The Messenger

I
f they were to make a feature film of her life, the script would always be trying to map the source of her flawed personality. The premise would be “How could she do such a thing?” The entire story would essentially be an examination, an
artistic
interrogation, not one rendered from her by a paid torturer in an unnamed client state.

In a situation like this the audience is always promised an answer; after all, they have tickets and are entitled to satisfaction. Surely in her backstory there has been a problem, an inciting incident: What exactly was her root grievance? Was there just one? How far do you go back? After a frustrating period of research, this is the way the screenwriters would try to explain it:

She was nothing.

True
.

She came from nowhere.

True
.

She grew up in a war zone.

Sometimes it was like that, yes. In the camps. You can’t call them camps anymore. They are cities where people live and die
.

Was she was abused as a child?

Abuse, it all depends on what you mean
.

Abuse. Trauma …

I was not raped, or … molested, if that is what you mean. I was one of the lucky ones. Three of my closest friends were raped by soldiers and police
.

The lives of women in many fundamentalist communities are difficult. Power groups embed themselves within ideology that mirrors a construct of local law and tradition that is all about defining the woman’s place.

Yes, the place of women is very important
.

But within these theocratic communities, aren’t there built-in limitations, strict prohibitions on a woman’s ability to obtain a divorce, or an education, or the possibility of choosing a career?

Everyone’s education is different, and a career is not the most important thing for many people
.

You had brothers and sisters?

Yes
.

Yes, how many?

I had two brothers. Both were killed and then my father was taken away, but he returned. We were moved back and forth many times. We had no other family and often not so much food. I was shot at the first time when I was a child. My cousin was killed when he was nine, killed in the street by soldiers driving by. I saw soldiers playing with the heads, playing football with the heads of people killed in my village. I was standing in the street and a boy was run over by a personnel carrier in front of me. This was on the edge of the village many years ago. Now there is no edge. It’s a camp. We lived there for our protection, we were told. This is more the sort of thing you meant when you were talking about abuse?

Yes. And you wanted to fight too?

I wanted to fight, yes. I do. Very much
.

With all your heart, with your soul?

Yes, of course. What else can I do? Work within the system? I loved my family. Loved them with all my heart …

And now you are … taking the ultimate step.

I give my life. It is my sacrifice
.

For God.

For God. Yes. I fight all the time
.

And would you be a martyr?

I would be proud to be
.

And that last is the kind of thing they would use in the scene. It takes place at a table in a gallery that surrounds a garden beside a mosque, a quiet place, and her eyes alternate between the flowers and the grizzled face of the actor playing Mansur al Brazi.

Filmed, this scene would not display as many bullet holes, and the windows would be more artfully smashed. The garden would be watered and distant noises would not intrude, but most unrealistically there would be no smells. No burning rubber or rotting flesh. No spoiled food or sewage. No sound of flies, no body odor. Nothing on fire.

At the end of this foundational scene, her character would realize the consequences of her contract with Mansur al Brazi. There would be a moment of understanding; the actor might look out toward the flowers as if seeing the world for the very first time.

So, what did she glimpse in that precisely crafted dramatic pause?

Many things. Unending poverty, the broken cities, the villages crumbling, no schools, no hospitals, closed borders, humiliation, decaying teeth, the empty bellies, the ignorance, the despair. Like any other girl in the camp, if she stayed and kept living there she would grow old in a hurry.

Could anything be said for that?

Yes, it wasn’t all bad. There was beauty—the snow on distant mountains, the magnificent skies, the stars. If she stayed, there would undoubtedly be sublime moments, times when she could take a deep breath, or even sing. In the daytime she could go walking; she would have plenty of friends. The women helped each other. It took more than flakes of white phosphorus to extinguish an entire culture. Life in the camp was a soap opera told in multiple voices—relatives, enemies, grievances, fears, corrupt officials, small-business failures, and petty triumphs, punctuated by explosions and gunfire.
She had survived this far, had she not? She might continue unscathed? So, why was she even
talking
to someone like Mansur al Brazi?

