Slave Market

SLAVE MARKET

Slave Auction

From the moment I saw the black braid hanging down her back I knew she was one of Ahmad’s “pearls” standing on a raised platform, with her back to us, naked—hands and feet bound. A slave for sale.

On our return I would try to steer Ali back in this direction, to walk in front of her and try to catch a glimpse of her face when we came by. Of course, I could do nothing to comfort her, or even smile at her; my burqa precluded that. Still, I wanted to know for certain what had become of her. I was curious.

In the next few minutes I saw many sights—all far removed from what I was accustomed to—one particular one stayed with me—a harried turbaned man yanking along a girl by a chain around her wrists. The girl, a slave no doubt, tugged back, resisting. Growing increasingly angry with her, her owner snatched a crop from a passing man leading a donkey and gave her three vicious lashes across her back. She fell to the ground. He handed the crop back to its surprised owner, impatiently jerked his slave to her feet and went on his way—dragging along a less rebellious girl.

“She will likely be put up for sale later this afternoon,” Ali muttered. “We will go and watch; perhaps I shall learn today’s price for slave girls so I can be sure to make an offer to Sheik Ahmad that does not offend…or delight him.” Again, that grin, and again I wasn’t certain if he was serious or joking.

The sound of a crowd drew us to a small courtyard off the main square. Vetted by two burly eunuchs we walked down a narrow passageway that opened into it, and here, out of view to the casual passerby—and the authorities—a sale of humans in bondage was taking place.

By the time we arrived the auction had been in progress for some time and bids for the last two males, fine looking light skinned youths still in their teens, had been called. Both were kneeling upright at the edge of a raised wooden platform in a position of subservience, legs apart, hands held behind the head. “So, they do it to male slaves as well,” I thought, answering a question I had long harbored in my mind, for it was the first time I had seen a depilated man. I found it unattractive. “Grotesquely overgrown boys,” came to mind. I readily decided that if Ali were my slave I would not have him shaved down there, just trimmed and groomed—so manly that way, in keeping with the rest of him. Penises were in full view, limp between their legs, but only one had testicles, the other without had been castrated in the Christian style.

“Those three bidders with kaffiyehs pulled across their faces,” Ali whispered, pointing to a group of shrouded figures standing close to the platform, “are women. I know two of them. The tallest one is a wealthy young widow, the Turks killed her husband last year in a skirmish, and the shorter one by her side is the brothel owner. They could be buying men for their own use.”

Hearing this made it clear why they displayed youths in this manner. It was for the women who were buying on the pretense of needing a house servant, and the auctioneer played along with their deception by referring to the youths as strong servants, eager for work, with stamina and other pleasing skills and urges.

I asked Ali, “If they are truly women, and interested in a man that way, why would they be buying a man who has been castrated? He cannot perform his duties.”

“The one you refer to, the gelded one, has been prepared for a man, nevertheless, he could also be bought by a woman if she is looking for a servant or bath attendant. They can still bring pleasure to a woman.”

Women, by law, were forbidden to own bed-slaves—something I thought most unfair in the light of my situation—but man-to-man coitus was also against the law and punished by “beheading by the sword”. These laws, however, did not concern the organizers of the sale, other than perhaps prompting the prudent move of the auction out of the main square and into this side courtyard.

We were in time to watch the next part of the auction, the sale of women. In front of a platform, a roped off area was reserved for qualified buyers—men either known to the trader, or men who had shown sufficient gold to make a purchase. Behind this section, a large crowd of voyeurs whiled away their time, including ourselves.

Under the watchful eye of the slave trader seven women were brought forth from a small tent and encouraged, by sight of the short whip in his hand, to mount the steps leading up to the platform. Hesitatingly, they lined up in a row at the rear of the platform, in the shade of a canvas canopy, with their backs to the crowd. A bell sounded. One by one, the auctioneer worked his way along the row of captive women, pulling their garments off their shoulders and down to their waists. Three crimson welts on her back identified one as the girl we had seen earlier in the souk. At the snap of his whip against the platform and a shouted command, the women turned to face the crowd, bared breasts catching the sunlight and the lustful gaze of the crowd. With shouted encouragement from those watching, he walked behind them, teasingly lowering their garments to their feet until they all stood naked before the buyers.

Four of the women still sported their fleece, a true measure of hair color to the eyes of Arabs. It was something Arab men attached great importance to—and then removed!—and always favored the fair, unfortunately for me, for although my skin was light in color, my hair was almost kohl black. As Ali said, “You have French skin and Berber hair”—but he did say he found the contrast fetchingly attractive. I was satisfied with that.

In turn, the auctioneer had each naked girl parade herself back and forth along the length of the platform until halted at the center by his out held whip, where, with exaggerated ritual and show, he forcefully pushed her to her knees close to the edge of the platform. Prospective buyers stepped forward to inspect her mouth and feel the quality of those places they had particular interest in, before the auctioneer shuffled her around and bent her over to expose her for a more intimate inspection by probing fingers and parting hands, by men peering into places no man had the right to peer into.

Ali noticed my unease and embarrassment. “It is something new for me, too, to see this done before a crowd, but remember, they are slaves not wives or daughters deserving respect, they gave up that status,” he explained.

“They were and will always be wives and daughters. Men stole and buried their precious status and freedom. They did not give it up!”

A serious look from Ali did not deter me and I continued.

“It is a sin against God to enslave his creations and I despise those men who draw on this evil offense,” I replied angrily, before regretting that I had used the word despise with such force. “They should be set free, not sold like animals,” I said. “A man of your status and influence should stand up and do something about it!”

He looked at me again, as much surprised as I was by my nerve, and then, somewhat subdued, continued without comment.

“As I was saying, usually, buyers inspect women beforehand out of sight in a holding tent, but let me explain to you why this scrutiny is necessary. In any business, there are unscrupulous purveyors and slave traders are no exception. With the shortage of goods, they have resorted to cheating; there is no honor amongst slavers these days. Nowadays they are not to be trusted. Hair is bleached with alum and lemon, and skilled surgeons are hired to restore the vestiges of virginity to well-used girls with a few well placed stitches, or she could be sachetted.”

