Black Book of Arabia (9 page)

He began to get angry at small things and his outbursts pushed us apart for short periods. He would get upset even when my phone battery died and we had to spend a few hours out of touch. Often I came home to find my parents sitting in the living room, quietly discussing how Hamdan had called them after he had just come off the phone with me, inquiring after my safety and well-being. It amused them, but it exasperated me.

His ridiculous behavior was spiraling out of control, and, besides overwhelming me, it also made me question my reasons for wanting to be with him. His demands were stressing the relationship before the ship had set sail. I began to think I did not know him at all. Being friends is very different from being lovers and spouses. The type of relationship changes the expectations of treatment. A man who wishes to be a business partner or a friend will not make as many demands, but if he were to view himself as a lover or partner in marriage he might ask for more control—sometimes more than would be humanly possible, asphyxiating a healthy relationship even in its early stages. That was exactly what was happening to me.

Entertaining Hamdan's neediness was exhausting me, so, naturally, I spoke to him about his overprotective nature. That is when his angry trait appeared—an irritation that would erupt with a force I had never seen before. It would end up with this big man demanding my full cooperation and questioning why I wanted my space, and then breaking down and apologizing. He was thousands of miles away, but I was frightened just listening to him.

To him, it was as if I were living in a war zone, and he needed to be around me to protect me, to make sure that I ate, slept, spoke to the right people, and, above all, avoided men under all circumstances. His suspicious trait was another color of rage I had been blind to in the past. This upset me because even in my anger and doubt, I was faithful to him. After all, we were in a committed relationship. When I went out with friends, he called it Girl Power. I called it being independent. He called it “man hunting.” I called it “out with the girls.” To him, if any woman besides my mother or his mother was with me, it was fertile ground for me to be lured into a trap to meet someone, cheat, or be with someone he disapproved of. We began to fight. I would say, “It looks like the trust in this relationship is broken. We should part as amicable friends, respectfully.” He would apologize and eventually end up calling my parents, crying, and begging them to convince me to take him back.

Everyone was growing tired of his incomprehensible behavior. After we fought, I would cry and ask him to end our engagement because I knew I would not be able
to handle his behavior in heavier doses after marriage. It became impossible. Intolerably painful. The anger, the insistence, and the persistent nuisance of wanting to know everything—even why I spent too long in the bathroom—showed his lack of faith in me. His doubts were preposterous. If I wanted to speak to my friends in private, he would concoct a crazy conspiracy theory that we were up to something naughty or treacherous.

Prince Charming had turned into Crazy Cowboy, and I, who was once collected and calm, had turned into a mess. I ended it one day with a simple text message:
This is not working out. I have decided to end it for both of our sakes because I am not happy with this equation of us. Please do not contact me or my family again.

All hell broke loose after that. The nightmare began. Someone—not Hamdan—began calling me and verbally abusing me. The stranger sent me messages saying that if I did not go back to Hamdan he would post graphically altered images of me on pornographic websites seen across the Arab world. These threats hit home, and they left me terrified. I called Hamdan to beg him to stop this madness. He feigned ignorance. His only reply to me was, “Let the man you left me for take care of you now—I'm out. Remember?”

The threats kept coming, hard and strong. The stranger would send me pictures over WhatsApp showing how he was making the alterations. He would take an image of me from a school website, crop my head, and affix it to a skinny body—or a fat one. With each passing hour, he would send
me another image. The first images were cartoonish, but then they began to have fewer clothes on them and the differences in skin and body type were not as evident as before. Each fake image became more realistic. The horror of such a thing happening to you is equivalent to the tremor of an active volcano, threatening to explode at any minute. With threats pouring down on me, I sat crying, trying to think of what I could do to avert the damage. This could have ruined me. Not just my reputation, but the reputation of my entire family, could be affected.

I contacted Hamdan's family, but all of the numbers they had for him were switched off. His sisters did not know where he was, and they secretly felt bad for me. They were embarrassed to be related to such a person. He strategically removed himself from all locations where we could possibly find him and try to coax him into rectifying the situation. He would let me suffer to teach me a lesson of how weak I was without him, and, after my ruin, he would come and walk all over my bones. If he could not have me, he would merely say “I told you so” and leave me in my misery.

The blackmailer began to ask for a date in a hotel with me, instructing me to bring money. Lots of it. Anything of value—watches, jewelry, anything. As my fiancé did not want me anymore, I was fair game for this predator. I had a choice either to give in, knowing he, denying his own word, would possibly film the whole situation in order to blackmail me with more evidence, or risk the repercussions of what he would do if I continued to ignore him. After all, is there ever honor amongst thieves?
He warned me not to refuse him. He sent me images of girls who had not heeded his threats. I recognized a few faces and names of his victims, and the pictures sent shivers down my spine. These were girls from respectable families whose faked images had been leaked to the social media, making for a slandering stock in the meat market of reputations.

I could not eat or sleep. I begged him to stop. I promised to pay him, but he wanted something to lock me down. He wanted more evidence to ruin me, and he was not afraid to say so. He sent video clips to me over the phone, and I could hear his friends in the background, laughing and making jokes such as “When is the lamb coming to us wolves?” and “We'll take care of you.” I had fallen into a lair of beasts, and they had no mercy whatsoever. I was so choked that I could not make myself understood when speaking to him, and my mumbling and trembling irritated him even more. At first he would laugh hysterically, but then he began to put the phone down every time I called, telling me to shut up and call back when I was intelligible.

