Hookers: Their Lives in Their Words Page 7
One day my mother took me to one side and told me that they could no longer afford for the family to live together and unless I found work to support them my brother would have to go to the state orphanage. I explained that I would look for work every day and help her as much as I could. She told me that after speaking to my father they both thought that I should once again become a prostitute to bring money into our household. After all, I could not bring any more shame on the family than I had already. I was shocked to hear this from my own mother but I had to assist my family in any way possible. I couldn’t let my brother be taken away or my family face more poverty.
Many of the young girls I had grown up with had turned to the same profession to get food to feed their families. In Iran women are seen as half beings and slaves and must do what they are told. Most men think we are created just to give them sexual gratification, no matter what your family background is. I’ve seen many women beaten in the streets by their husbands with nobody trying to stop him from hurting his wife.
Being a prostitute in Iran is a very dangerous profession. There have been many cases of prostitutes murdered in many Iranian cities. Most are strangled with their own veils and their bodies wrapped in carpets or placed inside sacks and dumped. I myself found a large sack on waste ground while looking for wood. Inside was the body of a young woman. I didn’t tell anyone, I just ran away. The image of the woman’s body just thrown away like that still haunts me today. The man and woman who own the building that I take men back to charge me very high rates but assure me that I am safe here as they pay off the police regularly. About forty of us work here taking turns to use the eight rooms available. I call them rooms but they are more like a place you would keep animals. Each woman must clean the rooms after they leave it. There is a man here who is employed to keep out trouble makers. He carries a large stick and has a knife hidden on him. I was told that if any men try to hurt us he will take vengeance on them but I have yet to see it. We get beatings from men all the time so I’m sure he is only here to make sure we don’t step out of line.
The Islamic codes of conduct justify the brutal killing of prostitutes. There are many extremist religious groups behind most of the killings. I know of at least fifteen women who have been murdered in the last year, a few were close friends of mine. There have also been rumours that Islamic vigilantes have contacts within the police that give them access to police files on prostitutes. There are plenty of victims for Tehran itself is documented as having over 300,000 prostitutes alone. Also drug addicts find us as an easy source of money and I on more than one occasion have been beaten by addicts for the little money I have made. Drugs are a massive problem in Iran, with over five million people here hooked on narcotics.
There have been many court cases in the last few years of Pakistani men buying young girls from poor families and moving them to Pakistan to work in brothels. The girls are subjected to beatings and half starved until they comply. Many men, once they have been accused of trafficking, are offered ‘Islamic forgiveness’ if they inform on others or help the police to get the girls back. Yet some of the girls, when ‘rescued’, face the death sentence for being prostitutes even though it was against their will. There’s just no justice here: if a young woman is sentenced to death for some other crime there is a special religious decree issued by Ayatollah Khomeini which could concern her. This may shock you but it means virgin women prisoners must be raped before execution because they stupidly believe that this stops the prisoner going to heaven. A guard must rape the accused the night before she is executed. To compensate the family a religious judge from the prison sends the family a marriage certificate and a box of sweets, sort of as compensation, as if the family is going to be happy with that outcome.
Women political prisoners are shot by the Revolutionary Guard, with just a single bullet fired into their womb. This process is very cruel as the prisoner is left to die slowly. Even pregnant women get the same treatment so the child dies inside the mother as well. Many of the female prisoners are kept in different quarters where they are raped by the guards daily.
It is obviously illegal to use the services of a prostitute but most men get around this by having temporary marriages which last about one hour. A Muslim cleric arranges a marriage and takes a fee. The man then has sex with the woman and then, in effect, divorces her straight away. Therefore the cleric is actually what you would call a ‘pimp’. Many of my friends are professional sigheh wives, each of them could be temporarily married on average anything up to eight times a day.
In Tehran a serial killer was hanged in 2002. Apparently he murdered sixteen prostitutes over a one-year period. All the women had been involved in drugs and prostitution. From what the papers say he strangled them with their scarves and then abandoned their bodies on waste ground. He said that he did it because he wanted to clean up his neighbourhood and would have gone on to have killed 150 if he hadn’t been arrested. He picked up the women in Mashhad, where I live. Instead of executing the killer our Iranian law offers the families of murder victims the choice of diyeh [blood money] instead. From what I gather four of the families actually wanted to take money off him, which can only be paid to ‘parents of the blood’. This animal killed their daughters and the parents were happy to receive money instead of him facing the death penalty. I for one am glad the bastard’s dead and hope he rots in hell. Some people in the papers stated they thought the women got what they deserved, so that tells you just how much women are thought of here.
Each day I know I take a risk doing what I do but what else is there for me? The little money I earn is needed by my family. I try to keep a little back for myself hoping for a better life. I know there are vigilante death squads out there who walk the streets at night looking for prostitutes to kill or beat to a pulp. I know if the police catch me I will be locked in prison, put on trial and stoned to death. I also know that I run the risk of being murdered each day by one of the men I see but I have to carry on working for the sake of my family. We all live together and I have to help support them. I can’t see myself finding a good man for myself and in fact I have never had a real boyfriend.