“What is sachetted, Master?” I asked.

“It’s an old trick used by brothel owners to sell a girl’s virginity many time over to unsuspecting strangers and now used by slave traders. They insert a sachet, a small bag of thin goat or sheep membrane tightly filled with blood, into her. When the man thrusts into her the sachet bursts and the unsuspecting master believes he has deflowered a virgin; he thinks that the burst sachet is her torn curtain and the blood the ‘blood of the first night’. Clever deceit, don’t you agree?” He continued, without waiting to hear my opinion. “Black girls from North Africa, in particular, have to be looked over thoroughly as the practice of female circumcision is spreading rapidly, a practice that in the minds of many Arab men diminishes the desirability of a woman. She is unable to reply naturally to her master’s passion, and many harem masters take pride in taking a girl to her peak of excitement and hearing her cry out.”

I would remember that—outbursts were easy to make.

“This mutilation of women is a hideous practice. I prefer my girl’s petals uncut,” he said casually, adding, “How good it is that Black Pearl and Hortensia are as God made them.”

With the pre-bidding inspections over, the women again formed a line at the back of the platform in the dark shade of the canopy. When their turn came, they stepped forward into the full glaring sunlight and bidding commenced. The slave trader read out her qualifications, age, and origin, pointed out attributes that might have escaped the eye of the bidders, such as the small Christian cross one of the girls wore around her neck, and closed his remarks with an opening price. The older, less attractive and least expensive women were first put up for sale, while the younger girls were held back to last.

Bidding was lively and raucous, with the crowd yelling remarks over the shouts of the auctioneer as he called out the latest bids. The fifth girl, a small but pretty captive from Syria, was sold to Sohrab—that sordid filthy qanass merchant—of my previous encounter. He signaled his delight with his winning bid by raising both hands in the air, revealing a shiny new item tucked through his belt. That horrible, pig-eating coward had bought a whip, conjuring in my mind visions of his new purchase shackled to the wooden pole of his tent awaiting his barbarous pleasures.

“Did you see who bought that Syrian girl?” I whispered, pointing to Sohrab. “That man is the man who beat me. He doesn’t deserve a woman, never mind such a young innocent girl. I know he will be cruel to her, poor thing. Look how young she is, and look at that whip in his belt.” These thoughts sickened and saddened me, and I urged Ali to take me back to the encampment, claiming that the heat of the sun bearing down on my black burqa was about to overwhelm me.

“So, that is the man. He is the one who sells falcons in the souk. And yes, we will leave, but did you notice that he paid nearly four thousand qirsh for the girl? She is a lesser beauty than you are. She has smaller breasts, and her narrow hips promise less vigor than yours do. You are worth more, but should I pay Ahmad your price?” he asked, suggesting that he could afford the price but perhaps I was not worth it. Was he making fun of me again or was he serious? I dared not ask for the answer.

Ali continued to bemoan the shortage of new slave girls that was driving prices up. For hundreds of years, he explained, Arabs had brought black girls north to stock their harems, but now black kings, chiefs and nobles were buying white girls and taking them south. The flow of human cargo had reversed direction. A further exacerbation was the scarcity of new slaves from Europe and the East now that wars were being waged in Europe, and piracy policed by the navies of the European states. He reflected that well over half the girls of his father’s harem had been black, and he went on to tell me that black girls, particularly Christians from Nubia or Abyssinia, “are highly prized for their pert breasts and generous buttocks.”

The Slave Market

As we walked back, Ali reminisced about the times when he first came to these meets with his father. “At that time, on slavers day, the entire main square was filled with slavers showing their wares,” he said. “Some set up tents or rented buildings facing the square, while others erected wooden platforms from which they conducted their business. It was exciting for a young boy awakening to the charms of girls and women, to see them exposed naked like that,” he chuckled.

I thought about the casual and matter-of-fact manner in which Ali discussed the most intimate details of women. Did he see his girls and women as mere possessions without emotions and feelings of their own? Possessions displayed like fine furniture or valuable carpets, used to add comfort and variety to his life, to relieve him of his lust, and lend to his friends at will. Was having many women at his call the same to him as owning many camels or having many servants in service? And if so, why would he feel any different about me?

Yet, on the other hand, he had shown encouraging compassion and concern for my misfortunes at the hands of the merchant, which gave room for hope that my first thoughts were wrong.

ENSLAVED CAPTIVES

Sapphira tells the harem story of the enslavement of two girls who now reside in the sheik's harem.

ENSLAVED CAPTIVES

The palace at Makram was guarded around the clock. Armed guards manned the only entrance, and kept the huge doors closed and bolted, and opened only to allow known and authorized personnel to pass. At all hours, other guards patrolled atop the high perimeter walls. While making escape from the harem impossible, its real purpose was to keep out unwanted intruders.

Many years ago, during a mild sandstorm, bandits had scaled the walls of the old palace at Buraydah stealing precious jewelry and many slave girls. The ensuing sandstorm covered the abductor’s tracks and neither the jewelry nor the girls were recovered. After this loss, Ali’s father enforced the Turkish practice of marking by branding, to identify abducted or escaped slave girls should they be offered for sale in local markets or put to work in one of the well frequented brothels. All of Ali’s girls bore a mark—his, or that of a previous owner.

How valuable were slave girls that they were worth the risk of stealing? Blond haired European virgins less than sixteen years old were the most valuable and could be worth the price of twenty camels or more to those buyers who found them exceptionally attractive. A budding younger virgin, who showed good promise of things to come, could fetch the price of ten camels, her owner then putting her to work as a harem servant girl until her showings were full and regular. Girls who had lost their virginity varied widely in value depending on their age, color of skin and hair, and the fullness and firmness of that part of the female anatomy that most appealed to the buyer. Prices varied widely but were never less than the equivalent of three camels.

