21st Century Slave Ch. 01

Three years ago I was to join my wife, Mari for a week on her business trip to Yemen. She owns an antique store here in Portland and often travels in order to procure items of antiquity from afar. My work prevents me from being gone for weeks at a time but I agreed to fly to Yemen once Mari was done visiting Turkey.

After several transfers and many hours in the air I was looking forward to seeing Mari at the hotel in Sana'a. We had spoken the day before and agreed we would call and leave a message at the hotel if any delays occurred. Everything on my end went fine but Mari hadn't arrived at the hotel and there were no messages from her.

I wasn't overly concerned since that part of the world is a bit primitive and was sure to see her at any moment.

My jet lag prevented me from sleeping so when the sun rose the next morning, I started to make some phone calls.

A faint tapping noise made me notice an envelope beneath my door. No one was behind the door so I proceeded to read the message. I was aghast to read Mari had been jailed shortly after arriving the night before.

I frantically left the hotel and summoned a cab where I was brought to the city hall/jail.

A lousy feeling came over me as I made my way through crowds of people - mostly Arab men. For years I'd watched news segments of similar looking unreasonable men amidst social unrest. Now I was going to expect reason from the same people in order to free my wife - from whatever caused her to end up in jail in the first place.

I tried to find Mari but was met with resistance. At the very least I sensed the demeanor of the officials seemed unwilling to help. It would be two days before I could actually see Mari and that would be the day of her trial. I knew nothing about law or even if there was a constitution in place.

I hardly slept as the trial grew closer and I hastily made my way to the courthouse. There was hardly any order and most anyone could attend the hearing. There was a hapless lawyer standing in the room in front of a judge but I did not see Mari until a door on the side opened and she was brought in by two guards. Her prison attire was dirty-looking linen and it appeared she hadn't slept in days, either.

I turned around and asked anyone for help in translation. A young man offered to help and I soon discovered custom officials had found marijuana in Mari's possession.

A sinking feeling told me this, of all possible offenses, was probably true. She and I habitually smoke but I was amazed to hear she had a half kilo in her luggage. The prosecutor made an argument that she was going to trade the contraband for antiques.

I needed to know the penalty for such a crime. The courtroom was a joke and so was the attorney's attempt to defend my wife. Within minutes the judge finished up and began to move on to the next case.

The guards stood up and escorted Mari out the same door. The attorney remained to defend the next person brought in.

I turned to the young man and asked him what had happened. He did not answer. Another man nearby told me the judge sentenced Mari to twenty lashes and six months in jail.

I stood agape before quickly running down to the main entrance of the jail. Once again I was not allowed to speak to her but was pointed in the direction of the courtyard where criminals were punished. Already a large crowd had gathered but no officials were present. The area looked as though executions had taken place there. My imagination had done me no favors and I ran back into the jail. I was irate as I demanded to see the judge, lawyer, Mari.. anyone. I shouted in defiance and was met with brute strength as guards threw me into an empty room. I should have called the embassy but it was too late.

Suddenly a murmur swept over the crowd outside and I stood on a chair to look out the window.

Mari had been brought out and tied arms stretched. She struggled in vain but the men holding her were too much. Her linen gown was opened from the back and folded in front of her as an attempt at modesty. Two hundred or more men stood facing her as she closed her eyes. A burly man in a khaki short sleeve shirt approached with a single-tail whip.

I turned around in sat down in the chair. I could not watch.

There was complete silence for half a minute and then I heard it:

POP!

It was a strange sound. There was no wind whistling from the whip or any recognizable lash sound. Just a POP!

I put my hands over my ears but could still hear it.

There were no sounds other than the POP and now the crowd began to whisper. After the tenth or so lashing I returned to standing on the chair and peering out the window. Fifty meters away, Mari appeared to be looking directly at me.

Her face and body were completely covered in perspiration.

The man holding the whip wound up and delivered an unrelenting blow to her backside.

POP!

She was stoic. She was obviously in unbearable pain but refused to scream. She tremor wildly and her damp, black hair shook in front of her face.

I was sure the lashes were almost over.

POP!

I stared at the man administering the punishment. He was expressionless.

POP!

Then it happened. A shriek like I'd never heard before. Mari couldn't take it any longer. The crowd shifted with collective satisfaction. Three more lashes with the resulting shrieks and the ordeal was over.

Mari was untied and carried away - her legs unable to hold her weight.

I sat for an hour or more and was released to see my wife. I was led down a hall and was allowed to see her through an opened small metal door.

I explained and apologized for not being able to help. She seemed sedated and understanding. I was surprised she was not frantic. I surely would have been anxious to get out of there. Mari seemed resigned to her sentence. She told me her bad judgement led her to bring the marijuana into the country. Her buyer had a cache of antiques he was willing to sell as long as Mari was willing to sweeten the deal.

I told Mari we would have a real lawyer and help from the embassy and we would be heading home within a couple days. Mari nodded but I could tell she wasn't optimistic.

A hand on my shoulder let me know it was time to leave. I assured Mari I'd return the following day and then was led out of the room and out of the building.

My mind had been in high gear for three days and finally I could rest awhile before my return to the jail.

The next day I made several phone calls but no one seemed to care after I explained the nature of Mari's conviction. One person at the consulate even advised I fly home and return in six months. I did manage to hire a local attorney. Tariq was young and had no courtroom experience but said help me at least as a translator.

I returned to the jail to tell Mari what little good news I had. However, the clerk informed me she was not there.

I did not understand what was being told to me so I called Tariq and handed over to the clerk. The two seemed to argue and then the clerk handed me the phone.

"Tariq, what is going on?" I begged.

There was a brief pause and an audible sigh.

"My friend, your wife has is working for someone. The jail does not have money to house criminals so the prisoners are sent elsewhere to work."

I could not believe my ears.

"What are you saying? She's on a work farm or something?"

"Yes, yes. Sort of," replied Tariq. "A business- sometimes a wealthy person- will bid on the work a prisoner can do for them. The prisoner does their time and the jail is paid."

I was beginning to understand but I was unclear about where exactly the prisoners stay if they don't return to the jail at night.

"Some prisoners return to the jail, I suppose, but most stay where they are sentenced to work."

I asked Tariq to talk to the clerk in order to get more detail. After a few minutes of talking and being handed to another official, the phone was returned to me.

"Hello, again, sir. They said your wife has been sent to Amran - about 70 kilometers from here and will not be returning until the end of her sentence."

I asked Tariq the name of the company for which she's working but he interrupted me.

"Sir, your wife is working for a wealthy individual."

"Well, can I visit or call her or send a fucking letter to her?"

Tariq could sense my frustration but then spoke frankly about the predicament.

"You cannot contact your wife. I will do all I can to help with her release but you must understand she is a slave sentenced to hard labor. This individual is entitled to punish her just as the jail would. She could be whipped just as she was the other day - as often as he chooses."

I said nothing as the truth sank in.

"I am sorry, sir. I will help you no matter what it takes."

I opened my mouth to speak but the call was dropped.

To be continued...