Chapter 9
Punters, Part One
The Lorry Driver
When I left the Army I became a long-distance lorry driver. On one occasion I had to drive all the way to Preston with a friend following behind in an identical lorry. We stopped at a service station to have some food and a little rest. On the way back to our lorries we were approached by a woman. She was about mid-twenties, reasonably smart but had a cut mouth and a few light grazes to her face. She asked for a lift just a few miles up the road and my friend said, ‘No problem love, we’re going that way.’ She hopped in his lorry and we both drove off. On the way I used the CB radio and we all chatted for a while. He dropped her off just a short distance up the motorway and we drove off to Preston.
About another hour into our journey we both got pulled over by the police. They asked us some routine questions – where are you from, where are you heading, that sort of thing. Then the one officer started getting a bit heavy on us and looked like he wanted a full-scale argument. This was rather strange as we hadn’t broken any laws and answered all his questions truthfully.
Suddenly he asked, ‘You wankers thought you were being clever, raping that girl and roughing her up, didn’t you?’
We were stunned and couldn’t believe what he was saying. ‘Sorry mate, you’ve got the wrong guys, we just gave her a lift, never laid a finger on her,’ I answered.
He looked straight at me and growled, ‘You picked that girl up, drove her down to the lay-by a few miles back, raped her and beat her up.’
My mate told them the girl was only in his cab for a few minutes and we hadn’t even stopped at the lay-by in question. The coppers were having none of it, until my mate showed him the tachograph in his cab which confirmed what he’d said. When this was checked with the one in my lorry cab, it confirmed we were telling the trut
h.
One of the officers went off to his car and explained on his radio that there had been some mistake. A while later he comes back a little sheepish and lets us know it now turns out the girl was a hooker and her boyfriend/pimp had beaten her up over money. He then drives her to the service station so they can find two mugs to pin a rape and assault on, so they can make money through the courts via compensation or criminal injuries. The coppers apologised to us but we were only too glad to get away from there.
I was eight years out of the Army and still working as a lorry driver when my boss asked me if it would be OK for me to drive to Northern Ireland. I thought about it and explained that it had been a while since I had served there so I would do it. Everything was going great: the journey over was great, there were no traffic problems, in fact it was quite a nice trip. I stopped in one town for a pint and a pie and sat down to relax. When the waitress brought over my food to my horror I remembered her face from years ago. She was a hooker from an area I patrolled a few times and could easily recognise me; in fact when she approached me she stopped and stared.
‘Where do I know you from?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know love, have you ever been to Wales?’ I answered.
‘You were in the Army about nine years ago, patrolling the streets where I lived,’ she spoke out loud so everyone in the pub could hear.
When I left the Army I was told to always be ready for anything like this and to remain calm and brazen it out. I said, ‘I’m sorry, love, you’ve got the wrong guy. I’m a lorry driver and this is my first trip over here.’ She sort of smiled and left me to my grub. Now I could feel everyone’s eyes on me but I ate my pie, drank my pint and read a newspaper. I slowly got up and left the pub, trying hard not to show that inside I was scared stiff.
As I left, two guys stepped out of a side entrance and started to quickly follow me down the street. From across the road another man was walking very fast in my direction. I ran for my life with all three in hot pursuit. As I ran around the corner, by sheer luck there were some Army lads driving past. I ran up and banged the side of the driver’s window, shouting my Army number, name and rank to the lads inside. I nearly scared the driver to death at first but they let me in and took me back to their headquarters. After a few checks they got me on the ferry home and told me to forget about my lorry and the load. I had to leave it all behind and get out of Ireland fast.
They say an elephant has a good memory. Well, it’s not nearly as good as a hooker’s, that’s for sure. I haven’t been as scared like that since the IRA sent Christmas cards to the home address of all the guys I was posted with – and myself.
The Sailor
It must have been March 1962 when I was serving on board the HMS Loch Ruthven. We called into Mombasa in east Africa. It seemed like another world compared with back home in County Durham. We couldn’t wait to leave the ship and get ashore, we were like men possessed.
We soon found the famous Kalindi Road. From one side of the street to the other as we entered were these giant metal elephant tusks, which were quite a sight. There was bar after bar non-stop where the local girls were doubling up as barmaids and anything else that was wanted. The whole area was absolutely fantastic and decadent, just what we needed. My two mates, Tony and ‘Bouncy’, and I were slowly getting hammered and the more we drank, the prettier the girls looked. I was only eighteen and still a little naïve but my friends were a bit older than me. We decided we needed female company and marched off looking for a brothel, which weren’t too hard to find because there were tons of them.
Down this unlit dirt track we went, with the girls calling to us from the windows and doorways. We picked the brothel that we all decided on and went in to find a girl each. It was, in fact, my first time. We had our fun and it was now time to pay for it. Tony and I paid our girls and were very thankful but at the last minute Bouncy said, ‘I’m not paying, she was rubbish.’ Realising things could get really nasty we begged Bouncy to pay up but he was having none of it. Within seconds the girls started screaming, curtains got pulled back and we were confronted by a gang of men wielding machetes and anything else they could get their hands on.