Warring between nations and tribes had always been the main source of slaves throughout history. Spoils flowed to the victors, the vanquished taken as slaves, and sold along with their seized possessions. Tribal war and rivalries yielded black African men and women slaves who arrived in Arabia ports by ship and boat, and in the Far East, gold purchased Asian girls who came back overland along with silks and other goods in one of the many trade caravans traveling the great Silk Road.

Ali owned one Asian girl, Briar Rose, indentured by her poor family, supposedly for household service in a wealthy man’s home, as was common practice with female offspring in India and the Far East. Briar Rose, taken westwards and sold to Arab slavers, never saw household service.

Captive Women Destined for Harems

Pirate bounty was a large source of European girls. Raids mounted from pirate lairs dotted along the coast of the Barbary States, on ships passing through the narrow Straits of Gibraltar or becalmed in quiet waters yielded many captives. Those captured who were of noble birth, or wealthy, commanded ransoms in gold, but the fate of the poor was slavery.

It was common for a raiding party to return with a hundred or more captives after looting undefended towns along the coasts of the Iberian Peninsula, Ireland and Scandinavia. Captains of pirate vessels were wealthy and respected citizens in their homeports and as such, were beyond reproach. There they dallied with impunity with the choicest of their captives before delivering them for ransom, or selling them on to eager buyers.

Now is perhaps a good time to write about two Ali’s girls: Yasmeen and Paeonia. They have most interesting stories to tell.

Yasmeen, a Visayan girl from the Far East, was a prisoner of pirates who had raided and looted her coastal fishing village. In the slave market in Al-Aqaba, a corrupt official bought her to give to the Grand Vizier of Baghdad as a bribe to curry favor and protection. The Grand Vizier took her into his harem as one of his bed-slaves.

All came to an abrupt and unexpected ending. Convicted of embezzling taxes collected on behalf of the Caliph of Baghdad, the Grand Vizier and his sons were put to death and his household goods and chattels sold. His wives and daughters were enslaved and exiled beyond the far corners of the Caliph’s empire where they were sold along with the vizier’s harem girls and eunuchs. That is how Yasmeen found herself aboard a boat taking her back to the slave market at Al-Aqaba. Here in her own words is an account of what took place there after her arrival.

“The slave trader washed and groomed me and gave me a loose fitting white cotton gown to wear, before he brought me before a seated well-fleshed woman of high rank. Her attending eunuch stood at her side. The slave trader opened the front of the gown to reveal my breasts and then peeled it back from my shoulders and let it fall to the floor about my feet. Both the woman and the eunuch asked many questions about my previous duties and knowledge and then the eunuch took me aside. With my hands behind my head, he poked and parted me, sharply slapped and pinched my breasts, buttocks and thighs, and opened my mouth to examine my teeth. An ivory rod, inserted deep into me and then withdrawn, tested the sweetness of my musk.

“A price was negotiated; I was bound tightly to a camel and taken to the old palace at Buraydah. There, after further instruction and enhancement, I was given to Ali as a present to mark his fourteenth birthday. I was his first slave.”

Paeonia was born unwanted and unloved, the illegitimate child of a prostitute, a “Lady of the Night” who worked the dock-lands of the British port of Bristol. Her mother sold Paeonia’s virginity to a sailor, “To make good for my board and keep, and the other troubles I had caused her—I stole things and told lies.” In the squalor and dirt of her mother’s hovel, Paeonia surrendered her virginity, while her mother looked on through a drunken gin-induced haze, encouraging him to, “Give it to her good, Mister.”

Following this ordeal Paeonia cropped her hair short, dressed herself in boys’ clothes, and ran away from her mother. She signed on as a cabin boy on a coastal freighter, joining two other adolescent boys in the crew.

Paeonia told me how Ali came to own her.

“One evening we were ashore spending our hard-earned wages on tankards of tavern ale when the town hall clock struck eleven. We ran down the dockside dodging and jumping over sprawling bodies and stacked cargo and up the gangplank, beating the curfew by two minutes—the first mate always pulled the plank at exactly five minutes past eleven. On the boat, the elder boy, feeling a strong need to relieve himself, challenged us to a pissing contest to see who could pee farthest over the rail and into the sea, a challenge accepted by the other boy. “Belly up to the railing,” was his rallying call. I, of course, being ill equipped for the contest, declined the challenge. We traded derogatory names and a scuffle started during which one of the boys tried to grab me between my legs. He found nothing to grab onto! They pulled off my trousers to reveal my secret and those dreadful boys kept my trousers while they relieved themselves over the railing and then, for their amusement, made me squat on the deck and do the same. Under threat of exposure, the older boy took advantage of me, but the younger boy, probably a virgin, failed to perform when his turn came, and the older boy and I made fun of his inadequacy. He told my secret to the captain.

“The outcome was unexpected. I was ‘promoted’ from cabin boy to cabin bed-wench and when we sailed I had the pleasure of waving goodbye from the rail to the two boys who were left squabbling on the dockside, laying blame on each other for their predicament.

“During voyages I ‘made good’ the captain, and whenever the boat was in port he locked me below deck for safekeeping.

“I was quite content to be away at sea and far from my mother and bad memories, but a year or so later he tired of me, or more likely needed money. In Dublin, Ireland, he sold me to another captain who stowed me down below in a cattle pen along with three Irish peasant girls, a young boy, and hundreds of bleating and stinky sheep.

“In the cattle pens we were watched over by a youth who had designs on me, but I soon cooled his ambitions. I let him undo the first buttons of my shirt and then kneed him sharply between his legs sending him yelping away like a beaten dog. He didn’t bother us again, except to tell us horrible tales about what awaited us in the next port where the boy would have his balls cut off and the girls would be displayed naked and sold in the market place. I told him he was a liar, not realizing the truth in his words.

