4

The call to prayer rang out at daybreak in Kandahar, the name the residents of Casablanca’s Saada district gave their neighborhood. The muezzin, Driss, had a beautiful and gentle voice. The mosque didn’t have a speaker or a minaret, so designating it a mosque was something of an exaggeration. The “mosque” was really a garage on the ground floor of a building owned by a Moroccan émigré who lived abroad. He had Belgian citizenship and had joined an extremist group to fight the Russians in Afghanistan; then he fought the Americans with the Taliban. After Kabul fell, all the fighters received orders to return home and await instructions regarding future operations. Most Moroccans came back, but those holding European citizenship were told to gather donations and start funding mosques in impoverished and marginalized neighborhoods, like this one in Kandahar. As far as the extremists were concerned, state-registered mosques were off limits for prayer since they were not seen to be built on real piety—not to mention all the informants, lackeys, and spies that infiltrated them.

The owner of this building followed his orders. Each year, he would return from Europe more of a fanatic. He entrusted the mosque to a group of young men primed for radicalizing others and who had nothing more to pin their hopes on than waging jihad.

The Kandahar neighborhood was located in the heart of Casablanca, the nation’s economic capital and home to over four million residents. It was uniquely positioned, set between soaring high-rises on one side and massive elegant villas on the other. It was an ugly stain on the urban fabric, with its dirty walls, draped doorways, and unbearable stench. The haphazard construction, the tin-panel roofs everywhere, and trash strewn all over made it seem like a neighborhood that had been hit by a tornado. A home built to house a single family was partitioned into four, and more closely resembled a rabbit’s den: no windows, no kitchen, and no facilities whatsoever. Families piled together in the quarters at night to sleep, but during the day most activity took place by the entryways, where the clotheslines were strung. True suffering came to the neighborhood in the winter months, when rain turned the unpaved passageways into mud, and the winds carried plastic bags and other light rubbish their way. In the summer, residents had to battle insects, cockroaches, rats, stray dogs, and putrid smells.

 

The neighborhood was completely deserted and still pitch black at this early hour. Everyone was asleep except those at the mosque, which was located at one end of the neighborhood. It was lit with neon lights and plastic mats covered the floor. It didn’t have any openings except for its wide wooden door, which allowed for some air circulation. All of those praying were neighborhood youth—many wearing Afghani attire, consisting of a short tunic over trousers, and sneakers. Most of them had beards, but had refrained from growing moustaches. After the early-morning prayer everyone dispersed and headed home to go back to bed, except three young friends: Driss the muezzin; Sufyan, who was preparing to travel to Syria to become a martyr; and Ibrahim, Nezha’s brother. They had gotten used to hanging around after prayer under the streetlight at the edge of the neighborhood, where they discussed religion, politics, and jihad. They were all close in age. Sufyan was the eldest, at only twenty-four years old. He planned to travel to Syria via Turkey in a couple of days to carry out his mission.

Sufyan was considered the religious leader of the neighborhood. He was skinny and rigidly built, and sported a thick beard. He was anxious and fidgety. He had been expelled from school, and before turning to religion he had been addicted to all sorts of substances: hash, hallucinogens, and any cheap alcohol. When he got drunk or high he’d take off his shirt to show off his muscles, and parade through the neighborhood brandishing a sword, waving it in everyone’s face. It was impossible for anyone to stop him, and no one in the neighborhood dared call the police, fearing revenge.

Everything changed when Sufyan’s mother passed away. She died in his arms, after suffering from cancer for years without ever even knowing about it. She had never received proper health care, and couldn’t afford to go to the hospital. A nurse in the neighborhood clinic had diagnosed her condition from her symptoms. Sufyan would give her aspirin to ease her pain during the toughest times, when the pain was tearing up her insides. She underwent herbal treatments, and would visit revered herbalists and so-called miracle workers, who claimed to be capable of treating anything. Her health worsened day after day until she began falling in and out of consciousness. Sufyan was by her side until the moment she passed.

Sufyan was so deeply affected by his mother’s death that he left the neighborhood for an entire year. When he returned, he was a completely different young man. He wore Afghani attire, sported a thick, rough beard, and espoused extremist views. He declared that his new mission was the promotion of Islamic virtue and prevention of vice. He had a real impact on the youth of the neighborhood, who came to listen to him, and then began to admire and respect him. He showed how religion could transform the immorality and violence of your past into a life of piety and salvation. No one knew—not even his two best friends, Ibrahim and Driss—where he had spent that year away. When asked, he would look into the distance and offer a calm smile. His gaze would wander as if he were in another world, and he’d just say he was with “the group,” giving no further details.

On the opposite end of the spectrum from Sufyan’s desire for leadership and power was Ibrahim, Nezha’s brother. He wasn’t self-assured: even in the company of his friends he was introverted. He listened far more than he spoke, despite the fact that he had spent half a year at university. His mind wandered whenever Sufyan assailed them with some new religious treatise. He would pretend to be listening and feign interest, meanwhile absorbed in his own conflicted and depressive state. Deep down he was not religious, and didn’t even have much desire to pray, but he feared he would be cut off from the neighborhood gang if he deviated from their views. This close-knit group was hostile to anyone who left—considering him or her an apostate. Ibrahim needed to maintain their acceptance and friendship, so he wouldn’t be kicked out, but he also needed it to distance himself from his sister Nezha’s conduct. He was ready to respond forcefully to any insinuation that she wasn’t proper and chaste. He insisted that his sister—even if she wore makeup and wasn’t veiled—was just an employee at a clothing factory.