Because … she was not strong enough. Because of the way they murdered her brothers, Amir and Ra’id, gunned down first and then mutilated; at least they were together. Because of the way their deaths killed her mother. And, yes, fine—because she was afraid, terrified of having to go on living that life; her family stripped of its men and with no protection, only one step away from starvation, decades of suffering followed by death after years of … nothing. She was smart enough that she could tell her own future. There was no choice.

Her father was mixed race, gone for six years now. Supposedly he was living with a cousin in another “village” a hundred kilometers away, but there had been no word. After her uncle died, her mother’s family had nothing, everything had been taken. How to survive? Marry, be a mother and start agonizing about her own children being killed? That would be the rhythm of a “peaceful” life.

The problem of growing into that peaceful life had dominated her childhood in one way or another. All the other children wanted to be space cadets or musicians. There was no one to talk to. Only the dry slopes, the clouds, the torment of the wind in the dirt streets, these were her only friends. Everywhere else she looked she saw only fear.

And the fear would be unending. Both choices were death. One just came faster. Everyone knew what someone like Mansur al Brazi did. The details were secret and dangerous and thus he was respected in a world where danger was constant. His choice meant money for the family. It meant striking back. She was quick-witted enough to know that.

She imagined her death in the greatest of detail, had already accepted it as the price, long before she spoke to al Brazi. She could see the flash of the detonator, the jerk of the cord, the final digit entered on a cell phone, a switch connecting, a timer ticking down to zero—white
heat. Flesh blown into a mist like one of the Black Widows. Gone.

In that heartrending dramatic pause she would appear so young. Only a child. Honestly, how could she know what she was getting into?

But then she would turn to the waiting face of Mansur al Brazi. And her gaze would be steady, almost challenging, as she said the lines where she agreed to die.

“For God. Yes …”

It would be best if she were played by someone young, dark, and beautiful—Natalie Portman. Yes. That would be the scene.

But what was the truth of it?

Well, after that, after the big scene—she was gone. Taken by two men she had never met before, and a woman, riding in the backseat of a Land Rover. Her first terrifying airplane trip in a six-seater, a night on a passenger ferry. Different vehicles, houses, and hotels that she was assured were safe. Then by ferry to Malta. To Tunis, and then to Cairo. It took almost six months. The woman was very sweet; large almond eyes and a lilt in her voice. Penelope, she called herself. “Or just Penny,” she explained.

Cairo was the real start of the transformation. Clothes that she had to be taught to wear properly. At first she cowered in the bathroom, a fantastic tiled chamber of wonders. But she heard the woman—Penny—laughing outside, and came out to applause and praise for her beauty.

To put her on the right track, Mansur al Brazi visits. Behind him is another man. Younger. Handsome. She will come to know him as Cousin Ali. He looks at her with narrow sly eyes, as if they both share some private joke, and she cannot help but smile. He becomes a friend. Yes. Just like a cousin.

Her immediate purpose was to attend school, they explained. When she asked the woman about “when it would happen,” she was kissed on the cheek and told “to forget about all that …” As
far as any sort of imagined training—learning how to fieldstrip an AK-47 blindfolded or throw grenades—no. She is to apply herself, do well, and learn to talk to the other children.

“Don’t rush. When the time comes, God will call you. For now you get an education and build yourself into a new person. You are no longer who you were. From now on, you are
Daria
,” Mansur al Brazi says. He shows her a photograph.

It is a snapshot the size of a playing card. Creased and stained from being pried in and out of a wallet. A girl’s face, heart-shaped, beautiful eyes and a level brow. A girl who could have been her a few years ago. A child with a child’s steady innocence, gazing at the lens, open to interpretation.

“From now on, Daria, you are to be just like the others. Get rid of your
hijab
. Imitate the Western girls. Dress like them, learn to be one of them. Have fun!” Penny says, and they all laugh.

It has been explained to her that the money is already going to what’s left of her family and she must now forget about them. It is unfortunate, but no contact with home can be allowed. It is for her own protection, and for her family’s safety. The government is riddled with spies and no one can keep a secret. Only when it’s absolutely safe will she be able to see them again.

“They know you love them, little one,” Ali tells her. “Don’t worry.”

It was easy after that. It was like a wave. A wave of discovery and pleasure.

After Cairo they took a tourist cruise to Palermo. They stayed in a hotel, and then later at a villa. Everywhere, she attended schools or was supplied with a tutor.