“We sailed to Alexandria and there, under cover of night, I was sold to an Arab slave trader and taken overland to the slave market in Al-Aqaba where Ali’s mother bought me. She gave me to Ali for his nineteenth birthday.”

Of all the girls, she was the most vivacious and friendly, always cheerful and smiling. I would say with certainty that she was happy living her life as a harem slave. I could understand why, given her unpleasant taste of life in her minor years. She had known no master other than Ali.

All the girls adopted her word Sire when addressing Ali, an English word that I know now means “lord” or “man of high rank”.

Paeonia's harem name comes from a flower that grows wild in the Atlas Mountains of Tunisia and Morocco. I know it well. It has beautiful bowl shaped blooms flushed with pink—just like her breasts. She is the most buxom of Ali’s girls, and refers to them in that fun way of hers as “England’s gift to the Arabs”.

Her eyes, catchingly framed by her abundant hair, do not go unnoticed. They are an exquisite green, a color I had never seen in such intensity in eyes before. Hair the color of apricots—“my ginger tresses,” she called it—falls in waves down her back like ripples on water, and freckles on the bridge of her nose spill over her cheeks and shoulders. She hates them—the freckles that is—and she has the whitest skin, lighter even than Nadya. She keeps to the shade, for the heat of the sun turns her skin from the purest white to a pink as deep as tamarisk blossoms.

To the eyes of Arab men, she is a rare and exotic beauty.

Shackled by the wrist

Sapphira is brutally beaten by a stranger, leading Ali to impose an unusual and permanent punishment on the perpetrator, one that can only be done to men.

(The girl in the photograph is Yvonne DeCarlo from the movie "The Slave Girl". The painting is "Before Punishment" by Ferencz Eisenhut (1857-1903) and is included here for its depiction of the dreaded ankle blocks.)

SOHRAB

By mid afternoon we had settled in, and Ali told me that in the evening we were to attend a large celebration at the home of a wealthy merchant to mark the opening of the meet. “All the sheiks and important traders will be there along with attending slave girls. I will be taking you,” he said. “You will wear Ahmad’s blue chiffon.”

I was apprehensive and worried as we walked into town just as the sun was setting. Ali had said that others would see me as part of some special entertainment for the guests, and before leaving, he inspected me thoroughly, checking my freshness, my mehndi and my body jewelry. In doing so, he tightened the rings around my nipples so much that they swelled to the size of small red cherries and hurt from the chafe of my choli as my breasts bounced with my step. Was this to be part of the entertainment?

Ali noticed my discomfort as I hunched over to relieve the touch of the cloth and mercifully, he pulled me into a darkened doorway, untied the laces holding my choli closed, and carefully opened the rings and took them off my distended nipples. “Too tight,” he muttered, “Talil knows better how to fit these things.” I settled myself back into my choli, retied the laces, and we walked on.

The door of the merchant’s house was almost a hole in a crumbling wall and even I had to stoop down to pass through it. The doorkeeper led us down a narrow corridor around a sharp bend that served to shield the interior from the inquisitive eyes of passersby in the street, and into a beautiful well-tended garden courtyard. From there we walked across a central tiled court, flanked by tiled columns and curved arches, to the beit al diafa (guest parlor), where the men sat on large curved divans arranged around a low round table. A high ceiling of cedar wood painted in red and gold, lent warmth to the room as well as beauty.

Never be misled by the poor outward appearance of the many windowless dwellings lining the streets of Arab towns, for many were purposely built that way. Many Arabs consider it poor taste to show wealth ostentatiously, and this home was a fine example of that teaching. A modest exterior may well enclose an extremely luxurious home.

Ali took his place on a divan and I joined other girls standing in line to take turns serving the table. I returned to the guest parlor with a silver samovar from which I served mint tea to the seated men as they nonchalantly chatted and passed the hookah. All except one largely ignored me; although I was dressed revealingly in a way I knew found favor with men and had to lean low to pour.

Talented slave girls from the host’s harem danced, sang, and played musical instruments to entertain the guests, and time passed quickly and pleasantly, until the host moved to the center of the room and held up his hand for silence.

“I welcome you all to my humble home this evening,” he began “and may Allah grant many such visits.

“Last year, we agreed to add some variety to our gathering—some more attractive company than ourselves—and I thank those who were able to answer this call and bring with them a choice member from their harem. And I will add that I have never before seen so much talent and beauty under one roof; you have all surely brought your prettiest slaves. Alas, there are fewer of them than us, so,” he clapped his hands, followed by a loud call for “Baseema,” and an older slave woman immediately brought a large volume of the Qur’an and lay it before the sheik. “And so,” he continued, “we will draw lots for the pleasure of their company.”

I was taken aback somewhat, to put it lightly. I had not anticipated this! It made me realize, with an acute rush of feeling in the pit of my stomach, exactly what I had done. I had contracted for this. I had to do as commanded of me, without question, for I had bargained to be a slave girl at the call of men.

“Let us commence,” said our host with a broad toothy smile on his face. “Help the girls display their virtues, Baseema, so that my guests may choose knowingly.”

She set out a row of candles on the floor before the guests and, one by one, we were ushered forward to stand behind the lit candles, where Baseema, with great ceremony removed our clothes. Our host made pointed and sometimes lewd comments while we faced the scrutinizing and lustful eyes of the men, and after our showing we moved to one side, clutching our flimsy garments in our hands, where we formed a disorderly line.

The host held high the Qur’an, revealing white strips of paper that protruded from between its pages. “Some of these are long, some short. Those lucky enough to draw a long strip will have their choice of companion for the night.”

“A blasphemous use of the Holy book,” I thought.

Ali had the honor of first draw, and the host, after a drawn out inspection and much head shaking and feigned concern, conceded that Ali’s strip of paper was indeed one of the long ones. Predictably, knowing his predilections and his desire to pay credit to the host’s taste in women, he chose as his night companion a striking black Nubian girl belonging to our host of the evening.

