their eyes, or maybe it was desperation. Poverty will do that.

They seduced travelers with tales of altruism and adventure. It was their perfect combination. Left hook, right hook, subtlety and deception. They probed for my weaknesses and gained my confidence slowly, cautiously. They wanted to live up to my expectations, as friendly and curious locals, and naturally, after all their efforts, they wanted the contents of my wallet to live up to theirs.

Maybe there was something in my gut telling me this didn't feel right, like I had been here before, but I chose to ignore the subtle warning. I wanted this to work out, to make amends for the mistrust I had placed in humanity for so long.

The hours pass and, swirls of dust later, I am sat in a room full of people. Convinced that I am making a contribution to poverty  alleviation. An event to fund-raise for street children is the mask they use. 

A table in front of me, crowded with beer bottles and ashtrays. The hypnotic reggae bass beat from the speakers lulling me into a false sense of security. Smells of freshly made injera and berbere spices mingling with the pungent aroma of ganja smoke.

Two young men, their backs  to the door, were smiling broadly in my direction. Security, I thought. Just in case things get out of hand.

The girls were dancing, enjoying themselves, about a dozen of them, beautiful, graceful, always looking to make sure I was still there, but never making direct eye contact, except for the unhappy looking one sitting next to me. 

She must have been new around here, I thought, or maybe she was tired of the whole charade which left her feeling empty when all was said and done. I began to wonder if coming here was a mistake after all.

Maybe she was the only one with a shred of decency left, I didn't know. 

She was, however, clearly afraid of the pack leader, the one with black stone cold eyes, who materialised from the kitchen doorway. I knew by the look he gave me as he stepped into the room that this one was going to be trouble. Older, hardened, bitter, ex militia for certain. He could be carrying a weapon. He had the look of a man who has frequently committed unrepentant violence. I had seen that look too many times in my travels to have any uncertainty. 

I didn't go looking for trouble but it often seemed to find me, despite my efforts to the contrary. 

The last thing I needed was to be attacked and robbed here. I also knew the police were corrupt, and I would do myself no favours if I were arrested in this country. 

Life happens in the blink of an eye, the light shining on a girl's hair, the flash of a shooting star, the bubble bursting in the stream. How long does it take before you realise something in your surroundings has changed, something that you did not expect is about to happen? A split second? A circular motion of time?

What gad started off as a beautiful illusion of tranquillity began to rust at the edges right before my eyes. 

The illusion was quick to change, as illusions are wont to do. I really didn't want this, to become dragged back into the murky primordial swamp of reflex actions and the most basic of desires. I didn't see want to hurt or be hurt anymore, but I did want to survive, no matter the odds against me.

The demons made themselves known to me now in their new guises. Three males in the room, their features blurring and warping until they resembled phantoms. It would make them easier to deal with, I thought. As surely as we will meet again, I knew that I had met them before. Evil is the same everywhere, all the more obvious when in it's purest form. The leader stared right through me with his expressionless black eyes.

 Aggression then, a sense of rushed movement, voices raised outside where I could not see, and the music stopped abruptly. The girls left in a hurry, on some silent command from the pack leader. The unhappy looking one the last to leave, glancing at me as she went out the door. A look of pity, of sympathy. My time had come to be tested it seemed. My bubble had burst, and I realised I was in it up to my neck now.

I didn't want to but I had no choice. It would be them or me. It wasn't the first time and it wouldn't  be the last, but it was never pleasant or easy, at least not for me.

My stream of consciousness was laden with rotting logs, floating from the dark recesses of my mind to the table in front of me, the air filled with the smoke of strong herbs and the smell of hard liquor. 

The stench of greed and violence coming from the three men, and I sensed more turbulence outside, another three jackals. I understood talk of knives and dollars, punctuated by agitated twitching and restless spirits. All the while the smiles flashed in my direction, each one slicing me like a machete through vine leaves. Leaving me naked and bleeding, empty and doomed, or so they would prefer. 

