Jean Sasson - Mayada: Daughter Of Iraq

CONTENTS

Non-fiction:

The Rape of Kuwait: The True Story of Iraqi Atrocities Against a Civilian Population

Princess: A True Story of Life Behind the Veil in Saudi Arabia

Daughters of Arabia (Princess Sultanas Daughters in US market)

Desert Royal (Princess Sultanas Circle in US market)

Love in a Torn Land: One Womans Daring Escape from Iraq

Growing up bin Laden: Osamas Wife and Son Take Us Inside their Secret World

For the Love of a Son: One Afghan Womans Quest for Her Stolen Child

American Chick in Saudi Arabia

Yasmeenas Choice: A True Story of War, Rape, Courage and Survival

Princess: More Tears to Cry

Historical Fiction:

Esters Child (to be re-released in 2016)

For additional information about Jean Sasson and her books, please visit:
http://www.JeanSasson.com
Blog: jeansasson.wordpress.com/
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/AuthorJeanSasson
Twitter: http://twitter.com/jeansasson

Jean Sasson has travelled widely in the Middle East and lived in Saudi Arabia for more than twelve years. She has spent much of her career as a writer and lecturer, sharing the personal stories of courageous Middle Eastern women. Her book Princess: The True Story of Life Behind the Veil in Saudi Arabia became a classic, international bestseller and formed the basis of a compelling series. Princess: More Tears to Cry is Jeans twelfth book. She currently makes her home in Atlanta, Georgia.

Mayada Al-Askari was born into a powerful Iraqi family. When Saddam Hussein and his Baath party seized power, Mayada little imagined the devastation that it would wreak upon her life. But soon she found herself alone in Baghdad, a divorced mother of two, earning a meagre living printing brochures until the morning in 1999 when she was arrested by Saddams secret police and dragged to the notorious Baladiyat Prison, accused of producing anti-government propaganda.

There she was thrown into a cell already housing seventeen other shadow women. These women came from different backgrounds, but all shared the same fate: imprisonment and torture without trial, and the threat of execution. To block out the screams of other prisoners, like latter-day Scheherazades the shadow women told each other their stories. Mayadas tales of her privileged former life were a source of particular fascination, including her own encounters with Saddam himself.

AT ABOUT 8:45 on the morning of July 19, 1999, Mayada Al-Askari was driving to her office at full speed. Mornings at her print shop were always the busiest time of the day, and from the large number of orders that had streamed into her shop the day before, Mayada knew this morning would be an especially hectic one. When she opened her business the year before, she had purchased the finest printers in Iraq, and for this reason, the work produced at her shop was considered the best in the entire Mutanabi area. As a result, Mayada had more business than she could handle. She accepted a wide variety of jobs, designing logos and writing text for milk cartons, boxes and bottles. She printed books as well, as long as the print order arrived with a stamp of approval from the Ministry of Information. Mayada ran such an efficient business that many other printing houses in the district outsourced their work to her, their competitor, and passed off her work as their own.

Mayada glanced at her watch. She was running late. She careened around corners, but made certain she didnt exceed the speed limit. She glanced through the windshield at the sky. It was growing dark with blowing sand, looking much like a foggy day in England. The wind was beginning to gust, rising and falling in heated blasts. July was an unpleasant month in Iraq. Mayada yearned to escape the heat and fly to the mountains of Lebanon for a holiday, but she no longer had extra money for vacations, so she pushed those thoughts aside. She parked her car on the street and stepped to the sidewalk. To keep the wind from stinging her eyes and irritating her throat and lungs, she tilted her head down and placed her hand over her mouth, walking rapidly. To her relief, the door to the shop was unlocked. Mayadas dedicated staff was already at work. She had a committed group of employees, and not only because she paid higher salaries than most other printing offices. They were simply a well-educated, serious bunch.

Mayada took a quick look around the office. Hussain, Adel and Wissam were already at their computers. Her eyes strayed to the little kitchenette at the back of the shop. There was Nahla, making coffee. Nahla smiled and walked toward her, holding out a cup. Before Mayada could raise the cup to her lips, she was approached by Hussain and Shermeen, both talking at once about the graphic design projects they were working on. They were interrupted by a new client who rushed through the unlocked door, anxious to start a conversation with Mayada. The young man said he was a Tunisian student and that he had been referred to her by another shop owner in the area. He wanted her to translate and prepare a questionnaire for him. Mayada was discussing his job when the front door flew open and three men strode into her small office. Her heart skipped a beat, sensing instantly that the men were too rigid to be customers.

The tallest of the three men asked, Is your name Mayada Nizar Jafar Mustafa Al-Askari? His question astonished Mayada, for few people knew her full name. She used Mustafa particularly rarely, though it was a name she bore proudly. It harked back to her great-grandfather Mustafa Al-Askari, who, like her grandfather Jafar, was an important officer in the once-great Ottoman army.

Mayada stood quietly, searching the eyes of the men before her. For a moment she considered fleeing or lashing out, but her father was dead and she was divorced. Mayada did not have a man in the family to protect her. She uttered a weak reverberation that sounded enough like yes.

The tall man curtly informed her, My name is Lieutenant Colonel Muhammed Jassim Raheem and these are my two colleagues. We will search this place.

Mayada found her voice by this time and managed to ask a simple question, What are you looking for?

The lieutenant colonel lifted his neck only a little and the loose skin swung one way and then the other before he answered, discharging each individual word like so many bullets: You tell us.

Mayada was silenced. She did not know what words or actions might save her as the three men began to tear her small business apart. Waste bins were emptied; the undersides of the chairs were scrutinized; telephones were opened with screwdrivers. Then the men seized her cherished computers and printers. Mayada knew she would never find the funds to replace them as she watched the men load the computers into the trunks of their two white Toyota Corollas, the choice vehicle of the Iraqi secret police. Helpless, Mayada slowly crumpled the Tunisian students papers she held in her hand, watching as the men destroyed her future.

She took a quick look at her frightened employees. They had gathered in a corner of the room, not daring to breathe. Nahlas face was pale and her lips trembled. The Tunisian student tittered, rubbing his hands, his face filled with regret that he had come into her shop.

Mayada did not doubt she was the next item to be loaded into the ominous automobile and she begged the lieutenant colonel for one phone call. Can I please call my two children and tell them where you are taking me?