I was sorely disappointed with the man who chose me—a small rakish merchant of unknown nationality—and even more disappointed that I was the seventh one chosen. Was it true that I was only seventh in rank of desirability!

Two unlucky and impatient men, after talking to the host, escorted Baseema—who, while older was still an attractive and generously proportioned slave—in the direction of an empty room, loosening her garments as they went, so eager were they to apportion her services. And how would she be apportioned to their lusts, how would she accommodate them, I puzzled to myself—both at the same time? Two men and one woman yield several possibilities. A ménage a trois.

A few men chose to bide their time and wait for the privacy of their own tent or house to spend time with their prize. Less patient ones took their choice into one of many side rooms for more immediate gratification—a gesture appreciated by the unlucky ones, as the girl could afterwards be bathed and again given over to someone.

Behind me, voices rose above the din of the room. “I hear that Sheik Ali Saalih is here. Who was the lucky one to get him?” My head turned sharply around at the mention of his name to see two girls talking to each other.

“That black Nubian,” I said, pointing out his choice as I moved towards them to join in their conversation. “Why is she lucky?” I asked, curious as to their thoughts about him.

“You haven’t heard about him?”

“Some—but what do you know?”

“He is wealthy beyond compare and lives in a huge palace and has a harem of over one hundred women,” bubbled one of the girls, “and he takes as many as ten before he goes to sleep at night.”

“It is said that he is so big and heavy that under his djellaba he wears a solid gold pouch to hold it,” said the other.

“I wager the Nubian won’t be walking with that proud stride after he has finished with her,” said the first. “And I wager she won’t be hungry,” parried the other, crudely, amidst laughter.

“Who told you this about Sheik Ali?” I asked.

“Our keeper. She was with his father’s harem, but she looks after us now because our eunuch died. She told us that on his fourteenth birthday he was given fourteen virgins and that on every birthday he gets again the same number as his years.”

As I turned to walk away, I said, to their amazement, “What you say is true, he is a remarkable man. I know, because I am his haseki.”

My eyes sought Ali amongst the crowd of men across the room. They found him, and held him, and within that short moment, something passed between us…and I saw clearly in the dim light that I loved him. I knew that there was no other explanation for my feelings, nor did I want one. I longed for him frantically and unquestionably and wanted nothing more than to end this ungodly separation and go back to the tent with him, to tend his needs, belong to him—and let go of my secrets. Brave thoughts soon swept aside by a rising flood of despair. Love was drawing me recklessly into the unrest and hopelessness of an impossible romance, one I new I could not possibly reconcile—I was a married woman.

It was well into the night when the merchant decided to leave for his own tent. As I hurriedly followed behind him, an unfamiliar and unpleasant odor wafted back over me. He and a small group of friends had been drawing heavily from a hookah all evening, and now his footsteps were unsure with an occasional stagger and stumble.

Darkness and stale air laced with a sour stench greeted me when he pushed me forward into his tent. There were no windows or openings of any kind to let in fresh breezes—or a splash of moonlight—as there were in Ali’s tent. He lit a lamp and I saw the source of the terrible odor—numerous falcons dozing on perches in one corner of the tent—clumps of white guano mottling the ground beneath them.

A loose bundle of rattan and an untidy collection of empty and partly made birdcages littered one side of the tent, and a small rug and sleeping pad lay on the sandy floor not far away. Two sturdy wood poles supported the canvas roof, and ominously, hammered high into one of them was a black iron ring. A chain with gaping open wrist shackles riveted to each end dangled from the ring. A key hung from a small nail.

He first spoke to me in Farsi or Urdu, I thought, languages I did not understand, and realizing this he spoke again, this time in poor Arabic with a heavy accent. But words were not required, his intentions were obvious and no surprise to me. Without pleasant formalities, he thoroughly eyed me from head to toe, thought for a moment, and reached for a knife in his belt. He approached threateningly, testing the blade of the knife with his thumb, before he slid the cold curved tip of steel between my breasts and brought it up sharply; cutting through the ladder of laces that held my choli closed—thrrrr…up. He flipped the parted cloth aside and threw the knife down.

He pressed closer to me, staring into my eyes and then at my uncovered charms, while the smell of his stale clothing assaulted my nostrils. His small rough hands—resplendent with uncut dirty nails—explored my body and for one horrible long minute, I endured those grimy fingers on my skin—poking, stroking, pinching and squeezing my breasts and stomach until I thought I could stand no more. His breath was close and foul in my face before his eager mouth found my breast, and pain and revulsion so severe swept through me, that without thinking, I swept my arms upwards, hitting him sharply under the jaw and sending him sprawling backwards into the pile of empty birdcages.

“You, you will pay for that! I punish you,” he spluttered, as he stumbled to his feet, pushing cages aside and brushing sand off himself.

Viciously he grabbed my hair and slammed me against the tent pole. Stunned and winded, I could not resist as he snapped the shackles around my wrists, pushed my chest against the pole, and hoisted my hands above my head. For a dazed moment, my bewildered mind called back with childlike simplicity to the peace and tranquility of the palace courtyard back in Makram. “Yasmeen will be annoyed with me,” my mind was telling me. “She will tell me to be more careful with my clothes—and then mend them for me.”

When I heard it, a swell of rising panic swamped these calming thoughts. It was the unmistakable swish and thwack, that frightening sound of something smacking into an open palm, something being tested for its heft and flex.

He tore away my beautiful pants, leaving them where they fell on the dirty ground, and started to shuffle back and forth behind me, tapping my bottom lightly now and again with something that was not his finger.

A white-hot sting flared across my buttocks. It extinguished in one bright flash of my mind, any thoughts I had. The swish, thwack, and sting were one; nothing separated them when he brought his instrument of chastisement down sharply across my bared buttocks. In my shock, I did not cry out. I would not give him that satisfaction. A resolve that was swiftly undone.

