about the worker-class area that they lived in, Ramia was anxious to explore. She wanted to speak with strangers and ask questions just like the men were able to. She was impatient, anxious and fearless, emboldened by the growing women’s rights movement. “Why should I have to remain inside all day?” she huffed. “I’m not a child.”
Ramia left the apartment defiantly and as soon as she walked outside of the building to stroll the hardened streets of the area, she realized why her cousin was so nervous about her being out and unattended. Without an
abaya
or a headdress to cover up, or Basim there to protect her, the Palm Deira district was definitely not a place for a young and beautiful woman to sightsee.
The blue-collar area was largely populated by unmarried immigrant workers. Pakistan, India, Sri Lanka and Southeast Asia were all represented there, including many immigrants from North and West Africa—Egypt, Ethiopia, Sudan, Somalia and Kenya. The area’s construction of gray cement buildings and seedy, dark streets was not the bright and photogenic images the young nation chose to show the world in its advertisements, websites or brochures of tourism. The working-class districts of the UAE represented the hard realities of thousands of hopeful immigrants desperately seeking income and a fresh start. But most of them had fallen into positions of long hours of sweat work.
Ramia could have been a
Victoria’s Secret
model. She had soft skin, bright-hazel eyes, thick, auburn hair and the slim, curvy frame. That was why Basim had been so insistent that she not wander around unattended. She surely would attract lots of attention—possibly dangerous attention. Lustful eyes were everywhere, and she was worth every second of a desperate man’s lust. She could feel their penetrating stares as soon as she hit the sidewalks in her casual blue jeans and T-shirt.
Basim had begged his cousin not to come live there with him until he could afford to move to a better area in Sharjah and away from the overcrowding near the interior of Dubai. But Ramia refused to wait. Everything was immediate and urgent with her, as if the world would run out of time. She had been willing to do anything to move away from the farmlands of her home in Jordan as quickly as possible, and away from her nation’s strict Muslim code for women. Men in her home nation continued to practice “honor killings” each year against dishonorable wives who dared to disobey or embarrass their husbands. Ramia wanted no part of that, so she refused to marry, and at the legal age of twenty-one she left her immediate family in Jordan to try her luck in Dubai, which was more liberated.
As the sun began to set in the early evening, Ramia walked a couple of blocks from the apartment building and passed by two Indian men at the curb who were smoking cigarettes and conversing in Hindu. With loud, mocking laughter, they startled her and forced her to pick up her pace. Although she was not fluent in Hindu, she could easily assume that the men were talking about her. She could read it through their eyes, darting in her direction as well as through the suddenness of their snickering. So she wasted no time in moving away from them, while quickly turning the corner to her left.
“Hey, watch where you’re going,” a man warned her in gruff English. In her reckless haste, Ramia had bumped into him.
“Oh, excuse me,” she responded nervously.
The man paused and nodded. He stood tall and imposing on the sidewalk. It was Saleem, the Pakistani worker who had walked off from Abdul Khalif Hassan’s troubled construction site after the tragic accident. But Ramia did not know him. Two brown workers stood beside him, all wearing casual clothes.
“Why are you walking around by yourself?” Saleem asked the girl with authority. He could read the bewildered innocence in her face that marked her as a newcomer. And he felt that she should have been forewarned about the
Ramia left the apartment defiantly and as soon as she walked outside of the building to stroll the hardened streets of the area, she realized why her cousin was so nervous about her being out and unattended. Without an
abaya
or a headdress to cover up, or Basim there to protect her, the Palm Deira district was definitely not a place for a young and beautiful woman to sightsee.
The blue-collar area was largely populated by unmarried immigrant workers. Pakistan, India, Sri Lanka and Southeast Asia were all represented there, including many immigrants from North and West Africa—Egypt, Ethiopia, Sudan, Somalia and Kenya. The area’s construction of gray cement buildings and seedy, dark streets was not the bright and photogenic images the young nation chose to show the world in its advertisements, websites or brochures of tourism. The working-class districts of the UAE represented the hard realities of thousands of hopeful immigrants desperately seeking income and a fresh start. But most of them had fallen into positions of long hours of sweat work.
Ramia could have been a
Victoria’s Secret
model. She had soft skin, bright-hazel eyes, thick, auburn hair and the slim, curvy frame. That was why Basim had been so insistent that she not wander around unattended. She surely would attract lots of attention—possibly dangerous attention. Lustful eyes were everywhere, and she was worth every second of a desperate man’s lust. She could feel their penetrating stares as soon as she hit the sidewalks in her casual blue jeans and T-shirt.
Basim had begged his cousin not to come live there with him until he could afford to move to a better area in Sharjah and away from the overcrowding near the interior of Dubai. But Ramia refused to wait. Everything was immediate and urgent with her, as if the world would run out of time. She had been willing to do anything to move away from the farmlands of her home in Jordan as quickly as possible, and away from her nation’s strict Muslim code for women. Men in her home nation continued to practice “honor killings” each year against dishonorable wives who dared to disobey or embarrass their husbands. Ramia wanted no part of that, so she refused to marry, and at the legal age of twenty-one she left her immediate family in Jordan to try her luck in Dubai, which was more liberated.
As the sun began to set in the early evening, Ramia walked a couple of blocks from the apartment building and passed by two Indian men at the curb who were smoking cigarettes and conversing in Hindu. With loud, mocking laughter, they startled her and forced her to pick up her pace. Although she was not fluent in Hindu, she could easily assume that the men were talking about her. She could read it through their eyes, darting in her direction as well as through the suddenness of their snickering. So she wasted no time in moving away from them, while quickly turning the corner to her left.
“Hey, watch where you’re going,” a man warned her in gruff English. In her reckless haste, Ramia had bumped into him.
“Oh, excuse me,” she responded nervously.
The man paused and nodded. He stood tall and imposing on the sidewalk. It was Saleem, the Pakistani worker who had walked off from Abdul Khalif Hassan’s troubled construction site after the tragic accident. But Ramia did not know him. Two brown workers stood beside him, all wearing casual clothes.
“Why are you walking around by yourself?” Saleem asked the girl with authority. He could read the bewildered innocence in her face that marked her as a newcomer. And he felt that she should have been forewarned about the
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