Driss, whom Sufyan had chosen to be the muezzin because of his melodious voice, was the youngest of the three, only twenty-one years old. He looked like a burly kid: he had exaggerated features and colorless, aggressive eyes. He claimed to know absolutely everything in spite of his obvious ignorance, and he never hesitated to argue passionately with anyone who disagreed with Sufyan. Driss was expelled from school by sixth grade after failing repeatedly. In his teenage years he followed the same path as Sufyan: he took any cheap drug he could get his hands on, he picked pockets in the market, and his family kicked him out so many times that he was basically homeless. Sufyan took him under his wing after returning from his year with “the group,” and since then, Driss and Sufyan were attached at the hip, like a student clinging to his sheikh.

The three stood there under the lamppost, which went out with the first crack of sunlight, discussing Sufyan’s preparations for his trip to Syria in a couple of days. This had to be kept a complete secret. Before Ibrahim was able to ask Sufyan about the latest arrangements, Sufyan dove into an explanation of Driss’s recent dream, in which he had seen a candle.

“A candle appearing in a dream is a good sign, especially if it is brightly lit,” Sufyan explained, enthusiastically assuming the role of a mufti, and gesticulating wildly. “For a bachelor it means a wife is on the horizon. For a married man, it means children. For someone lost, it means divine guidance. And for the poor, it means wealth. But if the flame is dim, that is evidence of weakness, but it will still lead you to the right path.”

“Sufyan, what book did you read this interpretation in?” Ibrahim asked in a sleepy voice, hoping to show interest even though he already knew the answer.

“The Interpretation of Dreams by Ibn Sirin.”

Sufyan’s reply to Ibrahim was authoritative and gruff, and he immediately turned his attention back to Driss, probing him as if pushing him to confess to something he wasn’t comfortable with. This was the third time in less than a week that Driss had asked for the explanation of the candle dream. Sufyan wondered if he was trying to tell him something. Was there some secret causing this repeated inquiry? Sufyan crossed his arms, a position he adopted only when he was about to give a prognostication.

“Be honest with me, Driss,” he said, tightening his lips and coughing. “You know there is no shame in faith. Are you playing with yourself?”

Ibrahim couldn’t hold back a smirk, but a stern look from Sufyan paralyzed him. Driss turned around, pretending to spit in the corner. He had to answer, but he was always pitiful when talking about anything personal.

“What do you mean, Sufyan?”

“I mean, are you masturbating?”

Driss was clearly frustrated, but he tried to seem calm. It was just as hard for him to tell a lie as it was to confess. Driss remained silent, and then Sufyan started in on his legal opinion, like he was reading straight from a book.

“Masturbation, brothers, is prohibited in the sharia for men and women, the married and unmarried, due to its unhealthy repercussions. If semen is produced, proper cleansing must follow. The best way to rid yourself of this habit is abstinence, and then by seeking marriage, through God’s guidance. We need to understand that it is prohibited and resist these urges, just as we need to constantly remember our own mortality.

“Resist the urge, and stop this altogether,” Sufyan said, laying a hand on Driss’s shoulder.

Ibrahim tried to hide his smirk again. He was concerned that Sufyan was going to begin questioning him, so he beat him to it, by speaking up quickly to change the subject. Ibrahim asked about the war in Iraq and Syria, a topic Sufyan never tired of, and asked how his travel preparations were coming along.

“I received orders to be extra cautious,” Sufyan said, answering him curtly. “There are spies all over the neighborhoods that send fighters to Syria and Iraq.”

Driss spat in the corner. “Death to traitors, spies, and state security!” he proclaimed heatedly.

“I will depart soon, inshallah, with the help of our brothers,” Sufyan said quietly. “When I arrive I’ll get my mission, along with the brothers arriving from all over the Islamic world.”

“I’d love to die as a martyr in Iraq or Syria,” Driss said, looking at Sufyan with admiration.

“Your turns will come soon, inshallah,” Sufyan said, patting Driss on the shoulder and gesturing toward Ibrahim.

“True Islam won’t be achieved,” Sufyan said passionately, “until the Islamic State, with its capital of Baghdad, is established. Islam is an all-encompassing system that governs every single aspect of life, and is intended for everyone. Islam guides the individual, the sword conquers and subjugates, and the tank and warplane kill those who renounce Islam while coercing others to embrace it. Islam is a faith that supersedes other faiths present in this world, and therefore there is no use in considering interfaith dialogue or peacefully coexisting. The mujahideen are striving to eliminate all political systems because each is an embodiment of the false idols the Quran commands us to destroy. Jihad is the only way we can establish God’s kingdom on earth, and martyring yourself by blowing yourself up allows you to reach the highest rungs of heaven. Because of that, I’m looking forward to death and meeting my divine maker. I’m going to cross the borders and join the mujahideen. I won’t be taken prisoner. I’ll enter Syria by God’s will and I’ll transform my body into a bomb that blasts the enemy into pieces! I’ll make their heretical brains—”

He suddenly stopped talking. They’d heard noises, which turned out to be a car parking not too far away. Was it the secret police? After the most recent terrorist attacks that had rocked Casablanca, this neighborhood had been under close observation by the authorities. The three friends froze. The hair on the backs of their necks stood on end as they watched a young woman get out of a Mercedes and slam the door. They made out a gray-haired older man shaking his fist and yelling unintelligibly before racing off.