I had different ideas of course. I would not make it easy for them. They didn’t seem to realise that what they had done was make a very big mistake. I wish I could have made things different but there was nothing I could do. Having no expectations and no limits I paused internally for a moment, seeking forgiveness for what might come next, for what I was about to do. 

A sudden whirlwind outside filled the room with dust, my trigger to move, I burst out of my chair, a blur heading for the door, into the wilderness of their yard only to find the way barred by weapons, long stout wooden poles, 6inch nails jutting from each of them, and then reality bites. I was caged in, caught in a rat trap. They weren’t planning on leaving any witnesses.

Adrenaline coursed through my veins, heightened awareness helping me scrutinise every minute detail.

The subtle shifts of body weight as the six men split into two, intending to flank me. The glint of rusty metal in their hands, their fingers stained from tobacco and spices. The trembling limbs betraying the nervous energy of the younger ones, the cold reptilian stare of the leader boring into me. I saw it all, and shed a bitter tear at what they might have become if life had smiled on them a little earlier.

 Taking two steps forward, and one back, in a flash before they could react, snatched a weapon, energy extending from my arms now, weapon becoming part of me, and the key to my survival. I enter that liminal space where I am completely committed to ensuring my continued existence. The intention is absolute. It didn't matter what they did now, destiny was already written. 

Their smiles rapidly fading, their hackles risen, as the odds were raised in my favour. A whirlwind of emotion in their eyes, specked lightly with fear. They will try to use violence, intimidation, cunning, try everything to circle me, to turn it back around. They have done this many times before, I knew by their coordinated movements, but they could have no idea that this time the outcome would be drastically different.

They set their jaws in grim determination as they fearef the dollars slipping from their grasp. 

Now my back is to the gate, weapon out in front, loose, fluid, my breathing deep and slow. I am ready. 

Which one wants to be the instigator? The first one to move is the first one to suffer. Take the brave one out swiftly and dampen their enthusiasm. 

As he tries to flank me I take the strongest one out of his comfort zone and into my sphere. Welcome to my nightmare, demon. Don't worry, it's just another dream. Life can be like that. A sudden movement, a fraction of time taken to blink, and it's all over. Blood gushing from the artery in his neck, his hands move in shock to stop the flow but it’s too late. His eyes glazed over then, staring at the sun through a swirl of dust, unseeing, unable to change his mind.

The others back out of range, wary of me now, and are corralled between the outside wall of their house and their own stumbling efforts at retreat. They started all of this, chose the wrong victim. They made me into what I had then become. There was neither love nor pity. There was only survival, and intention.

The weapon spins again, scythes through the air, traversing a deadly arc which culminated in the neck of the jackal at the edge of the group. It dropped him like a fallen tree, changing forever his destiny, and unfortunately, mine also.

Two down and I see now the terror shining in the eyes of the others, all except for the older one, the pack leader. His eyes remained like two black stones lying in stagnant pools of scum, watching it all unfold from a safe distance, a faint flicker of twisted mirth around the edges of his mouth. This one knew something the others could never fathom. I had taught him this, and he had learned a costly lesson about life and death in the process.

I back out of the gate to their compound, onto a residential street where they will not openly attack me. They tend to their wounded, and worse. I had made my escape, but there will come another time. Of that I can be sure. I can only hope to be prepared. I will leave it here for now, but remain ever-vigilant. The way is long, and not always clear. The path does not end.

No one’s little boy (ode to The Raincoats)

I’m no one’s little boy, alright?

Get that inside your head.

I’ll never be in your family tree, Even if you ask me to.

I’m not gonna be, cos I don’t fucking want to be.

No matter what you ask, I’ll turn it down. I won’t mess you around, but I’m just not gonna be.

I promise I won’t fuck you around, but I’m no one’s little boy, I’m not.

No fucking way.

And I’m not gonna be in your family, cos I don’t wanna be, even if you ask me.

I’ll turn you down, but I won’t mess you around.

I won’t fuck you around. Won’t try it on. Oh no, I swear, no way. No trying it on.

I’m no one’s little boy. I’m not gonna be. Cos I don’t wanna be.

I never shall be. Even if you ask me to. I don’t wanna be.

