I, a female married high school teacher, am awaiting divorce. I terribly miss my children as they are taken away by my husband, a Mickey-mouse-college professor. Having no place to live, I have moved to my mother's apartment. I live in an unmentionable oil-rich police-state country in Middle East. The so-called husband has the right to divorce me anytime anywhere with or without my consent. Of course, he can have any number of wives as he wishes. Since he cannot afford the cost of polygamy, he can unabashedly marry older women who demand nothing but repeated intercourse per week!
A week ago, I drove my car, the only possession, out of the building ramp. Now, suddenly I remembered having left the students' homework at home, so I hurriedly pulled the hand brake and got out of the car, leaving my purse in the car. While I was running toward the door phone, a few yards away, to call my mother to bring the papers down, from the corner of my eyes, I saw a man approaching the car. He snatched the purse and ran away. I shouted loud for help to no avail. He soon disappeared. I returned the car back to the parking area, as it was useless to go without the purse. Mother reluctantly called the distrusted police gangs.
After a while, a policeman with a report form rang the door bell, to get a statement. I enumerated the things I had in my purse: a cell phone, car fuel rationing card, a little amount of money equaling to less than two dollars, sanitary pads and a crucially important document called State Issued Identity Card, needed almost for anything imaginable. State has stored a lot of information under my ID number, such as vital statistics, home address, relatives, friends, bank accounts, and other private information that I am not aware of but can be used against me by the state.
That very day I needed my ID card to handle a process that had taken me more than a year to begin. I broke down and got hysterical so severely that the policeman who belongs to the ruling criminal gangs unbelievably was impressed, trying to calm me down. Of course, I was stupid not to see the disappointment in his eyes by finding no gain, after sharing, in this robbery. After all, he said he could find the robber ASAP and get my stuff back! Naturally, we had reasons not to believe him because the entire ruling gang does nothing for the victims but cheating, lying, stealing, misleading…
Paradoxically, it did not take us long, as the telephone rang and a voice introducing himself as the same policeman who collected the statement said, 'We have found your thief and the purse, as well. This is his number. Call him and do whatever he says.'
Skeptically, we called. The thief brazenly told me to go to a very dangerous slum area to receive my purse. He strictly warned me to do it alone, i.e., not to inform police; not to contact anyone else. He did not give his exact location. When asked it was impossible to locate the place, he, presumably grinning, said that when I reached the location give him another call.
I, as a female and before the incident, would have been terrified to do it alone, but I had reached a point of self-destruction, wishing to be annihilated. What is left for me, exactly? After consultation with mother and friends, they suggested probably the robber would not harm me as the case might be traceable.
Anyway, after a couple of phone calls, I reached a dreadful slum area. Being fed up with life, I decided to take the suicidal risk. Now, I called the thief again and got additional direction. The place I reached looked like a shop. Entering, I unnecessarily gave my name to a man behind the counter. He lifted a board and let me pass. I crossed a doorway led to a private dilapidated backyard. There was a room. A man, apparently the same person who stole my purse, threw the purse at me and angrily said that I should have put some money into the purse to make the robbery, after sharing, worthwhile. Well, everything was there. (Of course, excluding the sanitary pads!)