Addional information on Abbas Khider

who was well-known in Tripoli as a pimp. “Policeman or pimp – there’s not much difference here”,
she said, shrugging her shoulders.
She also had to hand over a share of her earnings to the pimp.
“There are things it’s best not to know, because they can be dangerous. But believe me, there’s a sad
story behind every whore and every nun.”
During that time I tried again and again to find a job, but could only find odd jobs like construction
work. I was worried about my passport too, because it was only valid for another month. Getting it
extended at the Iraqi embassy was out of the question. I knew what to expect there. The next few
weeks were difficult and worrying. The Libyan police could deport me to Egypt at any time. And then
the Egyptians would send me back to Jordan, and the Jordanians to Iraq. Then came the night that
changed everything.
I was walking along the beach promenade one evening and was watching the boats and the ships
before returning to Omar-Al-Mokhtar Street, to get something to eat. I crossed Green Square and
ambled along towards a falafel stand. Suddenly five men barred my way. I couldn’t see their faces
clearly. They started beating me and didn’t stop until I was lying motionless on the floor. What on
earth was that? What happened? I had absolutely no idea what it was about, until one of them
hissed:
“You piece of Iraqi shit! If we see you once more with Miriam, you’re dead.”
I lay there on the ground, looked up to the stars in the sky and couldn’t hold back my tears. With
great difficulty I stood up and tried to go back to the hotel. My whole body hurt. I dragged myself
through the piles of rubbish that the street sellers had discarded. Outside the hotel there was a man
with my bag. When he saw me, he threw it at my feet and disappeared behind the door. I took the
bag and went to the beach promenade, lay down on the ground and put my head on the bag. And so
I fell asleep, utterly exhausted.
Never-ending nightmares tormented me, but then suddenly I saw Miriam’s face. Except it wasn’t a
dream. The sun was shining and Miriam took me by the hand. We got into a car. The driver didn’t
quite look Arabic. Miriam didn’t say a word; instead she kissed me non-stop. The driver was Turkish,
as I later learnt. He dropped us off outside a flat in the centre of town. Miriam took my passport and
gave it to the Turk. He promised to return as quickly as possible. Miriam fetched a damp towel and
began to wash my wounds. Afterwards she took a packet of Marlboros out of her hand bag and put it
on the table in front of me. Then she went into the kitchen to make some tea. With a cup of tea in
her hand, she told me that the Turk was arranging a visa for Turkey for me.
“But that’s impossible! My passport expires soon and the Turks will never give an Iraqi a visa just like
that.”
“You don’t have to know about the details. But you’re going to Turkey today.”
“And what about you? Are you coming too?”
“I can’t. It’s my fate to stay here.”
“But if you can get a visa for me, then you must be able to get one for yourself too.”
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