Nezha raised her head, frozen in place. Her heart was pounding. Standing there with her breasts spilling out of her shirt, wearing a short skirt, and eyes swollen and red, she seemed out of place. She stared at what looked like ghosts under the lamppost. She had not anticipated seeing anyone. She had never returned at this time before, nor in such a scandalous way. Normally when she was out at night she wouldn’t return until the next afternoon, with groceries or other necessities in hand, getting dropped off by a cab right in front of their house—and then disappearing inside in an instant. But right now, she was completely exposed in the early-morning light, and there was no turning back. She had no idea what would come of this. She lowered her head, pulled her dress down—it barely covered half of her thighs anyway—and tried her best not to stagger. She had no choice but to pass within a few steps of them. She smiled in an attempt to drive back the fear that coursed through her, and walked past them. Had she been able to look up, she would have seen her brother Ibrahim. His eyes were bulging out of their sockets and burning with rage. His face was ashen and he was short of breath as sweat began to bead on his forehead. The feelings of shame were more than he could bear. His muscles tensed and all the emotion paralyzed him. Nezha continued walking in her high heels. Sufyan and Driss didn’t stop watching until she disappeared into the house.

Ibrahim remained as still as a statue.

Sufyan cleared his throat and tugged on his thick beard, as if he wanted to pull it out.

“Before we think about jihad in Iraq and Syria,” Sufyan said in a calm voice, “we need to wage jihad in our own neighborhood. This just confirms that we have been right all along. And now you’ve seen, Ibrahim, with your own eyes, the state of your sister. And the nerve of that driver! Dropping her off like that in our neighborhood.”

“If that was my sister, I’d kill her,” said Driss, shaking with rage as he looked at Ibrahim.

Ibrahim said nothing. Despair and depression were written all over his pale face. How he wished for a cigarette right now, despite having quit years ago. His friends’ words felt like nails being hammered into his head, and he couldn’t change the subject this time. He opened his mouth to say something but Sufyan cut him off sternly, as if he had no right to speak.

“How many times did I warn you, Ibrahim, to keep an eye on your sister, to tell her to stop wearing makeup and force her to wear the veil?”

Ibrahim looked up, still unable to believe what had happened.

“Kandahar is one of the most virtuous neighborhoods in the city, and one of its women returns drunk and half naked at daybreak? By God, the All-Powerful, who will rid this neighborhood of its filth?” Sufyan kept repeating himself and pacing, beating his chest feverishly. Then he glared disapprovingly at Ibrahim. “Do you know what a diyouth
is, Ibrahim?”

“A diyouth is someone who sees evil in his own family and doesn’t do anything about it,” Driss jumped in, directing his scorn at Ibrahim.

Ibrahim raged inside. He wanted to respond to Driss, but couldn’t find his voice—it betrayed him. He was overcome by such intense rage that he started imagining himself beating his sister, kicking her, even stabbing her. He couldn’t handle any more blame from his friends, and thought that if he stuck around he might get in a fight with them. He said his goodbyes, lowered his head, and headed home. He walked with determination, ready to do something serious.

Ibrahim opened the door and gave a quick look toward his sister’s room, which appeared to be quiet and pitch black. He felt that something had happened before he arrived. His mother was sleeping, or pretending to be asleep, in her usual corner of the basement-level apartment. The only real room in the house was Nezha’s room, since the rest of the place more closely resembled a cellar: a few square feet without any windows or openings whatsoever. His mother, Ruqiya, repositioned herself, groaning painfully, as she battled intense pain. She was a worn-out soul and was extremely skinny. She looked like someone who had borne the brunt of an incredibly difficult life. Her husband’s passing four years ago coincided with the onset of kidney problems that flared up with the slightest aggravation. Everyone walked on eggshells around her, and luckily she had Nezha and Ibrahim to take care of her. Ibrahim would kiss her forehead and hand after waking, and before sleeping. He would jump to get her what she needed, sometimes before she even asked.

Ibrahim tried to compose himself as he listened to his mother’s moaning. He had no doubt that Nezha had told their mother what happened before she holed up in her room. Certainly his mother was aware of the humiliation Ibrahim suffered in front of his friends. Were his mother’s moans this time the result of kidney pain shooting through her side, or was she faking, fearful of Ibrahim’s reaction? She knew that the one thing Ibrahim wouldn’t do was agitate her and cause her even more pain. Her latest episode had passed only a few days ago, and she was still recovering.

Ibrahim slumped down in the corner and closed his eyes, denying himself an impulsive response. He was conflicted as to what to do. A dark cloud of depression overcame him as he recalled what his friends had said: “A diyouth is someone who sees evil in his own family and doesn’t do anything.”

