He storms off, a huff coming out of his mouth, and he’s disappearing around the corner instantly. My chin lifts. I will not do as he says. I twist to look back in the direction I was going, only to suddenly feel a body assault me and tuck me under his arm.
“Jesus Christ, woman,” he snarls. “Not on my watch, okay?”
My feet come off the ground as I struggle. It makes no difference at all, and before I know it, we’re back out on the main street heading towards some alleys on the other side of the road. He drops me in a doorway and shoves his hand on the door. “Are you always like this?” he asks.
“Like what? Single-minded. Capable. An independent bloody woman?” I peek inside the door, seething with rage that I’ve just been manhandled. “Yes. And if you’ve got a problem with that, then I’ll go and—”
“Why?”
“What?”
“Was your brother so dominating that you needed to prove you were just as tough, somehow?” My head flies up to look at him. “Or was it Daddy?” I don’t know what to say to that. I look back into the house communal area, refusing to discuss why I am the way I am. “Stupidity does not mean capability, Ivy. Go in there. And please, just behave.”
His brow cocks as he points. “Fine. There better be a good story waiting for me. And I do not have either brother or father issues.” I start moving. “In fact, my brother is pretty cool regardless of his attitude. My father is a bit of a dick, to be honest, but only because he’s been head of the company for so long.” He swerves by me through the alleyway, opening another doorway. “I love them both regardless. No issues here at all.”
“I think the lady protests too much.”
“Not funny. And don’t pretend you know anything about the theatre either.”
A man walks out from the shadows in front of us, his head bowed as he looks at Blake. He waves his hand towards a corner of the complex we’ve arrived in, signalling a room.
“Thanks, Manny.” Blake nods at him and starts getting his camera out, having passed some money over to the man.
“What are we doing?” I ask.
“Shh. Stay quiet and let me take the shots. If you want to find a story in it, feel free, but no questions.”
The moment he opens the door, I know exactly why we’re here. Eight women sit huddled in the corner, all of them showing nothing but a slither of their eyes from behind their full burqas. I watch on as he moves quietly to the opposite corner from them and listen as he starts a conversation in English.
One of them speaks well in reply, telling him of the reason they’re here, the fact that they don’t want to be, their hope for escape somehow. The others stay silent the entire time. I’m about to get my recorder out of my bag when one of them flinches at my movements. My hands slow and go up in the air. No way am I a threat here. Certainly not to oppressed women.
I sit on the floor instead and let him work his lenses on them, smiling a little as he takes up angles and tries finding the right light for what he’s hoping to compose. It’s all fascinating, and before I know it, I’m lost in wishing I could interview them rather than Blake just take pictures. I suppose the only reason he’s been allowed here, though, is because he’s not interviewing them. They’re just talking, the women perhaps hoping he’s some kind of saviour for them. He isn’t. Not for this scenario. There isn’t a damn thing he can do to get them out of here, even if he wants to.
The sentiment saddens me and makes me think of my own life. Freedom is usual for me. It’s my right. But these women aren’t free. They’re anything but that. Obstinate brothers and a slightly archaic father are the least of their concerns.
I glance over their clothes, still unsure if these women wear them because they want to or if they’re forced to. The rhetoric is always that they choose what they wear, but I never really know. I doubt anyone does apart from them. It’s a world away from us in the west and deliberately kept that way. It seems perverse that women have spent so long fighting for their rights, and yet here, still, they have barely any.
“Ivy?”
I blink and look up at Blake. He’s packed his equipment away and is holding his hand out to me as if I should take it. I do, letting him pull me up to my feet. The woman says thank you behind us, and I turn to look at her, wondering what for? Thank you for taking photos? For listening? For giving her some right to exist and showing the world she’s here? She looks me over, presumably taking in the jeans, the blonde hair, the skin on display, the small T-shirt I’m wearing. Too much? I don’t know. I did put a scarf over me, butI didn’t think about it that much when I put it on this morning. I’m a westerner. Why would I?
Nodding and smiling at her, I back out of the doorway Blake’s already opened. I don’t speak again until we’re partway back down the hill towards my hotel. I don’t know why. I’m a bit lost in my own head again, thinking. All the pieces I write are gritty and in-depth. They’re detailed and meticulous, showing the drama and guile of investigative journalism, but I’ve never really written a piece about the emotion of these women. Perhaps I’ve never been close enough to feel it before now.
“You okay?” he says, after a while.
“I have an amazing family.”
“Alright.”
“I do. And I love them all. Even when Landon’s being a bastard and Seffi’s being an idiot. Which is often. Kind of. But most of all, I love that they’re always there. We’re strong like that. A team, of a fashion. Yes, we argue, but it’s deeper than just that. All siblings argue, right?”
“I wouldn't know.”
I wander to a vendor at a small market stall by the fountain we met at, digging for some money to pay for an orange juice. Blake’s bought two before I can blink, smiling as he hands one over to me.
“And I know I’m privileged, and probably might seem a little too independent to you, but that’s my right,” I continue. He starts us walking again and keeps in step with me, swinging his bag around his back. “My family gives each other back up. We’re there for each other. And mother is always around for when we need to scream down the line or just want a chat. Maybe Landon and Neve don’t use that function, but I do. She’s the sane one. As sane as someone can be from our family anyway.”
He chuckles. “Are you apologising for something?”