But you can do it. It’s your choice, trying it on. You can do it, if you don’t wanna lose it. Try it on. You could do it, try it on.

I don’t want to be.

No matter fucking what,

I just don’t want to be.

I don’t just want to be.

Hypermarket

 

It was quiet here at this time of night. Whenever I needed space to think I came to this place because it was always open, and nobody paid me too much attention or cared how I looked. It was humid, had been for days now, and the cold sterile air inside provided a refreshing respite from the oppressive city atmosphere.

There were only a dozen or so shoppers browsing the aisles. Mostly nightshift workers on their time off who couldn’t sleep, accustomed to being active in the small hours, unable to adapt to the daylight activities of the majority. The rest were blank-faced automatons with numbered uniforms who stacked the shelves, not deviating their attention from the packets of cereals or the tins of own-brand mulch that needed to face the exact same way.

I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just browsing the aisles, enjoying the feeling of being lost in the anonymity of brands and the fake smell of freshly baked goods that emanated from unseen vents. It didn’t trigger any buyolological impulse for me, I was beyond that, but somehow it made me feel nostalgic.

It was then that I noticed her, standing in the frozen food section, looking at packets of pizzas and plant based products. It wasn’t the first time I had seen her, but I certainly didn’t expect to encounter her here.

She was facing away from me now, and wasn’t aware of my attention, but I would have recognised her anywhere. She wore no jewellery, and her long dark hair was tied up with a simple black clip, but it was the way she moved that jogged my recognition. We had something in common, both ending up here, but this time it was different. Maybe it was because of the clothes she was wearing, the casual shorts and plain black t-shirt, which accentuated her long limbs and implied a sense of comfort within her body. There was something economical almost feline in her movements, all poise and balance, an awareness that projected confidence.

The last time she had looked radically different, but that was no surprise given our circumstances. Still, she retained an aura of defiance about her that commanded respect. You could just sense the hidden depths to her, even if you had never experienced what I had. She was probably trying to keep a low profile, but the noticeable marks weren’t helping much.

I definitely hadn’t expected so many bruises, but I shouldn’t have been in the least bit surprised. They caught my eye under the glaring lights of the supermarket. They were dark and heavy, circling her wrists and forming blue-black blotches on her pale thighs and shins.

Even though I felt guilty for looking, I was unable to tear my eyes away. As if I was invading her space somehow, peering into a hidden window on her private life, although that hadn’t seemed to matter the last time when I had witnessed her performance in that club. If you could call such activities a performance.

I didn’t want her to notice my staring, so I feigned interest in some containers of frozen kefir whilst keeping an eye on her from a distance. She selected a packet of peas from the freezer, weighing them in her hand first before dropping them into the almost empty trolley. Probably for the swelling I thought.

As she half turned to examine some special offers, I saw what looked like a chain of purple blotches on her cheek. I knew why. A worker passing by with a trolley laden with boxes glanced at her and quickly looked away, pretending he hadn’t noticed those ugly visible marks. I wondered why she hadn’t tried to cover up, but wearing long sleeves and a scarf would probably be too uncomfortable in the cloying heat of the summer, and besides, maybe she wasn’t in the least bit embarrassed by how she looked. It was like some sort of statement of defiance. A badge of honour to show strength and endurance, not that she needed to prove anything. Possibly she was so used to looking like this it just didn’t matter anymore. She wasn’t someone to trifle with, and certainly wasn’t hiding it, even though that too was risky.

I recalled that first time I had set eyes on her. I hadn’t intended to enter that world, known only to a select few, but I joined a colleague who had persuaded me. Right up my street, he had told me. Blow off some steam.  It would be perilous for sure but, being weary of all the regulations and needing my thrills, I was naturally drawn to anything that seemed even remotely clandestine. I had eventually agreed to come along, maybe even to participate. Even then I was surprised at what had transpired.

