saw a smear of something. Quickly opening her kit, she took out a swab.
“It’s blood,” she said. He knelt to take a look. The nail was stuck into the floor. Someone must have stabbed a foot on it. Katya pried a small shred of plastic from the underside of the nail. It looked like material of flip-flops or cheap sandals. “This has to belong to someone who came to her apartment,” she said. They were at the end of the hall; there were no other doors nearby.
“It’s probably her blood,” he said.
“Did she wear sandals?”
“Yes. All the time.”
They stood up. “Just in case,” she said, “I’m going to need your DNA.”
He nodded and opened his mouth for a swab.
13
I brahim drove them south to the neighborhood of Kandara and parked near the bottom of the Sitteen Street Bridge, a monstrous freeway overpass that housed a busy bus station.
Beneath the bridge, on a wide concrete walkway, there was a shantytown of the kind Katya had seen only in news footage—and even then, only in videos of impoverished, dejected places like the slums of Brazil or the lawless parts of Africa, where human life was treated as cheaper than that of an animal. But here, in one of Saudi’s wealthiest cities?
Most of the people in Kandara were women, and judging from the faces—most of them unveiled—they were predominantly Indonesian and Filipina, although among them were Africans, other Asians, and Indians. There were at least a thousand, probably more, stretching for blocks, most sitting with their backs against concrete walls in the shady spots. Corrugated metal panels formed lean-tos in places. Some people had built shelters from old boxes, mostly to protect themselves from the sun. Mothers sat with children heaped on their laps, their men in front of them, lying on cardboard or old blankets.
The police did not keep crime statistics on different neighborhoods, but it was well known that this was one of the worst. Thanks to the presence of the Philippine consulate a few blocks from the underpass, the masses had been gathering here for years, waiting for permission to leave.
“They say most of the people here overstayed their Hajj visas,” Katya said.
“Sure, that’s how some of them got into the country, but look at them as a group. What’s the first thing you notice?”
“They’re mostly women,” Katya said.
“Right…”
“And it’s difficult for women to come to Hajj alone.”
“Exactly. Most of those women are runaway housemaids,” Ibrahim said.
He was quiet for so long that Katya felt prompted to ask: “How do you know they’re housemaids?”
“This is where we found Sabria.”
“This place was here five years ago?” Katya asked.
“Yes, but not as bad.” They stared at the figures at the front of the crowd, women milling about in ratty black cloaks, their clothing plainly revealed.
It didn’t take much to end up on the street. Housemaids, street sweepers, gardeners, many of those who had come hoping for a better life found instead a system of indentured servitude. A headhunter would bring workers into the country for a fee—ten thousand riyals or more. A price high enough that, given the worker’s wages, it might take a decade to pay the debt. So the employer paid the fee, and the worker was under obligation to him until the debt was paid.
But what if you hated your job? What if your employer stopped feeding you? What if he refused to let you leave the house or call your family or even talk to the headhunter who had brought you there? What if you were being raped or abused? There were few laws to protect you—most laws protected the employer from losing his investment, having purchased you. Your only option was to flee, and you wound up at Sitteen, begging the consulate to give you a new passport, even a temporary certificate, and a planeticket home. You stood in line for the three paltry buses that appeared at Sitteen a few times a week and that would take you to the
“It’s blood,” she said. He knelt to take a look. The nail was stuck into the floor. Someone must have stabbed a foot on it. Katya pried a small shred of plastic from the underside of the nail. It looked like material of flip-flops or cheap sandals. “This has to belong to someone who came to her apartment,” she said. They were at the end of the hall; there were no other doors nearby.
“It’s probably her blood,” he said.
“Did she wear sandals?”
“Yes. All the time.”
They stood up. “Just in case,” she said, “I’m going to need your DNA.”
He nodded and opened his mouth for a swab.
13
I brahim drove them south to the neighborhood of Kandara and parked near the bottom of the Sitteen Street Bridge, a monstrous freeway overpass that housed a busy bus station.
Beneath the bridge, on a wide concrete walkway, there was a shantytown of the kind Katya had seen only in news footage—and even then, only in videos of impoverished, dejected places like the slums of Brazil or the lawless parts of Africa, where human life was treated as cheaper than that of an animal. But here, in one of Saudi’s wealthiest cities?
Most of the people in Kandara were women, and judging from the faces—most of them unveiled—they were predominantly Indonesian and Filipina, although among them were Africans, other Asians, and Indians. There were at least a thousand, probably more, stretching for blocks, most sitting with their backs against concrete walls in the shady spots. Corrugated metal panels formed lean-tos in places. Some people had built shelters from old boxes, mostly to protect themselves from the sun. Mothers sat with children heaped on their laps, their men in front of them, lying on cardboard or old blankets.
The police did not keep crime statistics on different neighborhoods, but it was well known that this was one of the worst. Thanks to the presence of the Philippine consulate a few blocks from the underpass, the masses had been gathering here for years, waiting for permission to leave.
“They say most of the people here overstayed their Hajj visas,” Katya said.
“Sure, that’s how some of them got into the country, but look at them as a group. What’s the first thing you notice?”
“They’re mostly women,” Katya said.
“Right…”
“And it’s difficult for women to come to Hajj alone.”
“Exactly. Most of those women are runaway housemaids,” Ibrahim said.
He was quiet for so long that Katya felt prompted to ask: “How do you know they’re housemaids?”
“This is where we found Sabria.”
“This place was here five years ago?” Katya asked.
“Yes, but not as bad.” They stared at the figures at the front of the crowd, women milling about in ratty black cloaks, their clothing plainly revealed.
It didn’t take much to end up on the street. Housemaids, street sweepers, gardeners, many of those who had come hoping for a better life found instead a system of indentured servitude. A headhunter would bring workers into the country for a fee—ten thousand riyals or more. A price high enough that, given the worker’s wages, it might take a decade to pay the debt. So the employer paid the fee, and the worker was under obligation to him until the debt was paid.
But what if you hated your job? What if your employer stopped feeding you? What if he refused to let you leave the house or call your family or even talk to the headhunter who had brought you there? What if you were being raped or abused? There were few laws to protect you—most laws protected the employer from losing his investment, having purchased you. Your only option was to flee, and you wound up at Sitteen, begging the consulate to give you a new passport, even a temporary certificate, and a planeticket home. You stood in line for the three paltry buses that appeared at Sitteen a few times a week and that would take you to the
Similar Books