He had believed, or at least let himself believe, that his sister worked nights at a clothing factory. It was no secret that she was the sole provider for the family, so he was in no position to ask questions. He pretended to sleep, even placing a pillow over his head, as if that would help him avoid reality. He remembered how he had been able to attend university for six months thanks to his “seamstress” sister. And then, when things got bad financially and he had to withdraw, he wanted to take up his father’s stall in the neighborhood market. The competitors kicked him out, insisting that his father had never had a permanent spot. He had been unemployed since then, a total waste of space. It was only in connecting with his religious friends that he restored some purpose to life, not to mention simply having something to do. He spent his day between the mosque and hanging about with other unemployed people in the neighborhood, and he always had a hot meal when he returned home. But now, how was he going to deal with this? How would he face his friends at the mosque tomorrow? Could he spend time with them after they called him a diyouth? If he didn’t take revenge on his sister to restore his honor then he wouldn’t be a man. A strong desire seized him to head straight to the kitchen, get out a knife, and cut her throat as she slept. But then he thought about his mother kneeling in front of him, trying to block his path, and reaching out, begging him to stop. This isn’t the time, he said to himself, and tried to go to sleep.

 

Nezha normally spent the morning hours asleep, and she didn’t wake until three or four in the afternoon. She would have a meal with her mother and then prep for another night out. She would shower, get dressed, tie her hair back, and leave the house looking like she was going to a normal job. She’d then head straight to Salwa’s Salon, which she considered a second home. It was there that she would get her hair done and put on makeup, in preparation for the evening. Most nights she would end her evening right after midnight, except for Fridays and Saturdays. When she returned home on weeknights she’d find the neighborhood empty. The taxi would drop her off right at her door, and with a couple of steps she’d be inside. No one would be up to greet her at that time. Her mother was either asleep, or trying to sleep. If Ibrahim was awake when he heard the taxi door shut, he’d hide his head under the covers. When she stayed out all night she usually didn’t return until the next day, around midday, when she could unassumingly disappear into the commotion of the neighborhood.

She awoke to the sound of her phone ringing out a familiar tune. She looked at the clock. It was four thirty in the afternoon. She felt exhausted and didn’t want to get out of bed. She closed her eyes and thought about what had happened yesterday. Everything flashed in front of her like a scene from a horror movie. She cursed the police, who ruined everything. She hadn’t been paid because of them, and that had thwarted her plans to solve her financial issues with Farqash. What she feared even more, though, was him sending the glue-sniffing street kids after her. She put her hands to her face and coiled into a fetal position, starting to tear up at the thought. The anguish involved in just thinking about what Farqash would do to her made her forget about the nasty slap she’d received the day before from the policeman, not to mention her ear, and the feeling that it had nearly been ripped off. All of this pain for nothing! She didn’t even have cash to buy a pack of cigarettes, or to leave money for her mother before heading out again.

She felt, for the first time, that the burden she carried was too heavy to bear alone. Why had her father died when he did? If he were still alive she might be in university now. She was filled with sadness as she remembered her time in school. She had been a devoted and outstanding student in her humanities classes. She always scored the highest grade on compositions. Her Arabic teacher even told her she had a promising future in writing. He encouraged her to try to write her own stories. She enjoyed writing short stories and creating her own characters, but mostly she enjoyed the attention from her teacher.

Her Arabic teacher was close to fifty and lived alone. One day, he invited her to stop by his home to give her some novels. At the time, she hadn’t even considered the fact that he didn’t have a wife or children, but after he opened the door, it was clear that he was not quite so clean-cut as she had thought. There were wine bottles everywhere, the ashtrays were jam-packed with cigarette butts, and newspapers and books were strewn all around, in every nook and cranny. She thought he might throw himself on her at the first opportunity, but he sat there facing her, opened a novel, and began to read to her: “She met him under the trees that evening. Rain began falling when he kissed her for the first time. He drew her in, and their bodies joined . . .” She didn’t even remember how he shifted from reading to kissing her.

She remembered fondly this first love affair with her teacher. She was just shy of sixteen at the time. She was poor, but had dreams: her major aspiration was to obtain a bachelor’s degree and then travel far away from where she lived—from this neighborhood riddled with violence and conflict. All the young men smoked cheap hash, took the hallucinogen called qarqubi, and drank spoiled wine, after which they drew their swords and knives and fought like dogs. Sufyan, the most dangerous one, was infatuated with her. Each night, after the qarqubi took effect, he’d lose control, strip off his shirt, and wave his sword around, spreading fear through the neighborhood. No one dared challenge or resist him, fearing his retribution. Nezha was the only one who knew the real secret behind all of his antics. She knew that he was head over heels for her. He used to send her love letters that were filled with grammatical errors and didn’t make any sense. But Sufyan never assailed her or even made a move on her. He was well aware that the repercussions of a romantic relationship between a boy and girl from Kandahar could ruin the girl’s family.

While it seemed like ages ago to Nezha, it had only been a few years since a wave of religious radicalization had taken over the youth. The young men turned away from drugs and toward strict religious observance and extreme views. They exchanged one form of violence for another—observing prayer was vigorously enforced, girls were coerced to don the veil, and men were forced to wear Afghani clothing and grow beards. Outsiders rarely entered the neighborhood. If they got lost and somehow ended up there, they would be interrogated and, in some cases, attacked. The youth liked to think of Kandahar as one of the “free zones” of the city—free from outsiders and the intrusion of the government. Nezha thought about all of this as she contemplated the agony she had put her brother through that morning. She already knew that most of their neighbors had their doubts about her supposed job, and were just waiting for her to slip up. She figured that her mother and brother also had their doubts.