It wasn’t the coded messages or the secretive location that was most unsettling. Neither was it the shifty and brutish looking security detail, who scanned the bodies arriving at the entrance, although they certainly had some influence on the overall atmosphere. Their uniforms showed off their mirror muscles, while their poker faces were set in a way that left no doubt as to their intentions, should someone step out of line. It was the violence that had occurred within, however, and the small crowd of spectators and participants who reveled in it, that would shock most.

Ordinary civilians would never believe this place actually existed, outside of forbidden movies. The authorities would undoubtedly be aghast if they knew what activities were going on just a few feet below the main thoroughfare of their citadel. Though I suspected many would have had some sort of malicious fantasy about partaking in such an event, especially in times like these.

Although one could be forgiven for thinking that anything goes, subtle undertones of mutual respect permeated the night’s activities. The smell of leather and pheromones wafted through the musky air of the basement. The few women in attendance were extremely popular, and their devotees worshiped them silently with their eyes from outside the circle. The males were stereo-typically macho in their appearance. They all wanted to see someone being dominated, pain being inflicted, maybe even to see blood flow. They took voyeuristic pleasure in observing another human spirit crushed and humiliated, wistfully imagining they were the ones dishing out the punishment. No doubt some of them were turned on by receiving as well as giving, for that was all part of the carnival they were here to witness.

She drew the most attention for her performances which were always merciless, as I would soon find out. Big money changed hands in the shadows outside the well-lit stage, and the cash prizes were huge, reflecting the risks of getting caught by the authorities. There were rules of course, but not too many.

When we were paired without warning she got straight into it, never saying a thing. There were no safe words here, no preludes, just the sound of her heavy breathing in my ear, and the sweat of our bodies mingling as we clinched. Sensing her power, her inner strength, I gave her all I could muster, but I knew even my best shot wasn’t going to be enough for her. Her boundaries seemed limitless. I didn’t last long, my time of reckoning coming more quickly than I had anticipated.

A blur of motion, bright lights in my vision, sudden impact and the sound of my teeth cracking. I crashed to the ground and faded out of consciousness. My limp and battered body was dragged out of the ring by security guards, leaving a slick of bodily fluids in its wake. Her gloves were covered in my blood and sweat, dripping onto the concrete floor as the crowd screamed ecstatically.

Illegal unrestrained combat was rare these days, and rarer still that a woman was the hands down overall winner. She wasn’t just another performer, she was an apex predator. I took one final look at her, then turned back to the ice-cream display, and thanked my lucky stars that I was still alive.

Girl from Jenin (The princess and the pea)

 

They came for Shazad before dawn. No warning, no mercy, just cable ties and a hood. Then the sensation of their boots breaking his ribs.

He was throwing stones at the outpost, they said. They had found a slingshot at his cousins’ house.

They sprayed the house with skunk water. Arab cologne they called it, sneering under their masks as the harsh chemicals burned and blistered anything they touched. The last memory of his home was the sound of his mother and sister screaming.

Shut it you Nablus rat!  We’ll teach you Arab princes not to throw stones. You won’t even remember your name when we’re done, they laughed.

In the back of the van they beat and kicked him until he was barely conscious. He said nothing. The pain in his side was excruciating.

When they were bored of beating him they took turns insulting him in the worst ways possible, before taking him to Megiddo prison and handing him over to the soldiers.

His shoes were taken, and he was thrown roughly into cell 7A. It smelled of piss, and vomit, and the rotting stench of pure fear. Sixteen children, no beds, and one bucket.

The harsh fluorescent lighting never went off, and for hours the white noise blared horrifyingly, masking the sound of distant screams echoing inside the fortress walls.

Somehow, he drifted off but was jolted awake painfully when the soldiers came to take one of the older boys.

When they brought the boy back after two days, his clothes were wet. One of his eyes was closed, and blood was crusted around his nose and mouth. He limped to an empty space and collapsed on the floor, murmuring something about electricity.

Slurping coffee from plastic cups, the soldiers mocked and jeered them. A few of the children cried out in their fitful sleep. Many never spoke at all, but the expressions in their eyes screamed out their pain and suffering. They were constantly hungry, and the cold was almost unbearable.