I danced like a marionette on strings when the second stroke hit home, and I shrieked out in the vain unrealized hope that my cries would summon help—that Ali would somehow hear me and come to my rescue. It was a loud and piercing cry that echoed through the camp, more than making up for my earlier silence.

“My name Sohrab, I rich and strong man, you a slave woman. I hit you till noise you make no more. People sleep,” his slurred voice dictated. For his pleasure, I must suffer in silence or be beaten into unconsciousness so others may sleep. I clenched my teeth and held my breath in fearful anticipation, as he bade his time.

His further judgment came down heavily, three or four more strokes, laid down in brisk succession followed by a loud snap and something flying against the tent side that startled his captive birds into a frenzy of flapping wings. My body arched and collapsed, my knees buckled under me, leaving me hanging by my wrists while my feet thrashed around trying to find footing in the loose sand. The iron shackles cut deeply, and my outraged shoulders burned under the separating weight of my dangling body.

“My stick break. You lucky this time,” he sneered.

Shackled by the Wrist

To my utter surprise, he keyed open one of the shackles, freeing one hand, leaving me still tethered by the other. The chain, now out of balance, pulled and rattled through the eye of the small ring—the opened shackle rode up the pole, and the one still closed around my wrist rode down, along with it my tethered arm and slumping body. An abrupt and noisy clang signaled the end of travel and jolted me to a stop, leaving me hanging awkwardly by one arm, with the rest of me sprawled in the sand at the foot of the pole. I found my knees and knelt up high to slacken the chain and relieve the cut of the shackle, while my free hand soothed my burning bottom that throbbed painfully with every beat of my pounding heart.

On his sleeping pad, a mere rug spread out on the bumpy sand, he undressed, and amid cursing and fumbling, set up a hookah, and squatted behind it. After several shaky attempts, he lit a small bed of fiber, the center of which cradled a small black ball. For several minutes, he slowly inhaled and exhaled the dense white smoke, until the little ball melted, shrank away, and flared up and died out. Strings of acrid, pungent smoke, floated in layers in the stagnant air of the tent and my nostrils filled with the same unforgettable smell that had wafted over me when I had earlier walked behind him. Unseen and unheard, I vomited onto the ground and brushed sand over the splatter with my foot.

Although covered by my torn pants it caught my eye. I could see it shining through the delicate blue chiffon. His knife. My mind sank to new levels—a horrid part of me. I would stab him when he came close to me again—kill him! “He deserved nothing better than to die,” I thought.

But could I do the deed when the time came? The curved blade of the knife was more suited to ceremonial dress and cutting through strings than stabbing through human flesh. Besides, would my wrenched arm possess the strength to plunge it into him? I flexed my free hand; it closed weakly.

If I only wounded him, it would serve no purpose. It would only enrage the vicious beast within him, and his vengeance would be swift and thorough. Still shackled and chained to the pole by one arm I would be utterly at his mercy. Likewise, if I killed him, I could not escape. Others would find me still chained to the pole, with the bloodied weapon at my feet, and drag me to the town prison. There, no doubt, a brutal jailor would unmercifully scourge me, as he would any common murderer, and after he had done, he would take me to the public square for “beheading by the sword”.

Wooden Ankle Blocks

There, face down on a long wooden table with my ankles clamped in heavy wooden blocks, head hanging over the end, my head would be severed—my exposed neck, taut and pale, giving deadly aim to the sweep of the scimitar sword.

I took a deep shuddering breath and thought better of my plan to kill him.

When he next stumbled towards me, I was relieved to see he held nothing in his hands, other than the key to the shackles. At least he did not intend to beat me further; instead, he fumbled with the iron shackle around my wrist springing it open. My aching arm dropped like deadweight, my twisting shoulder protesting its release with a burst of pain. Grasping the back of my neck, he pitched me towards his sleeping pad where I stumbled and sprawled out, half on the pad, half in the sand, the flying sand dusting and clinging to my damp limbs and sweat-beaded chest.

He tottered back to the pad, lay down on his back, reached out and pulled in a saddlebag for a pillow.

I could only guess at what he had smoked with his hookah, opium maybe. Whatever it was, it was truly intoxicating him. His eyes flickered and rolled up into his head, leaving the sockets filled with grotesque jaundiced balls—a toppled heathen idol. His loosely parted lips exposed teeth that looked like a row of broken brown almonds.

Taking himself in his hand, he stroked for a few moments, then seized me with his other hand and forced me to kneel between his spread legs and replace his hand with mine.

His penis was thin, short and uncircumcised, and as I pulled down the foreskin to free the head a smell of stale urine and unwashed skin revolted my senses. He had not bathed for days, perhaps never in his life. With my hand, I brought his sticky appendage to full hardness, and hurriedly clambered on top of him. Nevertheless, I did not slip him into me. I kept my hand on him and stroked him while I moved my body, pretending, for his benefit, that he was in me. His breathing quickened and deepened to short gasps as he released his issue, and in his drowsy intoxicated state, it went unnoticed that I had used my hand.

I had no qualms about doing it to Jamaal or my Master. I enjoyed pleasing them that way; they were always clean, sweet tasting, and appreciative. This man, however, disgusted and sickened me so much that I decided that if he did not chain me back to the post for the night I would sneak out after he fell asleep and return to my Master’s tent. I would face the consequences of leaving my night companion. Nothing could be worse than pleasuring him.

When his breathing deepened in true oblivion, I picked up his curved knife and my clothes from the floor, bundled them about me to stave off the cold, and left his wretched tent.

Moonlight reflecting on the water of the oasis gave me direction, and I headed downhill to the water’s edge weaving my way between tents, daintily stepping high over ropes and pegs so as not to trip over them and rouse sleeping occupants.

At the edge of the water, I knelt down and washed my hands thoroughly using wet sand to scour away the lingering residue from my filthy encounter. Splashing water over my face and body, I waded out until the water was about my waist and waited for the cool water to douse the fire of my buttocks. Then I flung his knife into the depths and returned to the shore, dressed as well as I could in my torn clothes, and picked up the path that led back to Ali’s tent.