She lay there and listened closely, unable to leave the bed. A strange silence filled the house. Usually when she slept this late into the afternoon her mother would knock on the door and ask, in a soft voice, “Aren’t you going to get up?” and Nezha would reply, “I’m awake, Mom.”

Where had her mother gone? Why such utter silence? Nezha reached out and turned on the lamp. There wasn’t a window in the room, and only a hole above the doorway leading to the living room allowed for a bit of air circulation. Despite this, her room was the nicest in the house—if one could call it a house. Her room had a real bed, a small dresser with a mirror on top, and a makeup counter. Nezha sat on the edge of the bed, put her head between her hands, and thought about what she had done. What had happened yesterday would have consequences. Fear gripped her as she thought about what might happen now. She clutched her cell phone, and after a brief hesitation punched in Salwa’s number.

“Hello . . . Salwa, are you at the salon?” she whispered.

“Yeah. Are you still at home?”

“Yup, I’m at home. Do you have anyone right now?”

“I have a customer, but I’ll be done in about fifteen minutes. I can barely hear you. How was last night? Everything okay?”

Nezha was desperate to tell her friend what had happened at the hotel last night and then what had happened that morning, but she held back.

“I’m all right. We’ll talk when I get there,” she said quickly.

She hung up without waiting for a reply. She opened the door to the living room, which was also pitch black. Why hadn’t her mother opened the door and opened the drapes yet? Nezha felt depressed, as if she were seeing for the very first time the prison cell she called home. She went to the bathroom and then got dressed quickly. She desperately wanted a cigarette. At this point, she didn’t even care where her mother was or about her brother’s reaction. But as she was putting on her shoes, the door opened and her mother and brother came in. Nezha stood up and put her hands out in front of her face, fearing that her brother was going to slap her. He had hit her a couple of times because he didn’t think her clothes were conservative enough, or because she refused to wear a veil.

“Where were you yesterday?” he snarled at her, pulsing with anger.

Her mother groaned and collapsed on the bed. Nezha looked at her, but her mother averted her eyes and continued groaning, leaving Nezha feeling deserted.

“What type of job do you come home from looking like a whore?”

These words rang out painfully, and a look of utter astonishment spread over Nezha’s face. Had they really believed that she was working at a factory? Had they only just discovered her real job? She was so surprised that she didn’t know how to reply.

“Who was the guy who dropped you off?” asked Ibrahim, getting angrier by the moment.

“He’s the owner of the factory I work at. There weren’t any other options at that time.”

Their mother sat up and looked at Ibrahim.

“This is what I told you, son. We need to hear her out first.”

“Do you believe her?”

Their mother went back to groaning. Pain shot through her as though someone were hammering on her spine, and she placed her hands on her lower back. Ibrahim looked over at her as his frustration welled up. On the one hand, his anger at his sister was burning him up inside; on the other hand, he didn’t want to cause his mother further pain and have to take her back to the hospital.

Their mother slumped down again and Nezha tended to her, helping her stretch her legs out.

“Are you all right, Mom?”

“What am I supposed to do? Yesterday I thought I was going to die. . . . If only I had. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I kept hearing your brother toss and turn. God save us from the youth in this neighborhood. Their sole occupation is to make up lies about people.”

She looked at her son to see what effect her words had on him. His expression frightened her—he was pale, his lips were cracked, and his face was taut. He gave her a blank stare, indicating his absolute refusal to participate in this charade. For the first time, his mother felt like she didn’t know her son. He seemed to her to be completely distraught and unaware of what he was saying. Nezha sensed the same thing. Then, suddenly, he fell silent, as if he had come up with a new way to deal with this situation. And from the grim look on his face, it didn’t seem like a good thing. Without saying a word, he shook his head threateningly, retreated toward the door, and left the house.

Nezha and her mother exchanged perplexed looks.

“Mom, I didn’t get paid yesterday,” she said, to change the subject.

“Why, Nezha? We’re drowning in debts—the pharmacy, groceries, rent. We have nothing to eat tonight. Your brother and I had to walk home from the hospital because we couldn’t even pay for a bus ticket.”

“I’m doing my best!” Nezha exploded. “Why doesn’t he work? He’s the man! He spends all day with that group of jobless losers at the top of the street telling us what’s halal and what’s haram. Is that what being religious means? If he was actually concerned about my honor and dignity then he’d roll up his sleeves and look for a job.”

Her mother fell silent and didn’t offer a reply. Nezha continued to get herself ready to leave.

“Maybe I’ll get paid tonight,” she said wearily. She bent over to kiss her mother on the forehead as she always did before leaving. Her mother was infuriated, and closed her eyes, not even saying her usual “May God guide you.”

 

Nezha headed out feeling like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. She walked hurriedly, with her head down. She felt like the whole neighborhood was watching her from windows, doorways, and around corners. She mustered the courage to look up, and in the distance saw her brother standing by the lamppost with Driss, who she really hated. She knew that Sufyan was also watching her from the roof of his family’s house. She feared that someone would attack her. She wouldn’t feel safe until she made it out of the neighborhood and could be swallowed up by the busy thoroughfare. She picked up her pace and was now nearly running toward Salwa’s Salon.