At 14, Shazad was older than most, and knew to keep silent. The boy nearest to him was staring into space, apparently oblivious to the maggots that twisted nauseatingly on his infected foot.

 After six days the soldiers arrived with a girl. Shazad guessed she was about twelve. She was dirty and barefoot, and her lip was split, but she had that look of defiance in her eyes.

At a checkpoint they had found a photo on her phone of a ruined Gaza. That was reason enough to take her. She was Palestinian.

They kicked her into the cell.

This little Jenin bitch will show you boys how to fight, they mocked.

Shazad watched her as she slowly sat down and stared at the wall. For the entire day she didn’t eat or speak.

She didn’t even flinch when the soldiers dragged away two little ones by their necks, and returned them in tears. Blackened, blood encrusted stumps where their nails used to be.

Their agonized cries brought others huddling around them, in an attempt at comfort, until the soldiers hosed them away with filthy water. She continued to stare at the wall as if it was whispering secrets only she could hear.

The soldiers enjoyed playing mind games with their captives. Tormenting them with insults about their very existence. She acted as if they didn’t exist.

Jenin people. You can’t break them, but you can’t trust them either, his mother had always said. Shazad decided he didn’t like her.

The soldiers didn’t like her either. They liked noise. They liked the sound of Arabs in pain.

Two days later they came for her.

You won’t be back anytime soon you little Jenin bitch, they laughed, you’ll be having too much fun.

Two more days passed. Shazad held on. Didn’t say much. Kept a low profile.  Best not to draw attention to himself.

Barely audible whispers.

They’ll break her for sure.

Not even a Jenin girl can withstand them.

Shazad edged towards the bars of the cell where a discarded plastic cup lay. There was still some undissolved sugar in the bottom. Swiftly he scooped it out and wrapped it in a tiny scrap of tissue. He stashed it in his sleeve. It was something special. It was the only thing he had.

It was forbidden to speak in prison. Though his ribs throbbed and his voice was restricted to a whisper, his thoughts were free. He recalled better times, when his world had seemed more civilised.

Four days later they dragged her back to the cell. She had only a few scraps of clothing covering her body.

Amira’s been a bad girl, haven’t you? jeered the soldiers.

Her back was bent at an awkward angle, and her nose was broken. Her entire body was covered in welts and bruises. One of the children threw up at the ugly sight of the wire lashes on her back. Dried bloodstains ran down her thighs. She looked different.

 Shazad tried not to look at her but he couldn’t help himself.

She glanced briefly in his direction before staring once again at the wall.

Had she not been so dehydrated, her tears would have flowed as surely as the Jordan River.

Shazad waited until she fell asleep before placing the tiny parcel of sugar under the bucket.

She found his package the next day and silently pocketed it, looking around the cell puzzled before finally locking eyes with him.

Then she scanned the room again, her eyes resting on the small boy with the infected foot. The stench was appalling now, and the limb was black and red. She crawled over the empty space to reach him and gently placed the packet of sugar on his lips.

That’s it, thought Shazad.

The child’s eyes widened at the sweet memory, and as the grains of sugar dissolved he looked at her with deep gratitude. She had helped him remember his home. That was the most valuable thing to anyone in prison. Slowly, weakly, he reached under his shirt and passed her a piece of stale naan bread that he had been unable to eat.

He died that night, and in the morning after the soldiers came to take his corpse away, Shazad shuffled his way over to where she lay.

Are you okay? They used the chair on you, made you taste electricity, didn’t they? he whispered.

Yes, looking away then back again. I know they broke your ribs, she said. He just nodded.

Amira from Jenin, he thought. He recalled from his mother that the name meant Princess.

My mother said never trust people from Jenin, he said.

What do you say? she whispered.

Shazad half-smiled. Maybe Jenin girls don’t cry, even when they should.

Then.

You didn’t keep it for yourself, he said.

He needed it more, she said hoarsely.

Then she looked at him quizzically for a while, the corners of her mouth twitching, broke the bread in three, and gave him a piece. The other pieces she silently passed to the little ones.

You passed, said Shazad.

So did you, she said.