We ran out of the hut with all these locals screaming after us, shouting, ‘Kill, kill kill.’ We didn’t know where the hell we were and couldn’t stop and ask directions or we’d be chopped up. We made for the lights of the city and found the road back to the ship, making it back in record time.
Apart from them stopping my ration of rum for punishment, I ended up with a dose of clap and craps.
The Target
A friend of mine pointed out this tart standing by the bar while we were getting drunk in Clapham in south London.
‘She’s doing a bit on the side, you know, she’s a prostitute. I know her very well, she’s really good, and will do anything you ask.’
I looked over and saw that she was a little older than me and, despite being plastered in make-up, she was rather good-looking. I was about twenty-four and up for anything, nothing was too hot for me. I started talking to her and before long I had arranged business and was walking her home. I was so drunk that when I got out in the cold air my legs almost give way from underneath me. The tart, who said her name was Jill, had to hold me up and steady me most of the way.
She said there was a shortcut to her home and we turned down a few dark alleyways. All the way she was telling me things like how handsome I was and how she didn’t let men stay the night but I could. I was so drunk that I didn’t realise she was just sweet-talking me while she led me down this labyrinth of alleyways.
‘My house is just up ahead,’ she whispered. ‘I’d better call my dog so he knows it’s me, and not wake everyone up with his barking.’ She called out once or twice; I think her dog’s name was Gypsy. Then suddenly I heard footsteps coming up fast from behind me and something struck me on the side of my head as I turned, and my whole world caved in.
At this point I was lying defenceless on the ground with someone going through my pockets. I vaguely remember my ring and watch being taken off me, but every time I tried to resist I got kicked and punched in my head and body. Someone was now holding me down by my throat and I heard him snarl, ‘This will put him out,’ and it did – I can no longer remember anything about the attack from there on.
I must have been there for hours when I either crawled from the alleyway or someone found me but I can just about recall waking up in hospital. This young doctor was talking to me as he stitched my face up. I don’t recall all that he was saying but the gist of it was that someone had used a knuckleduster on me.
The day my brother picked me up was the first time I had a chance to see my face in the mirror. It was swollen black and blue, with stitches across my nose and beneath my eyes which were also black and swollen. My two front teeth had been smashed out and my top lip was about three times its normal size.
I told my brother that I had been jumped on down an alleyway and was too drunk to defend myself.
‘Fucking hell!’ he cried out. ’Who jumped you, Sonny fucking Liston?’
The Accident Victim
At the age of eighteen I was a good-looking kid, sort of shy around girls but friendly and all in all a nice lad. In those days I worked in an ironworks, cleaning the moulds the iron and steel had been moulded in. One morning I was standing in the wrong place at the wrong time and within five or so minutes my whole life changed dramatically.
They had this big cup-like thing that moved overhead and poured red hot metal into moulds. There must have been some sort of fracture or wear and tear on the bracket that held it up because it snapped suddenly on one side. It still held up but some of the hot pig iron poured out and splashed on the floor. I was standing about twelve feet away watching and, like a fool, I didn’t move away fast enough. As the hot metal hit the floor some of it splashed towards where I was standing and struck me on the right side of my face, covering my eye and cheekbone.
I started jumping around,
trying to claw at my face which obviously felt on fire. Suddenly someone grabbed me and bucket after bucket of water was thrown over me. I must have fainted with the pain and woke up with some of the old guys I worked with tending my injuries. They got me straight to hospital in one of their cars and the hospital staff were straight on my case.
I spent weeks in the hospital having surgery and various treatments. It was a painful time but the worst thing was that I’d lost my right eye. I now have a glass eye and a large burn around the eye area all the way down to the bottom of my right ear; not a pretty sight but I’ve got used to it over the years.
For about ten years after the incident I didn’t have any physical contact with the opposite sex. Of course they would talk to me and be friendly but none showed any interest. Maybe I’d get into a conversation with someone but it never went any further; I was a one-eyed freak and my confidence was low.
Eventually my life-long friend Tom got sick of my self-pity. I was forever going on that I’d never find a woman who I could get intimate with. I must really have got on his nerves because one day, instead of us going for a few drinks on a Friday night, he insisted we go to a different club in another town. When we got there the place was a dive, dirty with dodgy-looking characters all around us. Tom said, ‘Right, I’ve had a gut’s full of you moaning about life all the time, tonight you’re going to have sex. There’s a brothel upstairs and you’re booked in there in ten minutes.’ Even after a few pints he more or less had to push me up the stairs at the back which led to a few rooms upstairs. Tom spoke to a large lady and before I could say that I was too scared, he was off and I was pushed into a small cubicle.
Inside I sat on the edge of the bed and looked around the small, grubby windowless room. The sum contents of the room besides the bed were a small table, a waste paper bin and two towels. The light was just a bulb hanging down from the low ceiling.