A guard intercepted me, recognized my face, and after discreetly glancing at my partially clothed body, allowed me to pass. I curled up outside the tent under a piece of canvas and spent the rest of the night’s cold hours in fitful sleep.

At dawn, I awoke to the sound of muffled voices coming from inside the tent, sounds of laughter and lovemaking—and the sight of a small turbaned man crouched on the ground not far away staring straight at me, with a look of bewilderment on his face. I froze and lay motionless beneath the canvas, intensely aware of my furiously pounding heart, but I was of no interest to him, other than to his curiosity.

Shortly thereafter, the Nubian girl appeared in the entrance to the tent, completely oblivious to my presence, and extended her arm in the direction of the turbaned man. He rose, tied a rope around her wrist, and led her away.

Scampering from my hiding place, I entered the tent to find my Master reclined on his sleeping pad, obviously relishing the afterglow of a pleasant experience.

“Sapphira! You are back earlier than I—what is that red mark on the side of your face?”

“I bumped into a tent pole, Master, it is nothing,” I replied calmly.

“Look at your clothes!” he said, jumping to his feet.

He took me by the shoulders and held me in front of him, frowning, and then lowered my tattered clothes that I had crudely tied about me. Inspecting his goods for damage, his eyes traveled slowly from my head to my toes. He saw the bite mark on my breast, made a muffled sound, and then turned me around and found the angry red welts on my bottom.

“Who did this to you? Who were you with?”

“I don’t know. He told me his name was Sohrab, I think—or something like that,” I managed to say, before my composure collapsed and I burst into tears.

“That doesn’t tell me much; what did he beat you with?” he demanded, after my tears had subsided.

“He was behind me when he beat me. I think it was with a stick.”

“It wasn’t a stick. The lines are too thin to be the work of a stick; it was a cane. One, two…three, four, five…six strokes. He’s a swine. And look at your wrist. He shackled you. Where is his tent?”

“Up on the side of the hill, Master,” I sobbed.

“That doesn’t tell me much either. Could you find it again?”

“I don’t think so, Master, it was dark when I was taken there, and dark when I fled.”

“Allah help us all! This is not the way it is supposed to be. God gave women to men, but not the right to beat them, no matter that she is a slave. He will pay for this abuse of God’s gifts,” he said, muttering a few choice curses that I will not repeat.

“He is an animal. An ignorant foreigner no doubt. He does not deserve to be a man. This treatment of you is outrageous. I will avenge it; I can assure you of that. Next time, if there is a next time, you will go with someone I know. And, as for him, when I find him, and I will, he is finished as a man.

“May the curse of God settle on him.”

Turning away, he strode to the entrance and called sharply to someone beyond, ordering something brought bring to the tent, the name of which I did not catch. Shortly, to my immediate concern, Talil appeared…with a vial of ointment in hand.

“Sapphira was caned last night. See to it that she is cared for properly. Bathe her and spread the ointment where she has been hurt. Be gentle with her and let her rest afterwards.”

“Yes, Master,” replied Talil.

Ali dressed, Talil walked behind him to the opening in the sidewall of the tent, and saw him out and on his way for the day.

Talil turned to me. “What happened? What did you do that inflamed the Master to this?” he asked angrily.

“It was not the Master. I was with another man last night. He did it to me. I knocked him over. It was an accident, but he still beat me.”

“Ah, now I understand, because Ali does not permit anyone to be caned or whipped since we moved to Makram. Please turn around. Let me see the place of your torment.

“Oh, may Allah comfort you. This is a terrible. This is the work of an uncivilized animal with no talent or understanding. A girl has to feel her master’s anger, of course, but never this severely for an accident or small offence. A smack with the hand would be enough. Small wonder the Master is furious. Your tormenter should have known better than to damage the jewel of the harem.”

“Jewel of the harem? Who calls me that?” I asked, stirred by pride and the thought that it might be Ali.

“Mustafa and I do, because since you arrived there is a new sparkle about the palace that comes from you.”

“It comes from the name Sapphira,” I countered, with a smile full of false modesty.

“It is more than just your name. We notice that Ali is settled now and more thoughtful and passionate about life. You have refreshed his being and we want to keep it that way. It is good for everybody.

“Come let me bathe you, and make you well again.”

His gentle caring was a complete surprise so far removed from my first impression of him—my chilling encounter with him at my first showing. He bathed me gently and continued his polite chatter.

“When you first came to the harem I imagined you would cause trouble with the other girls, because at your first showing you stood proudly and looked defiantly at the Master, almost with disrespect. But you are not the kind of girl I thought you were. We are all delighted to have you with us.”

“And you are not the kind of person I though you were,” I replied, carefully avoiding the word man.

“What was your name before you were enslaved?”

“Mariyah,” I replied.

“You have two enchanting names. If I was to have a daughter I would want to call her Mariyah.”

Talil bathed away any unpleasant thoughts from my night encounter, and after he applied the ointment, he left me to rest. I lay on my front, with my head on my arms, thinking of my Master and the concern he had shown for me. Pleased with my painful achievement, I allowed myself to wear a secret smile of satisfaction and dozed the morning away.

Ali returned shortly after noon and, after my assurances that I felt much better, told me that he would take me for a leisurely walk into town and buy our mid-day meal from one of the many street vendors.

“They do it in Europe you know.”

“Do what Master?” I asked.

“Take their women out with them.”

“It’s a lovely custom, you’re very modern in your ways, Sire,” I said, in subtle flattery that he accepted with a nod and proud smile.

“Before we go, let me see your welts. How are they? Are you well enough to walk about?” He raised the hem of my skirt; I wiggled my bottom imperceptibly—I thought.

“I see you are feeling better,” he chuckled, as he gently felt the ridges before letting the hem fall back. “And so you should. That ointment is expensive, we use it on our best horses when they have been cropped too strenuously,” he added, bursting into laughter.