The salon was tiny, like a small convenience store, and had a cozy atmosphere. It was located about two blocks from Kandahar, in an area that the religious zealots didn’t control. It occupied the first floor of a two-story building and had a tinted glass façade. The sign said “closed,” even though it was open. On the walls were large posters of women with different hairstyles. Inside, there was just one chair in front of a mirror, a tattered sofa, and a table with old magazines on it.

Salwa was thirty-five and sported brash, bleached-blonde hair that she tied back. Her makeup wasn’t able to cover up her extremely pale complexion. She was divorced and supported her two children and her half-blind grandmother. A few years ago her salon was the most popular one in the area. But then salons started getting a bad reputation. Men began prohibiting their wives from going to them, and rumors spread about hairstylists colluding with pimps to encourage pretty young women to go into prostitution.

Salwa was waiting impatiently for Nezha. She kissed her on both cheeks as she walked in the door and then grabbed her hand and pulled her inside, locking the glass door behind them. Nezha sat on the couch and Salwa plunked herself down in the styling chair.

“Can you order me a coffee and give me a cigarette?”

Salwa placed a pack of cigarettes in front of her and called to order a coffee from the café next door. She waited until Nezha had lit the cigarette and taken a few quick drags.

“What happened?” Salwa asked. “I didn’t like the tone of your voice when you called.”

Nezha, trying hard to hold back tears, started describing her night. She detailed the previous day’s events, especially her horrifying encounter with the police, and embellished a bit as she went. Salwa didn’t interrupt her except to open the door for the waiter who brought Nezha’s coffee. When Nezha arrived at the incident that happened at daybreak, Salwa rushed to the door to take a look outside.

“I’m scared of an attack,” Salwa said. “I’ve thought a lot about leaving this area. If it weren’t for my kids, I wouldn’t stay another night.” She slouched into the styling chair. “I get letters every day demanding that I close the salon and start wearing a veil,” she went on. “I’ve gotten plenty of phone calls from people urging me to close the ‘Prostitute Club,’ as they call it. They urge me to repent and return to God, as if I’m a nonbeliever.”

Nezha lit another cigarette, inhaled deeply, and drank the last sip of coffee. She rose, went to the mirror, and inspected herself closely.

“Why do I have such bad luck?” she asked, addressing herself in the mirror.

Salwa smiled to herself and sighed. At the end of the day, Nezha was still just an innocent young woman whose life circumstances had placed her in difficult situations.

“My income this month is zero,” said Nezha. “I was depending on Hamadi, and now everything is busted. Screw the police!”

“I heard that the raid yesterday was extensive, and that the station is full of girls.”

Nezha sat in the styling chair that Salwa had just gotten up from, and checked her hair.

“I wish the police had arrested me so I wouldn’t have run into my brother and his friends when I got back,” she said.

Salwa began to comb Nezha’s hair.

“Don’t pay attention to your brother,” said Salwa. “Doesn’t he know that you go out? If he was a real man he’d be looking for a job. I don’t get those guys who spend their days at the mosque or bumming around all day in the streets. They don’t seem to care about their parents slaving away. Is that religion? The Prophet, peace be upon him, commanded us to work. Honorable work, of course.”

“And if we can’t find honorable work?”

“You want my opinion?” said Salwa. “Even your job is honorable. You go out with men to help your sick mother. If there is anyone at fault here it’s your brother—he’s lazy and dependent.”

“He did go to university and tried to take our father’s place in the market, but they prevented him.”

“He should have fought harder to find any job, for your sake and your mother’s sake. He hasn’t got an excuse.”

Salwa continued combing Nezha’s hair, feeling really worked up. Nezha was a bit taken aback by how intensely Salwa criticized Ibrahim.

“My brother is really shy and will avoid conflict at all costs,” Nezha said. “I feel like he’s tortured but doesn’t know what to do. He went everywhere looking for a job after our father passed. He even sold individual cigarettes and shined shoes as a university student. But he’s shy. God knows what Sufyan and Driss said to him when they saw Hamadi dropping me off, half naked and drunk, right in front of them.”

“Be careful, sister. Your brother hangs out with the ‘Afghans,’ as they call them.”

“If not for my mother, I wouldn’t have gone home.”

Salwa turned on the hair dryer to finish shaping Nezha’s hair, its loud hum drowning out their conversation.

Nezha sat quietly while Salwa teased and styled. She thought about the first time she’d met Salwa, and how that meeting had changed her life. Salwa’s father had died unexpectedly following a botched operation. Afterward, the family’s financial situation got worse by the day. Salwa stopped going to school and took to the streets in search of a job. Whenever she found one, she learned that she had to do something ‘extra’ to get it. One time, one of her bosses assaulted her right in his office, ripping off her underwear and nearly raping her. He only stopped when she screamed. He slapped her, called her a young whore, told her she was out of line, and threw her out of his office. She wasn’t able to get a job without using her body. She considered submitting to this reality, but felt they would get rid of her as soon as they had their way. What they all wanted was her young body—a child’s body, really—since she wasn’t even sixteen at that time.

As a result, Salwa didn’t keep up the job search for very long. She began spending all her time wandering from one store to the next trying to sell toothpaste on behalf of some company, barely making enough to get by. One day while she was out selling, a boy mugged her, hitting her in the face and stealing her bag, leaving her with nothing.