I went to the bank to cash out my accounts and give the blackmailer the money, every last dirham. I sold my jewelry to our local jeweler. He was surprised when I offered my things for sale and asked if he could keep them until I crossed whatever situation I was going through. I was touched at the kind offer from an old acquaintance. I remembered with disgust how Hamdan would say, “Men will only do you a favor if they think they can get something carnal
from you.” I banished Hamdan from my thoughts. Every time I banished the Devil, I banished Hamdan with him. At that time, even the Devil seemed more logical than my ex-fiancé with his twisted mind.

I hoped that selling my jewelry would at least buy me time to be able to create a larger, more lucrative pay-off. While at the jeweler's, I saw an advert for Al Ameen, a free, confidential service for blackmailed and distressed victims in Dubai. It was a new secret service established for people who could not tell their families about their situation for fear of hurting them. The advert said Al Ameen helped women threatened by unscrupulous villains trying to extort them by exploiting their fears of being publicly declared a loose woman and having their social standing destroyed. It was an answer to my prayers. I jumped at the chance to escape my doom. That simple advert lit a candle of hope in my heart.

Even so, I was nervous about calling. It hurts to admit that you have gotten yourself into such a compromising position. As soon as I spoke with an authoritative person, I broke down and begged him to help me. I spilled the story and desperately asked for help. The private detective insisted on meeting me face to face.

“Is that really necessary?” I asked. “Can't I just forward the texts?”

“I'm sorry,” said the private detective. “We have to interview you to substantiate your claims. You would be surprised how many people fake harassment just to get sympathy or get men into trouble.”

I found it hard to believe that anyone would willingly pretend to be going through the nightmare I so desperately wanted to end.

“Never underestimate the human need for attention,” said the detective. “There wouldn't be an entertainment industry without it—ha, ha, ha.”

I met with the detective the next day. He wanted to see the threats, so I showed him the texts. He asked to hear the video message with the howling wolves, and I played it. But when he wanted to see the graphically altered images, I demurred. My blackmailer had said that he was going to search through the millions of porn videos and eventually find someone that looked like me and then post it on YouTube, claiming it was me. Even if he did not have to alter the face, the coupling of my name to a girl with similar features was enough to taint me. A girl's reputation is all she has, which is why it is guarded jealously and she is covered so modestly—to protect her reputation and the reputation of her family.

“Do you have a female investigator on your staff?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Why?”

“I would rather show the photos to her.”

“I understand,” said the detective.

Even at that, I deleted the photos that even slightly resembled me. I did not care if it weakened my case. It was too embarrassing to have anyone see them, even someone who wanted to help me. I shuddered when I thought about how I would feel if the images were ever posted
online. What if they wanted to keep copies of these images for future use or, alternatively, if someone from the detective's family or one of her acquaintances came to know about it?

Convinced by my demeanor, the consistency of my answers, and the overwhelming amount of evidence I presented, the detectives agreed to help me. They advised me to tell the blackmailer that I would go ahead with his plan, just as he demanded.

My father was not informed of the details of what was happening; he only knew that I had received threats and that Hamdan was nowhere to be found. However, my mother and elder sister knew and feared for my safety and sanity. I informed my mother of what Al Ameen had said and she was in the car waiting outside the Mirage Hotel in Dubai where I had agreed to meet the blackmailer. I brought a suitcase packed with cash, as promised. What he did not know was that the police were everywhere dressed as civilians, laughing, chatting, and doing what people in a hotel normally do. They were going to tail us and step in as he received the money, capturing him and, hopefully, his accomplices.

Fearing a trap, the blackmailer told me to follow him to another location. He was smart, but I had done my homework. I had been cornered and tortured, and I was genuinely frightened. My fingers would not stop twitching. I informed the police of what was happening through the bug they placed on my earring. When I asked why they put it there, they casually said it was in case I had to leave my
car or my bag, or if my clothes were removed. This practical consideration terrified me.

I drove behind the man who had taunted and terrorized me, following his black Range Rover in my blue-tinted Bentley. The police followed at a distance to avoid detection. I smiled inside to think that the hunter was walking into a trap of his own making. The end could not come soon enough. I was finally going to be released from this prison of madness. I wanted nothing to do with this pack of animals.

He pulled his Range Rover into the Grosvenor House hotel. My cheeks were wet with tears. I was crying out of hope that the nightmare would soon end and out of fear that it might not. I kept my hands on the steering wheel the whole way, afraid that wiping my face would cause the car to swerve in a way that would raise his suspicions. From the way he kept glancing in his rearview mirror and making turn after unnecessary turn, I sensed he was jittery. I struggled to control myself. As I stepped out of the car with my suitcase filled with cash, I covered my face. I did not want him to see that I had been crying, even if it was from relief.

I walked into the hotel and saw him. He was a tall, handsome man with a cheeky goatee. He was wearing dark glasses even though it was 8 pm. In his white thobe he looked to me like Lucifer. I had so much fear and hatred for this cruel man that I did not know how to act. My legs froze, and I just stood there, staring at him. Finally he crossed the lobby to collect me, grabbing my hand and
dragging me with him. In the elevator he thanked me for covering my face, so no one would recognize me with him. Then he laughed and said, “If you haven't brought enough money, I can always uncover your face and make my millions.”

“Why . . . why are you doing this? I never did anything to you.” I could not imagine how much ugliness resided in him. “Is Hamdan here? Does he know what's going on? Please take your money and disappear. Please.”

The lift arrived at his floor too soon. My calm was replaced with panic.

Shaking from fear, I was dragged along behind him. I shot furtive glances up and down the halls, hoping to spot a police officer. Something was wrong. Where were the police? When we got to the room, I refused to go in. Something was amiss. The past few nights of little sleep were taking a toll on my strength and reason. There were no police. What if this madman raped me and the police showed up afterwards? What if he captured it on video? I would rather die.

“Just take the money and give me my pictures,” I begged him.