Horse medicine! Now, what do I make of that?

Christian women oppose stockings....

A group of Southern Baptist women has called upon manufacturers of panty hose and other clothing to discontinue usage of the word "nude" as a color. The group, led by Henrietta Simms (wife of the Right Reverend Jedediah Simms of the First Southern Baptist Church of Athens, Georgia) feels that the word "nude" carries negative descriptions and connotations and is "of the devil."

From her home at the parsonage in the Hide-A-Way Trailer Park in Athens, Henrietta offered the following explanations:

"We've got lots of problems with the using of that there devil word."

"Firstly, young and impressionable boys might see that word and it could lead them to unclean and impure thoughts about girls who wear the product. They already have enough temptation in this world with swimsuit issues and internet porn to have to worry about whether the teenage girl next door is putting onnude panty hose."

"Secondly, there's the young girls themselves. These girls start wearing hose when they start puberty. Do we want our young, innocent, virginal girls thinking that the boys can see clear through their dresses and panties just because they are wearing nude panty hose (that their mothers bought them)? It almost seems like we are putting this impression in their minds."

"Thirdly, how many young couples in a night of frantic passion (hopefully on their honeymoons) do not remove these nude panty hose because they think it is natural and they won't get in the way?"

"Fourthly, we think that the word nude should be removed in favor of the term normal white folks' skin tone. Adam and Eve commanded to cover their nakedness. Wearing nude panty hose makes it seem like you are breaking a commandment."

"We also think that there should be no nude coloring on bras or panties. This is wrong for all of the reasons that I just explained. Besides, proper Christian women only wear pure, white undergarments and it would be a sin to wear anything else (unless you are a little girl in cartoon panties)."

Memoirs of a Nun in India.

A Former Nun's Memoirs Rock India's Catholic Church

By MADHUR SINGH 

A group of Catholic nuns walking in Kerala, India

Dariusz Klemens / Alamy

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After 26 years as a nun, Jesme Raphael gave up her robes and walked out of the Congregation of the Mother of Carmel, the Catholic order in Kerala, India, that had been her home for three decades. Two years later, Raphael, now 53, has come out with her memoirs, Amen: An Autobiography of a Nun, cataloging lurid details of bullying, sexual abuse and homosexuality in the oldest Catholic women's order in the idyllic coastal state in southern India. Shocking as it is, the book is only the latest in a long series of accusations and scandals afflicting the Catholic Church in the state with the largest population of Christians in India.

"All the brothers here send you greetings. Greet one another with a holy kiss [1 Corinthians 16:20]," Raphael quotes a priest as telling her, after she confronted him with allegations that "he kissed almost everyone who went for one-on-one meetings." In other episodes, she tells of a coerced lesbian encounter, being forced to strip in front of a naked priest who then masturbated and being accused of mental instability after she complained to her superiors. (See pictures of young nuns in the U.S. who have taken their vows.)

Since the book's release on Jan. 30, publishers DC Books have already sold all 3,000 copies, and a reprint has been ordered. The Catholic Church is miffed. "There is no dearth of antireligion people in Kerala society," said Stephen Alathara, deputy secretary of the Kerala Catholic Bishops Council. "They are using this for their antisocial, antichurch activities." In 1957 Kerala voted in the world's first democratically elected communist government, and it has been under communist rule since the last state elections in 2006.

A spokesman for the Syro-Malabar order of the Catholic Church, Father Paul Thelakkat, said Raphael's allegations stem from "some wounded feelings," which Raphael should have raised with the church instead of "maligning the life of religious nuns." He added that Raphael's allegations are "not especially serious." "The church never claims there's no sin within the church," he said. "We're not angels — we're human beings of flesh and blood — so some omissions and failures can happen. But the church is perennially on a path of renewal and reformation. We're trying to deal with these problems and such allegations." (See pictures of India's floods.)

There has been no shortage of them in recent months. On Feb. 11, Sister Josephine, a nun in the Daughters of Mary congregation in Trivandrum, Kerala's state capital, was found dead in her room in an apparent suicide. Members of the congregation said the 38-year-old nun had been under treatment for depression. After news of the incident spread, a crowd gathered around the house and shouted slogans alleging that harassment had led Sister Josephine to kill herself. The police had to intervene, and an inquiry into the case was later ordered. Six months earlier, on Aug. 11 of last year, 23-year-old Sister Anoopa Mary had been found hanging in her room in St. Mary's Convent in Kollam, north of the capital. In what was purportedly her suicide note, she had said she could no longer withstand the senior nuns' harassment. Her father, a cook in the local bishop's house, charged that sexual exploitation had led his daughter to take her life. The convent has denied the allegations, though a court investigation is still ongoing.

Read more: http://www.time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,1882176,00.html#ixzz1UjZzticC

Religious training continued..2 .History of Religious Sex

sex and the cross

"I saw in his hand a long spear of gold, and at the iron's point there seemed to be a little fire. He appeared to me to be thrusting it at times into my heart and to pierce my very entrails; when he drew it out, he seemed to draw them out also and to leave me all on fire with a great love of God. The pain was so great that it made me moan; and yet so surpassing was the sweetness of this excessive pain that I could not wish to be rid of it."

-the vision of St Teresa of Avila

A friend of mine just wrote a racy little tale of sex and religious innuendo. It tickled the hell out of me, religion and sex being one of my recurring themes at the moment; doodle after doodle of couples having sex on the cross, an obsession with St Teresa's orgasmic vision of God , and a sweaty palmed preoccupation withGod's propositions to a young Jewish virgin.

I love the oedipal twist Richard Dawkin's puts on the matter of God's condescension: "...The Inventor of the law of physics and Programmer of the DNA code decided to enter the uterus of a Jewish virgin [and] got himself born..."

The divine lover becoming the divine son.

The mistress becoming the mother.

Just some thoughts.
Now, to move beyond the juvenile fixation with the missionary style into something more sophisticated.
Or, maybe not.