Eventually Salwa was able to get her affairs in order and open a small salon. The salon gained a bad reputation in the neighborhood, and everyone, including Nezha, heard how husbands forbade their wives from visiting it. But Nezha was curious about Salwa and her salon, and one morning she decided to head there. Salwa welcomed Nezha into the salon and got right to down to business.

“You have a gorgeous body. Why not take advantage of it before giving it up to some loser for nothing?”

Nezha was startled by Salwa’s directness, and as she started to reply Salwa approached, grabbed her by the hand, and sat her in the very same styling chair that she was sitting in now.

“I’ve known you since you were a baby,” she said. “Ruqiya, your mom, cleaned houses and your father, Mohamed, may he rest in peace, had a stall in the market. Your brother wasn’t able to take his place—may God help you all. Times are tough, but if you want me to help, I can help.”

Salwa inspected Nezha from head to toe. “If you’re busy and you need to go, come back another time.”

“No. I’m not busy,” Nezha replied quickly.

Salwa smiled.

“Are you interested in making ten thousand dirhams, which equals a million centimes?”

The word “a million” had an amazing ring for Nezha. The amount was so large she couldn’t wrap her head around it. She thought Salwa might be teasing her.

“Yeah, I want to make a million centimes. What do I have to do?”

“If you can promise me that you are still a virgin, come back tomorrow at noon.”

Nezha thought about her encounters with her teacher. He was careful to keep things tame so as not to risk taking her virginity.

“Are you still a virgin?” Salwa asked.

Nezha blushed. “I’m a virgin,” she replied, feeling compelled to respond.

Salwa explained that the ten thousand dirhams would be for the cost of her virginity.

The next day, Nezha returned to the salon a little before noon. Salwa opened the door for her, greeting her with a kiss on both cheeks. She gestured for Nezha to take a seat on the sofa. A few minutes after Nezha’s arrival, a woman with a mouthful of gold teeth entered the salon. She was veiled and spoke in a Marrakesh accent. She immediately walked over to Nezha and inspected her carefully. Nezha was nervous and quiet while she waited for the woman to finish looking her over.

“Do whatever this woman tells you, like she’s your mother,” Salwa instructed.

The woman took Nezha by the hand and led her to a cab that was waiting outside. The cab dropped them off at a luxurious villa in one of the most upscale neighborhoods in Casablanca, called California. Nezha was wide-eyed as she took in the extravagant mansion. The woman headed toward the door, leading Nezha by the hand. She rang the doorbell and a burly guard wearing a tracksuit and holding a huge club in one hand opened the door. He smiled at the woman and quickly glanced at Nezha, and then gestured for them to follow him.

The garden extended as far as the eye could see and was edged with leafy shrubs and exquisite rosebushes. Nezha absorbed the fragrances and colors of the garden as the guard and woman led her to a shaded area at the far end of the garden, an oasis from the hot afternoon sun. The woman took a seat at the table, clearly familiar with her surroundings, and waited for a moment to let Nezha take in the full grandeur of the garden.

“Everything will go well,” she said, taking Nezha by the hand and smiling at her. “The sheikh is decent and generous. He won’t hurt you. Had I known fate would have us cross paths, I would have given him twenty girls.”

Nezha didn’t really understand what the woman meant, but she felt safe inside this magical place and smiled to show her appreciation.

“Salwa didn’t explain what I’m supposed to do.”

“There isn’t anything that needs to be explained. Everything will go smoothly as long as you’re a virgin. It’s so hard to find virgins your age these days. I don’t know when things changed, but girls these days are sinful. How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Are you an orphan?”

“Well, my dad died not long ago.”

“Right, that’s what Salwa said. I like to help kids who have lost a parent since I raised my kids on my own. Listen, if you’re obedient—and it seems you are—I’ll introduce you to some very important people and you won’t have to worry about anything ever again, inshallah.”

Nezha didn’t know if she was supposed to thank this woman or not, so she just nodded and waited for whatever was in store for her.

The housekeeper approached them and gave a cursory greeting, barely even looking at them. The woman promptly stood and nudged Nezha forward.

“You can leave now,” the housekeeper said coldly to the woman who had brought Nezha.

The woman nodded and retreated toward a side door, where the guard was standing. He pointed with his club to a car parked near the walkway.

“Wait in the car,” he said. “The driver will bring you back when it’s time.”

The housekeeper took Nezha by the hand and brought her into a splendid parlor filled with elegant divans. She left Nezha standing there, without instructing her to sit down, and then disappeared through a small door. This is a real palace, Nezha thought to herself, as she stared at the ornate ceiling, the glistening chandeliers, and delicate antiques. She waited there for over two hours.

The housekeeper returned, and with a cold expression grabbed Nezha tightly by the hand and led her to a small door with a golden handle. When she opened it, Nezha found herself in a large bedroom with what looked to be a comfortable bed, sofas, a large dresser, and several chairs. The sheikh was sitting on one of the massive, tufted sofas. He looked over seventy, wore tinted black glasses, and was dressed in the finest Gulfie robes. Nezha suddenly realized that she was alone in the room with him. She hadn’t noticed the housekeeper slip out. The sheikh was deep in thought, focused solely on the prayer beads in his hand. She could hear him mutter fragments of prayers, the words unintelligibly meshed together in repetition. He seemed not to notice Nezha until he had finished his recitation. He kissed the beads and placed them under a pillow.

“Come closer, my girl. Come closer,” he said, motioning to a spot beside him.

It was at this moment that she realized he was blind. She drew closer, taking short, cautious steps until she stood in front of him. He extended his hand to touch her and
she froze.

“A bit closer. Don’t be afraid.”

When she edged even closer, he took hold of her and sat her down on the chair facing him. He began touching her face lightly, reading her features with his palms and then gently tracing the shape of her nose and mouth with his fingertip. Nezha was waiting for him to start groping her chest, and down below.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Sixteen.”

He nodded, satisfied, and then placed his hand on her knee. “Did they tell you what you have to do?”

“What do I have to do?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

“Take your clothes off over there,” he said, pointing to a door in the corner that led to another room, “then clean up and put on the white pajamas.”

After a brief hesitation she headed to the room, feeling confused, and still not exactly sure what she was being asked to do. She returned to the bedroom wearing the white pajamas, feeling like a patient in a hospital. She found the sheikh still seated on the sofa, but he had taken off his robes and was in his undergarments. His old, wrinkled body disgusted her and she hoped to get this finished quickly, get her ten thousand dirhams, and then forget it all. He asked her to sit in front of him, and removed his black-tinted glasses. She had never seen eyes like his before—dark, glassy, and hideous. She had to look away to keep from feeling nauseated.

“Take off your pajamas and open your legs, my girl,” he said with a fatherly sweetness.

Nezha paused for a second and looked closely at his face—maybe she’d discover a kind soul behind this ugly façade, but she couldn’t bear to look for long. She was terrified of him. She hurriedly removed her pajamas, and sat in her underwear. She reached out to touch him to let him know that she was ready. She had no idea how he planned to have sex with her. She was hoping he would bring her to the bed—maybe that would be quicker and gentler. Instead, he grabbed her thighs like he was inspecting cattle. His hands climbed up until he reached her underwear, which he took off gently. Then he told her to relax and open her legs. She was scared as first, but remembered that he was blind. Why wouldn’t he just bring her to the comfortable bed? Did he want something other than sex? The way he was situated in front of her didn’t seem relaxing or indicative of some sexual position; rather, it was like she was at the women’s clinic. Her confusion only increased when he touched her vagina without flinching or showing any signs of satisfaction. He began by inserting one finger, gently and determinedly, like he was used to doing this. She felt his finger enter her, and didn’t know how to react. She watched his hideous face contort with displeasure as he probed inside her. She felt his fingernail scratch her, causing her to pull back in pain. He scolded her, using words she didn’t understand. Then he inserted his entire finger, and when he withdrew it, it was smeared with blood. He raised his finger to his eyes and began wiping his eyelids with her blood.

 

The sudden silence of the hair dryer being turned off brought Nezha back to reality. She couldn’t quite catch her breath and tried not to cry. She felt Salwa pat her on the shoulder.

“You haven’t even checked out your hair. Do you like this do?”

“Sorry, Salwa, I was thinking about that horrible experience with the sheikh.”

Salwa bit her lip, dropped her shoulders, and sighed. “You’re still thinking about that, after all this time? I bet you’ve experienced worse since.”

Nezha nodded. “You’re right. My life has been a series of trials, tribulations, and suffering. What reminded me of the sheikh was what happened yesterday with Hamadi—in both instances I made out horribly. Yesterday, I got nothing. With the sheikh, I only got a thousand dirhams instead of the ten thousand promised.”

Salwa tried to keep quiet, knowing that Nezha hadn’t really processed what happened.

“Listen, the mistake was yours. You were the one who lied when you said you were a virgin.”

“But I was a virgin! I promised you that my only experience was with that teacher and it was nothing. He never penetrated me. And the sheikh, he smeared his eyes with my blood. If I wasn’t a virgin then he wouldn’t have gotten a single drop.”

Salwa stared at her through the mirror and leaned over. “He didn’t think you were a virgin, my dear. What came out was just the very last bit of your virginity. The sheikh is an expert in these things. I hope he is cured of his blindness. He’s violated hundreds of girls to no avail.”

“God will take revenge on everyone who stole my honor,” Nezha said, looking up at the ceiling.

Salwa gave her an angry look. “I know that you still think we took your money—how many times have I sworn on the holy book . . .”

“That’s not important,” Nezha interrupted. “What’s important is this: can you lend me some money now?”

Salwa reached for the pack of cigarettes on top of the counter, lit one, and exhaled the smoke in short bursts, thinking about how many little loans Nezha never repaid. And Nezha always preceded her request with this same memory.

“If you need something like fifty dirhams, no problem, but I don’t have more than that.”

Nezha spun around in the styling chair, turning her back to the mirror. “I need two thousand at least. I need to give Farqash half of that or he’ll kill me. The other half is for household expenses. Just give me a month, at most, and I promise you both your money and something special.”

Salwa nearly said no immediately, but chose to decline gently instead. “I swear to God, my dear—and here’s my bag, check it yourself—I am suffering financially because of these religious zealots. Most girls are now veiled and no longer need a salon, so I’m thinking about selling it. And I’m scared one of these guys will blow himself up in here.”

Nezha reached for the cigarettes and lit one. As she exhaled, her stomach rumbled and she felt sick. Except for the cup of black coffee, she hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since yesterday morning. Salwa walked over to the counter and began arranging her hairstyling equipment, making it clear that she was done with Nezha.